Petals in the Storm

I’d like to say that this was a routine job,

That i was having a good day

and that I was prepared for anything.

As it turned out, none of the three were true.

So far that morning, i had slept through my alarm,

stood on the cat, and earned three deep and bloody scratches as payment,

poured coffee down my front which meant changing my blouse

and then fallen down the stairs of my apartment building.

Great

Laddered tights, a bruised knee and an audience for as i fell, ass over tit, that devilishly handsome neighbour opened his door.

I was so humiliated that i ignored his shouts, got up and half hobbled half ran out of the building, work bag and camera in toe.

Not a normal morning.

And this was not a normal job either. I’m a freelance surveyor and property adviser. I prefer private and corporate work but my bread and butter is council based. For them, the work entails assessment of the health of the building, a recommendation of the how to use the building for maximum return and, drawing up plans and project managing the work until completion.

I’m good at my job, more than good, i have a nose for it and gradually I have developed a small but profitable business and reputation.

This job though, was a a big jump. The premises stood minutes from Swansea city centre and it was vast, approximately 37000square feet and my biggest job to date.

I was very excited.

And this was my favourite part of the job. Looking at the building, absorbing it, absorbing its past chewing over the curiosities, and seeing what futures it could have. Today, i would work as a spectator. An archeologist, an artist. Today I would take photos and interview the building, find its secrets.

Learn.

For without this time, how could the building be bettered, be appreciated, loved even?

I’d never been to Swansea before and had to, not only find the building but the police station too. The police had possession of the keys.

There had been an incident, which is not unusual. Empty buildings are a magnets for squatters. Graffiti artists, and drug sellers, and sometimes the police closed the site for forensics and what ever else police do at a crime scene.

96-7 Mansel Street was on a seedy one-way street approximately 5 minutes walk from the main shopping area. There was parking outside for at least 6 and with luck, more behind. The building stood 3 floors high and was obviously Victorian, a work house for cloth or ceramics, a printers even, judging by the size of the windows. I looked up at the windows, large leaded and many-pained. They were grubby but in tact and would sure to be a point of interest.

Sadly the the ground floor was less attractive. It had been faced with a nasty 60s extension, and double doors. This, even from the outside showed signs of disrepair and i made a note to speak to our structural engineer and have him check it over that afternoon.

I walked the perimeter and photographed the pipe work, the stonework, the several cracked lintels, the damp and anything else that i may need to look at again.

Click went my camera

Click

Click

Click

I used my phone to dictate some notes and then fished out the door keys.

I seem to remember that It was at this point, while rummaging in my coat pocket and looking at this heavy sooty building, that my first feeling of discomfort brushed over me.

I noticed it

I tasted it and

it left me as quickly as it arrived.

I let myself in, to discover that the space was some kind of ante chamber, a cloak room perhaps with a gents toilets, a hall and more doors that opened into a vast reception. The only furniture was a moon shaped linoleum covered desk which sat dwarfed in the centre of the room.

The desk had

THE GARDEN,

printed on its side in glittery capitals.

Click went my camera

as I began to photograph again. A headset attached to my phone allowed me to simultaneously record my thoughts and observations.

that the ceilings were double hight,

that below the blue carpet there was slate floors,

that the red brick was original, Victorian and would need cleaning of the many layers of wall paper, and its present grey oil paint.

As far as I could see the space was a tired but serviceable and i could make out several modern power sockets.

Click went my camera

The room had two large storage heaters

Click

and a CCTV camera stand in all corners of the room

Click

Now that WAS unusual.

Click

And so was my next reaction

Click

Butterflies

Click

Deep in my gut

And

I had the extraordinary feeling that i should leave.

I tried to pull my self together but from here on a sense of foreboding developed.

It filled my throat, solidifying like cement,

I couldn’t swallow,

I didn’t want to.

I told myself it must be the smell. The smell of sweet decay, sour beer, vomit, sweat and stale cigarettes. There was definitely signs of partying, i decided, and I needed the morning after pill.

I decided that I would go out for coffee. That would give me a chance to get some fresh air and to smell something ….pleasant.

An hour later i was back in the building and I’d found, and photographed the charming, antiquated service lift and was heading to the stairs, which were elegant, wide and sweeping. I was beginning to think that this was not a factory space after all but the remains of a grand department store for the rich and famous.

