by Lee Rourke
‘The … Gift … Whispers …’
no sense at all
The caffeine is charging through me. I walk through the shoppers on the High Street, down towards the sea, the pier. The crowds seem to be melting away from me with each step, even when a dog on a lead takes offence at my stick I simply glide past it without much effort. Suddenly, I see her: Laura. She’s walking with him, the man from the flat on Toledo Road, from the black Mercedes. I’m sure it’s her; it certainly looks like her, the same hair, cheekbones, the same gait. They’re in conversation, even though he’s talking to another person on his phone. I hang back a little, aware that I’m catching them up too quickly. I walk to my right, by the shop windows and doorways. I follow them down the High Street. They remain in deep conversation, all three of them, all the way, these two walking quickly and gesticulating to each other. I imagine the voice on the other end of the phone is walking along another street, heading for the pier, too, gesticulating into thin air.
I’m sure it’s Laura. They turn right onto Alexandra Street and enter the Old Hat, another café bar. I wait where I can see them without much danger of them noticing me, just across the way, down an old mews by an air-rifle shop. I can see them at the bar; they order what looks like a shot of vodka each, downing it in one. Then the black Mercedes pulls up outside the bar. I step back and wait for a few seconds. When I look over I catch them getting into the car, before it screeches off along the one-way system, towards the High Street.
I’m sure it was her. It had to be her. Who else could it be? They can’t all look alike, whoever it was the men had working for them. It doesn’t work like that; the customer demands choice. It makes no sense for all the girls to look the same, no sense at all.
pushing against us
I walk to the pier. I’m hoping there’ll be a lot of other people around, just in case. I’m determined to be with Laura, just to see if she’s all right. I can’t control what I’m doing. I walk without looking, quickly through the throngs. To my relief, when I reach Pier Hill, I can see the pier is already busy with people walking along it and queuing for the train to take them slowly to its end. I look around, just in case the black Mercedes is parked up on Royal Terrace or down on the esplanade. It seems safe, normal, as if everything that’s happened to me has been some terrible hallucination and everything is real again.
I pay my money to the man in the hut at the gate to the pier. I walk slowly, trying to blend in with everyone else. I’m met by gusts of wind, huge williwaws charging down the pier, which nearly knock me off my feet. I step into it, struggling, digging in my stick, until this too becomes normal, real, and I begin to find each step easier to manage. The tide is in and the grey water is choppy, attacking each stanchion of the pier below. It feels like the entire estuary is pushing against us and at any moment the foundations of the pier will give way to the sudden tumult and fall down into its depths, but I don’t care, I’m sick of nightmares and know that if I reach the end of this pier everything will be okay, just Laura to protect now, to guide back to shore.
About halfway along the pier I see a baby seagull, hobbling along the planks as a group of maybe four or five other, bigger seagulls mercilessly swoop down to take pecks at it, attacking it, bombing down from a frantic queue above. I try to shoo them away but it’s no use, they dive at the baby seagull from all angles, and so quickly that I can’t really see where they’re coming from, or determine which one will be next, and besides, they’re diving from a safe distance. The whole scene is over before I can do anything else to stop it, ending as quickly as it began: the baby seagull dead on the planks, tufts of down blowing in whorls around its limp, splayed wings and plump breast. The racket drifts away as the group of seagulls fly off, seemingly happy with the result.
I walk over to the dead baby seagull and pick it up. It’s still warm, its downy feathers wondrous to the touch. I place it aside, near to a bin, out of people’s sight. I think about dropping it into the sea, but this feels wrong. Then I suddenly change my mind a couple of metres up the pier, worried that the poor thing will be thrown out with the discarded kebab and fish and chip wrapping in the bins, so I walk back and pick it up again; a few people are watching me but it doesn’t matter and I gently drop it into the estuary. I turn away before it hits the surface. I don’t need to see that.
Maybe this event with the baby seagull will affect me in some way I’m not aware of? Maybe its cruel death will numb something inside me for ever? I don’t know. I’ll never know. All I know is that I’m walking along the pier outside myself. Looking at myself, observing everything I do: each gesture, each turn of my head, each blink of an eye. Looking inwards, oblivious to the things ahead of me: the crowds, the huge grey sky, the murky depths below, Laura waiting by the bell.
