Dance Macabre in the House of the Reaper's Moll
In the unlikeliest of places we find a sanctuary from the grinding realities of post-war England, so welcome to The Bone Diva; pull up a pew and choose your poison
LIFE in The Shanties can be tough, so little wonder people might yearn for some kind of release, but a living of a kind can – must – be made; survival expects nothing less.
Mercy de la Morte is a testament to that unforgiving truth. The young woman is an outlier, too, it must be said; a wild card dealt by the hand of fate, mocking expectation to play by her own rules.
Whatever her secret, whatever dark gods she's seduced, it's clearly worked. She hasn't so much survived, as thrived.
This glamorous Goth femme has risen above her origins here as a child refugee, fleeing England's calamitous civil war. Somehow, Mercy – well, she hasn't exactly tamed The Shanties – but she's managed to carve out a niche; made it very much her own.
That's not just a metaphor, by the way. The niche is known as The Bone Diva, the nightclub Mercy co-owns here in the heart of The Shanties. Technically, the place doesn't have a name, but over the years this speakeasy-dive has come to be known by Mercy's nickname; well, why not?
Like it's namesake, the place is a survivor. Like Mercy herself, it was resurrected from ruin; given new life and purpose in the fashioning of her enigmatic persona. If all the world is but a stage, The Bone Diva is this young woman's arena.
Her Name In Shadows
Locals of a certain age might – just about – recognise the building; its shell, at least. They may even recall the streets and buildings that once surrounded it; if only as a ghost of reminiscence.
The rest of us will have to make do with old street maps and digital image archives to place The Bone Diva in its historical context.
Truth is, this patch of Bradford is barely recognisable from its pre-war days. Waves of economic decline, abandonment, regeneration and renewal, had already remoulded this part of the city more than once in the decades before civil war finally pummelled much of the surrounding area to ruin.
Nowadays, even that is gone; mostly. Rather it's been subsumed by a new entry in the city's urban biography. The Bone Diva is surrounded by the chaotic sprawl of The Shanties; broken buildings hastily repaired, makeshift streets, a rag-tag assortment of structures cobbled together from the rubble.
Somewhere at its heart, clinging on, remains the original makeshift camp for internally displaced persons – refugees, if you will – that eventually spilled out into this sprawl. The tents are long-since gone, but the stacks and grids of modified shipping containers remain; home, still, to hundreds, if not thousands of souls, scattered and drawn here as an escape from conflict.
The place was a haven; it's easy to forget that. For many, it remains so, as what was once England crawls towards some plateau of normality; some stable platform on which to rebuild.
In the midst of all this, The Bone Diva sits; just the latest in a long line of the building's incarnations, but nonetheless its stonework and slated roofs emanate a sense of permanence belied by the architectural carnage around it.
To look at, there's no escaping the Diva's ecclesiastical origins; a deconsecrated church, no mistake. A deity was worshipped here, once, but whatever particular flavour of Christianity was rote-preached within its walls is long-since forgotten. The place has seen many uses, since those days; each has left some trace of its sorry chapter.
These days, you might say it hosts the irrepressible spirit of a more enchanting goddess; consider it the House of the Reaper's Moll.
Every bit as much a character in her story, the old church is also a manifestation of the woman herself; an artifice in keeping with her carefully crafted image. Make of that what you will.
Mercy has certainly made this place her own; a reflection of a troubled soul, of that we can be sure. There's a brooding quality to the architecture; stone carved for moonlight and shadow. Technically, not Gothic, but it'll do.
Lit up, cometh the night, and The Bone Diva appears very much built for the witching hours. The building drapes the night around itself, much like Mercy might wrap herself in a cloak of myth and make believe, but the apparel isn't entirely a performer's pretension.
As it now stands, the place surely serves to neuter in sepulchral mockery the horrors that have come to haunt this land; horrors Mercy herself experienced during this broken nation's godforsaken conflict.
Here is where Mercy comes alive, then, and Death must dance to her tune.
Keeping Vigil With the Crows
There's an artistry to The Bone Diva, that's for sure; sign that the human spirit flickers defiance still, standing out amidst the tawdry haunts of The Shanties' regular run of nocturnal sin.
Along one length of the building, the wall is adorned with a depiction of a creepy old cemetery skulking in clouded moonlight. Classic cruciform gravestones jostle with the bony branches of gnarled trees. Yes, of course, bats flitter, but a murder of crows keeps a silent vigil.
Let the discerning gaze flit back to that veiled moon for a more lingering study. There's something about the ethereal glow that's unsettling and just plain wrong. Blink and you miss it. There are probably many interpretations, but a disturbingly common one considers it no moon but a new-born sun.