I could easily imagine it and could sense their presence, the ladies in their crinolines, the top hatted gentlemen. perusing the leather bags, gloves, and shoes. The polite and efficient shop girls, the children with their nannies. the chandeliers, and the wooden cabinets piled high with silks, woollens and cottons in every conceivable colour and pattern.

I have a sense for buildings. They are like living breathing organisms and they have personalities, i can walk into a building and smell the history, taste the changes, feel it’s ease or dis-ease. Its walls are a novel, where stories unfold slowly. And like a love affair, you get to know a building with a growing realisation, and a developing, time amassed conclusion. I was certain that this was a place that had much to tell.

I walked up the stairs and began to read the graffiti. Most of it was what you’d expect, M4R, Peace, FKU. and so on, but on the top of the handrail was scratched.

Because the bee stings

i don’t know why but i found myself repeating the words

again

and again

and again.

Click went my camera

The 1st floor landing was spacious and a balcony looked over the stairs and atrium above and below. Double Victorian doors, had once been here but were now missing and the frame was damaged beyond repair with staples and nails and torn wood. The paintwork was once white

I say once.

Above the door read

THE GARDEN

in crimson letters

And next to the door was a chart

in two rows

1. Scarlet Rose

2. Lilly

3. Pansy Pants

4. Black Tulip

5. Oriental Cherry

6. Orange Blossom

7. Chrysanthemum

8. Dahlia

9. Lavender

10. 10.Daisy

11. 11.Calendula

12. 12.Buttercup

13. 13.Marigold

14. 14.Lobelia

15. 15.Violet

16. 16.Jasmin

17. 17.Honeysuckle

18. 18.Poppy

and below was scrawled

Flowers that have gone to seed

Click went my camera

Click

My cloud of discomfort was back, but stronger was the sense of curiosity.

The door led into a room that must have been more than beautiful once. Like all the others, it was vast, slightly L shaped where smaller spaces had been added and double height. One whole side, my opposite wall was dominated by the window i had admired outside on my arrival. Two of the walls were exposed red brick and others were rendered but now cracked and in some places crumbling. One brick wall was sodden from a leaky pipe and it had created a green and black coat that glittered as it reflected the light from the grubby windows 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

I spent sometime surveying first the floor rooms. I found more

scratched words. 

Broken buds. 

Make the Honeypot. 

Flourish. 

Uncomfortable suspicions began to nibble and grow.

Tally mark's biro-ed onto the wall.

Holes gouged out of the wooden floor.

And details that were difficult to ignore,

Large numbers, 1 to 18 scrawled with emulsion paint along opposite sides of the this great hall.

Below the numbers, blue and red  lights strung in arches.

A hidden corridor with peep holes facing into this room. Below each peephole, a urinal. 

A bathtub in a tiny adjoining room with a mesh window.  

3 horrifying squat toilets Asian style placed in a triangle and covered in congealed blood, vomit, urine, and rot.

Most disturbing was the only adornment in the hall, a painting drilled to the wall, a painted man.naked, languished on white shining sheets, one hand squeezing his nipple and the other gripping his erect penis.

I was aghast

I tried to look away

But I couldn’t

I couldn’t

I couldn’t

Horrified my eyes were riveted on the picture and most of all his eyes.

Or at least what had been his eyes.

For where there were eyes someone had literally burnt the canvas and nothing but charred sooty holes remained. I found myself reaching for the cavities

and then this is where everything went very strange.

The hand, my hand was no longer white but black. I mean really black.

I looked down and I didn’t recognise myself. I was wearing striped black and white trousers, black heels and a red boob tube. And I was no longer alone. The noise in the room was loud and busy. Smells of cheap perfume, sweat and cigarette smoke permeated my nostrils

“Tulip the Gardner wants you. God is here.”

I had turned to face a little blonde waif in a kimono. For all the trowelled on makeup, black rings prominently shadowed her eyes and intensified her waxy complexion . She was smoking a cigarette and chewing intermittently.

“Whatch ya doing anyway?”

“Mind your s***”. I heard myself say.

A me me but not me.

I looked back at the picture, It was no longer damaged. Black eyes as cold as ice surveyed me back.