looping at intervals
She’s leaning on the rail, waiting, looking out to sea, her back to me, facing the widening mouth of the estuary. I hesitate as soon as I spot her and stop walking. I watch her for some time: elevated above me on the second platform of the pier, the perfect pedestal. She looks completely at ease, like someone away from a busy work schedule, happy and content. She looks beautiful, like she’s waiting for a lover, or just enjoying the great expanse of space before her. Elevated high enough – up above everybody else on the pier – to appreciate the vista before her. Then I notice something else: she’s wearing different clothes from when I’d just seen her with the man. She’s wearing skinny jeans and some sort of army fatigue jacket, zipped up close to her neck. She’s wearing a rucksack on her back, too. Just like me. I regain my step and walk towards her, so that I can get a closer look. Just to make sure that it’s actually her. As I get closer I notice that although her hair is still blonde, it’s now shorter again, and seems to be styled differently than it was the last couple of times I’d seen her. How did she have the time not only to change her clothes but the style of her hair in the short amount of time it has taken me to walk to the end of the pier, not to mention how she then got here before me? It’s possible, I think. I have been dawdling: she could have walked right past me on the pier when I was watching the baby seagull. It has to be her, it is her, but she keeps on changing every time I see her. I walk towards her. It has to be her, she’s the only person who knows to meet me at that exact spot at this exact time. I pull out my phone, I look at the time: we’re bang on schedule. Instead of putting my phone away, I stop and lean on the rail. I point my phone at her and begin to film her. I want to capture her, to keep the reality of her in my pocket, to take it with me, to view it whenever I see fit. I frame her just off-centre, so that more of the pier is in shot, and she takes up a tiny space in the top right-hand corner of the frame. I leave it recording for about one and a half minutes and then stop, putting the phone back in my pocket.
The image of the dead baby seagull falling to the depths of the grey water suddenly hits me. I stagger a little and have to dig my stick into the planks beneath my feet for support. It gets stuck between two freshly repaired boards. I yank it out with all my might and continue to walk towards her. I look up at the sky, at the grey clouds, knowing that Saturn is somewhere up there, with me, hanging above me, keeping me rooted. I need it to be there right now, just the thought of it there, just behind the clouds. My thoughts of Saturn are quickly dashed by a group of seagulls above me again, not the usual shrill, ear-splitting racket, more of a wail, as if they are mourning the recently departed baby seagull, like women at funerals in the Middle East: wailing in unison, grieving for all to witness, to record and to register. I watch as they whorl around me, elliptical, looping at intervals, swooping downwards in arcs: as if mimicking Saturn’s slow, repetitive trajectory through space.
three thousand eight hundred
I walk towards her. With each footfall I’m sure it’s her. I run through everything I’m going to say to her: how she’ll react, where I’d take her, where we’d go to get away from everyone and everything. How I’ll take her to the island, no one would
think of looking for us there. I just have to convince her that I am doing the right thing, that all this, everything I am doing, is for her.
I walk up the pier, past the new cultural centre, up the steps to the RNLI office, onto the top deck, above the crowds, towards the bell, where she is waiting. She has her back to me. Annoyingly, there’s a group of children playing loudly beside her. The children’s yelps and screams are irritating the men fishing on the deck below us. I look over the edge to see if I can see the toothless man from last night, but there’s no sign of him or Rocky. I turn back to Laura to find that she’s looking at me.
‘You’re here … We have to be quick …’
‘Laura …’
‘You’ve got the money?’
‘I’m so happy you’re here …’
‘Money?’
‘Yes … Yes … I’ve got it, but …’
‘But what?’
‘I want you to consider a different plan …’
‘What do you mean … I need the money, that’s why you’re here, right?’
‘I can help you … More than my money can …’
‘Please … I explained … I need to go home, things are not safe for me here any more. I’ll contact you … When I know it’s safe.’
‘You’ll be safe with me …’
‘I’m not … We’re not safe …’
‘Listen to me … Jesus, I wish those kids would shut the fuck up …’
‘What is it … Where’s the money?’
‘I’ve got it …’
‘Give it to me, before they come …’
‘There’s no one here … just these …’
‘Give it to me … Quick …’
‘All right … All right … Will you just listen to me, once you have it?’
‘Just give it to me, please … You’re the only person who can help me … You’re good, and kind … a kind, kind man.’
‘Okay, Laura, okay …’
‘I’m not who you think …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing … Laura’s a nice name …’
I pull out the envelope from my jacket pocket. I think, although I’m not sure, it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. I can’t describe how wonderful her smile is, it’s as if the pier, the darkening sea below, the sky above become charged with electric light, a real fizzing presence of light, of joy, charging around us. This is exactly how it feels, how I will always remember this moment, happening exactly this way, always.
‘Is it all there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Three thousand eight hundred?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘…’
‘Can I?’
‘…’
‘What is it? … Time is running out …’
‘Please … Please … I just want to remember this moment, I wish I could capture it some way …’
something hits
It happens quickly. I’m stunned, frozen almost, barely able to process what is happening: two of the men come at me from behind, knocking me to the ground. My stick rolls along the planks. I grip on to the envelope. They pull me up and throw me against the rail, I hit it hard and it knocks the wind out of me. The children run back down the steps to whoever it is they’re with. I catch eyes with one of the children as he looks back, a red-haired one, who looks directly into my eyes like he’s just about to witness my execution, wide-eyed, excited and petrified, unable to stop looking. I don’t want to be the subject of this boy’s gaze, I want to be on the island with Laura, planning our escape, planning whatever it takes to feel part of the world around me.