Some swear it's intended to represent the initial flash of a distant nuke, captured by the artist's hand in the split second before the spark becomes a blossoming mushroom of destruction.
Those crows, then, the trees, the tombstones, even the dead in their sunken graves are depicted in their final moments before annihilation sweeps them away.
If that seems to contradict the notion of keeping Death in His place, of Mercy's playful affectation of being the Reaper's Moll; well... yes. But isn't that the truth of it?
We can flirt with the bony man, dance just out of his reach; even slip from His grasp for a time, but the Reapoman can afford to be gracious and wait. Sooner or later, we all fall to His eternal overtures. Mercy surely knows that.
So, maybe it's not quite the cliched Gothic manifestation we might assume. Feel free to disagree, but this is Mercy's domain, and we should know we enter on her terms. Quite possibly our peril, too. That's all part of the appeal, one supposes; the legend her fans adore.
As a counterpoint to the sombre scene, the Bone Diva herself bids patrons welcome to the namesake venue, courtesy of the giant mural painted on the wall above the entrance.
There she is, Mercy de la Morte, gazing down in all her glory; illuminated. The ghost-pale likeness is running her hands through wild and unruly hair, as if captured in the motion of tying it back ready for action.
The woman's eyes float in the darkness of black-painted sockets, gazing down upon the supplicants bidding entrance to her sanctum. Cheekbones are emphasised by shadow; nose similarly rendered a spectral apparition by the application of artful pigment.
The Death's Head visage is completed by a mouth painted to depict the suggestion of fleshless teeth, yet beneath the grim mask, her full lips show a slight curl of wry amusement, as if Mercy's image is preparing to utter a sardonic greeting.
Death is surely listening, hanging on his Moll's unspoken word, but before we let ourselves be carried away further on Mercy's flights of fancy, let's take a leap back down to Earth. None of this should work.
Really, when you behold the place with the eyes of an outsider, the whole scenario just seems so utterly unlikely.
Shades of Merciful Release
To consider that this broken down old church, with its gratuitous murals, situated on the outskirts of a battle-scarred Northern city, should become a beacon of such renown; it stretches credulity.
The same might be said of our esteemed Bone Diva herself; quietly, lest we incur – if not her wrath – then the outrage of her fans. But that's to miss the subtleties, not to mention the peculiarities of this time and place in not-so-merry England.
Beholding The Bone Diva in all its dark exuberance, setting sight on the ramshackle township that surrounds it, we outlanders are undoubtedly mesmerised by the contrasts; bewildered, even, by the unlikely prominence the place exhibits.
For those of us who hail from relatively functional societies in Wales, Scotland, Europe, say, or metropolises such as London or New York, whose lives have not been so brutally disrupted by anything so unthinkable as civil conflict; we have it easy in our misconceptions.
Lose the tinted spectacles through which we take our superior view, put ourselves in the perspective of the local, and just maybe we'll see the place with their wearied eye; a glimpse of why all this extravagant artifice works.
Not everything is so black and white at The Bone Diva, you might say; the place brings an irresistible splash of colour to people's lives. Even now, perhaps especially now, the place continues to offer a kind of sanctuary.
In the hard, unsettled reality that England has become, The Bone Diva offer respite from the grim burdens of everyday life. For a while, at least, people can pack up their troubles and leave them at the door.
Here, locals have the chance to 'dandy up', let their hair down, strut their stuff, and forget their worries. The Bone Diva is a safe space, neutral ground; Mercy and her crew make sure of that.
Woe betide any foolhardy enough to break this unspoken treaty; no weapons are permitted in the Diva, but the house has its own rules to play...
The place draws in the crowds, that's for sure; they come from far and wide to partake of the Diva's delights. Over the years, its renown has spread, especially since armistice quelled the fighting.
Wisdom of the Crowds
There's no mystery to why the locals are drawn to the place. Even the patrons pulled in from wider Bradford and its metropolitan districts make a kind of sense.
But the draw it exerts on people from neighbouring towns in the conurbation, places like Halifax and Huddersfield say, are less easy to explain.
As for the big cities, Leeds, Sheffield, Derby, far-off Newcastle or Durham – even Manchester, over there on the Lancastrian side of the Pennines – simply boggles the mind, given The Shanties' reputation as a rough and lawless place1.
Even without that consideration, what does this sorry patch of outlying Bradford have to offer that can't already be found in those big cities? Well, the concise answer is that these places aren't what they were.
The war years took their toll; post-war privations and security restrictions have only served to further subdue their respective nighttime economies.
Lawlessness can have its advantages, then; in certain circumstances. The Shanties makes the most of its notoriety, and The Bone Diva has become its calling card.
