The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "It's good to have someone in your corner," Weaver agreed.

  Mary arched her eyebrows at him. "Who's in your corner then, David?"

  Weaver shrugged. There had been one or two women over the years, a few friends that had turned out to be pretty fair-weather when all was said and done. Paul.

  "I've got used to being on my own," he said. Mary nodded but did not pursue any further. They walked on silently, Weaver thinking how to begin. Instead he asked why she had never moved away, editing a bright young woman like you from the sentence and narrowly avoiding coming over like a patronising arsehole.

  "I like it here," she said. "I know the place is pretty unfriendly at times. Narrow-minded, xenophobic but isn't it the same all over?" Weaver looked at her surprised. "Are you going to tell me that Brighton is so different? Just because it's cool and anything goes, it makes it more genuine than poor old Measton?"

  It’s interesting how she does that, he mused, thinking of his thoughts regarding the sea-side town after his row with Paul. It was almost as though she picked up on the echo of your thoughts. Weaver wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

  "I can see your point," he said. "Xenophobia though? Brighton has too transient a community for that. I've lived there for almost ten years; that makes me an old-timer."

  The muddy half-road that led off

  Cornhill Road onto Ross's- the scrubby wasteland of his youth – felt familiar beneath his feet. The lengthy rutted tracks created by generations of heavy vehicles heading down to the sewage plant

  Oh shee-yit!

  were the same; the overgrown weedgrass hiding places for generations of games of hide-and-seek, sneaky smokes and carnal rites remained even if they were neglected during the winter months. The waft of the river and the old sewage plant carried on the wind as it always had and there in the distance the rusting hulk of the bridge that had been an instrumental symbol in each of their formative years. And here I am, he said to himself, taking a lover's stroll with Grant's sister like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  "It began a week ago," he said breathing hard against the chill. "I returned to the studio that I share with a friend- Paul- well I hope we're friends; we had some pretty hard words with each other before-" He shook his head. "There was a painting waiting for me. The canvas was still wet. Paul swore on everything sacred to him that he knew nothing about it. No-one had been there since I had left. Paul was convinced that it was me. I didn't know what to think."

  "What was the painting?"

  Weaver told her about the figure reaching out of the murk of the canvas. Mary looked at him. Her mouth twitched at one corner.

  "What is it?"

  "It sounds like the figure in my dream but that was-"

  "Grant," he finished. Mary stopped and took off her gloves. She found her cigarettes and offered one.

  "What's this all about?"

  "You wait until you hear the rest," Weaver said. This was the difficult part. He wasn't even sure of it himself. When he reached the part about the figure of the boy reflected in his bathroom mirror, Mary shuddered.

  "It was the scream that broke me though. It was so cold, so soulless. I can't describe it." He thought about it for a moment. "It was the kind of sound that you can never get forget. You know? Like a terrible smell. It sort of stays with you."

  They had reached the edge of the crudely nick-named wooded area. Mary said: "Why Grant though? Why would he want to hurt you?"

  "I don’t know," Weaver said. "He gave his life for me." Thunderclouds met overhead and the beginnings of a squall whispered against their faces. Freezing fingertips of rain began to tap their scalps, becoming harder, heavier.

  It was then that they heard the urgent sounds of the police launch, witnessed the discovery of Patsy's body and met John O' Connell. The rain became a torrent, hammering against the skin of the river.

  Interlude

  The River (2)

  A Pocketful of Numbers

  Not everything that can be counted counts,

  Not everything that counts can be counted.

  Albert Einstein

  March 1975

  45

  The number 45, written on a two-inch square piece of white card and laminated lay on the worn grass of the track ahead of him. Although he was late for work again, Earnest Young stooped and picked it up absently. He turned it over and saw that it was blank on the other side. Absently he put it into his pocket, dimly considering the relevance of the number. As he was walking along a path used mainly by fishermen he thought that perhaps it was the number of a competition plot or maybe it was nothing of the sort; it may have been blown on the March winds down from the outdoor market, down Boat Lane from The Shambles.

  Or it could be someone joking at the expense of his latest chronological landmark.

  Forty-five years old, balding, scrawny and as awkward as a pimply teenager, especially since the Tina’s departure for The Pop Man. He hurried along the river's edge, praying that young Teddy was there at the ferry ready to pull him across the river so that he could make it to the High Street Post Office marginally less late than he suspected he would be in actuality.

  It wouldn't have been so bad if his boss didn't view him with such distaste. Earnest was too thin, too bald and too awkward for Frank Osbourne. Not enough of a man, not a drinker.

