by Lee Rourke
I sit down on a bench as the pain suddenly begins. My head feels like it’s developing a huge lump at the back where it connected. My stomach is burning with pain. I’m in agony. I need to go back to the island, the Sunset Bar can wait.
path of saturn
I arrive back at Uncle Rey’s caravan late. I head straight for the key to his shed. The sky is clear now and the deepest black, each star shining brighter than I have ever seen. There’s something quite remarkable about them, littering the blackness, like they’ve just been thrown there. I set up the telescope and retract the roof with the pulley-lever. I know exactly what I want to look at. I swivel the telescope roughly to where I had pointed it the other night, hoping that it’s still hanging there, somewhere among the stars. I put my eye to the lens. Nothing. I move the telescope a fraction to the left. Nothing. Then to the right. Nothing. Up. Down. Nothing. Then I look up through the opening in the roof myself; I’m sure I’ve got the telescope pointing in the right direction. It has to be there. I look back through the lens, focusing and refocusing, moving the viewfinder across the night. Nothing. I can’t find it. I begin to feel dizzy, that same sense of vertigo, like when I first set eyes on it: Saturn, that beautiful planet. But this time, now that it’s not there, it feels stronger, like I have no control of what is happening to me.
I continue to try to find Saturn, but it’s not there. It can’t disappear. It can’t hide away like this. Things can’t have shifted like that, as if nothing had ever happened. Not as much as this, not in a couple of days. I begin to feel sick, like I’m spinning out of control, the lump on the back of my head throbbing, like I’m whirling through the same deep blackness above me, like I’m vanishing too. I need to see it, to make it all stop. I want it all to stop. But it’s not there. I want it to reveal itself, so that I can be sure it’s still hanging there in the black of night. I look around the shed: there’re some charts pinned to the wall, but I don’t understand them. I pick up a couple of books, looking for ‘Saturn’ in their indexes. Nothing. The last book I look at has a chapter called: ‘Looking for Saturn in the Night Sky, 2006–2013’. I sit beneath the gaping void of night and read as much of it as I possibly can before the feeling of vertigo takes hold of me again, throwing my eyes off the pages, my head spinning. At the end of the chapter is a chart that makes no sense to me whatsoever. I stare at it. It’s quite mesmerising: a series of arcs and giant ellipses, of widening degrees, sweeping diagonally downwards, through the constellations, which I presume to be the path of Saturn in the night sky. But it makes no sense to me. All I know is that somewhere within it is not only Saturn’s, but my own place in time. I stare at it, trying to make sense of it, but it’s simply impossible for me to connect the chart with the giant expanse of black through the retracted roof of this shed. Again, I look at the path of Saturn depicted on the chart: spiralling downwards in a series of ellipses, turning, spinning through the years, each month, disappearing and becoming visible again. I can’t help but think that I’m somehow aligned with it, mirroring its fall through time and space.
I can feel Saturn near. I know it is up there somewhere in the blackness. I just need to see it. That’s all I need to do. I look through the lens again. Still nothing. I frantically focus and refocus the lens, even changing it for others: a x12 mm, a x20 mm and then a x25 mm. Nothing, just a blurry void. Saturn’s disappeared. It’s too much for me to take. I feel like screaming, smashing the whole place up, but I can’t. I just can’t. I simply crawl into the corner of the shed, where it’s darker, where the void can’t reach me, and curl up into a ball, hoping that I will disappear, too.
TUESDAY
scene/image
I awake to rain. It’s pouring in on me and the telescope through the opening in the roof of the shed. I clamber to my feet, steadying myself with my stick. I struggle with the pulley-lever, trying to shut the roof as quickly as possible so that nothing gets damaged, but the books on the table are sopping wet, as are most of Uncle Rey’s charts. I salvage as much as I can – which is still a lot due to the amount of stuff in here. I find a box of rags and try to soak up as much water as possible, but every time I bend down, or reach across the sopping wet floor with a rag a wave of burning pain shoots across my back, up through to the back of my head. I’m in agony. I make my way to the caravan; I need to dry out, to wash, to drink coffee or something, anything to give me the jolt of energy I need.
