Vulgar Things

by Lee Rourke

  I can hear their footsteps behind the crumbling wall separating the cemetery from Chancellor Road. I hear them enter the cemetery; they’re out of breath, wheezing, talking to each other, then shouting and arguing. They stick to the path – I can hear their footsteps on the gravel, heading through the cemetery, out towards the other exit by the Palace Hotel. I wait. Dead in the blackness of night. Waiting for however long it takes to convince myself they’ve gone. I sit up in the grass, the large bust above me. For some reason I look up at him and thank him. I’m sopping wet all through. I pull the slugs from my arms and legs, wipe down my back and front and walk on to the path to find a bench to sit down. I sit on the hard bench until it feels like my clothes have dried out, although I know they haven’t. I get up, convinced it’s safe enough to venture out of the cemetery.

  I walk out the same way I entered, onto Chancellor Road. It’s deathly quiet, empty and cold. I walk up towards the Royals Shopping Centre and then take a left, following the road around to the High Street, turning left again to head back down to the seafront and the Palace Hotel. I stand at Pier Hill beneath the Palace Hotel, staring out at the pier, just visible within the blackness of the estuary. I take out my phone to capture an image of it, but I remember the battery has gone and put it back in my pocket. It must be late, maybe around 3 a.m. or something like that. I look up into the sky just as the clouds break around the moon, and my first instinct is to get back to Uncle Rey’s caravan, to look through his telescope, just to see if Saturn has returned, but the trains will all have stopped by now. Silence, that’s all I have. I listen, I wait, hoping to hear it out there: that rumble, that low grumbling of a cargo ship’s engines, reverberating underneath the water all the way to my feet: but nothing, just the silence, and the moon, and no way of knowing if Saturn is up there, hanging, waiting for my gaze. I turn around and walk up the hill to the reception doors of the hotel. I’ve still got money in my pockets.

  we understand that, sir

  A young lady and a grey-haired man are sitting behind the reception when I walk through the sliding doors. I walk towards them. It doesn’t occur to me that I’m clearly drunk and sopping wet, grass-stained and mucky from the stint next to the grave.

  ‘I need a single room, just for tonight.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘We’re, I’m sure we’re … let me see … yes, we’re fully booked I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a double room, then?’

  ‘…’

  ‘A double room, for tonight only …’

  ‘Okay, right, sir … I’m afraid we are fully booked …’

  ‘What …’

  ‘Yes, he’s right, we’re fully booked.’

  ‘What about a family room?’

  ‘We’re fully booked, sir.’

  ‘Oh … I get it, right, I’m sorry … yes, I’m a mess … Sorry, I’m locked out of my house … I have money, I’m good for the money … look … seriously, just look … I was in here earlier, drinking in the terrace bar …’

  ‘We understand that, sir …’

  ‘… but we’re fully booked, like he said, sir.’

  ‘It’s a Tuesday night …’

  ‘Like I say, sir … We fully understand your …’

  ‘Who comes to Southend on a Tuesday night …’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  i tell you

  I walk back out of the reception. Just as I turn left I hear a loud screech of tyres: it’s the black Mercedes, I’m sure it is – but I don’t look, I run. I run as fast as I can, without looking, turning left again, down Pier Hill, across the road at the bottom towards the rusting iron legs of the pier. I head up a side road alongside it, then turn right, running underneath the pier. There’s no one in sight. It must have been another car.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’

  The voice startles me. It comes from lower down towards the sea, down among the pebbles.

  ‘Who the fuck is it? Jimmy, is it you? Jimmy?’

  Just as I’m about to run off again a bright light shines directly onto my face, so that I can’t see anything. I raise my arms up like I’m under arrest, dropping my head to shield my eyes from the blinding white light.

  ‘Oh … it’s you. What the fuck are you doing down here? What’s with that fucking stick?’