Something hits me hard in the stomach: a fist that brings the bile up into my mouth. They pin me back, holding my arms away from my body. They spot the envelope in my hand. I struggle to keep it out of reach, but one of the men lunges for it, gripping on to it with me. We wrestle with it until I feel another fist under my ribs, forcing a reflex in me to let go of the envelope …
fishing
Nothing ever happens how you expect it to. The man isn’t holding on to the envelope tightly enough and it tears immediately, its contents fluttering into the sea air like a shit card trick: each note, one after the other, arcing, out of the envelope, over the rail and into the sea. There’s an almighty scream as the notes float, as gently as a bunch of petals, each stained with a lifetime’s grime, down into the sea. The two men let go of me to lean over the rail, helpless, wailing in their own language, as the men fishing below, leaving their rods behind, jump over into the depths to collect as many of the notes as they can, the strongest of them, including the toothless man from last night, pushing other swimmers out of the way, stuffing the wet notes into pockets and down their trousers in a delirious frenzy. I break free and run over to my stick, picking it up, running, running, running away from the scene. I run all the way along the pier, back towards the shoreline, back towards Southend. Away from them, from Laura, from everything. They can fight it out among themselves. The money doesn’t matter to me. I just want to find my place, I just want to feel real again.
Once I reach the gate to the pier I collapse into a heap. A crowd of people gather around me: some just to stare, others offering me help and comfort, but I can’t see them, only hear their voices, as the blackness descends all around me, their voices penetrating into me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Do you need an ambulance?’
‘Give him some water.’
‘Give him some room.’
‘Loosen his jacket.’
‘I know first aid.’
‘He needs air.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Can you see us?’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Do you know where you live?’
‘Can you tell us your address?’
‘Okay, lift him up.’
‘There …’
‘Place him on his side …’
‘Up …’
‘One … Two … Three …’
‘Okay, move back, please …’
‘Mind his head.’
‘Okay, shutting the door now …’
to the ground
I awake at Southend Hospital A&E. I don’t really remember much about my collapse on the pier, except I fell to the ground quickly, and with some considerable force. All I know is that it probably saved me from the two men. The doctor says I can leave as soon as I feel fit, so I get off the bed and grab my belongings.
‘Where’s my stick?’
‘Here, Mr Michaels …’
‘Thanks.’
‘Take plenty of rest … Drink lots of water …’
I feel embarrassed. I want them to leave me alone. I thank them and walk out of the hospital, feeling groggy, horrible and confused. I head back to the island.
random drawers
I begin with the CDs and records, leaving his Dr Feelgood collection alone. I pack everything I can into boxes, twelve in total, and stack them up against the wall away from the shelves. It feels like the caravan is about to tip over, I stamp about a bit, just to test that it’s okay. It is, so I carry on. I walk over to a desk and filing cabinet by Rey’s old bed. I stand there for a while, staring at it. Something’s not right: it’s too quiet in here, too quiet for a task as mundane as this, so I walk over to the Dr Feelgood collection and pick out an album at random. I pull the record out from its sleeve and give it a wipe with my arm. The caravan is soon filled with the sound of the guitar. I put the other record, the one that was sitting on the record player, into its correct sleeve. Then I walk back over to Uncle Rey’s desk. I open random drawers, each of them containing a lifetime of stuff that holds no meaning to me now. I don’t know where to start, so I just pull things out, no
t really sure what I’m supposed to be looking for. There are no more boxes to put all this stuff in, so I ram it all into a large black bin-liner. It’s mostly bank stuff: statements and letters spanning decades. In the top drawer of the filing cabinet, next to the desk, is a bunch of handwritten letters, all tied together with some parcel string. I undo the string and begin to look at each of them; it’s hard to read Uncle Rey’s spidery handwriting, but I just about manage to work out who they are addressed to: Mother. Some of the letters had reached her, but she had sent them straight back it seems. I look at the postmark, its ink fading: Bournemouth. The other letters hadn’t been posted at all; Uncle Rey must have given up sending them. I am immediately struck that he kept on writing them regardless, but the feeling soon passes. I gather each of the letters together and put them into my rucksack. These letters are my only clue, the final pieces in the jigsaw to Mother’s whereabouts, should I ever want to find her.
The rest of the drawers are full of newspaper clippings, mostly of significant military and terrorist events – the Falklands War, the first Invasion of Iraq, 9/11, et cetera. I read some of the headlines. All I feel is an overwhelming sense that life has passed me by. It has been there, things have happened, but I’ve been looking the other way, wherever that is. Nothing has slapped me across the face and woken me up from slumbers I haven’t been aware of; all that suffering, all that commotion and I remained asleep, each event passing me by, my life a series of silent alarms.