I struggle up to the caravan, my hands shaking, the pain shooting from the back of my head all the way down my spine. I fall into the caravan and collapse in Uncle Rey’s armchair in his bedroom, staring at his record collection, hoping the pain will go away, but it doesn’t. I know I have to start work on his possessions, all the legal stuff, but the thought of sifting through all his old paperwork, or packing away his records, is filling me with dread. All I want to do is watch more of his recordings. I lean over to the side of his armchair and reach into a box by the manuscript. I pick up a DVD at random. I sit there, staring at it in my hand; it’s a wonder I’ve not seen it before, I’m sure I’ve not seen it before. It sends a shiver through me. How have I not seen this DVD before? It’s so different from all the rest: it’s got a different title for a start. I read it over and over again:
Jon #1 1976–1984
Even if the pain in my back and head was non-existent I think I’d still remain paralysed in the armchair, holding up the DVD in front of me, just staring at it as the terror begins to well up inside me. I’m too frightened to put it in the machine. I have to, I know that, but right now it feels impossible. But there’s something else alongside the terror, something compelling me to do otherwise. I suddenly begin to move. I don’t know how long it takes me to get up and out of the armchair and put the DVD into the machine, switch on the TV, press play and sit back down again. I stare at the TV screen, waiting for something to happen. Maybe it’s blank? Maybe there’s nothing whatsoever on here? Then the screen flickers, then …
Jon #1 1976–1984: scene/image 1
a room
a TV in the corner of the room
a child kneeling in front of the TV watching a cartoon
aged about six
watching a cartoon
just the back of the child’s head
no sound
child suddenly turns around and stares into the camera
smiling
the child knows the person filming
cut to black
I recognise it immediately. It’s my father’s living room. Filmed a long time ago. It takes me a while to realise that the child kneeling in the room, watching the cartoon, is me. I can tell by the shape of me, the back of my head, the way I’m kneeling. I can tell that it’s me. I shudder when my six-year-old self looks down the lens, smiling, beaming from the TV; my face, happy and smiling. I feel sick. Something’s not right, something I didn’t realise back then. I’ve no recollection of this ever happening, of ever being filmed in this way. I guess it must be Uncle Rey behind the camera, filming me. On one of his few visits to London.
Jon #1 1976–1984: scene/image 2
inside of a parked car
window frame and window lock of car
rain on window
cigarette smoke
through the window a high street somewhere in London
people walking
red buses
traffic
two people, backs to camera, walking down the street
a small boy holding a man’s hand
the small boy looks up to the man as he looks down at the boy
the man is saying something to the boy
the camera zooms in
close shot of boy
side of small boy’s face, looking up at the man who is now out of shot
then the man and small boy disappear from shot
camera pans back
the man and small boy have turned left off the high street
cut to black
It’s me holding my father’s
hand. I recognise his gait immediately. The POV is unsettling, we obviously had no idea that we were being filmed and again I can’t remember the day, although the clothes I’m wearing are vaguely familiar. I guess at once that it’s Uncle Rey behind the camera in his car. He must have driven to London to spy on us. I want to know what my father was saying to me. I really want to know what he was saying to me. I look safe in his company, the way I looked up at him, my father, like I was in awe. My eyes begin to fill up with tears. My first instinct is to pause the film, to phone Cal, but I can’t move. I continue to stare at the screen.
Jon #1 1976–1984: scene/image 3
department store
women’s clothing
racks
young boy running around through the racks of women’s clothes
POV from high up – possibly from stairs to upper floors
boy soon joined by a woman
woman grabs boy and kneels beside him
stern words – the woman is clearly angry
shoppers stop and stare
the boy begins to cry
the woman holds the boy’s hand and leads him through the shop floor
the camera zooms in after them but is blocked by a row of mannequins
cut to black
Tears are falling down my cheeks. I wipe them away, shaking, glued to the screen. It’s my mother I’m watching – and me again. Mother looks young, full of life, busy with it, full of hopes and dreams. Her skin is pale, and her clothes are bright. Whenever I think of her it’s usually grey, her clothes miserable: browns and greens. But here, on this screen, my mother is an explosion of colour. It startles me. I’ve never seen her in this light before. She must have visited, or I was allowed to visit her. I don’t know. It’s like it never happened. I have no memory of what I have just watched. It’s like another life. Another fiction. But, amazingly, there we are.
Jon #1 1976–1984: scene/image 4
a house
a window
a living room
a TV
the light flickering
a man
a boy
the boy is sitting on the man’s knee
they are both laughing
watching the TV
door to the room opens
another boy walks in to join them
they all watch the TV together
the man puts his arm lovingly around the other boy
the boy sitting on the knee of the man suddenly turns around and looks at the camera
hedgerow
pavement
lamp post
footsteps
car
POV through car window
a house
a window
a boy is looking out from the window back at the camera
cupping hands around eyes
cut to black
A cold shiver runs through me. I think I remember this happening. I remember watching the TV with my father, Cal joining us, and then suddenly sensing somebody else’s presence outside. I remember seeing him, at least I think I do, running back towards his car. I’m sure I remember it. I must have been about ten or twelve, I’m not too sure. Ever since that day, I’ve always been aware of that feeling: the sense that someone is near, watching me, always watching, wherever I go. It’s never left me.
