by Lee Rourke
I look everywhere: in each drawer, the bottom of his wardrobe, on each shelf. Eventually I find another box underneath his sagging bed. Again, it’s labelled.
For Jon #7 2013
There are no other CDs, tapes, DVDs et cetera, nothing else, no other boxes, just the one CD with the same label as the box. Where were the other six? Did the other six even exist? This must have been the last recording he made. I begin to tremble, walking over to the TV in the living room, pulling the armchair from the bedroom back in front of it and placing the CD in the machine. I press play immediately. The screen is black for an uncomfortable amount of time before it begins.
For Jon #7 2013
I never wanted you to have to listen to this, Jon. But I made it anyway, just in case something like this was going to happen. I guess I knew it was always going to happen. I knew you’d find out, I knew how curious you’d be …
[He takes a long, hard drag from his rolled-up cigarette. His eyes are blank, staring. The wrinkles in his face fold each time he sucks deeply.]
This isn’t the way things were supposed to be, this isn’t the way they … they were supposed to happen. I was supposed to finish my book, hoping that one day you would read that and we’d … Well … You would read that and we’d never have to speak about it. But here I am … speaking to you about it.
[He takes a swig of whiskey from a bottle by his side and then gets up slowly from his chair and walks off-camera, out of the frame. The rattling of tablets in a bottle can be heard. He sits back in his chair, slowly, running his gnarled hands through his grey hair.]
I don’t know who I am any more, you see. I know I once loved … I loved well … I was good at that, I know I was, people told me … But where … Where has it got me? Eh? … Eh? … Where? … Laura was everything to me, she was a beautiful woman, my beautiful woman, she was mine … Mine … I can’t say that enough, I can’t. What would be the point in not telling you this? If I think back, I can still smell her perfume. I can smell it now …
[He takes a deep breath which makes him burst into a hacking cough.]
I never wanted to hurt you, Jon … Or to make you feel that I never cared … Things were hard, you know. But Laura, she meant so much to me. Have you ever known … no, felt … . have you ever felt beauty in your life? I do hope you have … Even though it didn’t last I still count myself one of the lucky ones, the lucky few, if that makes any sense, I don’t know … But how could I be? … How? … How could I be there for you throughout your life like a real father should, how could I? I didn’t know how to cope, what to do, who to speak to … I couldn’t speak to anyone, all I could do was remove myself, to keep away, to do the right thing … I wanted to, though … I thought about you every day, planned and schemed to make you mine, thought about every possible way … I begged and begged and fucking begged Laura, I mean … your mother, to come away with me, but it was no use, she wouldn’t listen, she wanted nothing to do with me … and who can blame her, the things I did, everything I did, the way I … I couldn’t convince her … There was Cal for a start … And your father, I mean, my brother … it would have torn things apart … So I simply hung around on the sidelines, you must have noticed? I watched, I watched you all from afar, I mapped everything you did, recorded it all, layered it in film, in memory, digitised it … I watched, I adored, I watched from a distance … Oh, Jon, I never thought Laura, your mother, would just walk away from us all. From you and Cal. I never thought that would happen. I never thought she’d be capable of such a thing.
[He gets up again and walks over to the camera to adjust it. Zooming in a little, so that when he sits back down his face almost fills the screen. He has picked up a book, too. His face is tense, his eyebrows furrowed into a wrinkly V. He reads the book for a bit, nodding to himself, flicking through it. Then he stops and looks directly into the camera for about six to ten seconds.]
I’d see the snowbound roses of her lips … Quivering … and that glint of ivory … That marbles the onlooker … every reason … I’d see wherefore my joy of life outstrips … The pain of it … I shout exultantly … That I am kept into this elder season …
[He looks back at the book. A smile almost appears on his face. But it disappears. He begins to cough again, taking another swig of the whiskey to quell it.]
His words … His words seem to make sense to me. His words always have, because I loved her. I loved that woman and I’ve never been able to get rid of this … It’s never left me … There was a time, a darker time than this, when I thought I could save her, take her away from him, from her life, convince her that a life with me would be better, that I could make her happy … Oh, Jon, that’s what I wanted … A happy life … That’s all anyone wants, right? … Not to be stuck in this elder season of pain and regret …
[He stops. Takes another swig of whiskey and wipes his eye with the back of his hand.]
You see, I tried to write all this down. That would explain everything to you, all my pain, everything I have been through, the reason why you breathe … But the words wouldn’t come, and if they did, then they came all jumbled, and they didn’t look right, or sound right when I read them back to myself, they sounded second-hand, far-fetched, and what I wanted to do was write a new morality for myself, as truthfully as I possibly could so that you would understand one day … of myself, for myself … something that would correct my actions, reflect them the right way … But I failed, my whole life I have failed to write this book for you …
[He sets the book down on his lap and then leans over to the side of his chair to pick up his manuscript, waving it about in front of the camera.]
