by Lee Rourke
Just up the road, parked outside Benson’s Guest House, is the black Mercedes. I wipe my eyes. I can clearly see it. It’s empty. I figure they’re all in the Sunset Bar as I can’t see them through the windows of the Cornucopia, or walking along the esplanade. I understand immediately that this has created a problem for me to make contact with Laura. If they’re inside the club with her, there would be no way for us to talk. It’s an impossible situation. They obviously know what we’re up to – why else would they show up like this? Why else would they have made their presence felt? Slowing down to acknowledge me the way they did? Why else would they be parked outside the one place in Southend I’ve arranged to meet up with Laura?
he won’t bite
For some reason I look up at the night sky, cursing the clouds for obscuring my view. I want to see the stars, I really do. I want to know they are really there: that I exist beneath them and not caught in some other nightmare. I yearn for Saturn, my legs shaking. Just to see it now, hanging peacefully; it would be a comfort to me. Instead, because of night’s presence, or Saturn’s absence within it, the vertigo begins to take hold of me. I grip on to my stick, holding on to it as tightly as I can. When I look back down, a small, black Staffordshire bull terrier is playfully sniffing at my feet. It appears as if to mark the passing of time. I stroke its thick head and full muscular neck. Soon the owner joins it: a rather tired, skinny man who’s missing all his front teeth.
‘Fucking cold tonight, innit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t worry about him … Like … he won’t bite.’
‘Oh … I know.’
‘Fucking freezing, innit?’
‘Yes, the storm.’
‘Rocky! … Rocky! … Come here, boy!’
‘Hope it doesn’t rain like that again …’
‘Fucking freezing … Do you have some change for a cup of tea, geezer?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, I do. Money … Change …’
‘Really … Oh …’
I dip my hands into my pockets and give him the pound coins, nine in total.
‘Fucking hell, man … Fucking hell … Rocky! … Rocky! … have you seen this? … Fucking hell …’
‘That’s all right, you should be able to get more than a cup of tea with that …’
‘Fucking hell, man … Fucking hell …’
I watch as the skinny, toothless man walks off towards the pier, with his faithful companion Rocky. For some reason they make me smile. I feel like I’ve made some kind of difference in his life, at least for tonight. It’s only nine pounds, but I figure he knows what to get with it.
part of the furniture
I head for Lucy Road. The black Mercedes isn’t there any more. I breathe in the cold air, exhaling slowly. I figure with them potentially gone, for the moment at least, it’s a good time to visit Laura in the Sunset Bar, like we’d arranged. The bar’s just ahead of me on my left, just around the corner. The car park and refuse centre across Lucy Road on the other side is dimly lit and I suddenly frighten myself thinking the black Mercedes might be parked across there, in the darkness, lights off, watching me. I stop, frozen. I look all around me: nothing, not a soul, just some distant whoops and cheers from a group of men in the Cornucopia. The street is empty.
The Sunset Bar is open. I can hear music coming from its doorway. I walk in and pay some money on the door.
‘What’s that?’
‘What?’
‘That stick?’
‘It’s a walking stick …’
‘You can’t come in here with that thing …’
‘But I need it …’
‘Leave it on the door. With the cashier …’
‘…’
I leave my stick with the woman behind the counter and clutch my rucksack tightly to my chest – they’re not having that as well. The club is dimly lit, the music is loud, so loud I can’t even distinguish what it is the DJ is playing. Gaggles of men are standing about, drinking from bottles of lager, all watching a girl dancing for them on the stage. The other girls are all standing near the bar, talking to the staff, waiting for the place to fill up with more punters. I can’t see her. I stand at the bar and order a whiskey. I sip it slowly, not wanting to tip myself over the edge. I need to be fully conscious.
I try my best to ignore the girl dancing on the stage, but it’s hard not to look as it’s what everyone else, except the other girls, is doing and I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. I turn to the dancer for a few moments and then turn away, watching the men, just in case the men from the black Mercedes are here. Most of the customers are in their early twenties, though some of them, those at the back, are much, much older. It’s strange, I’ve never hung around with other men in packs, and the thought of drinking with a large group of men in a strip club turns my stomach. It’s obvious to me that they have no idea what they are doing, they just seem to be going through the motions, doing what the man standing next to them is doing, acting like other groups of men they have seen in other bars. Most, left to their own devices, away from the pack, would shrivel up in a place like this.
Soon, one of the dancers, a tall, skinny girl with a strange accent, possibly South American, walks over to me.
‘Would you like a private dance?’
‘Well … Well … Er …’
‘Are you shy?’
‘Erm …’
‘I won’t bite you …’
‘I’m waiting for someone …’
‘Another girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Laura …’
‘Laura?’
‘Yes, Laura …’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her stage name?’
‘What?’
‘Does she work here?’
‘I just know her as Laura … She said I could call … She told me to meet her here, that she’d be waiting for me here …’
‘Laura?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nobody works here called Laura, darling …’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘But …’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a private dance?’
