The Girl on the Pier

by Paul Tomkins

“No, I’m serious.”

  “Um... I really don’t know. I feel very self-conscious in front of a camera.” She just stares at me. And it’s not long before I relent. “Oh, okay. I suppose.”

  “Naked,” she states, matter-of-factly.

  “What?” I splutter, choking as beer catches in my throat and shoots up into my nose.

  “Naked. Nude. No clothes. You really need me to explain, Patrick?”

  “Full frontal? Surely not full frontal?”

  “Why not? Should we be afraid of the penis?”

  This comment seems to work on two levels, and I’m unsure as to which she means: should society be scared of the exposed male member, which it does so much to cover up, or should we – she and I – be afraid of my penis.

  “You mean right now?” I ask, fidgeting nervously.

  “Yes, right now.”

  “Here?”

  “Where else? It’s not like we can go anywhere. It’s a great location.”

  “But why naked?”

  She tuts. “Do you need an art history lesson?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well then.”

  “I really don’t know. I’m not––”

  “Look, you’ve seen me naked. So I think you should. Actually, I think it would be rude of you not to. Very rude.” She’s now smiling.

  Phrased like that, and with enough alcohol and cannabis in my bloodstream to sufficiently lower my inhibitions, I cannot refuse. And there is no denying that I feel distinctly honoured. Uneasy, but honoured. In some way it feels like a form of immortalisation. But where do I fit with her admiration of Diane Arbus, and her pursuit of freaks?

  Fortunately I don’t look too bad naked. In a strange way, and contrary to how most people feel about their bodies, I perhaps look better than when dressed; finding clothes that properly fit is the main problem. There is nothing special about my body, but equally, there is nothing desperately wrong with it. It’s elongated, but also fairly toned and sinewy, and free of anything unsightly. As long as it’s not being asked to perform anything particularly athletic at the time, it’s okay.

  “So, whereabouts are we going to do this?” I ask, looking around.

  There is an area behind us in which she sees possibilities. An old octagonal kiosk at the south-west section of the pier head – one of the few relatively sound structures – offers the chance of 360º views. She explains how, depending from which direction she shoots, the backdrop could be the kiosk, or purely sea, or the two main buildings on the West Pier, or the Palace Pier, or the shoreline, with each giving a different perspective. The eight sides to the kiosk are fairly identical, with the exception of the door panel, so, she suggests, it could appear that the world is rotating around me. She briefly shrugs her shoulders, intimating that it might not work, but her general demeanour is one of inspiration calling. I follow her to the far edge of the pier. Part of the kiosk’s signage remains intact, but all of its windows are smashed to varying degrees. Its roof has fallen in on itself, and other junk fills its inner space.

  “Don’t you think this lends itself to nudity?” she says, reaching in her bag, “The total unexpectedness of it. And also the contrast – I can already see it in my head – between smooth skin and the darkness, the decay, the coarse materials. And then there’s the sea, too, which adds all kinds of symbolism.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say. I love seeing her like this, fired with enthusiasm. I feel excited at being the cause of this new-found animation; ignoring the likelihood that it is just a response to her own ideas, and I am no more than an object to shoot. She removes from a padded camera case – itself wrapped in a waterproof bag – what looks like an antiquated museum piece; the kind of camera Kitty used to have. “With that?” I ask.

  “This is a Leica. Anyway, quit stalling.”

  “Totally naked?”

  “Totally.”

  I start to undress with my back to Black – which is somewhat pointless, seeing as I will be turning around. She begins to hum the music that accompanies stripteases, but stops when I threaten to change my mind. My cartoon boxers are scrunched down in one movement within my jeans, so that I am at least spared that particular embarrassment. The tight neck of my t-shirt then snags against my chin and ears, as I wrestle with my own clothing like a child, before my head finally extrudes.

  The whole experience is at once unnerving and invigorating. I have spent the evening harbouring crazy fantasies about being naked in her presence, but this is not quite what I had in mind. And even though I am the only one undressing, and that it is not for us to be intimate, there is something very arousing about being wanted in this particular way. If it’s not exactly how I fantasised, it is still more than I could have ever realistically expected.