  Earnest was more than content to head back to the simplicity of the static caravan that he had lived in for nine years bought with the savings his mother had left for him. It wasn't much but it was his. He was born to be alone; an outsider designed to slide into the inevitable loneliness of old age. He had once dared to hope that his only real girlfriend, Tina, had been the real thing but even then, when things had seemed fine, he would subconsciously shake his head. Who was he trying to kid?

  To his relief, Teddy the Ferry Boy was there as usual along with three schoolboys each sporting big-collared shirts, flaired trousers and tartan scarves. As he approached he could hear the chorus "shang-a-lang" traveling along the surface. The Bay City Rollers. My God, he thought. I know I'm an old square but what on earth could anyone see in that nonsense? Ridiculous lyrics, cloying melodies and that dreadful shortbread tin image. Still. What did he know? He hadn't bought a

  45

  record for years and even then it had been a present for his nephew.

  He put two pence in Teddy's leathery palm and sat on the bench opposite the teenagers. His discomfort with this generation had long been established so that when, inevitably, inexplicable bursts of hilarity escaped them, he automatically assumed the role of paranoid victim. His palms became clammy in an instant and he felt the telltale heat of a blush creeping over his starched collar. Stop it, he told himself. They're probably laughing at something else. Teddy the ferryboy perhaps. But wasn't that always the thing with paranoia? Didn't it usually turn out to be well-founded? He chided himself. At the age of

  45

  surely he should know better; surely he should have found his place in the world. The ferry boat bumped into the old tyres that had been placed against the riverbank for that very purpose, to alleviate the jolt that signified journey's end. Earnest followed in the wake of the scattered school boys off the ferry once more thinking of the fate that awaited him at the hands of Osbourne. He broke into a run that, for a man of

  45

  seemed rather undignified.

  44

  The following morning the number 44 written on a two-inch square piece of white card and laminated lay on the worn grass of the track ahead of him. Despite the fact that he was well on time for work, he did not stoop to pick it up. His sensibly soled shoe left a muddy imprint on its shiny surface as he passed over it. The number 45 still occupied his mackintosh pocket but- other than a fleeting thought- there was no immediate connection until he opened his locker in the staff canteen to get his thermos flask.

  The number 43 stared back at him from where it had been lodged at a skewed angle in the lip on the inside face of
the locker door. He looked around quickly. His mackintosh was neatly folded and pushed to the back. He pulled it out and rifled through the pockets. His fingers found the smooth sharp cornered card. He pulled it out, shoved his mac back into the locker, plucked out this latest addition to his collection and turned to the light to examine them. Same card, same print. Someone was playing a joke on him. Someone with access to his locker. One of his colleagues.

  In the staff canteen no-one looked at him any differently. A few nods and "alrights?" from the more polite. The black crows sat at their usual table pecking gossip at each other, squeezing wriggling morsels of tittle-tattle between their beaks and jerking their permed heads in satisfaction, their gold-leafed spectacle chains quivering with indignation at the latest atrocity that had walked into the Post Office that morning. Heads waggling at the sheer temerity of the unemployed young people that had been cashing their giro unemployment checks for anymore than a month. They rarely did more than glance at him when he came in; petulant pursed lips shining with Avon lipstick bought at a snip from the woman that comes down our street ohh she's ever so nice but I hear she's been seeing the man from the Pru yes she’s seeing the man from the Pru.

  Earnest was no-one to them.

  Osbourne glowered at the day's news, solitary and smoking at his usual table, the cigarette clamped firmly in the corner of his mouth, the smoke smarting the corner of his right eye. Earnest looked at Osbourne furtively. Could it be him? He had always looked down on Earnest, regarded him as an oddball. Once he had heard him muttering the words "probably a puff" to his cronies from the sorting office and the gales of smoky laughter that had followed him as he scurried to his table with his thermos and ham sandwiches convinced him that he was the object of that moment of scorn. No. It couldn't be Osbourne. Earnest knew that he was strange to the man's man that ran the Post Office; he knew that he was an obvious figure of scorn for such a bully but- when all was said and done- he was a nobody to most of his colleagues. Besides, Osbourne enjoyed the fair game that was the flesh coloured tight brigade that crossed their knees primly whenever he brushed passed them and looked outraged but flushed whenever he would gently pat their buttocks. No. He was nobody to Osbourne. But there was always Jennings.

  Jennings was the newest addition to their staff and, at twenty-three, the youngest. He had terrified Earnest within the first minutes of meeting him. His massive personality and unlikely moustache (so much better than he could muster even at the age of 45) the precise opposite of Earnest's retiring, timid ways. He had humiliated Earnest at every opportunity in his early weeks with his lewd suggestive remarks, always loud enough to be heard from anyone with a care to listen. Get any last night, Ernie? Or when he was counting the pound notes at the end of his shift the crooned Benny Hill-style, Er-nie, he was the fastest counter in the west. