Near the end of a row, grey – morning shadows from Brick Lane made solid – the same right-angled triangle. Headrest. Portland stone pillow.
IN EVERLASTING MEMORY OF DAVID LITVINOFF. SON OF THE LATE SOLOMON & ROSE LEVY. BORN 3rd FEBRUARY 1928. DIED 8th APRIL 1975. SADLY MISSED BY HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS. SHALOM DAVE.
Shalom. I add my pebble to the pattern already on the grave. Six small stones, local, sandy, arranged at random; four in a group, centred, and two away at the edge.
A quiet and ordered place, unnoticed behind high walls, padlocked gates. Uniform memorials, nothing excessive. A tractor preparing the ground, to the west, for future burials. A faint blue line of pylons revealing the position of the A13. Bare trees. High thin clouds in a bright sky. The temperature beginning to drop. Time to get Snip back to the train.
He’s gone. Not there. Wandered off. He was standing alongside me when I took the camera out – perhaps that offended him? There might have been other relatives, friends, he wanted to visit; pay his respects.
Snip isn’t a big man, not as tall as the gravestones. I walk up and down the central avenue, checking the aisles and tributaries: no Snip, no visitors, nobody. The sound of the tractor. I’ll have to try the office.
The coincidence of a name catches my eye: Silverstein. IN LOVING MEMORY OF SAMUEL SILVERSTEIN. DIED 23rd DECEMBER 2002. MAY HIS DEAR SOUL REST IN PEACE.
The skullcapped official, overwhelmed by his allergy, racked with sneezes and splutters, is still brushing through the pages, running a thick finger up and down the columns. He won’t give up.
‘One day, God willing, all this will be in the computer.’ He waves me to the phone, holding up a hand to refuse my offer of payment.
‘Joey,’ I said, ‘listen. I’m really sorry. I seem to have mislaid your father. He can’t have gone far. I won’t come back till I’ve found him.’
Joey’s voice is very faint. He says something about how cold it is, he can’t go out until the weather improves.
‘My dad, man. He died just before Christmas. He came out of Rossi’s, sat down on the pavement, died. Gone before they could call an ambulance. I still can’t believe it.’
Gulls take flight, hundreds of them, from the field that’s being improved by Tarmac Quarry Products, wheeling against the sinking sun. Long shadows on a narrow, mud-spattered lane. I have to go on. I made my promise to Joey. The perimeter road, between cemetery and gravel pits, loops back to the old A13, and then, by a complicated junction, to the new. I would walk, no choice, towards West Thurrock; maybe link up with Jimmy and Track at the ibis hotel.
If Snip was a fetch, a fictional device to get me moving, he had served his purpose. I’ll risk the Sleeman brothers and their territory: Purfleet pubs showcasing darts, Lakeside retail park, new maisonettes in Chafford Hundred where they butcher unlucky associates with electric carving knives. After Basildon, the heat was off. I looked forward to a Canvey Island detour, a pedestrian circumnavigation of the flood defences and caravan parks. Then: Southend. The finish. Thorpe Bay, Shoeburyness. A heritaged nuclear power station.
Lurching lorries spill toxic waste in clouds of yellow-grey dust. Poisoned hedgerows. Bark peeled from trees. The only vegetation is the ubiquitous plastic sheet, stained viscera crucified on thorn bushes.
Think: Hell Drivers.
Stanley Baker, Patrick McGoohan, Herbert Lorn, William Hartnell. Lumberjack-shirted realism (British homage to Warner Brothers B-features). Rattletraps jockeying on short-haul tours to quarries – much like these: Havering Aggregates. Didn’t O’Driscoll (and Mocatta) own a fleet? They worked the golf-course scam. Planning permission for leisure developments leading to apocalyptic war zones of landfill holes and steaming bunkers. (Blacklisted American leftist Cy Endfield, the director of Hell Drivers, had to be credited as: C. Raker Endfield. 1957. Another era entirely. Available only to those prepared to risk Launders Lane.)
Reunited with the displaced A13, its verges, walking was once again a possibility: a glorious spread. Horses. Transport caff with net curtains.
Think: James Curtis and They Drive by Night.
READY FOR WORK. TAXED & TESTED. Resprayed Transits at £225. Tinkers’ camp (on a traffic island). A roadhouse, supporting the firemen, and offering: LIVE GAELIC GAMES.
