by Paul Tomkins
“The Double-baggers, you mean? Porkers? Fatties?”
“I’m guessing there was no accident behind the radical departure? There’s a reason, right? You’re commenting on the way beautiful people are treated differently to those less attractive?”
He turns, stands with his back to the easel, hands on hips. “To be honest, I haven’t got a fucking clue. I paint what I find interesting, but I’m sure it doesn’t need me to suggest any meaning. Critics and audiences take their own meanings, make their own assumptions. I’m just holding up examples – a mirror, if you like. But a distorted mirror. Sort of like a fun-fair mirror. Y’know, presenting an altered reality. Reality, but one step removed. Maybe two.”
“But it’s about more than the surface, surely? Beauty being skin deep?”
“Is it? Is it really? Am I looking for the depth, the soul inside? I doubt it. If you think that, fair enough. I just want to try to examine the human body.”
He tips more wine into his glass, to the very rim. He’s on a roll. “It’s flesh. Flesh and bone. And skin – loose or taut. That’s my forte. I’d spent so long looking at the obese, the anorexic, the freakish. I wondered what it would be like try and capture something more flawless. Perfect, if you will insist on using that awful word. Does perfection have to be bland? Can perfection insult in ways other than being dull? Does beauty have to be some fucking god-awful, soulless airbrushed photo-realistic bullshit?––” I resist the temptation to interject that I like airbrushed art “––or could I represent it in a different manner, with different approaches? Could I be savage with it, and the beauty still shine through? Could I be tender with it, and not have it seem utterly sterile? That’s what I’ve been doing with her all these months. Some have been successful. Others… well, the less said about those the better.”
I am not sure what to make of the painting. At the risk of sounding dumb, and missing the point (and aware that even if I did find the point, Jacob would undoubtedly contradict me), I say, “It’s beautiful.”
And in its way, it is. But I mean she’s beautiful. I want to express my feelings about the subject, not the art. It is Black who supplies the beauty, Black who takes the breath away. None of it is possible without her. She makes an otherwise blank canvas shine.
“Right, time for a piss,” he says, and I am left alone with the painting. Black stands facing me, her arms crossed over her breasts, but with a hint of both areolae still visible. The painting is cropped just below the upper line of her pubic hair.
Despite not being a photo-realistic portrait it still bears an uncanny likeness to the subject – such large, piercing eyes. I move left and right, to see if they follow me and, sure enough, they do. The oil-stroke eyebrows are inverted Vs, the shape of a child’s simplistic etchings of seagulls on the horizon: each with an upward sweep moving from the bridge of the nose out beyond the central point of iris and pupil, and then the sudden dramatic downturn, a short swish descending towards the ear; rendered with just two vivid arcing sweeps of the brush, up and then down, but still with enough femininity in each curve and delicacy in the weight of line to avoid looking odd. The lips are full, but not to bursting; nothing artificially inflated or altered. The nose is in no way petite or demure, but any other nose simply wouldn’t work within the same setting. It fits her face.
Even the painting disarms me. Black, reduced to two dimensions and mounted onto an easel. But somehow a third dimension pushes out at me. For a moment I think I can sense a heat from the canvas, an aura enveloping the space I inhabit; clasping me, pulling me in. I want to touch her, even in this stillness, even in this flattened state.
SEVEN
Leaning against a promenade balustrade that despite the sun remains cool to the touch, I gaze across the water, staring at the narrow man-made structure jutting perilously out to sea, its brown-grey lattice sub-frame soaked to the knees; severed from the shore, having waded too far.
The pier comprises the concert hall – which in later years became a café – in the foreground, with its softly curved walls and arching roof lined with sweeping decorative flourishes; and the pavilion – which was first a theatre, then a restaurant – at the pier head, squarer in design, with oriental turrets and unlit lightbulbs arranged to spell ‘WEST PIER’. Finally, the small rotundas: kiosks that once served the public their chocolate and cigarettes.
