The Girl on the Pier

by Paul Tomkins

  I stood at the water’s edge for what seemed like aeons, at first lost in my thoughts, then almost lulled to a blank, meditative state by the rhythm of the waves breaking around my feet. I didn’t even notice the last vestiges of daylight slip away. My toes, already so cold and wet, did not register the sea sweeping over them. I didn’t feel the chill as spume lapped around my ankles, and then my shins, as I took several steps forward. Even my deep-set fear of water didn’t keep me at bay; if anything, with perversity, it spurred me on. I don’t recall walking further, but I must have, to so quickly find myself in above the knees. The icy water suddenly cut sharply at my inner thigh, like a frozen blade. I waded on, the shock now only registering incrementally, in inches, as each new part of my body slipped below the surface; until a wave blew up over my entire upper body, almost sending me onto my back. On I pressed, pushing against the water’s resistance. The next big wave took me under; only then did I realise the depth was now dangerous.

  And this is where I expected my will to live to kick in. In testing myself I always thought I’d choose life. The first mouthful of water reminded me of that childhood mishap, and what almost drowning tastes like. As I involuntarily coughed and spluttered, snot and foam frothed from my nose. Everyone fights drowning; the key is to give yourself no way to back out, for when the survival instinct takes hold. In my case, I could already sense how tiredness, and limbs frozen to stiffness, would undermine any attempts to head back to shore. Undecided – I didn’t want death, and yet I didn’t want life – I sought to buy time by treading water, but of course, at this temperature, I just edged closer to an end. I had neither the strength nor the technique to fight brutal waves. With head spinning and eyes stinging, I caught sight of the blurred lights on the Palace Pier in between increasing bouts of blackness.

  Then, out of nowhere, I sensed a presence alongside me.

  Jacob!

  I reached out to him, but without speaking he took my head in his hands and held it beneath the water. I fought free, amid a flurry of bubbles, but found Black at my side, pushing down on my shoulders. My mother, my father, Genevieve, Kitty: all arrived in the darkness, icicle fingers pressing into my flesh as they sought to push me under. And then someone I didn’t recognise – a woman – placed an arm around my chest and a hand under my chin. I resisted, but she held me up, above the waves, and dragged me to shore.

  I awoke in hospital, one single heartbeat later. Sat beside my bed, leaning forward: the woman from the water. She introduced herself as Laura, and, after a broad smile that conveyed relief, tenderly readjusted my pillow.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Fame did not arise in the immediate aftermath of Jacob’s death. It didn’t happen overnight, the inevitable escalation in the value of his work and the mentions in influential magazines. But there is always something about the finality of a collection: the artist can no longer add to his oeuvre – either to expand it with equally good or higher quality pieces (which make the pre-existing ones less rare), or with substandard work that will tarnish his reputation – and that draws his work into sharp focus.

  But there would always be one piece missing from the Jacob Dyer collection: his last painting, unknown, as far as I’m aware, to anyone other than those in the room that summer day.

  Though slow to get momentum, his posthumous rise to some kind of prominence came as no surprise. That said, I never once cared about this unknown painting increasing in value, or that it could perhaps become a minor art-world talking point – I wanted a connection with the subject matter. My interest in the art world would have remained consistent and modest, but it became a passion upon Black’s influence; she lived within that milieu. Reconnection would surely come via this world; after all, she had no plans to re-enter mine.

  For years I bought books and magazines, and regularly attended galleries and all manner of exhibitions, in London and Brighton – and further afield, if I happened to be in another city. I even turned up at college degree shows. It helped to feel that I was doing something constructive, to keep on her wavelength. Of course, it proved entirely fruitless.

  Once someone is out of your life it feels as if they cannot die. You no longer see them in living form, but equally, there is no sense of a conclusive end. Of the people you once knew only to lose contact with, chances are that a few have passed away without your knowledge. Classmates, casual acquaintances, colleagues, exes: some will have fallen by the wayside, with no-one to tell you the news.

