by Lee Rourke
‘He was a fucking bum … An alcoholic … a loser who lived off the state, taking whichever handout was offered him … A fucking sponger, who was left money by parents he hated, soaking it all up, taking whatever he could from whoever he could …’
‘He was lonely …’
‘Did you know Dad used to send him money?’
‘…’
‘Well, he did … Every fucking month … that’s how much of a loser Uncle Rey was.’
‘You have no idea, Cal …’
The argument lasted a good half-hour or so, the whole conversation going nowhere as usual. I ended it.
‘I’m moving away …’
‘Oh … That’s …’
‘I’m selling my flat …’
‘Well, the market’s not in good shape, a bit better, but not good …’
‘I don’t fucking care about the market, Cal …’
‘Right …’
‘I’m going to find Mother …’
‘…’
‘I know where she is …’
‘…’
‘So, that’s where I’m going …’
‘Let her rot, she ruined Dad’s life … She left us …’
‘Cal, she’s never left us …’
I put the phone down at that point, I think. I can’t really remember. There was nothing else to say. I remember walking out of the caravan and through the gate up the grass verge to the sea wall. I wanted one last look at the island. I scrambled up onto the wall. I faced northwards, looking across the island towards Benfleet. The sea was a black void behind me, a blank space, the sky above me blacker. I traced the island, following the contours formed by street lights, out right over to Canvey Heights, and then left across the island again, over towards the oil refinery. The whole island before me: twinkling, silent, beautiful. I left it at that.
title page
The afternoon is rather uneventful, except for a walk to the High Street for some provisions, including a can of petrol and some matches. I sit in the armchair, waiting for the sun to disappear. The caravan is empty, everything that’s needed to go has gone. I look out of the window every now and again to check the light, the moon slowly revealing itself out above the estuary. Night falls suddenly, although I may have dozed off again, I don’t know. I get up and step outside, to take in the air, to bathe myself in the blackness. I stand there, facing the caravan, taking it all in, everything that’s happened, everything I’ve heard. For the first time there are no other voices other than my own thoughts, not even Uncle Rey, Cal, or Mr Buchanan. Nothing. I take in a huge, deep breath and step back into the caravan. I pick up Vulgar Things, the only possession I have left in the caravan, and place the whole manuscript back in the centre of the room, dousing it in the petrol. I take the title page and screw it up into a ball, the petrol fumes filling up my lungs as I breathe heavily in excitement. I begin to douse the rest of the caravan, the kitchenette, the shower room, the bedroom, in the petrol, leaving the empty canister on the manuscript in the centre of the room. I pick up my stick and rucksack, the vapour from the petrol making me feel a little nauseous, checking that the letters, locket and address are all safe in my rucksack. I smile and walk outside.
beacons all around me
It’s funny: I feel like Cal is watching me. Like he’s just about to pop out at any moment and try to stop me. But he doesn’t. I take out the box of matches and light the screwed-up title page; the flame takes hold quickly, destroying the words and setting my hand alight with it: blue, then a flash of yellow. I throw the flaming ball of paper into the caravan, stepping back while flapping the flames out on my hand, the skin smarting in the cold air. The caravan ignites in an almighty white flash. The heat is incredible, everything around me is as bright as day. I begin to run through the site, out towards the main gate, onto Haven Road and down to the bridge, gulping the air into my lungs, running on adrenalin alone.
I gasp for more air, unable to suck in as much of it as I need. I have to stop near a wall to a house, the yacht club down in the distance to my right. I look back, the road is empty, I can’t really see anything. When I catch my breath I begin to run again; this time I make it all the way to the bridge before I have to stop. I fall to my knees, it feels like I’m going to be sick, but I’m okay. I drag myself back up with my stick and look back over in the direction of Uncle Rey’s caravan. I can see a red glow immediately, lighting up the night like a beacon sending a signal. I run across the bridge, puffing and panting, up onto Benfleet Station. From the stairs over the tracks, positioning myself halfway across I can see the burning caravan in the distance. I stare at it, transfixed, as it burns.
