Vulgar Things

by Lee Rourke

  I gaze up the escalator as it carries a woman and a small child to the top. I follow them all the way up. It’s at that moment, just as they reach the top, that I see her: Laura. On the upper floor. I’m sure it’s her. Her hair looks longer, and I’ve only just seen her and she was wearing different clothes back then – she could have changed, I guess. She’s walking along the upper level, towards the escalator; it carries her down, just her, looking dead ahead. Time seems to warp, to slow down all around me as I watch her, looking dead ahead, her delicate hands resting on each rail, gliding down towards me from above. As she hits the bottom she carries on walking seamlessly, gliding past the café to the right of my table, never blinking, staring dead ahead, floating almost.

  I get up, leaving my half-finished latte where it is, carrying my stick so that it doesn’t hit the floor, tightening the rucksack on my back as I walk, following her through the mall, around gaggles of college kids, mothers and their children, office workers, through the front doors and outside onto the square. It’s her, it’s the same way she walks, that day on the pier, the exact same walk, I’m sure. What’s she doing here? Shouldn’t she be in the flat on Toledo Road? Maybe she had to pop out for something? But isn’t she waiting to go to work at the Sunset Bar? Isn’t that what she’s supposed to be doing? She doesn’t look like everybody else, like she has something ordinary to do. She’s walking with purpose, an apparition in the streets, a lone petal floating along the pavements in the breeze. Everything else around her blackens: the buildings, the cars, the cyclists, the people, everything darkens except her, floating, gliding along. It has to be her. I want to walk right up to her, to smell her perfume again, to hear her voice, her strange, lilting accent. It has to be her, my beautiful vision at the pier.

  they kiss

  I follow her back down the High Street, towards the sea, hanging back when she stops to look in Ann Summers and then New Look. I sit on a public bench, trying to look normal, like everyone else, as she steps into Greggs to buy a cheap sandwich. I do my best to look like part of the background. She heads to Pier Hill below the Palace Hotel. I follow her, closer this time, straining my neck in the hope that I can catch her perfume, something I want more than anything right now.

  Just as she reaches the bottom of Pier Hill she’s greeted by a man. They kiss. My heart sinks. They embrace. The man is in his early twenties, I guess, with slicked-back hair, black. He’s wearing skin-tight, stone-washed jeans, trainers and a black leather jacket, zipped up closely to his chin. I pretend I’m looking out to the estuary, even though I can’t really see it from where I’m standing. I even take out my phone and pretend to take pictures of the scene I can’t see, all the while watching them from the corner of my eye.

  After the embrace they both step back a little and become serious with each other, like they have business to do and the kiss and embrace was all an act – which it seems to be as she opens her jacket and hands the man a large, folded Jiffy bag, obviously stuffed with money. After the transaction they both turn and walk off in opposite directions. He walks away, back down towards the arcades on the esplanade, while she heads back up Pier Hill towards me. I panic and stare at my phone awkwardly, trying to act as inconspicuous as I can, even trying to hide my stick on my blind side, but it’s no use, we somehow gain eye contact. I try to smile, but it comes out all wrong, nervy and suspicious, even though she simply looks straight through me as if I’m not really there.

  ‘Hello …’

  ‘…’

  ‘Hello, it’s me …’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Fancy seeing you here …’

  ‘What …’

  ‘You and me … bumping into each other again …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just saw you … I mean … we just spoke at the house …’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life …’

  ‘Wait! … Wait! … Toledo Road … Toledo Road … Last night, do you remember?’

  ‘Stop following me …’

  ‘But we’re meeting tonight … remember?’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘At the Sunset Bar … You said you wanted to talk with me, that you couldn’t talk outside the house …’

  ‘Stop following me … now!’

  ‘But I’m trying to help you …’

  ‘Stop fucking following me, you fucking pervert!’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘I’ll call the fucking police …’

  ‘Okay … Okay …’

  I stop following her. I watch her all the way to the top of Pier Hill, before she walks away, on to the High Street and out of sight. I stand there, looking up the hill. It must have been an act, she mustn’t be able to talk to me, to be seen to be talking to anyone. I look behind me, down the hill towards the esplanade, checking to see if anyone is there, but Pier Hill is empty, the man has gone. She must have been worried he was still there, that’s why she acted the way she did. I need to speak to her, to tell her everything will be okay. I look out over the estuary: yet more black rain clouds are racing over from Sheerness and the hills of Kent. I look up, following the clouds back over me. I can see a terrace behind me, above my head at the Palace Hotel. I steady myself with my stick. The terrace overlooks the entire estuary.

  waxy with sweat

  I leave my coat, rucksack and stick in the cloakroom, and take a seat by the looming windows. The view is spectacular, even in the fading light. I can trace the entirety of the black storm as it sweeps into Southend. Sheets of slanting rain; they hit the pier and then the amusement arcades below, and finally the looming windows separating me from their tumult, smearing each pane with grease and grime. It’s spectacular: everything blurred above and below me, the outlines of familiar things distorted by the rain, everything morphing into a black-greyness that I want to reach out into and touch, such are the varieties of its textures and hues. It’s hard to believe that anything else can exist outside it.

