John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  Up on his toes, aware of the wind in his face he leaned forward.

  PART TWO

  THIRTY-ONE

  At first they didn’t notice the rise in the water. Their boots and breeches were soaked; their eyes tightened against the wind but remained sufficiently focussed on the disappearing horizon to pick their way over the sodden debris. The three men had also failed to notice that they were dragging their legs against a small tide. It was Balthasar who, wondering why the dogs were lagging behind, looked back and saw the younger animal struggling to keep its head above the water. He got Cornelius’ and Johannes’ attention.

  ‘Something’s happening,’ he said. They looked beneath the hanging clouds towards the blurred line where the sky met the sea. The dyke had been replaced by a tumbling bolster of water gathering momentum as they gazed.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ said Johannes.

  The roar was audible beneath the wind. The landscape between them and the coast was changing rapidly as the tide blotted out any residual greenness and gobbled up everything in its path, small wooden farm buildings, cattle, whole hedges.

  ‘A not infrequent occurrence,’ said the Academic. ‘Worst was the All Saints Flood, or Allerheiligenvloed of 1570. Tens of thousands of people became homeless; livestock was lost in huge numbers. Winter stocks were destroyed. The sea wall collapsed the entire length between … and … Do you know, I can’t remember! Anyway there is a fine drawing of the Scheldt flood by Hans Moser… ’

  ‘Mother of God,’ said Cornelius. ‘The sea wall has gone.’ For a moment they could do nothing but watch the ambling predator rolling up the fields beneath an increasingly black sky.

  They dropped their staves and ran further ahead of the dogs. Not daring to look behind, they were half braced when the tide struck them. Instantly lifted off their feet and driven upwards they danced like marionettes in the hands of a drunken showman, tossed head over heels by the ferocious surge.

  Johannes caught his breath moments before his total immersion. Silence and darkness. He was vaguely aware of some sort of forward momentum as his lungs struggled to be freed from his chest and, in that infinitesimal sliver of time, felt totally and inexplicably calm. He burst into the fresh air, gulped and went under again.

  At the last moment before the water struck Cornelius turned towards his enemy who instantly punched him in the stomach and knocked him off his feet. His fists remained clenched as he was sucked under.

  Balthasar was searching his limited field of vision for the dogs before he was hit on the head by a passing branch and lost consciousness.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘So a Dutchman saved you,’ said Beverley. ‘At the very moment of tipping forward you were suddenly wrapped in the arms of a complete stranger who gripped you tightly and slowly lowered you back down to earth. This large man smelt of dogs … ’

  John nodded and looked at the work surface in the kitchen. The Formica was badly scorched. The conversation should have been taking place in Beverley’s office but the CPN was talking to an especially petrified Dennis about him forfeiting his tenancy unless he stopped peeing in the corner of his room. ‘And how was he dressed, this Dutchman? Was he wearing clogs?’

  ‘Just a Dutch cap,’ suggested the Jester, ‘safer that way.’

  ‘Special forces,’ said Mick who wandered into the kitchen scratching his armpit.

  ‘Enough Mick,’ said Beverley, ‘Have you cleaned your room yet?’

  ‘Ever hear of Dutch courage?’ continued the Jester.

  ‘Didn’t work though, did it? You failed cowardly shite … ’ contributed the Bastard.

  ‘Alcohol plays a part in over 80% of suicide attempts.’

  Thank you, Academic.

  ‘Was it a Flying Dutchman, did he swoop low over the parapet and sweep you up in his arms?’ asked the Bastard.

  ‘You may not be so lucky next time,’ said Beverley, ‘The Dutchman might be busy, you know, planting his bulbs.’ She knew that sarcasm was not the therapeutic intervention of choice but she was tired. The fire alarm had gone off during the night and she had been summoned at four in the morning to confirm that no one had burned to death.

  ‘It is crucial not to collude with the delusion,’ chided the Academic.’ You could say, “I know the Dutch man was real for you, but not for anyone else who was passing.’’’

  ‘Anyway, we’re all glad you’re OK.’

  ‘Oh no we’re not,’ muttered the Bastard.

  ‘Oh yes, we are,’ retorted the Jester.