Throughout my childhood I would pass by, and each time it stared back, unmoved; ignored by everyone, it seemed, but me. In the evening, with the sun edging beyond the horizon, an unthinkable number of starlings would gather on its ornamental rooftops and railings. All at once they would blanket the sky in temporary darkness –– a million tiny circles that merged, broke and reformed in various clusters, before banking east and out of sight.
My deep-seated fascination with the pier arose as an eightyear-old boy taken down to the shoreline by my aunt. I’d been aboard before, but by 1975, with it closed to the public, we were forced to keep our distance. This instantly rendered it exotic, mysterious; the sense of the unobtainable drew me in. It had become increasingly incapable of human occupation, decorated with signs warning against trespass; as welcoming as a nuclear power plant sounding its alarm. Despite the dangers, it possessed all the mystery and romance a daydreaming child could ever wish for. I imagined the buildings as suddenly deserted – at someone’s order, halfway through lunch – and that in its final occupied moments everyone just stood up and walked quickly to shore. All paraphernalia remained preserved, kept as on that fateful day, frozen in time over the water. In my mind, china saucers housing cups of unfinished tea remained on the tables of the restaurant and café, topped to the brim with dust. A world of objects just waiting for the people who left them to return, when in fact they never would. The truth, of course, was far more prosaic. Imagination always has its rug pulled by reality.
I’ve wasted too much time, and have a list of things I need to do before this evening. I bid the pier farewell, aware that in a few hours we will finally be fully reacquainted.
* * *
The sun begins to dip towards the horizon, falling from a tie-dyed sky. Amber bleeds into red that fuses into purple that merges with the darkening azure. Clouds draw the colours into their plume.
Running late for the pier rendezvous after completing an errand, I stride through the narrow Lanes with their quaint, cramped shops that predate the antiques so many sell. I feel better for walking – the nerves smoothed throughout my body as I move. I’m still apprehensive, though – the tightness locked within my chest. If I stop my whole body will seize up. So I plough on, as if walking through invisible cement that I must not allow to dry around me. I’d just begun to relax in Black’s company this afternoon, and now, with time to ponder how I am going to behave around her, I’m starting to unravel. I’ve barely eaten, and what I have consumed resists digestion.
I exit the Lanes, turn another corner, and as the pier heaves into view the usual cluster of starlings bursts from its buildings. For a moment they distract my mind from the need to impress. Before I realise I have crossed the coastal King’s Road from the Metropole Hotel – where I have a room booked for the night – to Brighton’s wide, promenading pavements, and then down one flight of steps, past a Mohican of moored sailing boats at rest on the shingle. Black approaches from the west as, from the east, I lope across unforgiving pebbles that distort my attempt to saunter. Our paths converge in the lengthening shadow of the pier. She smiles. I smile in return, then try to catch my breath.
My eye is caught by her scarf: a fluffy blue phalanx of feathers. It is an ostentatious gesture in an otherwise perfunctory outfit: snug-fitting denim jeans, thin black jacket carried under her arm, plain white blouse undone at the top three buttons, revealing a silver chain with an oval locket.
We are both late. Unsure if the others have already made their way onto the pier, we stand for several moments in silence, tied in an awkward knot of indecision. Perhaps we are each looking to the other to take the
lead.
“What shall we do?” I eventually ask.
“They’re already on there, right? I mean, they’d be here otherwise?”
I join Black in looking at the pier, thinking we see activity inside the pavilion. Squinting, we mistakenly identify sparks of orange sunlight glistening on metal as the glow of a torch, and birds flapping within the building as signs of our friends’ movements. We take turns to call, and believe we hear muffled replies, which we will later decode as our own distorted echoes mixed with the sound of tourists further down the beach.
