Vulgar Things

by Lee Rourke

  a different narrative of the same thing

  I need some food. I pull myself together and head out of the caravan to the Lobster Smack. The pub is empty, apart from Mr Buchanan sitting at the bar, reading a newspaper. It takes him a while to look up. He greets me with a broad smile.

  ‘Jon … Jon … Young Jon … How are we today?’

  ‘I’ve felt better …’

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Bloody Mary … Double vodka …’

  ‘Heavy night?’

  ‘Something like that …’

  ‘I didn’t see you yesterday …’

  ‘No …’

  ‘You busy clearing that caravan?’

  ‘Oh … Yes … Cleared out his clothes … And other stuff.’

  ‘Listen, Jon … Have you read more of his book? What’s it called?’

  ‘Oh, yes … Vulgar Things … yes, I have … It’s a work of brilliance … There’s this one chapter that I’m going to be working on …’

  ‘That’s good … And what about everything else? Is that all nearly done and dusted?’

  ‘Well … I … nearly …’

  ‘Here … a double …’

  ‘Thanks …’

  ‘We need it vacant by the weekend, remember …’

  ‘Yes, I remember. It will be … There’s lots of stuff … personal stuff, stuff that other family members should look at … I don’t know … They all pretty much hated him.’

  ‘You have a large family …’

  ‘No … Not really, I don’t know where my mother is and … well, my father, Rey’s brother, died some time ago now. They didn’t have the best of relationships, you know …’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear …’

  ‘You see, this is the thing … Vulgar Things … his book … Well, I think it has something to do with, it’s about my father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s just something about it … Not like he’s apologising, but more like he’s offering an alternative, a different narrative of the same thing …’

  ‘Thing? I’m not sure I follow …’

  ‘That’s just it … I haven’t worked out what that thing is yet, I just sense that it has something to do with my father.’

  ‘Jon, you have to concentrate on the job at hand … Clearing away his belongings … This place …’

  ‘The island?’

  ‘Yes, this place … It’s a strange place, it entraps people, it can do funny things to people’s minds … It’s such an odd place … You’d be best leaving as soon as you’re finished, don’t hang around here … get back to where you belong … I mean you well, I like you, you’re always welcome here. Just don’t get too involved with this place …’

  ‘I’m trying not to, thanks for the advice.’

  Silence suddenly falls between us. I take sips from my Bloody Mary. It’s just what I need. We remain sitting at the bar, staring at the optics in front of us, allowing the silence to consume us. I’m in two minds: a) stay at the caravan to finish what I have to do, or b) head back into Southend as soon as I’m feeling better, back to Toledo Road. I quickly decide on neither option: I’ll wait until the evening to go back into Southend. I’ll finally check out the Sunset Bar, where I know Laura works. Maybe she’ll be able to talk to me there, away from the flat and those men. I turn to Mr Buchanan once my mind is set.

  ‘Mr … Robbie … Are you serving food?’

  ‘Yes, we are …’

  ‘Could I have the biggest fry-up your chef can muster? I’ll pay extra …’

  ‘Of course …’

  ‘With a pot of tea?’

  ‘Sure …’

  ‘I’m famished.’

  cliché

  I stay in the Lobster Smack for a good few hours, well after finishing my fry-up – which was good – and Mr Buchanan has left the pub for a ‘meeting’ in Leigh-on-Sea. I drink peppery tea and a couple more Bloody Marys while reading the newspapers. I’m feeling better. The pub has filled up somewhat and I bathe in the general brouhaha. The talk is football and recession, and something about a man who’s renovated a Thames sailing barge that got caught on the rocks near the jetty. A couple of locals try to strike up conversations with me, now that they’ve seen me in here a few times, but I’m not really in the mood, so I ignore them. Instead I think up ways in which I can make Laura mine, but they all seem idiotic, the thoughts of a man who’s lost the plot, but something in me seems to resist the feeling of humiliation that goes with such thoughts and I continue to scheme and to run through imaginary scenarios: I’d take Laura on my arm and lead her away from Southend for good.