The new, improved, slipstreamed A13 is up on stilts, an elegant preamble to the M25 and the QEII Bridge. Traffic at a standstill. Nothing unusual in that. Silence. A few cars out of Rainham, burning rubber, not knowing what’s ahead of them. Then … nothing. Ticking engines. I swear I can hear running water – a hose in the lorry park, the Ingrebourne?
An evening panorama. Frozen like a dream. Oneiric omnipotence: the stalled circuit of the M25, London’s heartblood. Everything, it’s clear, plays into the loop. That motorway circuit is the great contemporary narrative, track it if you can. All the tributaries, arterial roads, dual carriageways, links and runoffs, are supplementary chapters, additional files. Dreams born of dreams.
Then I hear, in the distance, in stereo, the sirens. Police cars coming from both sides of the river. Converging on some unknowable accident. The mess of blood and oil, shattered glass. Wind in the wires.
Coast
Ebiz. E-biz.
‘I’m not going to talk about it,’ Livia said. ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve nothing to say, nothing.’
Ebiz?
The asylum-seeker, the one with the moustache, followed them into the street. He was knuckling the nearside window. ‘Ebiz?’ He tapped his gold watch, held up five fingers.
Ebiz, Ebiz.
Reo Sleeman was a nodding dog, the spring gone in his neck. He beat his head against the wheel until there was a red groove in the skin, a sort of McEnroe headband.
For Livia, a decision taken. The last time, the very last time. She would take this ride, back to London, see Track.
‘I am never ever getting in a car with you again.’
Seeing the Basildon boy on the coast, in daylight, was quite a shock. Livia twisted the driving mirror to check her hair. The moustache, the irate man from the pasta place, wouldn’t disappear. He gestured with a bent arm, his watchface thrust at Reo. He shouted, with greater urgency. ‘Ebiz.’
In the soft cell, the padding of the American car, Reo’s body heat was oppressive, syrup. Like burnt hair in honey. Long hours on the road, held up by lights, diggers, accidents, weight of traffic, left a stringent sourness in his denim jacket. Stiff on him, freestanding, a skinny boy bulked by weights and steroids.
His face, there, in the mirror strip, staring at itself, through itself, eyes like pinholes. Cheekbones. Hatchet-shaped. Julia Margaret Cameron’s Iago, Livia thought. The Italian model, Angelo Colarossi, used as the cover image for the catalogue, the recent Cameron show at the National Portrait Gallery.
Old brown leather, slightly tinted windows. Reo’s car had a period varnish. The interior was beautiful, curvy, plush as a customised hearse. Reo was beautiful too. The mask of him, pale flesh stretched over a hot light bulb, stubbled. The effect Cameron achieved, inadequate lenses, sunbeams through shutters, of focus loss, slippage. A concentration so intense that it blurs and becomes painterly. The intimate portrait. Human face as landscape.
Male face, its inappropriate, undeserved beauty.
Reo’s mouth. Sulking. Gondola lips. Jagger lips. Dry foam at cracked corners, pink-white, reflex sneer. Muttering to himself.
‘Totally out of order.’
Last night, up in Cunard Court, she remembered Marina watching a film on television, in which a police car cruises deserted city streets – near the river? – chasing, following, a bandit, stick-up man, solitary walker. Three beautiful things. The engineering of the car. The images from the film: hunted man ducking behind pillars. The silence of the streets. Static and the moving camera. Livia went out on the balcony, sliding doors open, watched the sea, listened to the soundtrack. Deep American voices. Lurid orchestration.
And Reo. In profile. He was the third thing.
This drama
was ridiculous. If she were not involved, it would be hysterical. Track would love it. She would absorb the whole story of Livia’s ‘capture’; Reo’s spittle-flecked fugues, the romance of the road. It would make a great print: the sweep of the bonnet, reflection of setting sun, the red spill of traffic lights. Get Reo out of the car and everything would be perfect.
… not conned she’s clever tricky her talk her books
DRIVE …
SPIN THE WHEELS …
BURN RUBBER …
won’t be taken for a cunt not this time not by her not again doesn’t matter what she says I’m not listening …
Uphill. Let him. Let him shoot every light, straight over every pedestrian crossing. Squash cats, dent women, kill kids. I won’t speak. They’re waiting in little concerned groups outside the schools. Solitary men at the edge of it. Some of the mothers yawning. Tired. I wouldn’t want kids – would I? Hadn’t thought of it before. So much traffic. Won’t say a word.
