by Lee Rourke
It’s way too much to think about right now anyway, so I banish these thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the sound of my stick click click click clicking with each of my steps. Its rhythm soothes me. I feel like I’m making progress once again. It doesn’t take me long to reach Uncle Tom’s Cabin at the end of the beach at Thorpe Bay; an ugly little building dwarfed by a recently built sea wall that obscures any chance of a view out into the mouth of the estuary.
if you want anything
The café’s empty. I sit at a table by the window, with a view of the sea wall. I take comfort in knowing it’s keeping the estuary and its surging currents away from me, keeping it all ‘out there’ where only the container ships, oil tankers and the odd Thames sailing barge can take it on. Inside the café everything is still. In here there are no currents to contend with. I order a full English breakfast and a large mug of tea. I mix some white pepper into it, something I haven’t done for a long time, remembering how I like the peppery aftertaste.
When the breakfast arrives it’s huge. I take my time eating it. My stomach welcomes each forkful gladly, and I can feel the blood returning to my veins under my skin. Before I know it I’m contemplating a short walk out to Shoeburyness to see the old Second World War anti-aircraft gun casements. I haven’t seen the gun casements since I was a child. I want to know how much things have changed out there, if at all.
Just as I’m contemplating the sheer immensity of the concrete gun emplacements, the power that used to be fixed in position there, the door to the café opens, sending white light across the floor. I nearly jump out of my skin. A large, bearded man enters the café, who looks the spitting image of Mr Buchanan, so much so that I have to convince myself more than once that it definitely isn’t him. As I dip some of my buttered toast into the yolk of my fried egg, I watch him. The resemblance is uncanny. The man orders a mug of coffee and gammon and chips, then walks over and sits down at the table directly next to mine. Almost immediately his mobile phone begins to ring. The tune is tinny, but familiar. I soon realise, just in time, that it’s a Dr Feelgood track. I’m not sure which one, but I’m convinced it’s the first track I’d listened to in Uncle Rey’s caravan that first night. It’s the same geometric guitar riff.
‘What?’
[…]
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
[…]
‘He should have done it.’
[…]
‘Well, that’s not my problem, is it?’
[…]
‘When?’
[…]
‘Fuck off, did he?’
[…]
‘When?’
[…]
‘You’re joking, what’s he on?’
[…]
‘It’s not the first time.’
[…]
‘Listen, I’ve told you before. One phone call and I’ve got fifteen of Bethnal Green’s finest to sort his lot out. Seriously, if he thinks he can just come down here and fuck around like he has been, then on his fat head be it … the cunt.’
[…]
‘It’s not my problem … But … I … I know … Listen, if he wants one, tell him he’s got one.’
[…]
‘I don’t care.’
[…]
‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck.’
[…]
‘No.’
[…]
‘No.’
[…]
‘Listen, fuck off, what part of “no” don’t you understand? He’s fucking trouble, a fucking nuisance …’
[…]
‘No. I’ve told you.’
[…]
‘Fuck off.’
[…]
‘Fuck off.’
He slams his phone down on the table and takes a large gulp from his coffee, which makes me flinch – it must be scalding, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. He looks around the café for some time, until his gaze finally settles on me. I look away immediately, hoping he will too.
‘Never nice to hear, is it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘A phone call like that, when you hear a phone call like that … Never nice to hear, is it?’
‘Oh, that, oh, I wasn’t listening …’
‘Well, I was loud enough to hear. So I apologise for that. Never nice. Never nice at all, that.’
‘No, really, it isn’t a problem.’
‘Just come in here for some peace and quiet, I bet.’
‘No, well, yes … no, not really.’
‘Always good to escape, isn’t it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You look like you’re in hiding …’
‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘You, in here … away from all that … you look like you’ve had enough, that’s what I mean.’
‘Oh, well … I was just out for a stroll … I was hungry …’
‘Long … stroll …’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’ve been behind you all the way, from Royal Terrace, all the way to here … Long stroll.’
‘Yes, oh, well, I like walking … I prefer it to driving.’
‘Is that why you have that big stick?’
‘I suppose so …’
‘Can come in handy a stick like that, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s hefty … you could do a man some damage with a stick like that …’
‘I use it for walking …’
‘Always useful, just in case …’
‘Yes. I suppose …’
I tuck into my black pudding and then look at stuff, nothing in particular, on my phone. I don’t feel like talking to him and I hope he gets the message. He continues to stare at me while he chews on large chunks of gammon.
‘I think I need a stick like that.’
‘I bought it on Canvey.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘Well, people like walking sticks, I guess.’
‘I saw you before Royal Terrace, actually …’
‘Oh …’
‘Yeah, near York Road …’
‘Oh …’
‘You were asleep, I think … flat out on the grass.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure it was me, I mean …’
‘I never forget a face.’
