by Lee Rourke
“You’re here …?”
“Yes.”
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Yes.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Some teenagers … from the estate … they started harassing me …”
“Oh.”
“Yes, four of them. I thought they were going to mug me …”
“They come here a lot.”
“Who do?”
“Teenagers do … There’s nothing much for them to do … What did they look like?”
“Hoods. One of them had bright red hair.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“They come here often. I know who you mean. It’s their patch … their territory, it seems …”
“Their territory?”
“They’re a gang. I presume they are. They’re looking out.”
“What for?”
“Other gangs … people to harass.”
“Oh.”
“What did they say to you?”
“They asked me if I was a homosexual …”
“Are you?”
“I didn’t say anything. I think they wanted money. No, I’m not.”
“There’s nothing else for them to do. Money affords them the lifestyle they are told they need. They’re just waiting …”
“Waiting?”
“To become adults.”
“Waiting to become adults?”
“Yes. Adults, it’s obvious … It’s …”
She fell into silence as a woman walking a pet Staffordshire Bull Terrier ambled by the bench. The dog happily sniffing along. I watched the dog; it looked so happy. It actually looked like it had a smile on its face; sniffing around at stuff, litter, rubbish, and scraps of things, running from one bench to another, catching the scent left behind from other dogs—coded messages that were invisible to us humans. The owner looked to be in her mid-twenties. I don’t know, though, she could have been younger. It was hard to tell. She was wearing sports gear—white Reebok trainers, grey jogging bottoms, a navy blue hooded top—as well as gold earrings and bracelets. Her clothes were too tight for her bulging arse and torso; her gut lolloped about. She had dyed blond hair, the roots dark; it was scraped back to such an alarming extent that she looked startled. Her face was heavily made-up. Her large earrings dangled, respondent to each of her aggressive movements.
She was screaming at the dog.
“Come here you little cunt. Come here. Don’t go near those people. Come here you little cunt. Come here. Watch those fucking people. Come here you little cunt. Come here. Don’t go too far. Come here. Come here you little cunt. Don’t go near those two people. Cunt. Come here you little cunt. Come here. Cunt. Come here you little cunt. Don’t go near them. Come here.”
The dog wandered over to me. It was a beautiful dog. Sandy brown. A bitch. She looked up at me and I petted her head and around her thick, muscular neck. She jumped up playfully and tried to lick my face.
“Come here you little cunt. Don’t try to attack the man. Come here you little cunt. Come here. Leave the man alone. You little cunt. Leave the man alone. Come here.”
I looked up.
“Really, it’s no problem … She’s a lovely …”
The dog ran back to her. She kicked the dog in the rib-cage. The dog yelped so loud it caused some coots to scatter across the murky water.
“That’ll teach you to come here you little cunt.”
The woman and the sandy dog walked away. The dog looked up at its owner, tail between its legs. I felt disgusted. I should have done something—at least said something to the owner.
I turned back to her sitting next to me.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disgusting. She doesn’t deserve to own that beautiful dog.”
“She comes by here all the time … Always the same, always so aggressive. We can only live in hope that one day the dog will come to its senses and fight back.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“Yes, of course, all the time.”
As she said these words, up above, an Airbus 310 travelling to Heathrow began to wind down. Its engines let out a howl that could be heard for miles around. I looked up: the plane was banking over the city; it was quite low in the sky, well below the thick cloud. It looked colossal, a massive floating machine. I momentarily thought of the twin towers, and where I was that day, but the image soon passed. I followed the plane’s trajectory as it curved around the city, banking to its right, eventually straightening out to follow the route of the Thames westwards to the strip of reinforced concrete it was due to land on. Planes follow these same paths, to greater or lesser degrees, day and night, and no one bats an eye-lid, no one finds it at all remarkable. Often I would point out the moment the plane’s engines could be heard winding down for the final approach to whomever I was with at the time. Most would utter Oh or Yeah but none would enthuse like me, none would see the beauty in this. I would point out the plane as it banked in the sky, but no one seemed interested. Sometimes when I looked up the plane seemed to be stationary, floating, hanging there in the sky, dangling with nothing to do, like a beautiful painting before me. Then I would look around to see if anyone else had noticed this and no one else would be looking up at it, everyone else would be in transit, oblivious, getting on with their business. No one was ever interested. They’d only be interested if the plane was hurtling towards oblivion or something—like that time in New York. Then everyone would stop and look. But it’s still the same plane. It’s still the same plane.
“I have a son.”
“Pardon?”
She inched up the bench so that she was sitting beside me, our thighs nearly touching. A perfectly plucked eyebrow raised itself above her left eye. Something shot through me, like some sort of charge. I felt like a breakthrough had been made.
“I said I have a son.”