  I know my behaviour is a cliché, but I don’t care, something that doesn’t surprise me any more. None of it matters, by which I mean everything else other than Laura and me. Even Uncle Rey’s manuscript fades from my mind as Laura takes over again: the desire to be with her, for her to look at me the way she did the first time I set eyes on her. I need her in my life, in whatever manifestation – even another fleeting glimpse of her, if that’s all I’m offered. For her just to walk into this pub now. I’d die happy on the spot if she did that.

  the underworld

  The rain is pouring. I sit on the train to Southend clutching my stick, my pockets stuffed with twenty-pound notes, maybe about three hundred pounds in total, maybe a bit more. I must have gone to the cash point but I can’t remember. In my rucksack is the chapter from Uncle Rey’s manuscript, ‘The Underworld’. The air inside the carriage is stuffy. I pull out the manuscript from my bag and begin to read.

  The Underworld

  It was a duty call, really, a way of paying my respects, when death hits you, it forces you to reconsider things, I guess thats why i went, but its never easy, people warned me along the way, like they always do, people like that, id already found the ring he’d given me when we were small, it had taken me an age to find it, it really had, I looked and I looked every where, once it was found I could take it with me, lay it by his cofin, return it to him – where it rightly belonged, Id never forgotten the day he gave it to me, when we were small, little nippers, before we were teenagers even – he’d found it by a tree when we were out exploring, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever saw, this huge ring, golden, the image of a bough etched into it, he just found it there, as if he was meant to find it, like some one had left it there for him, just for him, only him, ‘I want you to have this’ he said ‘why?’ ‘because you’re my brother and it will take care of you, just like I will’ I clutched it to my chest, we told no one, knowing it would be taken away from us and sold, or given away to someone else, i kept the ring with me all the time never leaving it out of sight, sleeping with it under my pillow at night, it became part of me, completely me, only my brother could take it away should he have wanted to …

  the funeral was busy, it took me a long time to get there, I travelled by foot, crossing long distances, all the while thinking of him, wanting to see him, it was a black day, there were people i didnt want to see, to set eyes on, to speak to, but I knew she’d be there and wed have to at least acknowlege each other like you do at these occasions, it had been such a long day, such a long time, Laura, that beautiful thing who’d haunted my dreams, my days, my thoughts, i figured just being there, to hand back his ring, dropping it onto the coffin would be enough for her to acknowledge me, to just simply smile, or nod her head, it had been such a long time, its all supposed to be under the bridge now isnt it? all that stuff we went through, the boys all growing up, i would have to see them too, of course I would, what would they make of me? what would the youngest make of me? the youngest, the most perfect of all …

  i was walking in the darkness, towards him, his coffin, with shadows all around us and nights loneliness above, there was no life ahead or within, like walking in a vast wood with no light, the sun blotted out by Saturn or moon or nothingness where black night has stolen the colour from the world, where nothing exists but him, there, dead, v
anished from me and us, for as long as ever will take to die itself, hiding from me all of those things i wanted to say to him, because he knew, he knew what i’d done to him and I had never spoken of it to him, or mentioned it to any one and it was tearing me apart, ruining me inside, turning me, against my will, into darkness …

  Before the church is a giant and shady elm tree, spreading branches like arms to greet me, to greet you, full of years, nightmares cling to its branches, false dreams, beasts prowl around it, the centaurs guard its secrets, I was struck with sudden dread, i drew my stick and presented it – but each monster was an apparition, bodiless, hot air, hollow and airy, from this tree I followed the path to the church, we all did, paying our respects …

  i held the ring tightly in my hand, I thought I caught sight of her, my Laura, it could have been her, I was sure it was her, standing there, by the gates, black ribbons in her hair, dressed in black, cheekbones high on her drooping face, I looked back and she had gone …