  Fully undressed, I turn around, and she smiles. It’s not a leer, nor a look of joy or amazement, but it is, all the same, a smile. Is she merely approving of my compliance, my courage, or is there more to it? And then, almost instantaneously, I am under closer scrutiny. Leaning against whatever stable surface she can find – walls to the pavilion, a bench designed into the curve of the perimeter rail, a small turret-like shelter – she works with slow shutter speeds to eke out what little light there is, rather than opting for the unforgiving glare of a flash; something for which I’m extremely grateful. She asks me to stand perfectly still, so that the world beyond me moves as the camera lets in light.

  The viewfinder’s unusual positioning on the Leica means that the body of the camera does not obscure her face, and she does not close her other eye, as so many people do. I imagine that she is touching me as the lens is directed over my body, and even more so as she moves toward me; I sense my skin prickle as I come under greater examination. My heart is beating ten to the dozen. Standing only feet away, she pauses to take off her jacket, and the curves of her breasts become clear, and her smooth, taut belly as her blouse rides up. I start to wonder if she too is planning to get naked – to come closer still, to touch me. I think back to the moment earlier in the day, in the studio, and how she looked.

  “That’s enough,” I say. But she is standing over my clothes; before I can reach them she grabs my boxer shorts, and starts to dangle them over the water.

  “Give them back,” I plead. I smile outwardly at her playfulness, but inside I’m angry at my vulnerability. “Please, Black,” I beg, my weakness now showing.

  “Spoilsport,” she says, handing them over with a sly smile.

  NINETEEN

  Like a name that cannot ease itself from the tip of the tongue, the appearance of this reconstruction is eluding me. It’s been a week since I’ve attempted any adjustments. For days, half finished features – modelled and remodelled time and time again – leered and taunted from the wonky armature. Feeling beaten, I lay a sheet over her, to obscure her power. But I can’t keep putting it off.

  I don’t know why, but I just can’t get it right, get her right. Already she has taken three times as many working hours as normal, and I’m unsure whether I’m getting closer to, or further from, actually finishing.

  When it comes to art, simplicity in the work of others is what I envy. I have forever been dogged by a compulsion to add, and add again; to embellish, to overcomplicate. In this line of work it’s not too much of a failing, and I do eventually come to a stop, when I force myself away. But right now I cannot get close to a sense of completion.

  Why am I being so precious about this one in particular? No matter how hard I try, the features I lay down just don’t match the appearance alive in my mind’s eye. Maybe what I’ve created is how she looked; but somehow I expected – wanted? – her to appear different when the clay came to rest. More than any other head I’ve worked on, this feels personal.

  Perhaps there’s someone in particular that I want this face to resemble. I just can’t tell anymore, can’t double-guess my own motives. Have I thought it could be Black?

  Yes.

  But not in any logical manner. While ther
e are a number of similarities, this woman died a decade before I even met Black, so in no feasible way can this be her skull. But perhaps my urge is to make it her. Maybe, with this orb of bone, I have a chance to recreate the one who got away. The building blocks are all here, and if I can eschew science in order to take a little creative licence with, perhaps, a hint of black magic and a dash of necromancy, I can summon her spirit. Silly, I know, but at this late hour, with the low lighting and the soft music, my mind plays tricks.

  While both involve capturing reality – or certain interpretations of reality – when it comes to our art, what I do is very different to how Black worked, back in the pre-digital age. Mine is considered, laborious, as an image builds over days, sometimes weeks, layer upon layer. But her art dealt in fractions – thousandths – of a second. It doesn’t mean that no preparation went into a photograph; foresight and planning necessary to picking the location, where the defining moment might occur, and then composing and recomposing the shot. A photographer would work at the prints – choosing what to crop out, and how to get the right contrast in the developing process, after dozens, even hundreds, of negatives are exposed. Then there were the technical considerations, such as what lens to attach, which film stock to use. But it mostly came down to that one split second, when the index finger depressed the shutter release.