Black takes the initiative and wades into the water. The tide is fully out, with no swimming required to get to the point of access. I splosh in her wake. She locates a length of rope, tied to an iron railing this afternoon by one of Jacob’s friends, and eases her taut frame into the air, hips shimmying, shoulders gyrating, as she ascends: a power-pack of efficiency. Her shoes clack against the trusses and girders as she uses them for leverage, pushing upwards. She displays surprising upper body strength. I am less agile, although I still manage to make it to the top, partly out of a determination to not look hopelessly weak. My innate clumsiness, however, has not deserted me, and my step is too heavy as I attempt to move beyond the railing. The floorboard beneath my feet snaps like a water biscuit, sending a section of railing, along with the rope, spiralling down. I fall gracelessly forward, landing in a heap at Black’s feet.
My heart stops. I hold my breath, and listen to the wood supporting me, feeling for vibrations indicative of splintering within. But there are none; just a reassuring silence and stillness.
“Are you okay?” she asks, with the genuine compassion of someone who cannot bear to witness the suffering of others. I nod, feeling foolish.
She helps me up, and again I find myself trailing in her wake. She treads carefully on her way to the pavilion, and I follow behind.
We pause, take in our surroundings. Iron snakes coil decoratively around oil lamps. Flaking hand-painted signs for speedboat rides and bingo lie on the floor, covered with pigeon faeces and an array of broken artefacts. With each creak the balance between us and nature echoes. Wood, given by nature, felled, shaped and lain by man – then, in turn, degraded by the wind, the rain, the sea – is all that keeps us from a great descent, and the unreliable safety blanket of water below. None of it looks to have been designed to withstand the hostile environment to which it belongs. The only way that wood survives nature’s ferocity is encased within its protective bark. Perhaps if it had been maintained, then the pier might have stood a chance. But no. Instead it has been left to rot, to the point where it is on the last of its many iron legs.
This time I take the lead. The sea, with its glistening reflections of the sun’s final light, can be seen clearly through gaps in the floor as, with great care, we edge towards the pavilion. Tentatively, I bring my foot slowly down onto a crepitating board, testing it at first with a small amount of pressure, then a little more, and more still, until convinced it will bear my weight. With each step the process shortens, as our trust grows.
We take turns to call out for the others. Nothing.
“So, what now then?” I mutter.
“Inside,” she says, confidently. “Jacob said his friends were going to tidy the place up. The rope was there, so they must be here somewhere, right? Probably hiding, pissing about. Dickheads.”
* * *
The interior of the pavilion feels reassuringly secure. A thick, flat asphalt flooring covers the entire room; for once, the relief of not a single rotten board in sight. The remnants of a mirror maze lay piled up against the far wall: a clown’s face, painted high above the door, still peering eerily beyond its film of grime. Our path in that direction is blocked by a mass grave of deck chairs, their skinny wooden arms and legs poking out beyond stripy material. To either side the view remains stunning: many of the windows that span both flanks are no longer glazed, but even the grubbiest panes offer sight of the sun setting over the sea.
We chance the staircase in the corner, fresh footprints cut into the dust suggesting Jacob’s friends had recently trod them. At the top we find ourselves in a derelict dining room, a bent and broken sign for the Ocean Restaurant leaning forlornly against the far wall. Nearby, doors lie fallen from their hinges, flat on their backs beyond their frames. We are drawn to the light beyond them, out onto a coarse, bituminous balcony. Further steps would send us off the end of the pier.
Everything is in place for the party – all that’s missing are the guests. Despite what Black suggested, no one jumps out to surprise us. As planned, someone has clearly been here at some point today: a small space tidied amid the detritus. To one side sit several cans of beer and plenty of snacks, plus an old portable cassette stereo.
“Some party,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t expecting the Ritz, but even so.”
For a while we’re both too taken aback by this unusual experience to speak. Eventually I break the silence. “So, who are these people that are supposed to be joining us?”
“No idea,” she says, turning around. “I don’t really know any of them, apart from Jez.”
“Jez?”
“You don’t know Jez?”
“No.”
“Jacob’s latest flame. Been a few months now. I think it was supposed to be mostly Jez’s crowd here. Jacob was going to organise cabs to collect them all before meeting us.”
“I see… So what’s he like, this Jez?”