  ‘I think you should go and sit quietly somewhere and we’ll chat later.’

  John spent the next eighteen hours on the settee in the TV room, sleeping through Oprah Winfrey, Antiques Roadshow, two films, several news bulletins, a satirical review and a documentary on Ontario. Before she went off shift, Beverley tried to rouse him but, eventually, decided that the most charitable option was to leave him there.

  In every nightmare he was falling from high buildings, from a variety of bridges, tumbling down lift shafts, and on one occasion from the top of a crane swaying above the high rises in Leith. He became one of the anonymous jumpers from the Twin Towers, falling in slow motion towards the Manhattan sidewalk, apparently contented, or at least momentarily resigned, already in the foetal position, his body about to add one more nightmare crump to the soundtrack of screams and sirens.

  Invariably every dream ended just before he hit the pavement, the water or whatever surface was waiting to erase his consciousness. Every time his descent would be halted inches before the impact and, on every occasion, felt utterly cheated, as if denied a sexual climax after hours of foreplay.

  ‘You’d be so lucky,’ said the Bastard.

  He went for breakfast not because he was hungry but because he clung to the unlikely hope that if he sneaked from his room and crept down the stairs he might leave the Voices sleeping. Stepping high like a pantomime villain, he avoided the creaking step on the second landing. His ploy failed.

  ‘Ever put your finger in a dyke?’ one of them asked. John wasn’t certain if it was the Bastard or the Jester. He didn’t actually care.

  Kevin sidled up and pushed a postcard under the edge of John’s plate. ‘You’re popular,’ he said.

  John glanced at the nondescript seaside scene and then turned it over.

  SEE YOU ON THE BEACH, ANDY

  He dropped his spoon laden with cornflakes. Mick leaned over and read the card. ‘Looks genuine,’ he said. ‘Difficult to say without forensic examination but, you know, it could be him.’

  The Tempter thought it was his birthday.

  ‘Of course it’s him. It’s the sign you’ve been waiting for. Rejoice! All will be well. Good times ahead.’

  ‘Nice one Tempter,’ murmured the Bastard who, on occasions, saw the Tempter as a kindred soul more than capable of destroying John through hope alone.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Mick, ‘let’s walk to Porti, have a look round, ken what I mean?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Have to avoid the roads, not safe, spies everywhere, lookouts, snitches, stool pigeons, turncoats.’ Clearly on a roll he added for good measure, ‘third columnists, traitors.’

  True to his word, Mick walked fast and close to the buildings in Constitution Street. He tugged his beanie down over his forehead and led the way to the docks while John struggled to keep up. He couldn’t face another day in the hostel and Mick’s suggestion made as much sense as anything ever did. Mick glanced towards the Alan Breck tavern, ‘A good man,’ he said, without elaborating.

  The security guard at the entrance to the Port of Leith Docks, utterly engrossed in the silicone enhanced beauty pouting at him from the pages of the Sun, failed to notice them ducking under the barrier and making their way round a Liberia registered freighter, past the towering stack of sea and weather-beaten containers, pallets and coils of wire as thick as an arm. The two men soon faced a mountain of scrap metal which, viewed from its foothills, blocked out the sky.

  Until that mo
ment John had honestly believed that he had given the Voices the slip. Where he was standing or where he was going, or in whose company were matters of total irrelevance. Space was opening up in his head. Until the ambush.

  ‘Climb it, John, climb it. It’s a challenge, solve it and you find Andy. Climb it, climb it, climb it, climb it, you cowardly bastard. Climb it!’

  Powerless to challenge or resist, John scrabbled at the foot of the hill. He dug his hands into the metal shavings and pulled them out covered in blood. He hauled himself higher up. His feet started to slide down but he clambered upwards holding onto the twisted sharp edges of old engines and machinery inwards. Mick looked at him from below, ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  John slid down a car bonnet but managed to halt his descent by clutching at a metal pole protruding at right angles to the rest of the heap. Blood pouring from a wound in his cheek ran into his mouth. He was face to face with a gearbox, but someone or something was tugging at his leg. Muttering, Mick hauled at his companion.