  But i knew it wasn’t her, It could never be her, she didn’t exist anymore, there was nothing left, like she had been torn to shreds in the hill, or just evaporated before us, yes, that’s what she did when she walked out on him, on me, never telling him why, never contacting me again, she vanished from both of our lives, like that, like a ghost finally being expelled from our imaginations, Laura had disappeared, she’d beaten time and vapourised herself into perfect nothingness, becoming blackness, surrounding the night that had befallen us both …

  mud and murk seethed in the abyss – I fell into it in going there, darker into the pitch of blackness, it was enormous and engulfing and there was nothing I could do but walk towards him there in the cold dirt, the church emptying out as they laid him to rest in the mud, I began to choke, it was maddening to me, why hadn’t I told him, the reason Laura left him, was because of me, but i could never tell him, there was nothing i could do to change this …

  they were all looking at me now, of course they were, as I walked amongst them, I raised my arms, my stick, to say these words of mine, I threaten no violence, i’m here with you, with him my brother, please let go of your alarm, set it free, monsters at the gate there is no need to come forth, I am harmless, I mean you no harm, i am here because you asked it of me, I am here out of respect for what must be forgiven, the cries rang out all around me, the churchyard in blackened ruins, as if the darkness had stolen life itself from them, a death before their time, why are you here if you react to me in such a way? why do this to yourselves? i am here to speak once and for all …

  i walked towards the hole in the ground, dug for him, his place in the universe, I watched as they lowered him, all ills must be made right this very day they said, I threw the ring onto his coffin, down with the black dirt, down into the blackness …

  seek to know the terrible sorrow of your family, fate will allow the world merely to see him, no more, and thereafter allow him to live there no longer …

  Oh brother, what did i do to you, I ruined you, I was the sole cause, oh brother you never knew, you loved Laura too, as did I, she wasn’t to know, to blame, nothing is by her hand, oh brother forgive me, I didnt want this to happen, i didn’t want you to die alone, I will take this with me, this burden, the mark, throughout my life, I will die like you, a lonely man, caught by desire, I will see to this, guide me from this blackness in your forgiveness, away from this churchyard, away from these people, guide me home, away from here, oh brother, please forgive me, oh brother, he’s mine, oh brother, your youngest is mine, he’s mine oh brother, he’s mine …

  I stop reading. The realisation hits me hard. I shudder. It makes me stand up, even though the train is moving. I lean on my stick, like I’m wounded. An old man opposite me asks if I’m okay.

  ‘I’m … Yes … I’m fine.’

  I don’t know what else to say to him. I need to calm down, to drink something strong, to eat again, to jump into the sea at the end of the pier. All the usual questions begin to litter my head, all the whys? and the what ifs? and countless images of my mother, my father, all of them flooding into me: Mother’s jet-black hair, her perfume, the way she laughed. But one thing sticks: her with him, with Rey, I can’t picture it, I can’t see them together. It doesn’t seem possible. I recall all the times people had made passing comments about how much I looked like him. I remember that he doted on me more than Cal when we were children, which always made Cal jealous, and probably fuelled his hatred of Uncle Rey. I remember that he’d always ask about Mother, and how I was, before he ever asked about anyone else. I remember everything my feeble mind will allow, piecing it all together in seconds, here on the train, as it slowly pulls out of Chalkwell Station.

  failing light

  As the train pulls into Southend Central Station I’m too afraid to get off it. I don’t want to face anything else. But I get off anyway, just as the doors are closing and everyone else has got off. The station manager looks at me disapprovingly, but I ignore him. I waltz through the station, my stick tapping in rhythm on the platform, trying to block out what I’ve just read. The rain is still pouring. Before heading to the Sunset Bar I head down towards Toledo Road, moving as if programmed to do so. I feel like it’s my last chance, my only chance to find my Laura, my vision from the pier, that beautiful face I can’t shake from within me.