Vulgar Things … That’s what it is … the common voice … that’s all I wanted. A common voice … This book to sing the truth … I wanted it to reveal everything, in a clear and beautiful language … But I failed to do that, and I’ve spent my entire life talking into this thing, because of it, trying to come to terms with it, trying to work things out, talking, talking, talking, in the hope that one day something real would appear, you know, that crystallised moment when I speak reality … I’ve waited a long time, a whole lifetime, but nothing, reality has eluded me … it doesn’t exist, it doesn’t fucking exist … It seems easier this way now, things just seem easier, sitting here, talking into the lens, nothing really to disrupt me … and then it hits me, you, you listening, watching me, that’s the true reality, I’ve created reality for you, not for me … And it feels different, like these aren’t words, like what I’m doing is automatic, and it’s not like the writing, nothing like the writing, the stupid sitting down with a pen, my vision already clouded by the thought … before it hits the paper … ink leaving its mark … my mark … It’s not like that at all … That’s what I like about it, it feels better this way. It feels like me. Digitised me, overlapped and recorded me, like I’ve aborted order, proportion … Like when I look up at the sky now, it’s the skull, but when I try to write the sky, how the sky is, it doesn’t feel like a true representation of the sky, it’s still stuck in here, in my skull, it still exists as the sky up there, and not on my page. But here, this representation of me, this overlapping of sound and image, this ghost, this is real, this is really me. The ghost is reality. The sky, you see, the sky I try to write, it seems to be without any plan … like a painting begun without a preliminary sketch. In my wayless way, my unending failure to capture everything begins and ends right here … But it has made me a lonely man, a failure too … A man who yearns for his Laura in the night … I’ve got to leave this behind, and this, these recordings, seem to be the right way to go about leaving things behind … And if you are listening to me now, I’ll have known, in some future now, that I’ll have made the right choice …
[He picks up the book again. Leaving the manuscript on the arm of his chair.]
There was one memorable night … When she was here, when I took her here, before I decided to move here permanently … at the end of the jetty … I’ll never forget this,
I’ve got it taped here now … The vision of her, my Laura, swimming by the jetty … the fire inside me no wind could extinguish, nothing could rattle this from me, nothing … By the jetty, the image of her pale skin, pale moonlight … The pale skin … When I suddenly saw this, the fire within … Nothing could remove it from within … I watched her there, pale skin in the gloom, in the black water … I saw here there, alone. She could have gone, but she stayed, breasts, the dark gloom around her pale skin, her breasts, in night … It was at that moment … I knew, I knew … I knew what it was, I knew … I knew she would soon go, all those horrible fucking things, and still she let me come to her, to lie down by the jetty, the warm night, a blanket, under the pale moonlight, my head on her lap, her warm breasts, her heart beating, my heart beating … we lay there together until the moon disappeared, the sea tickling our toes … That was the only moment, and then it was gone … she was gone … He came in the morning, to take her back home. There’s a fire within me, the same fire, it still burns …
[He drops his head. Rubbing his hands through his grey hair. Then looks up again, holding on to his book tightly.]
Now it’s silence. All is silence. As if nothing else exists. The night. The dead black night.
[He lifts the book up and reads from it.]
Perhaps, from uttermost annihilation … we’ll see some new … Strange, marvellous thing arise … and our suffering we shall know, was not in vain.
[He throws the book across the room.]
My son … My beautiful son … I hope you learn to forgive me? I hope you’ll one day understand? I’m recording these moments, so that you’ll understand.
[The screen fades to black.]
it feels wrong
The first thing I do is get up from the armchair and look behind the TV in the direction he threw the book. It’s there. It’s still there on the floor, tangled in the wires. I lean over and pick it up: it’s the collection of sonnets by Petrarch. I flick through its pages noticing where Uncle Rey has written notes and underlined certain lines and stanzas. I close it and put it in my rucksack. I sit back down in the armchair and phone Cal. It takes him a while to answer.
‘Cal …’
‘Jon … What is it?’
‘Oh …’
‘I’m kind of busy …’
‘Can you talk? …’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s important …’
‘Okay, okay … What’s the matter?’
‘Well …’
‘What? … What?’
‘I don’t really know how to tell you this … It’s all rather complicated …’
‘What’s happened to the caravan?’
‘It’s not that …’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s Uncle Rey …’
‘What about him?’
‘Well … He’s …’
‘What?’
‘He’s …’
‘Stop fucking me about, Jon … and fucking tell me what’s going on out there …’
‘He’s … my …’
‘Just fucking spit it out …’
‘He’s been writing a book …’
‘A book? A book?’
‘Yes, a book … a novel …’
‘So fucking what? Big deal … Is that it? … Jon, I’m fucking busy, I’ve meetings all day …’
‘It’s about morality, I think … and truth … An apology, a failed apology …’
‘Jon, great, that’s all really great … Tell me about it at the weekend when you’re back, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you nearly finished?’
‘Yeah … packing stuff into boxes. All the legal stuff in his briefcase … The belongings will all be ready to be picked up on Friday … There’s a lot of rubbish …’
‘Just make sure it’s all sorted out …’
‘Sure.’