… car slides no problem I’m in control under the bridge road’s ridiculous cunts don’t know how to dip their headlights turn off get out of it narrow bridge not slowing slow down cunt back off back off arsehole cunt
lights flashing …
horns …
sun in my eyes trees arching overhead a tunnel that’s better much better her legs she’s got hands digging in her legs kick your shoes off you used to like being driven that’s what I like best you said when you drive me somewhere the chance to talk have a proper conversation
lovely clear road …
Roman …
would you …
fancy being a driver like Chas in the Jagger film Performance not his motor not responsible out in the country at the beginning flash cunt beats a woman with a belt marks her I never shit on the sheets I never …
Won’t speak. He’s been this way before. Don’t know where we are. Slowing down. Might stop at a pub. The Curlew? Not sure. Could do with a drink. If I concentrate. If I will him to do it, he’ll stop. Lights in the window. People. Get away. Ring Marina. Order a cab. Would they come this far out? Can I afford it? Money in my purse?
… never hit a woman before never have never will call it a Jagger film Alby does Kray bollocks Maidstone old days he’s taking the piss it’s Chas at the end when they put him in the motor they’re going to do him out on the marshes last drive brings up the bile shit in your throat senses on alert synesthesia taste sound smell colour might have been Rainham I know they’re fucking upwest Notting Hill shithole studios upwest Johnny Shannon’s from over the water Old Kent Road the one they say wrote it he’s Whitechapel Jewish feller I done paintings of Chas into Jagger like boxers a fight poster yellow and red with lettering ultra bold mug to mug face-off metamorphosis too much charlie should have stuck with her best thing I ever done Jagger and Chas that terrible fucking syrup when Chas comes down the steps at the finish they’re putting him in the motor Mocatta’s boys he’s dead meat he looks out and its Jagger fucking bollocks Jagger down the pan finished from that moment innit smirking bastard wasted had it coming she’s got the look Livy of the French bird the tart the one in the bath what was her name Lucy Livy Livy Lucy same hair no tits mouthy full of it meat she’s dead the French girl must be old now topped herself Bindon he was tasty they say Alby knew Bindon the stories hung like a donkey nutter dead now they’re all dead Bindon stabbed some geezer in a yacht club did a painting of Bindon too in a Jag from another film fat dead hypergolic rocket fuel ignites spontaneously on contact with a complementary substance how I feel how I am on fire open the window wind down the window wind turns to fire oneiric pertaining to dreams Dreamland Margate the beach the sea sand in your shoes makes skin burn I can form a pool of saltwater in my cupped palm holy water my own fucking bodily secretions cunt like a frill of different blue and pink rashers the slippery sac of a squid inside out stinky fingers salt…
Solitary motor, American, in the parking space behind the road-house. Platform carved from the hillside, the escarpment. Overlooking the A21, not far from Riverhead, Sevenoaks. Woodland. Lights of traffic, long beams, heading for the motorway, the M25. A cold, clammy evening. Mist taking the lush from the landscape, the Weald.
Reo slams the door and strides off towards the bright building. She won’t talk, move. He’s mad.
The camera. She’s wants her camera. In a bag. From the boot. Panoramic window of the roadhouse, bluish striplighting, red sign, in the twilight, across the damp car park: it might work. A quiet, meditative print to offset Reo’s stupidity.
His physical anguish is palpable. Lights on but the place is closed, closing up. A big man comes to the door. Reo backs off, swearing. Stands there, at a safe distance, doing silly karate kicks. Come on come on gestures. Bottles it.
Get out, run. Half-dark, trees the other side of the road. He’ll never find you. Wave a car down, get away. Ring Track. Ring Marina. Ring the coast.
Or drive off. Now. Why not? Before he turns round. Leave him. Leave him to it.
Livia slides across the seat, feels for the keys. He’s taken them, locked the door, locked her in. The padded rim of the window. She tries the handles. All of them.
The door opens.
He sees her. He’s coming. She stands waiting. The smell of the fields, the woods, earthy, heavy. And the smell of the road. It’s that blend, the tension she tries to impose on her prints. Unreal nature and natural artifice. He grabs her arms, hurting her. He slaps her, once, twice. Drags her around the car, pushes her in. He starts to cry.