  As well as keeping an eye on the arts, I scoured newspapers for the name Suzanne Black. It never appeared in stories of tragedy, or columns of obituaries. As much as I wanted her in my life, I might have taken the resounding conclusion of her death, if offered. Because hope can be greatly overrated.

  Hope can be little more than hanging on in desperation, as you tell yourself lie upon lie.

  * * *

  What do we do with the deceased? Well, mostly we bury them. And so, in order to have Black be dead to me, I needed to put her in the ground. After 18 months it seemed the only way to break the cycle of self-destruction, and to actually get on with my life, whatever that now was. Some kind of symbolic burial felt essential.

  However, I chose not to include the painting. Too precious to just let rot, I could hide that out of sight in other ways; although, with hindsight, it may have been wiser to inter that too. Still, I had so many other reminders to dispose of: the journal, written in the aftermath, that detailed my inner turmoil; a beautiful fan-shaped seashell found on the shore as we disembarked; sketches, in which I had attempted to capture her likeness before it faded from mind; and finally, the broken video cassette, its tape chewed, twisted and torn to shreds by a faulty VHS machine on only its second play-through. I took all of these items and placed them in an old biscuit tin.

  Despite craving ceremony, I still needed the option of retrieving the hoard at a later date – just in case. Burial at sea – casting it high into the waves, hoping it disappeared with the outgoing tide – might have been the most apposite solution, but it wouldn’t offer the chance to reclaim her, should the need arise. It had to be a more traditional burial, with exhumation a possibility, and I had just the spot in mind.

  It had been well over a decade since I’d last walked a particular country lane, a mile from the cottage that led down to a medieval church and its unkempt surroundings. Little had changed; no new developments or alterations, although winter had robbed the hedgerow of the verdure that made such an impression during my teens.

  I made my way to the far end of the cemetery, to the furthest grave, which belonged to a young girl who died almost a century earlier. I hopped over the ancient stone wall, into the adjacent woodland. From here I shuffled up to the foot of an enormously broad yew, whose branches arched back over the graveyard. The gap between tree and wall provided enough space to dig, once I’d located a spot either side of the roots. It was to be Black’s final resting place.

  Constant, gentle precipitation helped soften the earth. The tip of my trowel sank satisfyingly into the ground, and the topsoil eased from its bed without resistance. I dug down about a foot, scraped earth from against the wall. I wedged the tin into a gap where a coarse stone from the foundation had been dislodged; and, having checked to see that no one was looking, quickly covered it over.

  That was it. She was gone.

  Or so I thought.

  I still catch sight of women I believe to be Black, only to tap the shoulder of someone who, despite some similarities, is revealed in a swift turn to be an impostor. Sometimes the resemblance is not even close.

  Perhaps there is an element of the collector about me, in that I am hunting down the rarest of artefacts: that where only a single copy exists. Despite frustration stretching over many years, I cannot deny that I have enjoyed aspects of the search. It has given me a purpose: the lure of a stunning conclusion lurking somewhere undefined in the future. While others grow old and tired, losing faith in their lives, I simply move towards my dest
iny. Or so, in my brighter moods, I let myself believe.

  * * *

  She comes at night, this Thumbelina, easing up my eyelids to slip beneath their cover, on those blessed occasions when I finally attain sleep. Without the visitations of Black in these dreams, inserting herself onto my retina like a shadow on a screen, this story may not exist. She could have long-since passed into memory; an interesting tale, but a brief anecdote about one incredible night, rather than a story that abides and grows.

  Or perhaps I’m wrong. After all, death cemented her place in my life, with our brief time together inextricably linked with the demise of a mutual friend. As we can all recall, even the most mundane moments remain associated, in memory, with the monumental events they precede. If you are slicing a lemon when you hear tragic news, then that lemon stays with you.