  The early evening passes slowly. After the storm abates reality seeps back in through the looming panes of glass. A man and a woman enter the bar; they fall onto a sofa behind my table, near enough for me to listen to their conversation without making it obvious. I quickly turn around to look at them: the man is tall and lanky, he looks like a retired headmaster of a public school – he sounds like one, too. She’s local, her voice slurring and grating, dressed in jeans too tight for her figure and a vest-top that can hardly contain her chest. She looks out of place. I’m positive the management will ask her to leave, but they don’t.

  ‘Oh, I love you, you know … I want to take care of you for the rest of my life …’

  ‘Aw, really, that’s nice … I like you, too.’

  ‘I feel like I’ve met my soul mate …’

  ‘Aw, really …’

  ‘Yes, I just wish it could have happened a long time ago …’

  ‘Aw, that’s so sweet to say …’

  ‘I love everything about you … But I love your body the most … I haven’t seen a body as good as yours in such a long time …’

  ‘What about your wife’s? … I bet she’s really nice …’

  ‘We don’t …’

  ‘Have sex? … Aw …’

  ‘No … We don’t … It’s dead … That’s why you …’

  ‘Aw, that’s so sad … I’m really sorry to hear that … it’s a shame …’

  ‘But I have you now, my beautiful soul mate …’

  ‘Soul mates … I like that …’

  ‘We are …’

  ‘Do you still buy your wife presents?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes, to make her happy …’

  ‘Aw … Nobody buys me presents …’

  ‘I will … My beautiful … I’ll buy you anything you want …’

  ‘Really … Would you?’

  ‘Of course, my love … I’d like to take you ballroom dancing …’

  ‘…’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘�
�’

  ‘That would be so good, to take you dancing, to show you off … Can you dance?’

  ‘Like on Strictly …?’

  ‘Yes, proper ballroom dancing …’

  ‘They wear lovely dresses … I’d need a new dress …’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh yes, a dress …’

  ‘And the dancing …?’

  ‘Oh yes … dancing, yes.’

  ‘Ah, my love …’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d never be able to afford one …’

  ‘A dress?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘I’ll provide you with a dress, my beautiful … we can go up to London one day and I’ll buy you one …’

  ‘Aw, that’s so sweet … They have nice ones in Selfridges …’

  ‘Yes, they do, my love, my beautiful love …’

  ‘We can go next week.’

  ‘Yes, we can …’

  ‘Oh, Timothy, you’re amazing …’

  ‘You are, too. Mandy, I love you so much …’

  As the man says this, the woman breaks out into a fit of coughing and sniffling. I look over at her, she’s clearly withdrawing from crack cocaine or something, her emaciated face is waxy with sweat and she is continuously rubbing her nose, congealed bits of white spittle congregate in the corners of her mouth, visible even from where I’m sitting.

  ‘Hey, hey, my love … Shall I get you a tissue …’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, please … yes …’

  When he gets up to go to the bar she immediately stops coughing and begins to text someone on her phone. When the man arrives back with the tissues, she begins to sob.

  ‘Hey, hey, my love, my poor, poor love … What’s wrong?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Please, my love … What’s wrong?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Tell me, please …’

  ‘It’s … It’s …’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘…’

  ‘What is it, my poor love?’

  ‘It’s my landlord … I owe him rent … Oh, I’ve been so stupid, so, so stupid … It’s so hard, bringing up four kids alone, they’re grown up now, I never see them, they never help, but still … I have no money, I didn’t pay my rent for months, just so I could get through Christmas, you know, have a good Christmas, you don’t think about the debt at the time, and I’ve not paid him … and now … and now …’

  ‘What is it, my love … What is it?’

  ‘He says he’s going to evict me …’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next week … I have nowhere to live, my ex is a psycho …’

  ‘How much do you owe him?’

  ‘…’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Mandy, I love you, how much . .?’

  ‘Four thousand eight hundred quid …’

  ‘Mandy, my poor love, it’s okay …’

  ‘Really …’

  ‘Yes, my poor love … I’m going to help you … I’ll transfer the money … I have the money for you … I have money in banks doing nothing … I have lots of money to help you. I can help you …’

  ‘It’s more like five thousand five hundred …’

  ‘That’s okay, my love …’

  ‘Aw, Timothy, you’re so kind … You’re such a kind beautiful man … I’ll give you my bank details, we can go to the bank … then we can go to my flat …’

  ‘Yes, my love … Anything for you …’

  I leave them to it. There’s no point in interrupting him, to tell him to stop, that it’s all a lie and she’s simply playing him for a fool. Even when he gets up to go to the Gents, I leave him alone, it’s not worth it. These things must run their own course.