‘Bye.’
‘…’
I don’t know why I didn’t tell him. It just doesn’t feel right over the phone. I figure there’ll be plenty of time to explain to him what has been happening in Uncle Rey’s life, why he was the way he was, his affair with Mother, that I’m his son, all that stuff. I sit back in the armchair, running my hands through my hair. His son, I’m his son. It doesn’t feel right, it feels wrong, alien. I’m more than uncomfortable with the entire situation, everything that’s gone on. It all feels like a sham. I sink into the chair, trying to think about other things. And then it suddenly hits me: did Father know? Did he learn the truth before he died?
motionless
I get up out of the armchair and put the record player on. Dr Feelgood fills the empty space again. I turn the volume right up and open all the windows. I walk to the telescope in the shed. I can still hear the music, even when I close the door to the shed behind me. I look at the charts, now that they have had time to dry out. I look at the dates. It says that Saturn should be visible right now. It was there all along when I was frantically searching for it the other night, it was there while I was sleeping under the pier last night; it should be here at this precise moment. It’s out there now, above me, hanging there in the blackness, waiting for me to locate its presence again. My stomach begins to knot and I suddenly feel sick. I stare back at the charts, the music filtering in through the gaps in the wood of the shed. I let it in, the vibrations filling up the space all around me. It swirls around me. I drop to my knees, my head falls back, the blood draining from it. I begin to feel weightless, light-headed. It’s the freest I’ve felt in a long time. I stay like this: motionless, on my knees, my head tilted back, my arms hanging limply by my side, each fingertip heavy with blood, for as long as I can stand it.
drift along with them
It takes me a long time to withdraw the money from my bank. I take out four thousand pounds in total. Three thousand eight hundred for Laura, and two hundred for me. Even though I’ve changed clothes, had a shower and a haircut, the cashier at the bank still grills me for all I am worth.
‘It’s not that you look like a conman, Mr Michaels, it’s just that I have to take every precaution necessary when someone just walks into the branch, without prior warning, and requests an amount like this; a lot of money has been flying in and out of your account these past few days, Mr Michaels, and we have to be sure you are who you say you are. I hope you understand?’
The cashier counts and recounts the money. When he’s finished I ask him to put Laura’s money into a separate envelope. He hands me the cash: I fold my money and put it in my pocket and then take the envelope and put that in the inside pocket of my jacket. I walk out of the bank, my stick in hand, rucksack on my back, out onto the busy streets. I look about, left and right, up and down the road; I’m worried they’re following me, but no sign of the black Mercedes. I can sense them; I know they’ll be looking for me.
whispers
Now the café is full. I’m even having to share my table with another person: a man, clearly mad, who reeks of cat piss. He keeps mumbling to himself.
‘Pressing hard … Pressing … Hard …’
Office workers, random people and college students are queuing impatiently at the counter. I watch and listen to them all, picking out words from the general fuzz of conversation, switching my attention from table to table, looking out of the window just to check he’s not waiting outside, scrutinising every black car that pulls into the side road up to the High Street. I’m a nervous wreck.
‘Ends thou … Ends thou …’
I single out the bored woman behind the counter as she shuffles to and fro, flitting from table to table when she has the chance to clear empty cups and plates, wiping the crumbs from each surface, dumping the cups and plates onto her plastic tray. Then running back to the counter to serve another customer. She has the look of Laura, slimmer though, with longer hair. Blonde, with the same angular cheekbones, the same Slavic features: stern eyes, tight-lipped. I begin to think about what I should do if it’s all some kind
of trap, if she is in with the men from the black Mercedes and they’re simply using her to get to me for whatever it is they want from me.
‘Creep … Creep … Creep … Creep … Ends thou …’
What if the men are waiting for me at the end of the pier? What then? I put my hand in my jacket, checking the money is still there. What if I’d inadvertently stumbled into something real? Something I shouldn’t have? I hear about this all the time on the news, some man in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think about abandoning the whole thing. That’s what anyone else would do, I know that. But Laura is driving me on, she makes me stronger, the image of her, what I can do for her. It’s stronger than anything those men can do to me. This is what draws me to her: the sight of her face when I turn up, handing her the money, helping her get out of this mess, this life with these horrible people. And little old me, the person who can help make this happen, the person who can make that small difference, to help turn it around, to take her away from danger.
‘Disappearing … Mist … Whispers …’
It’s not like I’ve made a habit of such behaviour, I’ve never really been an altruistic person. There was a time in my life when the comfort of others mattered, but it didn’t last long. That was when there was someone else in my life more important than me. I would have done anything for her. When I think of my marriage now this is the thought that rises to the surface, and it sickens me, it sickens me to the core. I would have done anything for her … but I didn’t. Maybe you can love someone too much without realising it? Maybe too much love can suffocate a person? Maybe that’s my problem: I smothered her? I killed her own love for me? In any case, it’s left me with nothing but my own life. A life that makes no sense to me whatsoever.