  And, of course, there’s the painting – which traps the moment in time; evidence to examine, over and over, for hidden clues. But these are from the past: memories and artefacts. Instead, her reappearance in my dreams – often nightly – keeps her current, and progresses our narrative in unexpected ways. Even when it’s not strictly her, it always feels like it is. Sometimes the images are so vivid I’d force myself to blink, if I could. I cannot deny enjoying these visitations, but they are bittersweet: the joy of connection, followed by the disorientation of rejection – occasionally in the dreams themselves, if she gets away again, but always upon waking to the real world.

  We usually have a future together, as I sleep. But the past is also altered, retrospectively, with that night played out over and over again, only in slightly different ways that, once awake, can be hard to distinguish from reality. It keeps the memory fresh and piquant, but it also embellishes. At times I can’t tell if I’m recalling what actually took place, or a later dreamed version, with its distorted truth. Clearly there’s no major departure between fact and fiction – the crux remains constant – but certain visions or snippets of dialogue may have been doctored, in sleep, over the years.

  Some nights I can smell her perfume: for the life of me I have no idea what it’s called – believe me, I’ve searched – but it’s stored deep in some olfactory memory bank that I cannot evoke when awake. I can feel her stroke the hairs on my arm with the tips of those long nails. I can taste the menthol from her cigarette as I imagine a kiss. And it has a physical effect on me; I feel my heart race, my stomach churn, my skin tingle. It continues in the minutes after I have woken, confused and alone.

  The great moment of regret will always be this: not offering her my number. If only I had offered her my number instead of vice versa, leaving it in her capable hands, from which point she would have called and…

  The moment my life forked in one direction, my dreams the other.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It’s easy to say now, with the penetrating light of hindsight, but I should have known that Genevieve would not stick to her word. She had become that kind of girl. Once she had what she wanted from you, that was it. I waited and waited for the call to meet her in London, but it never came. For more than a year I hoped against hope that she would turn up unannounced on the cottage doorstep, but of course she never did. She knew I would get into too much trouble if I betrayed our secret, and that I lacked the courage to risk doing so.

  The repercussions, however, visited me daily, for months on end. The worst thing? The concern of Kitty, as well as the countless interviews and statements I gave to the authorities. The police, I believe, never suspected a thing, showing sympathy to the plight of a boy who seemed a genuine victim. (After all, what kind of lunatic would consent to being tied up and beaten?) They wanted to find the two men in balaclavas I hastily invented. Quite by fortune, two unknown men had been seen in the vague area at the time, and their descriptions became those of the pair sought. The innocent duo were never traced, and the case went unsolved. But my guilt did not abate. Even now, I carry it around. Why did I agree to Genevieve’s suggestions? What made me so gullible? She set in motion a pattern I would be condemned to follow: falling for the girl already halfway out the door, my heart dragged behind.

  At the same time it became apparent to both Kitty and Alice that Genevieve, missing in Derbyshire, had once again run away from home. Luckily for me she’d not been spotted anywhere near Brighton, so no one was aware of her visit. Reports suggested sightings at London Victoria, but the authorities assumed it to be her final destination, rather than the station that linked to the Sussex coast. As far as everyone was concerned, she had simply absconded to the capital, with the indomitable free spirit no mother could curtail, to be lost amid the millions. All still true, I imagine; it just happened to occur after a brief detour to the cottage, and a faked burglary.

  I also felt a burden of guilt over Alice’s distress, relayed to me via Kitty. I couldn’t put either of their minds at rest, beyond noting that Genevieve was a tough cookie who knew how to look after herself. I’m sure they knew she was locked into unbreakable patterns. Forever and ever a runaway.

  That was the last any of us heard of Genevieve. Her fate remains unknown. She may well be enjoying a happy existence, in London or beyond. A heartbroken Alice died ten years after her disappearance, without knowing either way.

  It provided my first experience of what the missing do to those left behind, and it marked me for life.