  She tried to stop time, whereas all these years later, I try to restart it.

  Perhaps it’s this woman’s story – or what little is known of it – that confuses me. I knew none of the specific details of the case at the time I met Black, but many years earlier – when still just a kid – I was vaguely aware of the discovery of female remains on the West Pier. Estimated to have been dead for around a year, the police found only a skeleton and scraps of underwear beneath some upturned wooden kiosk panels. Eventually she made her way to me.

  * * *

  David hasn’t been looking too well of late. Although the severity of the symptoms fluctuates, multiple sclerosis has a tightening grip on his central nervous system. Most of the time he requires a walking stick, although occasionally he’ll get about unaided. Although only in his late fifties, he appears much older: patchy grey beard, peppery flecks of red poking through; bags beneath the eyes, puffy sacs packed with experience; the eyes themselves, dim and glaucous behind large, thick-rimmed bifocals, constantly darting back and forth; liver spots spreading across his temples, stopping at the point where his hairline would have been before it began to recede; skin loosening around his neck and across his forehead. Perhaps he was a real bastard in his day, when the need arose. It was, after all, an age of brutal interrogations. But he now carries himself like a harmless granddad, complete with knitted pullover covered in food stains and cat hair. Sometimes he breathes heavily, but words rattle out of him like ack-ack fire. He talks at me. Not for the first time he riffs on the toolkit of the killer, having seen something on my desk: “Ah, duct tape. No matter the M.O., there’s always duct tape. You should need a licence for that stuff.” And then he falls silent, and inhales through pursed lips, as if taking an extended drag on his favourite cigarette.

  “Don’t you ever just want to let go?” I ask, as he looks out at the lake.

  “Let go? What of?”

  “Marina. And all the ghosts.”

  He laughs. “As if I could. You see this?” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing the green-blue tattoo of a crudely-inked anchor. “It’s just like this. It’s not quite as vivid as it was, but it stays there. It might as well be a picture of this girl.”

  * * *

  Despite my initial uneasiness, I now feel fully at home at the cottage, making the most of the large back room, with its broad windows and French doors, as my study. Even though I sculpt mostly at night, there are times when I need as much natural light as possible, for my work, but also to keep a steady mood. It’s strange being finally able to treat the property as my own. I keep expecting to have to ask permission to make an alteration, such as when taking down and burning the old net curtains.

  I find myself working on Marina from noon onwards, as soon as I get up. Most days David turns up unannounced – but not unexpected – after lunch. He is forever at a loose end, lost since the death of his wife. Retirement suits some men and kills others; this special project saves him from the latter fate. He hobbles about behind me, unaware that I find it intensely irritating. Sometimes he’ll stand looking over my shoulder, and I feel my hackles bristle, but he usually moves away before I need to ask. He rarely stays longer than an hour. I think he needs the act of setting off to a destination, to loosen his limbs. Whatever he asks about the case and my progress could easily be done by phone in a matter of minutes, but this way, when including the slow walk, it can be stretched out over a couple of hours.

  With tenderness and spittle I smooth bumps of clay like a mother pressing down a toddler’s hair. I depress divots around the temples, scoop excess material from beside the nostrils. The clay dries into the furrows of my fingerprints, and in return their swirls embed into the model. With every press of thumb and forefinger my identity sinks itself into the work, an enduring craftsman’s mark.

  Alternating between a scalpel and slim wooden spatula I refine the clay, whittling away a thin strip in order to adjust her eyelids. I can only trust that this gaze is met by someone who knows, in a heartbeat, that they have seen it before. I apply a fraction more clay to the nose and chin, smooth it down. I plump the lips, tweak the ears. Is it her yet? When will I know to stop?