After a couple of minutes something incredible happens: I notice another flash to my left, up ahead over towards Hadleigh, up near the castle, I think. Another beacon has been lit, something else is burning just as brightly, receiving my own signal. Then, a few moments later, across the island, over the black water of the estuary, up in the hills of Kent another flash disrupts the night, another beacon, then another up ahead, along the line in the direction of London, beacons all around me, the signal reaching the next, passing through the blackness of night: things have come to an end, there is no past, no future, just now, endless now. They appear like new stars. I feel like I know them already. New suns; new light. It feels, somehow, like a victory, a small victory, my own victory. I take out my phone and begin to record; the light floods into its tiny lens, as I overlay each beacon of light, capturing it in perfect pixels, digitising it. I take about two minutes of footage, it feels enough. I look back up at the beacons burning in the distance before feeling the urge to watch what I’ve just recorded, holding out my phone over the real image all around me, still standing on the bridge over the tracks, pressing play as the beacons continue to burn behind the recorded image. It drifts in and out of focus after about thirty seconds, then at one minute or so the pixels begin to enlarge, revealing themselves before disappearing again. Then something truly incredible happens: the two images merge: the recorded image and the real image behind it. I want to keep it like this. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
some grand prologue
I walk back down to my platform. The message has been sent: I’m making my way home to her, each beacon joining up our absence. My train back to London is due in four minutes’ time. I wait patiently on a bench. The evening creeps up all around me, everything seems lit up with beacons of hope. I take out the envelope from my rucksack: my next destination. Everything, everything that has happened to me, comes together in this moment, it feels real, like I’ve achieved something, like I’ve listened to everything all at once and an answer has been spoken.
Now all I have is this: all of this has happened as if I haven’t been here, like I’m some form of electronic node, something technological sent to record and transmit the action back to myself; some kind of conduit relaying each ordinary fragment of the whole, caught in my own absence, like interference, the crackle behind a signal, as if everything that has happened to me is part of some grand prologue – the beginning of something else. Something bigger.
The train arrives. I step on board, the doors hissing shut behind me. The carriage is warm. The train is busy: teenagers listening to music on their phones, couples laughing, endless talking. The train begins to pull out of the station. I pause, hesitating a little, before falling into my seat. I sink back into it, ignoring my reflection in the window. I don’t look back.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Certain sections of this work of fiction could not have been written without the initial research on Petrarch undertaken by Prof. Nicholas Mann in his work Petrarch (Past Masters) (Oxford University Press, 1984). Of particular interest is Mann’s exploration of Virgil’s own debt to Homer, et al.
Equally, Thomas G. Bergin’s Petrarch: Selected Sonnets, Odes and Letters (Revised edition, Harlan Davidson, 2011) has left an indelible mark upon this work. Translations of Petrarch’s Rerum vulgarium fragment
a have been reproduced with the kind permission of the publisher.
It goes without saying that this book could not have been written without W. F. Jackson Knight’s wonderful translation of Virgil’s The Aeneid (Penguin Books, 2000) and Robert Williams Buchanan’s little known gem Andromeda: an Idyll of the Great River (Chatto & Windus, 1900).
I would like to thank Wilko Johnson (to whom this book is dedicated) for his music, wise words and inspiration. It’s a pleasure to sit down with you and simply listen to your stories.
Special thanks to Olly Rowse, a truly great editor and scholar, and all at Fourth Estate, a truly great publisher. And to Mark Richards, who believed in my work from the beginning. Without your initial input this work of fiction might never have seen the light of day – I owe you.
Thanks, of course, to Deborah Levy, Stuart Evers, Tom McCarthy and Eimear McBride for their kind words (especially to Stuart Evers who read an early draft and gave me invaluable advice). I’m truly honoured.
And to Gavin James Bower, James Miller, Nikesh Shukla, Niven Govinden, and Suzanne Azzopardi – for the banter along the way. Zöe Have for Dr. feelgood advice. My agent Donald Winchester. And especially to Will Wiles (for your knowledge and our wonderful conversations about container ships).
To Anne Rourke, Damon Rourke, and my father Brian Rourke for your continued support. To my in-laws Pat and Marion Ahern, who first took me to Canvey Island, revealing to me its charm, secrets and strange ways – something I just couldn’t ignore. Their sense of adventure, vim, and thirst for life are truly remarkable.
Finally, I would like to thank my wife, Holly Ahern, for being my inspiration and true love and our daughter, Theola (Thea) Elodie Rose, for bringing new joy to my heart – my love for you both is without end. These words will never be enough.
About the Author
Lee Rourke is the author of the short-story collection Everyday, the novel The Canal (winner of the Guardian’s Not The Booker Prize 2010) and the poetry collection Varroa Destructor. He is Writer-in-Residence at Kingston University, where he is an MFA lecturer in creative writing and critical theory. He also lectures in creative writing at the University of East London. He lives by the sea.
Follow him on Twitter: @leerourke
COPYRIGHT
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.4thestate.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2014
Copyright © Lee Rourke 2014
Lee Rourke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007542512
Ebook edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007542529
Version: 2014-04-27
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com