“Young, impressionable, although I’ve only met him the once. Drinks a lot, so in that sense they get along just fine. Of course, it’s yet to take its toll in quite the way it has with Jacob.”
“I look forward to meeting him,” I say, with the strong sense that it won’t be tonight.
EIGHT
Discovering the identity behind this particular skull feels unusually important, but for David Holford it’s a life-long obsession. He was a young police constable assigned to protect the scene upon the discovery of her body, and then, decades later, headed up the region’s newly-formed Cold Case Unit, which resurrected the investigation. Having retired early due to the onset of multiple sclerosis, he continues to work the case in his own time, with the department’s blessing and its occasional assistance. Like the parent of a missing child, he regularly checks in with me for possible news, and offers ideas that might be of some assistance.
Our paths first crossed on a successfully solved homicide about fifteen years ago. All these years later he now has me reworking the forensic artistry on this woman, to see if I can come up with something that the original artist failed to capture with a sketch. Marina – named in keeping with her coastal discovery – remains David’s one regret: his golden ulcer. “Not for me”, he has deadpanned on more than one occasion, with a self-pitying weariness, “the standard-issue carriage clock”. Whenever he speaks, phlegm bubbles in his throat; the words filtered through a watery larynx. Eye contact is scarce. He may be talking to you, but contemplating something else at the same time; not ignoring you (at least so I like to think), but multi-tasking. Eye contact is reserved for the suspected, the guilty.
At the time of her discovery, David’s superiors believed Marina likely to be a prostitute and drug user in her late teens or early twenties; the coroner’s verdict suggested between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. Needles were found at the scene, but not particularly close to the body. She fit no missing person’s reports from the area, and nothing led back from the body toward an answer. David felt she might have been younger, and a runaway from London or further north, or possibly even mainland Europe. Dental work – so valuable in identifying a victim – didn’t exist on almost flawless teeth: the lower set were slightly overcrowded, but that aside, they could have belonged to a film star. The cause of death was listed as a fracture to the front of the skull.
* * *
People to find. Needles lost in haystacks the size of the Isle of Wight. Tails to pin on donkeys, with eyes blindfol
ded. When the donkey isn’t even in the room, the house, the city, the country.
Examples are everywhere.
The quiet and the still, set in relief from an upfront world: a field, a village backdrop. A hedgerow and a narrow country road. Nowhere specific, you feel. A young woman lies still on a mattress of long grass, central within the scene. To the north a church spire peers out above a cluster of oak. At its peak twirls a weathervane. Beside the woman lies a canvas bag, containing only scraps of paper and an empty bottle of pills. Her red dress, patterned with white polka dots, lies crumpled and creased upon her rigid frame. Cotton, it occasionally flutters in the breeze, rustling like a muted buzzsaw. Flies flit and jitterbug on her alabaster skin. Strands of hair are blown alive.
Who was she? This woman who overdosed when carrying no identification. I take photographs of her face, on which to overlay open, living eyes.
Between the bread-white sheets of hospital bedding: a frail teenage girl, puncture marks perforating her inner elbow; the insubstantial filling in a stale sandwich. Networks of tubes coil from her body, winding external veins and arteries. Beside the bed a space-age accordion rises and falls, rises and falls, its concertina folds breathing the dense rhythm of life.
Who is she? I am asked of a girl no one seems to know, a girl who will never awake. Again, I take photos, to add signs of life.
There are two kinds of missing person: there is the man or woman, boy or girl, who disappears, leaving behind frantic friends and family. Some are taken, others leave of their own volition. These are the lives without a body.
And then there is the body without its corresponding life: the unclaimed corpse in the morgue, matching no description on file, teeth correlating to no known dental records, fingerprints stored in no database, DNA unrevealing in the skein of its code (which, to itself, means everything; and yet to us, without a match, means nothing). The unmissed missing. You’d think someone, somewhere, would be concerned. There are few sadder fortunes than to be unwanted or unnoticed in death.