‘Yes.’
She shrugs and walks away. I watch her return to her group, she says something about me, but I don’t mind. One of them points at me, I smile, she turns away, saying something back to the girl I was just speaking to, then they all look over at me and I have to look away myself. When I return my gaze they’re all still looking at me. I don’t know what makes me do this, but I raise my glass at them all, in a moment of personal defiance. I turn away again, happy. The lights at the back of the room dazzle my eyes. I step back to the far wall and lean on it, nonchalantly, like I’m part of the furniture. I decide that I’ll wait for her here, leaning against the wall at the back of the club feels right, I feel safe and comfortable, like I don’t care who speaks to me or what I hear. I know Laura will appear, she needs help, she’s in trouble, of course she’ll turn up, she needs me. Maybe she’s hiding from the men in the black Mercedes too? Maybe that’s why she’s late. I sink back into the wall. I close my eyes and listen to the music, then the music drifts and I concentrate on the thud thud thud of its beat through me, inside me, then my head drops, then my whiskey glass drops …
Then it hits me: what if the men from Toledo Road are in this club? Part of the club? Own this club? I straighten up, scraping the shards of glass by my whiskey-stained shoes over to the wall out of harm’s way. I walk over to the bar, shaking, and try to look through a door behind it, to see if there’s an office there, or somewhere they could be watching me, waiting for me: nothing. It’s not a film, I remind myself. It’s not a film. This is real, right? I try to calm myself. Nothing. I wait for Laura and order another whiskey.
ag
gressive behaviour
The bar is busy now. Before I know it I’m having to queue at the bar for another drink. The bar staff are obviously used to the crowd, but I’m not; people are bumping into me, standing on my shoes, and I’m having to apologise for things I haven’t done. I become increasingly frustrated, as more and more people jostle to get served, an elbow here and an arm there to block other people’s paths. Eventually, I’m served. I order a double whiskey, so I don’t have to go back. I try to stand where I was before, where I had a nice view of the entire bar, but it’s impossible to get over to that side of the room. So I stay where I am, close to the bar, surrounded by eager drinkers, all of them male.
Almost immediately a young lad, covered in tattoos, all up his arms and neck, begins to talk to me.
‘What’s that?’
‘This, it’s my rucksack …’
‘I didn’t think they let schoolchildren in here …’
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you a skater?’
‘What?’
‘What’s in it, your fucking homework?’
‘Homework … Ha … Yes … Homework …’
‘It looks fucking stupid in a place like this.’
‘Oh, it’s just a bag.’
‘A fucking rucksack …’
‘Oh, well …’
‘Are you a faggot, or something?’
‘What?’
‘Take it up the shitter, do you?’
‘…’
‘Pussy.’
‘…’
I push through the crowd, my heart pounding. I head to the other side of the long bar. Luckily, a girl starts to speak to the lad and he doesn’t follow me. He’s unsettled me, though, and I begin to shake. I can’t stop it. I look over to where the lad was standing – he’s taken the girl over to his friends, who all look the same: chequered shirts, high collars, short hair parted to the side, bottles of beer. He’s laughing along with them, his arm around the girl. He seems happy, in spite of his aggressive behaviour towards me. Maybe that’s his idea of humour? A good night out? Accusing random men of being homosexual? I sink back against the wall, in a corner near the door, where it’s darker and I don’t stand out. I gulp my whiskey down, forgetting my plan. It goes straight to my head. I take another gulp and finish it, my insides burning; there’s nowhere to put the glass, so I put it by my feet. When I straighten up to look around the bar a rush of blood fills my head, it feels like my brain is swelling up, drowning in whiskey, it makes me dizzy, but I manage to control it. As I refocus I notice Laura is standing in front of me with a big smile on her face.
‘You’re here …’
‘I’m drunk …’
‘I didn’t think you would …’
‘I always keep my word …’
Her hair’s tied back, or combed back and pinned with something, I don’t know. Her face is heavily made-up: black eye-liner around her large eyes, almost like it’s smudged on purpose. She’s wearing a flimsy top and a short skirt, which could have been underwear for all I know. I figure she’s arrived here by car, or maybe she’s been here all this time, somewhere in the bar, as she looks untouched by the elements outside. Her smile soon fades and she grabs me by the arm.
‘I need to speak with you …’
‘Right.’
‘Come with me …’
‘Right.’
She pulls me through the crowd, holding on to my arm; we walk through the group of lads, the guy with the neck full of tattoos stops what he’s doing and watches us, as she escorts me into the Ladies. I turn around to look at him just before the door closes after me and we step into a cubicle; he’s staring at me, a mix of jealousy, curiosity and hatred in his eyes.
‘In here … In here …’
She shuts the cubicle door behind us.
‘We’ll get caught …’
‘Ssssshhhhh …’
She seems nervous, jittery, her eyes darting to and fro.