‘Oh …’
‘You waiting for someone?’
‘Now?’
‘No, on York Road.’
‘No … No … Just having a rest.’
‘You want weed, brown, coke?’
‘Pardon?’
‘What do you need? … A woman … man?’
‘No, no, no … None of that, that’s not why … No, I’m not into any of that.’
‘You sure?’
‘No … Thanks … Really …’
‘All right.’
He stuffs more gammon into his mouth, like he’s in a rush to leave, but he isn’t and I realise that this is just the way he eats his food. Chips and gammon, the bits that miss his mouth, fall back onto his plate and the table, which doesn’t seem to bother him, as he just picks up the bits, stuffing them into his mouth with his hand.
‘If you ever need anything I can always be found, I’m always knocking around … York Road, out here by the wall … get a lot of men out here, wanting certain things … You know what I mean … You just give me a shout next time you see me, if you want anything … You only have to ask.’
‘Oh, right … yes.’
I eat my food as quickly as possible. I swig down my peppery tea and take my empty plate to the man behind the counter. I give him the money and he takes it without smiling. I’m not sure he heard our conversation. I think about saying something to him about it but I think better of it as the man eating the gammon is staring at me again. I wave goodbye as he gives me a wink.
ejected and abandoned
I head along the sea wall towards the garrison, towards the Second World War gu
n casements. It’s an eerie place out here. The sky stretched out, like I’m walking into it, and the sea over the wall is almost black in the distance.
I walk around the first of many gun casements: a smattering of thick-walled, concrete structures that still seem to maintain a sense of permanence and importance. I peer inside where the huge guns used to be, hurling shells out into the estuary. It’s quiet and it’s hard to imagine how loud the guns must have been. Now it’s bathed in silence it doesn’t seem right, although I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, the silence, as odd as it may seem, is comforting.
I look over to my left, where the old barracks must have been. An old parade ground and mess houses have all been bought by a developer, and people – families, young professionals – are beginning to move in, buying into something that doesn’t exist any more. The whole place seems dead. I feel like I’m intruding, like I’ve gatecrashed a funeral. It’s like I haven’t just arrived but I’ve been spewed here, ejected and abandoned, here on the ness, for the elements to chip away at me until finally I crumble. It’s a strange feeling: being stuck out here at the first point of defence; the barracks and garrison just slightly hidden from view. It’s hard to ignore this place, nestled comfortably here by the sea, Sheerness and the hills of Kent out across it on the other side, wider, freer, the sea less restricting out here. It’s hard to imagine the numerous rivers and outlets gushing into the estuary at Foulness – large arteries pumping fresh water into its salty depths, a huge black river before me. It doesn’t seem real.
I walk down onto the beach below, a tangle of grass, concrete and shingle, where I walk to the water’s edge to trace the shape of the land better from the ness and beyond. I stand here. Fixed, rooted to the spot. There’s no point walking any further. There’s nothing else I can say.
something snaps
I can smell the sea now that I’m walking in the opposite direction. My stomach is full and I feel energised. I’ve decided to return to Toledo Road immediately, to knock on Laura’s door to see if she is there, to find out if that’s where she lives, and if she remembers me. I want to be sure that it’s her: the girl from the pier, the one who wants me to know that she’s in trouble. Surely that’s what she wanted out there, to tell someone, anyone. It just happened to be the right person … me. If I ignore her plea, then what’s the point in all this? This strange quest to find her? It’s no good, there’s nothing else for me to do, I just can’t get her beautiful face out of my head. I know that if I don’t at least try, she’ll haunt me until the day I die. It’s the right thing to do: I’ll just calmly knock on her door, that big brown door, and if she doesn’t answer I’ll just calmly ask if she is there, and if she is I’ll introduce myself, she’ll remember me. I’ll take her away to the island. We’ll watch the stars together at night and listen to that low rumble of the passing ships’ engines as they float by just beyond the sea wall. She’ll be safe out there, away from any danger, from everything and everyone.
Voices interrupt my thoughts: I can hear them on the other side of the wall, more than three it seems, talking energetically.
‘Did you fuck her?’
‘Course I did.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Her pussy … what her tits like?’
‘She’s fine, bruv.’
‘What’s her pussy like?’
‘She sucked me off, near Sainsbury’s, in the fucking bushes where Acky fucked Michelle Taylor. She sucked it right there.’
‘She’s well fit …’
‘I wanna go, too …’
‘She’d fuck anyone …’
‘Not you, you skank …’
‘Too much fucking cheese there …’
I listen, the sprawl of Southend seafront ahead of me, leading me on. The group of teenagers hop over the sea wall just in front of me, now the voices are real, one by one, four voices in total, dropping in front of me as if they’ve just fallen from the sky. I step to my right over to the cycle lane to allow them to pass but instead they circle me like an angry swarm of wasps. They’re laughing at my stick, egging each other on.