At the root of it, outsiders come to The Shanties for much the same reasons as the locals. An escape from the grey realities of daily life; a chance to lose themselves in revelry and music, washed down with whatever intoxicant takes their fancy.
For a while, they can forget the dirge of existence, and lose themselves in the song and dance of Mercy's affectations. She is the Goth Queen, and while darkness is her plaything, there's more than enough light to play merry for her audience's solace.
There's more to it than that, of course; there's the added thrill – for outsiders – in that perception of danger, too. While the risk to life and limb in The Shanties is very real, it is also much overblown; little different to the towns and cities of England, really.
Indeed, whisper it lest you blow the allure – it's conceivable The Shanties is somewhat safer; for outlanders, at least. Why threaten such a precious source of coin? The residents may be 'bad'; they're not 'mad' with it.
There's another currency at work with the The Bone Diva, though; one that is a little less easy to quantify, but likely all the more valuable for that. Influence.
This is where the story of The Bone Diva reaches the strangest heights of all; the wheels of diplomacy, oiled to the tune of its namesake's hospitality.
Palace of Implausibility
Rumour has it that England is finally on the verge of an historic breakthrough. If so, then it's likely that much of the preliminary machinations were orchestrated – informally – right here in The Bone Diva.
Yes, it beggars belief. On both counts. Diplomats and officials remain tight-lipped about the whole affair – England has suffered false dawns before – but off the record, there is a quiet confidence that this time a deal is finally coming into shape.
At next year's Summit, hosted by the UN/EU authority within Harrogate's International Conference Centre, there's every expectation that a constitutional settlement will formally be agreed. At long last, many mutter; fingers crossed.
If so, it will open the way to elections and the formation of England's first independent national government in far too long.
In the years since armistice, that's proved something of a unicorn. The fractious factions of England's post-war polity have had a tough time coming to terms with their beleaguered fortunes. Mostly, they've swapped battlefields for boardrooms, combat fatigues for business suits, bullets for points in wordy policy proposals; some say the conflict is far from over.
They have a point; one that UN and EU diplomats have sought to blunt in the seemingly endless rounds of meetings and discussions and summits held in pursuit of that elusive constitutional settlement.
Be assured, if it comes to pass, that both the UN and the EU will let loose a collective sigh of relief; it's no secret both organisations are eager to pack their bags and go home.
In a world where climate catastrophe is making itself felt around the globe, both organisations and their member nations have enough to contend with. A little England, eviscerated by its own petty self-loathings and hubristic grandiosity, is a problem they can do without, but it's one – the EU especially – can ill-afford to leave fester2.
So, for those English factions eager to see the back of these 'foreign invaders and interlopers', they can rest assured – the feeling is mutual.
Officially – even informally – none of the credit for this groundbreaking political settlement will ever go to The Bone Diva. Of course not, the very idea. Even so, stranger things have happened in love and war. It seems a safe bet that the place provides a convenient venue for much 'off-the-books' diplomacy.
Quite what the Mistress of Midnight makes of all this is anyone's guess. Mercy is not one for politics – nor is she one to kiss and tell – but she is surely shrewd enough to realise the unspoken contest she compères.
She may not be a power player, herself, not even a matchmaker – just the neutral host – but that undoubtedly earns the Diva much in the way of grace and favours.
As for her shady associate, Karel Ludek – who swears he's gone legit – the opportunity to rub shoulders informally with some of the prime wheelers and dealers in this battered nation's affairs is surely worth his body-weight in gold. The Bone Diva, you might suggest, is a deal-maker's paradise.
Given his background, supplying arms to various civil war factions, Ludek undoubtedly has plenty of contacts already – a wallet-full of favours to call in too – but it's always good to get out there and network; rub shoulders with those in the know. These days, information is more the man's stock in trade; the kind not gleaned through official channels.
None of this answers the question of how The Bone Diva's hospitality has come to draw such a prestigious – and useful – clientele. In truth, we'll likely never assemble an entirely satisfactory answer.
The Reaper's Moll Bids You Welcome
Location is everything, right? You wouldn't think so, really, but that's The Bone Diva's advantage in a nutshell; the right place, at the right time.
Mercy and her crew – along with that old rogue, Ludek – have evidently made the most of its favourable geography. Sure, it could be better placed, nothing's perfect, but even that slight dislocation proves a certain asset.
Situated in The Shanties, out there in the southerly war-damaged 'wilds' of Bradford, The Bone Diva nevertheless enjoys a proximity to Leeds; the interim capital, where so many of the UN/EU peacekeeping mission's administrative departments are headquartered.