I watch the entire DVD. There are about twenty or so separate images and scenes. Mostly of me and quite a few of Mother: across streets, through windows, across playing fields, during the summer holidays, right up until my mid-teens. Then: nothing. Just blackness, like the blackest of nights: without stars, without Saturn. I fall back into the armchair, wiping away the tears from my cheeks. I feel numb, like I’ve fallen from a great height and somehow survived. Then something strange happens: another image appears. Like a hidden track on an old CD:
Jon #1 1976–1984: hidden scene/image
inside a caravan
this caravan
the same boy
just a little older
a voice off-camera: ‘Go on then … Go on then … say it …’
the boy: ‘No … I don’t want to …’
the voice: ‘Aw go on, Jon … Just for Uncle Rey … You said you would, before your dad …’
the boy: ‘I’ve forgotten …’
the voice: ‘You know … the message to your future self … the message we made up for you to listen to when you’re older …’
the boy: ‘I’ve forgotten …’
the voice: ‘We practised … Go on …’
the boy: ‘There is no future me … He’s a ghost …’
the voice: ‘Just for Rey …’
the boy: ‘He’s a ghost … a ghost … a ghost …’
the voice: ‘What do you mean … a ghost?’
the boy runs out of shot
the camera falls to the floor
the voice: ‘Jon … Jon … Jon …’
Blackness
I’m shaking. I play the scene back and immediately watch it again. My own words drill a hole into me: ‘There is no future me … He’s a ghost …’ I have no idea what I mean, or who I’m talking about. I look scared, or uncomfortable, like I want to be elsewhere. I take out my phone. I play the entire scene, but this time I don’t just watch it: I film it with my phone. I watch myself through its lens: the image of me on the TV, and the caravan wall surrounding it like a frame, until the scene ends. I’m shaking. I stop filming as the TV screen turns black. I immediately re-watch the scene: this time through my phone, the scene I’ve just recorded. My voice sounds distant, discordant, like I’m speaking from some other place, something governed by circuitry. I look at myself, my shaky, minimised image; pixellated, fainter, a shade lighter. Some sort of digitised interference flickers across the screen, just before the moment I speak to Uncle Rey. I speak the same words in complete synchronicity, just as I uttered them all those years ago: ‘There is no future me … He’s a ghost …’ I stop as soon as the scene ends on my phone. It feels like I’ve captured something, some form of truth. I stare at the blank screen on my phone. Suddenly I notice something reflected on the screen: something in the caravan, something behind me in the window in the other room. I throw my phone onto the bed: I’m sure I just saw someone looking into the caravan, looking at me. I’m sure someone’s been watching me, watching this whole scene.
I get up and walk into the front room. There’s more light here, streaming in through the same window. I look through it: there’s no one there, it might have been a shadow caused by the sea wall, or something else: the way I was holding the phone, a flicker of light. There’s definitely no one else here. I look out along the grass verge and up to the sea wall: nothing, not a soul. I walk away from the window and slump into the other armchair, still shaking. I sigh, reaching over to pick up Uncle Rey’s manuscript. I begin to read it, from the beginning.
camouflage
Reading Vulgar Things takes up most of the morning. It’s hard to follow and, if I’m honest, parts of it are complete and utter gibberish, but it doesn’t seem to matter – as the gibberish seems to make sense in spite of this. Like it’s supposed to be gibberish, like the gibberish is some sort of code, and only the readers who go along with it will begin to understand. The whole manuscript is a series of blackouts, the blank spaces in Uncle Rey’s life, those dark moments when things became truly unbearable for him. In among all this is his vision: the idea to replicate, to rebuild, to take the past and rewrite it, to right everything he felt was wrong: to create the truth.
It feels good simply to read his text, to let it exist on its own terms: as a text, resisting the urge to edit. There are moments in the manuscript that feel utterly real to me in their telling and others that feel totally foreign. The gibberish begins to make more sense. Most of it is about Laura, his Laura, and his brother. Something had happened, something traumatic, something to do with Laura, that is never made explicit, only hinted at – camouflaged, masked and revealed all at the same time.
It makes the whole thing far more intriguing. As much as his life is a mystery to me, as much as I once looked up to him because of these little mysteries – his strange ways, the strange way he was around everyone, his being distant and close all at the same time – because of this I hate him, I hate him so much right now, because of his aloofness. Why has he left us with all this stuff? This horrid detritus? These utterances, fragments and ciphers to be unravelled by me, or whoever?
And then there’s the question of all this money: I feel guilty about the money, why has he burdened me with all this money? I feel like I’m falling deeper into his world: a dark, dark place in which the light of everyday life has been almost extinguished, where that last chink, which might have survived, is unable to escape. Vulgar Things is a mystery to me: all his thoughts condensed and interwoven with that other book, the Aeneid. What’s the point in trying to splice them together, what’s he trying to achieve in that? Why doesn’t he just tell it like it is? Instead of rubbing out everything he wrote, masking it, erasing it from existence, smothering it with other, older, more classical words. Why do this? Why purposely hide everything you want to say? His words, mixed with those images of me, roll around inside my tired head, prickling behind my eyes. I can’t escape them, they’re pulling me in.
it’s a short chapter
I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing I know the manuscript has fallen to the floor from the arm of the chair, each of its pages scattering across the worn-out, stinking carpet, random pages fluttering beneath the open window. I get up and gather them together, but it’s impossible to put the manuscript back together as the pages aren’t numbered. I could scream, but I act calmly, as if I’m tidying the table after a pleasant meal with friends. I look around to see if I have missed any of the pages. Then I see it, wedged beneath the coffee table and a pair of walking boots: one entire section of the manuscript, intact. I pick it up. It’s a short chapter titled: ‘The Underworld’. I set it aside on a shelf, away from the rest of the manuscript.