  “Still no closer to an identification of the tramp?” David asks, referring to the clay bust on the high shelf, which he stands inspecting. As a question it’s almost ridiculous. Successes in this line of work are few and far between; across the entire industry, half of all reconstructions go unrecognised. Of course, that just means any eventual identification provides that much more of a reward. It’s often as if the only race you ever win is at the Olympics; in between, you finish nowhere.

  The homeless man in question was found five years ago, sheltering (somewhat unsuccessfully) in the boat sheds on the seafront. He was a mess: torn clothes, wicker hair and a face of leather, part of which had slipped from the skull like a melted waxwork. From the very first moment I felt fascinated. Like Marina, his teeth were in remarkably good condition; as if he’d only fallen on hard times relatively recently. Unlike Marina there was dental work, with three fillings, but thus far it’s proven to be of no help: you need some kind of solid lead in order to find records with which to make a comparison. No older than forty, and possibly a bit younger, hypothermia had stolen him away one winter’s night, several weeks before his discovery. The cold weather slowed the rate of decomposition. Like an unannounced character arriving in the middle of a novel, only to then disappear, he possesses no known back-story and no future plot-line. The same is true of Marina.

  “How can no-one miss this girl?” David says, angling his head at the bust on my table. “I can’t be the only person who really cares, can I, Patrick? Not that I’m saying that you don’t. But you know what I mean.”

  “She’s so beautiful,” he adds, having finally moved in closer to inspect her. Despite not being quite finished, an essence is finally present. I feel a slight chill – a sprig of hair springing up on the back of my neck – as I try to view her as if for the first time. It’s almost there.

  “This is her,” he says, forcefully. “I just know it. Seriously. This is finally how she looked. Jesus, Patrick, this is how she looked!”

  TWENTY

  It shouldn’t be this funny. It helps that we are more than a little drunk and slightly stoned; after all, playing with the carcasses of dead birds is not your average Saturday night activity.

  We find ourselves competing in a game that, as far as I can imagine, has never been played anywhere else in the world. It begins with one of many desiccated pigeon carcasses found in the giant hall, which Black shuffles out onto the balcony with a plank of wood like a hockey player easing the puck acro
ss the ice. She then draws back the wood and whacks the bird out to sea. Silliness, passing the time, but before long it has evolved into a competition, for which rules are hastily devised.

  We choose only the dry, crisp carcasses – not wanting to touch, even with an arm’s length of wood, the recently expired ones, still plump with foetid meat and littered with maggots and god-knows what else. And anyway, the flatter ones are more aerodynamic. We line up side-by-side, adopting golfing stances. On her call we swing and send our dead birds as far out to sea as possible. I win the first round, but only by default; neither of us makes a clean contact, but at least mine goes in the right direction. Having seen her first effort plummet into the roof of the wooden hut and break up on impact, her second soars almost gracefully – albeit with the simple linear trajectory of a frisbee, sailing way beyond my faltering bird, far out towards the offing, and even managing to skim across the surface to gain extra yardage. We find it strangely hysterical.

  My next effort proves my best yet, flying with a satisfying sureness of purpose; an easy victory. “Luck, pure luck,” she claims, nudging another pigeon into position. Once mine is in place she attempts to sabotage my swing, but I spot the interference and playfully push her away. She nudges me back, before we settle into our stances. On our next attempts my bird seems the favourite until it arcs back around and crashes into the pier.

  “That one’s a homing pigeon,” I say, and feel the reward of a belly laugh booming out beside me. Before long she is doubled-up on the floor, and I too feel the elastic-snap of stomach cramps. I collapse beside her, and it signals the end of the game.

  In every sense I feel like a winner.

  Having lost count of the cans of beer I’ve consumed, in addition to that one joint, I cannot claim that my faculties are unimpaired. But this night has felt like no other. It’s nearly three a.m. and although Black, now lying down, is visibly wilting, I still feel fairly alert. Her head rests upon my jacket, which is stretched across my thighs, just above my knees. She speaks with her eyes closed. Every time I think she has fallen asleep she proves me wrong. From telling me little at the start of the evening she has progressed to baring her soul, while in return, I start to feel philosophical.