‘I need to speak to you …’
‘What is it? … What’s wrong?’
‘I’m in trouble … You were kind to me …’
‘In the flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it was you …’
‘I’m in trouble …’
‘Who with?’
‘Them …’
‘Who?’
‘Those men …’
‘From the flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s wrong? What’ve they done to you? Are they holding you against your will?’
‘I’m in trouble with them …’
‘What is it?’
‘I need money … To get away from them.’
‘Yes … Yes … Yes … we can go … we can both get away from here …’
‘No, that’s not safe, I need to get away first, on my own … Then you can come.’
‘Where do you need to go?’
‘To Tirana …’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Albania … I need to get back there as soon as I can …’
‘You need me to help you?’
‘It’ll cost money, I have no money … I have to pay money to people to help me get back, to take me, good people …’
‘How much?’
‘…’
‘How much do you need?’
‘I need three thousand eight hundred … That’s how much. It’s so much, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Pounds?’
‘Yes …’
‘I can help you.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yes, I can. Of course I can.’
‘I knew you would, I knew you would …’
She leans over, throwing her arms around me. She kisses me on the lips, pressing her body up against me. I stand there, gripping on to her waist, not sure if I can let go.
‘I can get you the money tomorrow … We can meet … On the pier …’
‘Yes, the pier …’
‘Where we first met …’
‘What?’
‘The pier …’
‘…’
‘The bell …’
‘… The bell, oh … yes, the bell …’
‘Meet me by the bell at 3 p.m. tomorrow …’
‘The bell, 3 p.m., yes …’
‘I’ll give you the cash.’
‘Yes, the cash, oh the cash. Yes, you give me the cash tomorrow …’
‘I’ll follow you, I’ll come after you, after you are home and safe …’
‘Yes, when I’m settled …’
Her hands are all over me, grabbing me, squeezing me. She’s breathing heavily.
‘Yes.’
‘We have to go, you have to go, we can’t be seen together …’
‘Yes, okay …’
I walk out of the cubicle and out into the bar. She follows me a couple of seconds later. I push through the group of lads again, ignoring them, staring down at my feet. When I look back up I notice the men from the black Mercedes at the door. They’ve already spotted me and are looking over. The man from the passenger seat begins to grin.
‘You’ve got to go …’
‘…’
‘They’ve seen us … You’ve got to go …’
‘…’
‘Say nothing.’
it all happens quickly
I’m shaking. I walk over to the door. The man is still grinning at me. He blocks my path. He stops grinning.
‘What she say to you?’
‘…’
‘What you doing here with her?’
‘…’
‘Why you here with her?’
‘Let me through. I need to get through. I’ll call the bouncers …’
‘No good.’
‘Please … I haven’t done anything wrong.’
I try to push past him, but he grabs hold of my arm and pushes me up against the wall. The bouncers at the door look away, talking among themselves.
‘What you fucking say?’
&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t say anything … Honest …’
‘What she fucking tell you?’
‘Nothing … Nothing … Honest.’
‘What you fucking doing here?’
‘I was asking for a bar job …’
‘A bar job? … A bar job?’
They all begin to laugh. He lets go of me. I walk to the counter for my stick. The woman hands it over without looking at me. I do my best to remain calm. When I turn around the men are all facing me, blocking my exit again. One of them tries to grab my stick, but I pull it away just in time. Then the man who pinned me up against the wall throws a punch at me, I think, and I thrust the stick in his face at the same time. It all happens quickly. He falls to the floor, screaming in a language I don’t understand, blood pouring from his eye. I swing the stick around like a lunatic. I can feel the heavier end hitting things, but I don’t know what, heads, limbs, walls, I haven’t a clue. I don’t hang around to find out, either. I push through the bodies, frantically swirling and jabbing my stick at anything that moves or is in my way. Just as I step out onto the pavement, something hits the back of my head, probably a bottle. It causes me to stumble onto the road, my rucksack swinging around my neck. I stumble to my feet and run as quickly as I can up Lucy Road, past the clubs and burger vans and up towards Rossi’s ice-cream factory and the back of the Palace Hotel. I don’t look back, but I know they’re all running after me.
just the silence
I turn right through the car park, onto Herbert Grove, past the dilapidated row of guest houses and then left onto Chancellor Road. Just before I turn again I look back; they aren’t far behind, a huddled mass heading towards me, two or three of them running at high speed. I figure the others must be in the black Mercedes somewhere, so I decide to get off the road. I turn left and dive into the cemetery at St John the Baptist Church. I’m suddenly enveloped in blackness, I feel at home and soon my eyes grow accustomed to the change in light. I weave along the path, gravestones and sarcophagi all around me. I run into the corner and hide behind a huge grave displaying a bust of a bearded, bespectacled man. I lie down in the long, wet grass behind him. I act like I’m dead, clutching my stick to my chest as tightly as I can, trying to slow down my breathing, directing it down into the earth.