As if that's not enough, Leeds is also home to the West Riding's mayoral authority, not to mention key governmental and civil defence structures established by Noreco (Northern Regions Coalition) as it moved towards quasi-statehood; the better to coordinate its collective defence. All in all, the proximity offers quite the pool of patrons; if you can muster their custom.
A nameless den, in its beginning; a place for Mercy to shut out the world and sing her heart out, but it drew the locals. That was a start; not that anyone might have guessed at how the place – or the performer – would blossom.
If there's any truth to those dark rumours, then the Reaper's Moll was certainly plying her deadly trade as a gun for hire in the shadows beyond the limelight's edge; forging a reputation, earning the means to lavish both the Diva and herself with the trappings of her playfully macabre incarnation.
The rest is serendipity. Word of mouth has served the Diva well. Mercy sits at the heart of a web of gossip and rumour and tall tales; a curious reaping of souls, this attention she craves.
In those early days, it wasn't long before the The Bone Diva caught the attention of humanitarian aid workers from the various NGOs operating in the city. Among them, as word got round, came off-duty civilian militia members and soldiers involved in Noreco's defence.
A tough crowd, no doubt, but Mercy welcomed them one and all. For both groups, the Diva was a place to forget the hard realities of daily life at the sharp end of England's conflict. Much like it did for the locals, the Diva offered a refuge during those crazy times; a place to drown the sorrows, to forget (for a while) their fears.
Later, once the UN established a military presence – initially to protect humanitarian operations, then as a fully fledged peacekeeping force – the Diva went on to seduce a fresh wave of patrons.
When armistice finally silenced the guns, it seems The Bone Diva really came into its own; with its reputation established, trade flourished. People are drawn by its notoriety; they stay for the hospitality.
Word likely reached the higher echelons of the local civil and military structures through the ranks; similarly the UN and EU peacekeeping machinery. Just how high and wide The Bone Diva's allure has reached is open to question, but there is no doubt it has found favour in high places.
They come for a multiplicity of reasons, the diplomats, the government chiefs, the senior players in England's factional politics; a mix of business and pleasure. Remember The Bone Diva's location; conveniently close to the centres of politics and diplomacy, but sufficiently off the beaten track to be useful.
Speculation is fraught with trip hazards, of course, but nonetheless we can surmise its value as a place for 'off the record' gatherings and frank discussions. Here, there's none of the busy distractions of official turbulence, nor the scrutiny of curious eyes, or restless rivals.
Much as it does for the locals, the place offers neutral ground. The protocols and conventions of official propriety can cast off their inhibitions. In the Diva, these power players can shed their jackets, loosen their ties, roll-up their sleeves, and speak freely, if no less carefully.
It's wise not to overplay such notions, for sure; Mercy's hospitality – and discretion – offers plenty of scope for disavowing anything 'underhand'. Like their underlings before them, these shapers of the nation's future are just here for the entertainment; sure, a little rest and recreation.
There's plenty of truth in it, but are we really to believe that's all there is? After all, we're talking about the kind of people who are never entirely off duty; not when there are interests to serve and deals to be made.
For all her wiles and artistic talent, though, it's hard to picture these (mostly) middle aged power players rocking to her more raucous shows. Mercy the crooner, sure; the provocative Goth femme screaming macabre and melodious rage into a microphone quite another.
Mercy's no fool. She knows her trade. For all its Gothic exuberance, The Bone Diva offers plenty of delights to enthral and entertain; she casts her net wide, you might say.
Quite what these VIPs make of our Sister of Shadow is one for the imagination; what they make of Mercy's rumoured sideline as a gun for hire is one for darker speculation.
Yes, it's entirely possible they – some of them – know nothing of the tales; truth or otherwise. Maybe they've heard the rumours and simply dismissed them, as so many admittedly do; all part of the act.
Then again, it's highly likely that others simply choose to ignore this (allegedly) deadly sideline for convenience sake. The denial is plausible, after all.
We should acknowledge that not all The Bone Diva's high ranking clientele are entirely clean of conscience themselves, if we can put it in such terms. There are those among these dealers in realpolitik – especially where it comes to England's factional players in the civil conflict – whose hands are stained red; politics is a dirty and unforgiving game, even at the best of times.
In that sense, be assured The Bone Diva hosts a dangerous crowd; one acquainted with the wiles of death and deception. In that respect, what better host than the Reaper's Moll herself?
MC
Copyright © July 2024. All Rights Reserved
1 We might add, the difficulties in getting around Noreco, given the destruction of infrastructure wrought by the war. Indeed, let's not ignore the ramshackle transport links bourne of years of neglect and lack of investment in the era when Westminster government still held sway over these lands.
2 The independent nations of Scotland and Wales would certainly appreciate a more reliably stable neighbour.