  Standing once more on the cinder path Mick brushed him down and wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. ‘No harm done,’ he said. ‘Christ, I could do with a drink. Let’s get under cover,’ he said sitting on the sea wall before turning and dropping onto the metre-wide ledge that ran along the top of the sloping sea defences. John did likewise.

  Once he was certain that he could not be seen from the path Mick pointed towards Inchcolm Island, ‘Great country, Scotland. The coast of Fife. See all they wee houses? That’s Dalgety Bay, and over there the Bass Rock, and in between is Portibelli, where, if you recall, we might find you brother.’

  The lens in John’s head shifted radically. He saw himself from a mile up in the sky, a tiny black figure with a speck next to him moving slowly at the edge of a vast sea. In the space between his viewpoint and the ground gulls fought over scraps scavenged from the adjacent landfill. The sea was punctuated with commas of white foam and sterner exclamation marks where the tide rippled over wooden groynes.

  ‘You’re no very talkative the day,’ said Mick, ‘but that’s fine, I ken how it is. That hostel’ll drive you mad, if you’re no mad when you sign up, and let’s face it, most of us are mad as hatters. I just don’t trust that Kevin. I think he’s in the pay of the enemy.’

  John zoomed back to earth, his face still hurting. He hadn’t the remotest idea what Mick had been talking about but welcomed his company nonetheless.

  As they walked, single file along the ledge, they were followed on the other side of the wall by the angular intestines of a petrochemical plant emitting steam, then a warehouse and a huge white storage sphere. ‘It’s for listening to ordinary folks’ conversations,’ said Mick, without looking up. The ledge was smeared in green algae.

  With no warning, Mick threw himself down on the concrete ledge, ‘Get down for fuck’s sake! Enemy fire!’ John crouched and then lay on the ground; he had no idea of what made sense and what didn’t; of what constituted ordinary behaviour or what didn’t. He just wanted to find his brother who would make everything all right again. In the meantime it was easier to do what he was told.

  ‘Three o’clock! Man down!’ shouted Mick. ‘Small arms!’ He slowly raised his head and looked out to sea. ‘The Hummer’s on fire!’ he said pointing in the general direction of an innocuous dredger on the horizon. He removed his hat and held it to his chest. John hadn’t realised until then that Mick had hair. ‘IED. Filled with nails and excrement to infect the wounds. They’re all young boys.’ As Mick sobbed inconsolably, John held him and rocked him in his arms. Nothing made any sense. Nothing.

  THIRTY-THREE:

  Mick’s Tale

  ‘I lost my boy in the war,’ said Mick. ‘Afghanistan, Helmand Province. We weren’t close before he went like. He’d left home, living on the streets, cadging from his auntie. I wanted a reconciliation, ken, but it never happened. We’d fell out over money; he says I stole his brew money but I didn’t; it was his mother but she was no well herself, ken. She was drinking; we were all drinking ken. A family hobby. We could have represented Scotland at drinking. Anyways, Ruth, that was my wife, ken, says that if we didn’t pay the Man his pals would break my arms. “Don’t talk to me about interest. Just a one off,” she says, “I promise, Mick. Let’s get the man out of our lives. Just once, let’s borrow the boy’s brew. He’s been saving. It’s under his bed.” I said over my dead body, I think she quite liked the sound of that. I said I would meet with the Man and explain things ken. So I phoned the big Man and we did meet on the waste ground behind the shops at Wester Hailes. I was all masterful on the phone like, “No tools,” I said, “just you and me to work out an agreement ken, an amicable solution to suit everybody.”

  ‘We met all right. High Noon. Just me and the bandits. Ten of them ken. I said “Come on pal, we agreed, man to man,” but he just hit me. And the others just joined in, kicking my ribs like it was a cup final. Then they carried me down to the canal like a bag of tatties and on the count of three hurled me in. It was rank ken, but no deep. I could just stand in the water. And the blood was streaming down my face. There was a wee boy fishing under the bridge with his pal. They took one look and fled home to their mammies.

  ‘I walked home, dripping and droukit ken. Folk in the street thought I had pished myself. “Minging bastard!” they said but that was nothing compared to what Ruth said when I got home. I stood wringing wet on the mat, like some monster from the deep, weeds in my pocket, and humming something rank. “Jesus wept!” she said and crossed herself lest the priest was passing.