The picture was different

And the room was different also.

Walls of fabric divided the hall like curtains in a hospital. Most were open and in each dormitory, a single bed. Most were grubby and unmade. Women lay, sat, or stood on their beds, chatting, drinking, sleeping, smoking, painting their nails. Music blared from several enclosures. Lights arched around some of the beds. They flashed irritably, some blue, some red.The space felt loud, visually, aurally and emotionally.

But despite the laughter and chatter, I could sense a curious tension in the room which made my skin crawl.

I walked, no sauntered to a bed space. Number 4 was printed on the wall. But unlike the scrawled others, the letters were printed with a skilled hand in black a gold border. The bed at Number 4 was made, had clean cerise sheets, that were shiny in texture, and a black silk tulip sat on the pillow. There was a black side table with gold beading as was the chest at the end of the bed. Both were padlocked. I closed the curtain, black again and from under a loose floorboard I extracted a stone which exposed a set of keys and a mobile phone. I removed both.

And then the air in the room changed.

There was no curtain, no bed

I was alone again.

The silence profound.

I realised I was no longer tall and black but,  but my normal dumpy fair skinned, brown-haired self, in sensible work shirt, shoes and laddered tights. I felt disoriented and tired.

I told myself that I fallen asleep.

I berated myself

How ridiculous was I to fall asleep?

How unprofessional!

I picked ups my camera and returned to work.

Click went my camera 

click at the picture across the room

click at a black and gold number 4…..

click at the floorboards…….

On a whim,

I used a pen to prise the  floorboard open. Below a piece of rock was a set of keys and a mobile phone.

I felt sick. I felt scared and the sense of foreboding was compounded by wonderment

The phone was unsurprisingly dead so I fished out of my bag, a portable charger and left the phone charging on the floor.

I stood and I was no longer me. I was me but the piggy back me, the spectator.

I was cloaked from head to toe in black and yet I could feel the coolness of the air on my skin. I was dragging, half dragging another robed girl. She was squealing and crying and pleading. However hard she tried I wasn’t letting go.

We were following a man and without turning he said,

“Tulip.”

Just one word but

It was a command, a reprimand, a threat.

Somehow I smiled. Though no one would or could have seen as my hood was pulled over my face so low that all i could barely detect my feet.

“Patience,” I said to his back “Poppy is just excited. Why don’t you make yourself home and we will be with you shortly.”

He grunted but didn’t turn or change his stride.

I waited for a few minutes, until he was gone with Poppy still screaming and weeping and then I turned on her.

“Shut up you silly little bitch. Don’t you understand that God likes his flowers to do His bidding.

He will kill you, if you moan.

He will kill you, if you scream.

He will kill you, if you cry.

I will try to help you but make no mistake there is no escape.”

“Now pull yourself together.

For the next foreseeable future you are Poppy.

And your body belongs to God.

For Poppy is

One of his.

A flower.

We are the flowers. And this is the Garden of Hell.”

And then in a gentler voice

Listen, our minds can be anywhere we wish. Find a place in your head, safe place, settle there and stay there until it's over and you are allowed to leave.”

The girls hood had fallen back to reveal the face of a child, no more than 13 or 14. I looked her. I could see the wide eyed fear in her face and I felt like a mother chastising a child.

Me.

“Dry your eyes Poppy. Your life depends on it.”

We took the stairs up and stopped at the last door of a corridor of doors. I knocked.

“Room Service.” I called.

“Enter my flowers.” Came a thick accented reply. “God is waiting.”

“Remember,” I whispered, “Follow my lead but imagine you’re somewhere else.”

We entered.

The room was sumptuous.

Which was surprising.

It was a peacock blue. with heavy cream brocade curtains.

There was a huge gold four poster bed flowers carved into the frame, sheets of the palest duck egg and adorned with a delicate gold print

There were ornate cabinets and dressers. a pale blue rug on the floor.

It felt strange and somehow more menacing than the room of torture that i was expecting.

Against the pillows sat a man. His legs were spread out infront of him, neatly crossed. He wore black trousers, a royal blue smoking jacket. but his face was hidden for he was reading reading a double spread newspaper

“How would you like to water your flowers, my lord?.” I purred, peering from under my cloak.