… Racinage the decorative treatment of leather a branchlike effect overhanging branches reflected in the windscreen like it’s smashed with a hammer striking a woman a child’s hand I can’t forgive the feel of your jacket soft baby leather when I touched your shoulder you could have said something now it’s too late I’m like he is Performance fucked flesh sick twins brothers artist and face villains all fucking villains family innit blood thicker Faversham was it definitely Faversham Bob Geldof and Paula Yates pills overdose sick games they brought it on theirselves totally out of order done it in another geezer’s house across the Swale from Sheppey Swaleside the prison six months away I worked through the fucking dictionary big red book nothing to read better than weights the size autodidact lifted weights too wouldn’t touch novels give up painting Jagger was done the minute he gets in that fucking motor Dartford the bridge coming up six miles crawling Bluewater wanted one of the nobs country place fatal transit from document to allegory white roller like the old funeral trains like abos plastered in gypsum Harry Flowers good name for a villain better than Alby Sleeman Mickey O’Driscoll Phil Tock the train robber geezer Buster Edwards he had a flower stall Waterloo hanged hisself in his lockup they’re all dead Flowers in the Attic film about car crash incest Alby’s not so hard see him work on an engine whistling purring along driving itself’ Allo Chas into the tunnel under the river orange nicotine lights muddy on car windows slippery on polished metal tiled bore drop a coin in the bucket and you can come back to Essex until she speaks until she says it keep driving …
‘Stop the car,’ Livia said. ‘Now.’
She put her hand on Reo’s bony shoulder, denim. The tunnel had been superb, an experience. And now this: power station, tall chimney, oil tanks, marshes, the elegant span of the bridge at night. ‘I want my camera.’
Her voice brought him back, brought him out of it. They had made it to the north shore, home turf, the A13. He was a free man. He could swing into London, a club, or out to Southend, fish supper. He could take her home to Mum and be out at the quarry with his rods within an hour. He could stick with the M25, chase Alby, Epping Country Club, the chaps. A reunion. Kiss and make up. Kiss and tell.
How he’d blown it with the dagos, the snatch. The two Albanians were down on the coast, potless, waiting for a motor. Max Bygraves would be taking his curtain call, bringing the house down, right about now. Stage buried in daffs and M&S knickers.
There’s a spot, the filth love it, where you pull o
ff the road, park up at a vantage point, view of everything – Essex, Kent, bridge. Space for two cars, nose to tail. Right by the section of motorway, up on stilts, where pill-runners get a tug: nowhere to go, jump sixty foot or hold your hands up. Smiley tabs down your Y-fronts, stuck in the thatch. Pills in your pubics.
Reo and Livia sat, the lovers, side by side, taking in the flow, the lit road, the mean windows of the hotel that looked straight out, a few yards from the cabs of huge lorries. They smoked, they shared a cigarette. Then Reo, reflex courtesy, opened the door for Livia, walked her to the back of the car. His hand on her elbow, the cool texture of her leather jacket. He fumbled with his keys. He reached into that big dark space for a torch.
Rubber matting, rope, spade. Spare trainers. Fishing box, rods, stool, maggots. Livia’s yellow camera bag.
The beam of the torch flashes on metal, a blade. Reo’s martial arts kit, Livia thinks. Samurai sword. He bends forward, gropes.
Ebiz.
Across six lanes of perpetual traffic, backdraughts that push them against the crash barrier, the hotel. Its name: ibis. Ebiz, ibis. So that’s what the man in the pasta place was going on about. His hand, five-finger spread. Thick gold watch nestling in black hair. The ibis hotel. Thurrock, Lakeside. Ebiz.
White Queen Theatre
Kaporal sat in the car pretending to be Bob Mitchum, but it didn’t take. ‘Baby, I don’t care.’ His slack features had undergone the same substance-abuse landslide, everything flowing downhill, flycatcher’s pursed mouth, autopsy eyes. Dimpled chin like builder’s bum. But the weight wasn’t there, the bulk. The psycho stare (unblinking) of a man who enjoys his work (getting drunk, causing trouble). The timing. Kaporal’s yawn was a couple of beats too eager, a yawn of panic not boredom.
Dining on Stones Page 23