  The voice switches off the torch and I watch as an emaciated, toothless face emerges from the blackness. At first it presents itself as a floating head, which is soon followed by a hand, then another, then long, thin arms and a gangly torso, skinny legs and big white Reebok trainers. I immediately recognise the man before me as the homeless man with the dog, Rocky. The one I gave nine pounds to.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here? You’re not with that fucking church are you?’

  ‘No … No … Hi … I’m … I’m lost.’

  ‘Lost?! … Lost?! … Do you hear that, Rocky? Geezer says he’s fucking lost … This is the underworld. We’re all fucking lost down here.’

  ‘I got split up … Well, I got into a spot of bother, with some men …’

  ‘Did they follow you?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Get the fuck away from here if they did, there’s nothing I can do to help you. We don’t need any nasty business down here.’

  ‘No … No … They didn’t … I lost them, hours ago, up by the cemetery …’

  ‘Come with me …’

  I follow him down into the blackness. He leads me to where four of the pier’s iron stanchions are grouped together. Tarpaulin is tied around them, wrapped a few times it seems, making a natural windbreak and shelter. In between the space created by each post is a cardboard enclosure, built up on each side with pallets. Above this space is another piece of tarpaulin that forms a roof. It’s quite a large space, much larger than I first think.

  ‘Come in … Come in …’

  I follow him inside; the cardboard floor is covered with sleeping bags and other belongings. There’s a woman huddled beside a lamp eating a sandwich; Rocky sits down next to her. She looks up at me.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  ‘Don’t be fucking rude, Sandra. This is the geezer who paid for the scran you’re eating.’

  ‘Hello …’

  I sit down next to Rocky. The dog raises its eyes to look at me and then closes them again, letting out a sigh.

  ‘Do you want a sandwich?’

  ‘…’

  ‘It’s fresh, it’s from the sandwich man … he sells the cheap stuff the shops are throwing out.’

  ‘Yes … I need, yes, that’s very kind.’

  I’ve forgotten how hungry I am. The woman pulls two slices of white bread from a bag and puts a slice of processed cheese between them. She squeezes the slices together and hands it to me, leaving her grubby fingerprints all over it. I don’t care.

  ‘Says he’s been in some trouble … with some other geezers …’

  ‘Has he …’

  ‘Yes, they chased me down from the Sunset Bar …’

  ‘The strip club?’

  ‘Yes … I don’t know what I’d done to upset them …’

  ‘Well, it’s our turn to help you …’

  ‘Thanks …’

  ‘That’s all right …’

  ‘This town can be like the Wild West …’

  ‘Not as bad as Tortuga …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The island … Canvey … People living in disused railway carriages on that shithole …’

  ‘That’s where I’m living, where I’ve got to get back to …’

  ‘Ignore her … It’s not as bad as that.’

  ‘Why do you call it Tortuga?’

  ‘Sinbad, innit …’

  ‘Full of fucking pirates …’

  ‘You can get anything there … anything you want.’

  ‘… for a price.’

  ‘Why are you both living here, then?’

  ‘…’
/>   ‘Under the pier?’

  ‘Not been the same since I injured my groin and leg.’

  ‘He got macheted last year …’

  ‘They nearly took my fucking leg off …’

  ‘Besides, we can fish here … Spends his time fishing, off the end of the pier.’

  ‘We’ve had good catches, too … There’s more in that water than in that fucking town, that High Street …’

  ‘You can’t drink it though, love.’

  ‘The water?’

  ‘Yes, all that blackness out there, enough for everyone, but not a drop to drink …’

  ‘It’s why we’re wasting away …’

  ‘How long have you both been here, under the pier?’

  ‘Dunno …’

  ‘Dunno …’

  ‘Maybe a few months, I dunno.’

  ‘Yeah, a few months … It’s not as bad as it looks, down here no one bothers us. Everyone’s scared of the sea at night. First few weeks I thought we’d be drowned in the night, but it doesn’t reach us here, the sea, we’re just above where it reaches, even in storms at high tide …’

  ‘No one knows we’re here …’

  ‘Plus town is rough … York Road and all that … I never go there without Rocky … He protects me, see, you know, with my leg, it’s hard to defend myself. All I want is a quiet life now, and down here that’s what we get, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re going to stay here until I’m all better … Just fishing, and waiting for things to get better.’