  ‘Anyways, his mother took his money to pay the Man and our boy left home. He didn’t rant or that, just left with a bag of clothes and his X-box. Just as well his mother hadn’t found it, it would have been sold. We missed him ken, there was this gap at home. Nobody to fall out with, just ourselves but it wasn’t the same. His mother kept drinking as if she was training for the drink Olympics. Held every four years, by the way, but always in Scotland, like the Eurovision Song Contest, the winners always play host. No other bugger gets a shot. But she was different ken, no arguing, no nagging which was good for a while ken. She just sat and drank and never said anything.’ Mick paused, looked up and flapped his hand at a gull that evidently felt territorial about this particular section of the coastal defences. John lifted his foot from the cloying slime spewing from a cracked overflow pipe.

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ said the Bastard. ‘Have you ever listened to such self-indulgence in your life, John? I almost feel sorry for you having to listen to that. But you haven’t been listening, have you? Too self-absorbed to pay attention to anyone but yourself and your own sorry life. Come to think of it you two deserve each other, both barking mad and seriously deluded. If I’m honest I prefer that Dutch shite you conjure from nowhere to this. Watch your step!’

  The Bastard’s warning came too late as John lost his footing, tumbled down the side of the concrete pyramid and slipped into the sea.

  Balthasar was cartwheeled by the complex, feuding currents, curled like a foetus, a human kernel, an aimless projectile joining the submerged armada of junk and detritus, logs, branches, planks, earth, pots, tools, livestock, whatever the foraging waves could uproot and dislodge.

  The sensation of drowning was not unpleasant once the fight for breath had ceased. He was being sucked towards the dark centre of something. Once beyond resistance there was an exhilarating aspect to the tumbling journey. He saw faces, some more clearly than others. Wilhelmein flashed into view and then was gone. He was sure the outstretched hand belonged to his daughter. Was that a glimpse of her unborn child? For some reason the gargoyles from the local church put in an appearance, girning and pouting at his plight. His neighbour was waving a fist. What had he done to offend him? Nothing that he was aware of. The streaming bubbles configured themselves into the face of the woman he had briefly lusted after in his youth. She was an early victim of the smallpox that swept though his village decades ago. She was smiling at him; he was
sure she was.

  Johannes’s journey was equally transformative. From the first moment of unconsciousness he saw Michel just ahead of him, urging him onwards, beckoning, their fingers almost touching before they were separated again. What was his son saying, what words were being shaped by his mouth? Tell me, son, tell me!

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The shock of the water emptied John’s body of air. He looked up at Mick who was clambering down the slope with a surprising dexterity. ‘No chopper,’ he said ‘Give us your hand.’ John was vaguely aware of his coat floating around him on the calm sea.

  ‘Very like the pre-Raphaelite depiction of Ophelia,’ suggested the Academic.

  ‘What?’ asked the Bastard with a tone of hostile incredulity.

  ‘We’ll have you out in no time,’ said Mick, who had managed to grip John round the wrist. ‘Loads of bodies floating,’ he explained, ‘hundreds of them, all from the same ship. Argie bastards. Iron Lady, my arse, drinking gin with that dipso Dennis, no understanding of the common man.’

  No need to say anything, Academic, even I can tell that he’s got his wars mixed up.

  Eventually John hauled himself back onto the lower path, shivering as the water cascaded from his clothes. A stray black dog appeared from nowhere and sniffed at his legs, ‘Get to … ,’ said Mick, almost succeeding in kicking the beast into the sea.

  With their arms round each other, the two men tottered towards the point where the sea wall gave way to a snatch of beach. ‘Stay there, pal,’ said Mick sitting John down on an upturned pram on the foreshore while he strode off into the undergrowth of weed and rubbish that proliferated between the sea and the road.

  Mick returned with armfuls of driftwood which he dumped in front of John. He snapped an orange box into lengths of kindling over which he sprinkled the contents of his cigarette lighter, expertly fanning the flames and moving the wood around until it caught. He stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the small fire with satisfaction.