‘What you gonna do with that stick?’
‘Give us your stick?’
‘Leave him, let’s go …’
‘I want his stick.’
‘I need this stick, it helps me to walk …’
‘You a cripple?’
‘You don’t look like one.’
‘Fuckin’ mong.’
‘Mong.’
‘I’m okay, okay … I’m on my way home.’
‘Give us that stick …’
‘No.’
‘Give us that stick …’
‘No.’
‘Fuckin’ mong.’
‘No, leave me to walk home …’
‘No, you’re not …’
Just like they say, a red mist suddenly descends. I raise my stick and swing it wildly around my head. It narrowly misses one of the teenagers’ heads, and then another. All I know is that I need my stick and I want to get to Toledo Road as soon as possible. I begin to jab it towards their faces, the point of the stick millimetres from them. They back off. I go for one again, swinging the stick up and bringing it down towards their head like an axe. They manage to avoid it.
‘Come on … Come on … He’s fucking mental …’
‘That nearly fucking …’
‘He’s fuckin’ psycho …’
‘Come on … Come on …’
They half jog past me, as close to the sea wall as they can. I allow them to pass. Once they’re at a safe distance they begin to sling insults at me until I can’t hear them any more. Two of them stop and do some sort of hand signal before turning away. I’m in some form of shock, shaking, my breathing heavy and erratic. I’ve never reacted that way before; I usually walk away from confrontation.
As I continue to walk a large pebble smashes into shards at my feet. I turn around – the teenagers are throwing them at me; some of them narrowly miss, others fall way wide of the mark. The teenagers are laughing, hurling obscenities. I quicken my pace away from them, without looking back again, pebbles smashing all around me until I’m out of range. After a while they are dots in the distance. I continue to walk quickly, heading as fast as my short legs will take me towards her, energised, unafraid and in search of her, my beautiful Laura, heading to save her from any darkness, to bring her back from the depths of night, back up into the light of day.
short circuit
Toledo Road is busy when I eventually arrive. A removal van is causing havoc for two cars that are trying to get past and up onto nearby Hilltop Road. The driver of the removal van is refusing to back up to allow them to pass, informing them in no uncertain terms to ‘back up’ themselves and ‘fuck off back down the other way’. People are hanging out of windows and standing on porches watching. All except the house with the large brown door. I look in through the windows, half hiding behind the thick trunk of the cherry tree on the grass verge. The blinds are half closed so it’s hard to detect anything, but I’m sure I can see some movement inside. As the drivers all begin to shout at each other – one, the driver of a small Nissan Micra, seems to have taken it upon himself to step out of his car to have a go at the removal van driver – I slowly walk down the grass verge towards her house. I walk across Toledo Road as a fight breaks out: pushing and shoving more than anything. There are three buzzers at the door, a total of three flats inside the house. I stand there looking at them, the mêlée erupting on the street as more drivers step out of their cars. I ring all three at the same time; whoever lives here can all answer the communal door together. Nothing. I press them again. Still nothing. Then I press each buzzer one after the other, waiting a few seconds between each, worried that in pressing them at the same time the signal might have short-circuited or something. This seems to work, as I can soon sense some movement in the communal hallway. After a few more seconds the door slowly begins to open. A man greets me in just a pair of boxer shorts. H
e’s trim, muscular and covered in tattoos. I’ve clearly woken him up.
‘What!?’
‘Er … Does … Does Laura live here?’
‘Who? No.’
‘No … I mean, is there a girl who lives here with blonde hair, big eyes …’
‘Lots of girls live here … Who do you want?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Girls … You want girls … You come back later, we have plenty girls for you later.’
‘Wait … Wait … What do you mean?’
The door shuts in my face. It doesn’t take me long to realise what he means. I feel like puking. I walk away, as the man from the Nissan Micra is running back to his car, the man from the removal van chasing after him. I walk away from Toledo Road, my ears ringing, dizzy and nauseous. I realise one thing: I know where I need to be tonight before I visit the Sunset Bar.
you must have found something
I spend the late afternoon back on the island in Uncle Rey’s caravan. It’s about time I attempt to start what I came here to do: to clear and remove his private belongings. I decide to start with packing his clothes into bin bags so that they can go to a charity shop. Items of clothing are scattered about his caravan where he’d left them: on tables in heaps and under the bed, in the kitchenette and bathroom, on the floor by his record collection. It takes me over an hour to collect them, neatly folding them up before putting them in the bags. I separate them: jeans in one bag, trousers in another, et cetera. While I’m folding his T-shirts I pick up one that catches my eye. At first I don’t realise, but it’s a Dr Feelgood T-shirt. I like it: plain black with a print that simply reads Oil City Confidential in white. I give it a sniff: it reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke. I throw it aside, determined to give it a wash in the sink and wear it at some point.