  ‘Things will get better, won’t they, my love?’

  ‘Of course they will … The sea is keeping us healthy, people like him are keeping us healthy … There’re not many people like him, all those horrid people … Where do they think we should go? Eh? The fuckers …’

  ‘I can give you more money … I can help you both …’

  ‘No … No … You don’t have to do that …’

  ‘How much would you give us?’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Twenty pounds …’

  ‘No, sixty!’

  ‘One hundred pounds …’

  ‘I’ll give you … sixty … eighty … here, take it …’

  ‘Fuck …’

  ‘Fuck, thanks, mate … I told you, Sandra … I fucking told you he was a good one, I fucking told you!’

  ‘It’s okay … Really …’

  ‘I can buy new fishing tackle with this, and clothes …’

  ‘You need it more than I do …’

  ‘Mate, no one has ever done anything like this for us before, no one. I don’t know what to say to you, geezer … I’ve had, we’ve … It’s been so hard, we’ve … I never had, well I did, but my real father, you know … my blood father, he didn’t want to know … He left my mother and me and I was brought up by my mother’s boyfriend. Now, you know, I don’t have many memories of my blood father, except for one night, when he threw me out of the house, into the yard, and I had to sleep underneath some bin bags by the shed. He said I had to prove myself to him, to see if I was “man enough” … just to be his son. So I lit a fire in the yard to keep me warm and during the night it spoke to me, the flames fucking spoke to me and for that moment I felt like a god, higher than my father, higher than everything he stood for … Well, I’ve been searching for that feeling all my life … but it made me fucking realise something … My blood father, he wasn’t fit to lace my boots, he didn’t deserve it. The real hero of this story is my real dad, my mother’s boyfriend, who took me in, who took me in as one of his own … he took me in … Loved me … But he got sick … cancer in his liver took hold and eventually sucked the life out of him … But now I know, see, now I know what a real father is, it’s the man who takes you in, no matter who you are, and gives you shelter … But now he’s dust … It’s all turned to dust … And we’re all among it, the dust, here in Southend … Southend has given us nothing, there’s no one to help you, except the sea, the sea helps us, we live for the sea. Down here we’re safe, away from everyone else … I just wish I could make things better … I feel useless most of the time, I feel like no one can see me, that no one knows I’m here … But I’ve been here longer than them all, geezer … I have. I know everything about them, I know everything they’ve done, what they say, I listen to them every day. I can hear everything they say and the best part about it is they never see me, they don’t even know I’m listening, they don’t care what I’m doing. I’m like everything else in their lives, I just slip by, part of the make-up of everything that passes them by, the stuff that happens while they’re sleeping, safe in their beds. I never meet them head-on, and even if I did, after I’d gone they’d never remember me. I find it all so funny, so fucking funny, geezer …’

  ‘I guess I’m one of them …’

  ‘You’re not one of them … You’re different, there’s something special about you … and I’m not saying that because of the money …’

  ‘I don’t know about that … I know somebody who is, though … But I can’t reach her, she’s too far gone, into the blackness … I’ve tried to help her … Hopefully I’ll help her tomorrow, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just wish …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing …’

  ‘What? Is she your lover or something? Is that why you’ve been chased? …’

  ‘No, I hardly know her … I don’t know her … I don’t even know if it’s her, but I’d rebuild my entire life for her, just to be with her … It’s like one moment she’s real, like now she’s real and the next she doesn’t even exist, and I don’t know what to do about it. That’s what’s so incredibly beautiful and tragic about the whole situation …’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, geezer …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After some kip – there’s a spare blanket over there – you come fishing with me tomorrow, that’ll sort your head out … Best thing there is … Fishing … Sorts a man’s life right the fuck out … I do all of my best thinking when I’m out on the pier, fishing. Everything goes away. I’m a fucking king out there, geezer, I tell you, a fucking king …’

  ‘Oh, I can’t …’

  ‘You must, you fucking must …’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘You see … I don’t want to forget …’

  Sandra begins to wrap the bread and cheese back up while he rummages around for my blanket.