The man lowered his paper.

The face that looked back was

painted.

And inwardly I gasped.

He was painted like an Oriental God. Green and yellow, black and red. Devilish.

His eyes glittered,

He licked his lips and surveyed us.

It was then I heard the music.

Singing.

Opera?

Phantom of the Opera!

Gowns,” he commanded.

I could feel my heart racing.

I could feel the sweat. But i took a large breath, flared my nostrils and raised my head high.

I threw back my hood and opened my gown, I would let it drop in due course. In the corner of my eye Poppy had rallied and was doing the same. We were a sight to behold. A mirror revealed a tall black woman with braided hair, a black velvet cape, red lingerie and thigh length boots, shiny and red. A small Asian girl stood next to her. Her skin was whiter than chalk and her blue-black hair was piled high on her head. But for her black cape, she was naked except for a vivid blue G-string.

A black Amazonian, and a little Japanese Geisha.

A shaft of light momentarily dazzled me. I blinked and everything was gone. It was as if i’d changed channels on the TV. The room was empty. I looked around. Yes i was in the room of my dream, but it was deserted. The walls were still turquoise, tired but in tact and the window bare.

The face of “God” sat in my minds eye. I could still feel him. His voice. His radiated power. His scary eyes. He’d done nothing untoward to warrant my fear. But I had known with every fibre of my body that he was nothing like God, he was the devil, of that I was sure.

There was so much to be done but I’d had enough. I decided to call it a day. The rest of the building could wait for another time. Too many thoughts were distracting me, I felt flu-y. or was that the onset of a migraine and i had food pangs that could only be rescued by McDonalds.

I was few miles from Bridge End, when I realised I’d left the phone charger on the floor. I wanted to leave it behind, surely it would wait unit next week when i could return? but I knew that i would worry about it all evening, so back I went.

It was only 3.00 when I found myself letting myself in to 96-7 Mansel Street for the third time that day. But twilight was already just around the corner. It had begun to rain and Swansea seemed desolate and miserable.

Miserable and damp i retraced the mornings steps.

I noticed more graffiti as i did so. I was looking for it this time.

Parched is the land

and later

Thorns bleed

The phone and charger were on the floor where I’d left them and despite knowing that it would be encrypted, i tried accessing the contents on the phone.

My black hand punched in 135976.

Here I was again.

I was back in “God’s Palace.”

Two bodies were tangled up on the bed. Poppy was painted like a canvas from head to toe with ivy, The stems spiralling her wrists arms legs and torso. red and orange Poppies poked their heads through the gaps in the ivy and bees danced above them My stomach turned over. For the centre of each poppy was swollen and sore. they were round burn holes and I spied an ashtray next to the bed. Poppy was looking at me. Silent tears ran down her face, but she didn’t move and I gestured her to be quiet. She blinked her understanding. God, was lying face down in the crook of her neck and quietly snoring.

In my hand was the phone

I photographed the scene, the interior of a drawer, and then taped the phone into the inside of my boot before joining the occupents on the bed.

Reality quickly returned. I punched in the password and found Photos.

It was not easy viewing. No one should see what I was seeing.

What the Garden reaping

Born out of greed

female persecution

Pain

violence.

The photos made me angry and disgusted and shocked.

I found myself weeping first and then sobbing until it was dark. I had to use the torch on my phone to find my way back to the entrance and as i scanned the walls, it found the painting.

God was there disfigured,

His sightless cavities,

Perhaps Poppys retribution.

I picked up my charger and the phone. I screamed at the painting.

God if you think this is bad

You have no idea

I’m going to make sure that you’re going to Hell.

I left and drove straight to the police station. I told them that I had guessed why they were investigating my building.

That I was here to turn in evidence that would be of key.

That in my opinion the persecutors should be locked up and never freed.

I hope that I was right

My story happened 10 years ago

My recommendations to the Swansea City Council came with a lot of persuasion.

The premises have been turned into a government supported Art Centre, and has an education program that prioritises vulnerable people especially women. There is an exciting gallery space, cafe and studios which encourage creativity in a safe place.

Tonight I’m going to the opening of photographic exhibition there. It’s called Tulip and the Garden. The photographer is an up and coming female artist who I’m very keen to meet.