  This time, instead of waiting on the grass verge, I wait directly outside the house in which her flat is, or the flat she was in yesterday. I rub the back of my head and my ribs and wait for her to appear, Uncle Rey’s words swirling within me, the night beginning to darken all around me. The street lamps are murky, at least two of them flickering to my right up the street, casting a gloomy orange strobe across the wet pavement. It’s dizzying to look at, so I turn my back on the pavement and stare at the front door, looking for movement within, steadying myself, trying to concentrate, ignoring the failing light.

  There’s somebody there, looking at me through one of the four small panes of glass. I jump back, swallowing the cold air, nearly falling. The door opens, it’s Laura, it’s her. I’m sure it’s her: she looks different, though, without make-up and her hair’s been cut shorter. It doesn’t look like her, but it is, I know it’s her.

  ‘What are you doing standing outside here?’

  ‘I’m waiting for you …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m here for you … You remember me, right?’

  ‘I have no idea who you are …’

  ‘Last night? We spoke, we talked about stuff together … in there …’

  ‘What? …’

  ‘They threw me out …’

  She walks down the steps quickly, looking back to the house to check if anyone is there, before whispering in my ear.

  ‘Meet me in the Sunset Bar later tonight. I can’t talk here.’

  ‘What time? What time? … Wait.’

  She turns and runs back up into the house, shutting the door in my face. I can smell her perfume all around me, the air is thick with it, it’s strong and musky. I breathe it in so that I never forget.

  pointless

  In spite of the prolonged downpour, Southend is busy with shoppers and college kids taking advantage of the later opening hours most of the shops have introduced. I head towards Waterstones and then turn right onto Clarence Road where I enter a pub called Clarence Yard, which, by the look of it, used to be an old warehouse, the bar itself situated in the old cobbled courtyard that’s now closed off to the elements via an impressive glass roof. A barmaid with bleached blonde hair and a warm and friendly smile serves me. I take a table by the right of the bar, up on what must have been an old loading bay. I take a sip of my cider and rest my stick against a chair next to mine.

  I contemplate reading the manuscript again, but it’s still too much. I’ve gleaned from it all I need for one day, there’s no point in going over it all again. I even contemplate giving it a little line edit, changing everything back to upper case where it should be, changing a few lines, but what�
��s the point in that? My project’s changed: editing this manuscript is pointless now as it can’t ever be read by anyone else.

  it has to be her

  I leave the Clarence Yard after a couple of hours. I feel an urge to be closer to the sea. I want simply to sit by it in the dark, but the rain’s falling in sheets and I know that I’ve a long evening ahead of me. I walk up the High Street, sheltering in doorways from the rain along the way, heading away from the sea and the darkness and towards the Victoria, an indoor shopping mall, where I figure I can sit down and have a coffee somewhere and wait for the rain to pass.

  The place is heaving. I walk through, dripping wet, dodging gaggles of teenagers, women with prams, junkies and old ladies. I find a seat at the Birdwood, a café, and order a large latte from a miserable-looking lady behind the counter. The coffee is good. From where I’m sitting I’ve a clear view of the two escalators that take the shoppers up to and down from the upper level of the shopping mall. I watch people as they’re fed up and down from the upper level, parallel to each other, never acknowledging each other as they pass. A silent geometry surrounds me, the entire mall a complex system of lines, angles, triangles, bisectors, trapezoids, arcs, concurrent figures, grids and oblique lines. I realise that this system of geometry is mapping itself out everywhere I look, in every building, on every street, house, high street, town and city, the most rudimentary of things. Even when I look through the telescope in Uncle Rey’s shed I’m looking up into the vastness of space through some kind of silent geometry, something poetic and unfathomable. Even the vertigo I feel when I think of Saturn hanging there in the blackness of space is pure geometry to me – so is its absence, those moments when I feel like clinging on to the ground beneath my feet, so that I don’t fall off the earth into the same blackness. Gravity isn’t enough in situations such as mine; at least the escalators seem to be defeating all this, delivering us upwards.