  ‘Here … This’ll keep your knackers warm …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I wrap the blanket around me; it reeks of wet dog and sweat. I don’t mind though, as I’m starting to really feel the cold. Rocky curls up beside me, intrigued and happy with the new guest. I use my rucksack as a pillow and grip my stick as tightly as I can. I thank them both for the sandwich and fall asleep pretty much immediately.

  WEDNESDAY

  first train

  I wake at first light, the sun not even above the horizon. The birds are singing for the new morning above the pier. If it wasn’t for the horrible stench, the fact that I’ve just woken up hung over in a homeless couple’s makeshift home wouldn’t seem as horrific as it does, but the thick stench makes me gag a few times and I’m worried I’m going to be sick. I sit up and look through a gap in the black tarpaulin at the waves just a few metres from us, down a natural slope on the beach. The others are still sleeping. Rocky, the obvious perpetrator of the stench, is snoring, while the toothless man and Sandra are cuddled up as if sleeping here every night is the most natural thing. I reach for my stick and pull myself to my feet. I check my bag, and immediately feel bad for doing so; everything is there that should be.

  I tiptoe out; out onto the pebbles. I walk from under the pier, up the beach a bit, towards the main drag. I turn and look out across the estuary: a couple of fishing boats are making their way back to Old Leigh, bobbing along, past the pier and down into the rays. I wa
tch them for a moment, the chug chug chug chug of their engines just about audible above the seagulls following them back to shore. When they are out of sight, and the sound of the seagulls and engines has faded, I walk back up to the esplanade and make my way to the station, hoping I don’t have to wait long for the first train.

  another box

  I arrive back at Uncle Rey’s caravan in good time. If I’d got back last night I could have searched for Saturn in the night sky, even though there was a thick layer of cloud. I’d have waited for a break, for my chance. Instead, feeling quite sick, I let myself into the caravan, determined to finish the job I’ve been sent here for.

  After plugging in my phone near Uncle Rey’s armchair to charge, the first thing I do is take ‘The Underworld’ out of my rucksack and return it to the rest of the manuscript. I’m sure that I’ll never read it again. I let out a sigh, which causes a gag reflex. I bring up some fluid into my mouth and immediately swallow it again. It burns the back of my throat. I run to the tap at the kitchenette and drink some cold water; it helps a little, but not much. I feel terrible. The next thing I do is walk over to the majority of Uncle Rey’s recordings. I search for the most recent one I can find. There seems to be a gap in his recordings: from about 2004 to 2006. I find a batch from 2006 to 2010 in a box by his TV, but little else on the shelves among his vast record collection. I contemplate putting some Dr Feelgood on, but my head feels like it’s split in two, so I think better of it. I can’t be ill today, of all days.

  I rummage around in his things, collecting from about the place the empty beer bottles I’d not cleared up. Then I notice two boxes, both smaller than an average shoe box, on the top shelf of the bookcase, pushed back against the wall of the caravan. I pull over the armchair and stand on it to reach them. I pull them down and sit on the armchair. They’re covered in dust and have obviously not been touched for a long time. I open them; each box is filled with broken jewellery: gold and silver. It feels like I’ve discovered some lost treasure. Most of it is junk on closer inspection, and I’m not sure it’s really worth much money. Then I find a gold locket and chain in the second box, buried deep down underneath all the costume stuff, in the corner. I pull it out, like a magician pulling something out of his mouth: the chain is long, much longer than at first anticipated. I open the locket to find a picture of Mother inside, taken before I was born, no doubt. Her hair longer, her face thinner than I remember, dressed in the fashions of the day. I close the locket and put it in my rucksack. I feel betrayed. I close the boxes and continue my search in the bedroom.