“Oh. I mean wow, that’s great! Isn’t it?”
“A son.”
“What’s his name?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“How old is he?”
“Old enough to know that I’m his mother.”
“So, why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t love him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I wish he didn’t exist, that I didn’t fall pregnant with him, that I didn’t give birth to him … That’s what I mean. Like that lie I told you about. I wish it could all be forgotten about.”
“Why don’t you love him?”
“I don’t know … All I know is that I feel nothing for him.”
She leaned closer to me; she looked me in the eye. Her eyes tightened and wrinkles appeared around them like oyster shells. I noticed a faint mole on her cheek. Her lips were thick.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
“About you not feeling anything …?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know?”
“That I don’t love him?”
“Yes …”
“I guess so … He’s a bright lad. He’s not stupid. There’s a book out … Have you read it? It deals with …”
“No. I don’t read that many books.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you telling me these things?”
“Because I don’t know you … I find it easier to talk to strangers, real strangers, not some pathetic voice on the end of a phone. Unlike my friends, the few I have, I don’t care what you think about me.”
“Do you feel you’ve got a lot to talk about?”
“No more than everyone else … I don’t know. I just feel like talking.”
“That’s fine by me …”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. I could tell that you would listen. Plus, bored people will listen to just about anything.”
“Right … How do you know I’m bored?”
“You told me.”
“Right.”
We both stopped to watch a narrow boat pass us by. It was called Angel. It was probably the smallest I had ever seen. I remember thinking that it would be pretty horrid living on it. No space to breath, to move. The man at the steering wheel didn’t notice us. He just sat there, motionless, without a care in the world. He was deep in thought and smoking a pipe. I liked him.
“It was strange …”
“What was?”
“The pregnancy … The birth. I’d wanted him so much. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms. I couldn’t wait to touch his soft skin, to do all the things a young mother dreams of. And then it happened …”
“It?”
“I gave birth to him. The very moment I held him in my arms I knew I would never love him, that I would never want him …”
“Why? How?”
“I just knew … A gut feeling.”
“But … Surely you could grow to love him?”
“Too late.”
“Why?”
“He’s gone … He doesn’t belong to me.”
“But don’t you ever think of him?”
“Yes, but not much.”
“What about now?”
“What about now?”
“Well, you’re thinking about him now …”
“No, I’m not. I’m talking, not thinking. Just talking about him as I would that man on his bike over there. Or that bus on the bridge, or that beautiful tree there. He’s nothing to me.”
“But you gave birth to him. You carried him in your womb for nine months.”
“I know I did.”
“But what about …”
“What?”
“The father?”
“What about him?”
“Well, surely he had something to say about … you know …”
“Him? He couldn’t understand much at the best of times.”
“But, surely he must be angry with you? Just not caring, wanting nothing to do with your … with his son?”
“He didn’t concern me either.”
“Is he the same …”
“… Man I told you about? The same man I lied about being pregnant to?”
“Yes.”
“No, he’s not. The father of my son is a kind man, a man full of love, a man any woman would be proud of … I just don’t love our son, that’s all.”
“Are you …”
“Still with him?”
“Yes …”
“No. He left me. He took our son with him. See?”
“Yes. See what?”
“I told you he was a nice man.”
We fell silent again. I was hungry. I felt hot. I felt that it might have been her causing it, but it was most probably due to the hunger—but, to be honest, I’ve never felt that way since. It was an odd feeling deep in my stomach. I felt light. I felt like I was floating. I wanted steak. A rare steak. With Roquefort cheese melted on it. Good thick sirloin. Only the best. I wanted to go to Elliot’s Butchers on Essex Road and purchase their finest cut. Or maybe a corn-fed free-range chicken, roasted and stuffed with lemon and garlic. I would have eaten the whole thing. I began to think about roasted squash with whole, unpeeled garlic cloves and roast potatoes, roasted in goose fat. I think I began to salivate in front of her. I’m not too sure. I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead again, looking towards the snazzy flat-screen monitors. She yawned a couple of times, brushed the hair from her face, cowered slightly from the breeze. I tried to see what it was she was looking at—there were only a couple of the office workers left now. They had all gone out for lunch together or something. The man in the shirt and tie who liked to spend his working day walking back and forth from his desk to the other, over and over again, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. I couldn’t see enough of him to gauge what colour tie he was wearing. He looked tired, troubled somewhat. But it was hard to tell. For all I knew he could have been asleep; he certainly looked like he was. He definitely had something on his mind. Maybe she was looking at him? She was certainly looking at something.
I didn’t know what to do so I asked her.
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Would you like to come for a coffee and a bite to eat with me? … I know a café just up the road from here … The Rheidol Café.”
“No.”
“Oh … Are you sure? You look like you …”
“Yes. I’m sure”
“Okay.”