  looming windows

  I return my gaze to the estuary. The storm is racing in again. I can see others behind it, all waiting in line to hit Southend, these looming windows, one after the other. Now the lightning is forking from the dense clouds, hitting the water about six miles out. It’s like a light show out there: the different colours of the sea – from almost black to deepest green in a flash. The bursting-full clouds drooping lower now, like everything is about to come crashing down, or a great weight is pushing it towards us. This time the rain falls even harder, so much so that I take a large breath when it hits the windows. Down below, this side of the pier, I can just about see the outline of a Thames sailing barge, struggling through the torrent. I wonder what it’s doing out there in this weather at this time of the evening. It’s a magnificent vessel, beautiful in design, completely unique. It looks like it’s doing okay out there. I worry about it being hit by the lightning. The sight of this flat-bottomed barge makes me feel extremely proud for some reason, and I begin to feel a strange kind of emotion well up inside. My eyes fill up, for a start, and I struggle to contain myself, to hold everything back, swallowing and coughing, but I manage it, something that pleases me.

  I soon notice another barge behind the first, and then another, and another. Five in total, all edging their way up the estuary in the failing light. It’s a truly beautiful sight. It must be a convention, or a club. I stand up and walk towards the window, just as another sheet of rain hits it. Everything is blurred, but I can still just about make them out. I try to take some photos with my phone, but they don’t come out too well. The photos look dark and murky, blurred into a wash of grey turning into deepest black, the blood-red sails of the barges just about visible in the blackness around them.

  When the light eventually fades I sit back at my table and flick through the photos, about twenty-five in total. If I flick through them quickly I can trace the barges’ movement along the estuary, as they move en masse. I’m struck by their blood-red sails, deeply thick red against the black of night. It makes the photos feel like a moving painting, if such a thing is possible – or better still, a vision. As if it hadn’t really happened and what I was looking at was one of those ghost photographs I sometimes hear about, where someone has taken an innocent photo only to find something else has invaded the frame once it’s been developed: a figure, a hooded man, whatever – it doesn’t matter to me.

  artificial light flickers

  When I step out of the hotel the cold air gives me a hug and I curse myself for not bringing a proper overcoat. I zip my jacket up to my neck, hunching over as I walk down Pier Hill towards the seafront. As I turn onto the esplanade, right by where they kissed earlier, the multicoloured neon lights shrouding each amusement arcade glow all around me. Everything is buzzing, the artificial light flickers, I feel like I’m trapped in static, like I’m walking within a scene from a film on a huge screen.

  As I walk along, through it, inside the flickering light, I notice a black Mercedes car is following me along the road. At first I don’t think much of it, but then I recognise the man in the passenger seat: it’s one of the men from the flat in Toledo Road. He smiles at me, nodding his head, before the car picks up speed and moves away. My heart is thumping. I dash left into a loud, bright amusement arcade. I walk around it, shaking and confused. Groups of teenagers look at me, pointing, some of them laughing, others moving away as they notice my stick. I walk up to the cashier’s desk and change a ten-pound note. I try to act normal, like I would if I was in a film, which I’m not, but I feel as if I am. I wonder which machine or video game to play. Are they following me? Have they spotted me talking to Laura? Have they been following me all day? I walk up to a random machine, some war-zone simulator. I put in my money, pick up the machine gun attached to the machine and start to fire indiscriminately as soon as the action begins, holding the machine gun in one hand like I’ve seen it done in films, holding my stick in the other. I’m not really sure what, or who, I’m shooting at, but I continue to shoot at whatever moves. It feels good. I imagine it’s the men from Toledo Road, and once they’ve been obliterated I imagine it’s Jessica from my old office, then her boss whose name I’
ve forgotten, and then the whole office. Pretty soon I run out of ammunition, because of my non-stop frantic shooting, and after about ten more seconds my machine gun begins to vibrate violently and blood begins to drip down the large video screen in front of me, slowly; deep, thick red, like the sails on the Thames sailing barges. Finally it obscures my view of the enemy, like a crimson veil.

  GAME OVER

  I take the words in front of me as a sign. I shudder and walk out of the arcade. The two words swirl inside my head as I make my way over to the other side of the road, where there’s less light, sheltered by the deep blackness of the estuary. My eyes are fixed on the road ahead, in case I spot them, waiting for me in their car, ‘GAME’, ‘OVER’ swirling behind my eyes, in that strange place in my head, deep behind everything but ever-present on the surface of my eyes, ‘GAME’, ‘OVER’ as real as the light of day.

  blank space between the scenes

  I cross the road. Every black car that crawls along the road to my left becomes a minor obsession, as I squint, straining to see if it’s them inside. I walk slowly along by the wall before the beach. I can smell the mud and the iodine, vapours flung into the air by the passing storms. I can see moody silhouettes out in front of me: three, maybe four figures. Is it them? Out of their car? No, just random people like me, out for a stroll in the rain. Everything becomes a blur again, like I’ve suddenly entered some blank space between the scenes, the whole set being shifted around me with each step, backdrops spliced and edited, as if the mood is being generated just for my own POV. I stop and sit on the wall. Across the road is the Cornucopia pub and behind that, just to its left, is the Sunset Bar. I’ve no idea what time it is; I check my phone but the battery has gone. But I can see them.