  * * *

  Hard as I tried in my teenage years, I just couldn’t let go of Genevieve. Only with the advent of Black could I move on – to a new shadow in my life. In many ways Black reminded me of who Genevieve might have become. What I knew about the precursor – who was more ‘real’ to me in terms of time spent together – informed my fantasies about her successor, whose power was somehow greater still. However, what I’d learn about Genevieve in her room one summer’s day would forever taint my views on the image she projected. Although I knew it wrong to delve beyond its cover, once I’d discovered her diary, lodged behind a chest of drawers, I could no more easily have stopped my heart from beating than put it down. Here resided the interior of her mind, condensed into a bound A5 book; the inside track on her thoughts, open and honest, laid bare on feint blue lines.

  But it wasn’t what I was expecting. The juvenile nature of the writing, and the girlish tone to her entries, shocked me. It seemed so childish compared with the poised exterior she presented. Perhaps more damning – it was mundane. Darren, who, it became clear, lived as a petty criminal when not working as a mechanic or practising the drums, featured quite heavily, but it seemed little more than a schoolgirl crush scrawled in large handwriting. He lacked depth, although that may have been less a fault of her writing and more an issue with his true personality. She mentioned her dream of heading to London with her lover, to be in a band with him and his friends. She went into great detail about their first kiss, and how giddy it made her feel, even though it seems he just thrust his tongue down her throat. However, this was far from her first kiss, or sexual partner; previous lovers had been boys her own age, lacking the experience and masculinity of this latest beau. Indeed, she wrote scathingly about boys below the age of 17 – and yet jotted down such musings in a style that signalled her own immaturity (which I now recognise more clearly).

  The art and poetry I anticipated was absent. Rather than discuss the lyrics to Chelsea Hotel #2, or her passion for figurative expressionism, she gushed about the coolness of Phil Oakey’s fashion sense, with love hearts doodled in the margins with the initials of Simon Le Bon. She mentioned some boots seen in a Dolcis window, and even a little sketch of them drawn in pencil. The dates of her menstrual cycle, doctors’ appointments, and stylings she had requested at the hairdressers completed the entries.

  You didn’t need to read between the lines to deduce that she loathed her mother, although much of that may have been pure teenage rebellion. As someone who didn’t understand that particular emotion, I felt her lucky to have one. There followed mentions of binge eating followed by days of near-starvation, suggesting that h
er svelte figure wasn’t purely a case of appetite-suppressing cigarettes and the natural shedding of puppy fat.

  Of course, I looked for mentions of myself, but found none. The strange and sudden closeness I felt from discovering her to still be a girl at heart – perhaps she wasn’t so aloof after all? – was quickly replaced by the distance of just not mattering. I didn’t even register. I hadn’t been expecting declarations of love, but I thought I’d at least warrant the occasional passing reference.

  I didn’t even exist.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  David is running late. He asked to meet adjacent to the remains of the West Pier, and I’ve never been very good at waiting. My mind needs to find ways to fill itself. Absent-mindedly rolling pebbles under my shoe, I can’t decide if the colour prevalent on the seafront – on lampposts and railings, bus shelters and balustrades – is turquoise or jade, or some unnamed shade in between. But its glint in sunlight has come to represent Brighton in the summer. It’s a colour I will miss – along with the full gamut of greens and blues of the sea itself – if I ever have to go away.

  Finally David arrives, and suggests we go for a walk. He’s having a better day, he says, and wants to make the most of it – although he still needs the use of his stick. I’m not accustomed to walking at such a slow pace. “You’re making me feel old,” I say.

  “I’ve felt like a pensioner for years,” he replies, wearily. “And I’m still not even sixty. God knows how old I’ll feel by then.”

  “They might discover better treatments. You never know.”

  “Maybe. Might help if I gave up these things,” he says, patting the cigarette box in his pocket.

  “So what’s this all about?” I ask, as we step from shingle to pavement; a sensation that always takes me back to that morning in 1993. “We don’t usually go for walks.”