She didn’t look up at me once. She stared steadfastly ahead towards the flat-screen monitors. I felt stupid. I tried to get up from the bench—but I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot. I felt small and quite insignificant. She suddenly turned to me.
“But, please, don’t take this personally. I just don’t feel like drinking coffee, or eating, or anything. That’s all. I’d much rather remain here.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you sit here?”
“…”
“I said, why do you come to this bench each day? I told you why I did. You should tell me. It’s only polite.”
“…”
“Are you not going to tell me?”
“…”
“Are you not?”
“…”
She remained silent. I should have gotten up from that bench there and then, maybe walked back to work—but I didn’t. I simply stayed with her. It felt right. Staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Pretty soon a swan appeared. It was probably the same one I’d noticed earlier—a magnificent creature. Beautiful in every way: so clean, so poised, stoic and aristocratic in movement. It was easily the biggest swan I had ever seen—not that I’d seen that many in my lifetime. I remember wondering why it had chosen to reside on the canal. Surely there were better places in London? Why hadn’t it found itself an idyll in Kensington? Or in the suburbs? Why this grotty, uncared-for, stinking canal? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. She seemed not to notice the swan; she seemed in a trance, completely elsewhere. I didn’t want to disturb her but I felt compelled to tell her. I couldn’t help myself. I should have left her alone.
“Have you seen him?”
“Who?”
“The swan … There?”
“How do you know it’s a he?”
“He’s big. It’s got to be a he.”
“Well, he … she … whatever … is beautiful. Truly, truly beautiful.”
We didn’t need to say anything else. The late afternoon sun was beginning to settle. I was aware that it was probably time to go, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I wondered who came here at night. There must have been those that did? The owners of the barges lived on the other side of the canal to the right of the whitewashed office block, beyond the iron bridge. They lived private lives in a secluded enclave of lone barge owners with their own rules and etiquette. They were probably happy. I wondered if she was happy. She didn’t look happy. I wondered where she went at night, whom she slept next to, whom she trusted. Did she feel safe? Did the world smother her? I wanted to know.
It seems that boredom is not really that removed from desire. It seems that they are, in fact, the same urge more or less: the urge to do something. It seems that the same common denominator underpins them: existence. And existence is essentially prolonged boredom. Desire is boredom. These urges remain with us even when the body begins to deteriorate. When the body is past its best these urges still seem to remain. They remain until the last breath. We are driven by urges we can’t really explain. None of it can be explained. This, it seems to me at least, is the sheer beauty of boredom, and, more importantly, existence: It is all-powerful, more powerful than anything we can imagine.
I can’t remember who got up from the bench first, but it was probably me. We didn’t say goodbye to each other. I don’t even think we looked at each other. We seemed to go, to move away from the ben
ch, the canal, each other. I didn’t like the idea of being on the canal at night. I had a sudden, horrible foreboding that something sinister could happen—and if it was going to happen, then it would probably happen there, when the light starts to fade, by the banks of the canal, as night began to emerge. I remember walking away, through Shepherdess Walk and up through the estate. The streets seemed to be deserted, just the orange hue of the street lamps hanging over my shoulders to guide me. I looked back—I was positive it was her, walking along behind me. It seemed odd, as she usually headed up the canal towpath towards Hackney; she never ventured into the estate. I immediately turned left onto Arlington Street and stopped. I waited for her. I could hear her footfalls as she approached. I stood out of sight, leaning against a gate to a maisonette, waiting for her to pass on the other side of the road. She didn’t see me. It was definitely her. She stopped to cross the road, looking both ways. I waited until she did and then began to follow her. After a minute or so of following her I realised that she must have known I was following her. It was obvious to me that she could sense my presence. As she got to the corner of Prebend Street she was approached by a group of teenagers. I stopped. It was the same bunch from earlier that day, I’m positive; the same group that had gathered around me on the bench. Even though their hoods were up I knew it was them. It looked like they were asking her for a light. I watched as she threw up her arms, indicating to the gang that she didn’t have the means to light whatever it was they wanted lighting. I hung back. I didn’t want them to see me. That was the last thing I wanted. She began to walk away from them. They started laughing; one of them shouted something to her which caused the rest to fall about laughing even more. I was sure it was the lad with the red hair, but, again, it was hard to distinguish each of them from one another due to their dark clothes and hoods—due to them acting as one homogenous teenage mass. Then they turned and began to walk towards me. I turned on my heels and headed across the estate towards St Peter’s Street and up towards Essex Road. It was a bit out of my way and not the route I necessarily wanted to take but I didn’t want them to see me—surely things would have gotten nasty. They would’ve recognised me, and under the cover of the darkening streets I would have been at their mercy.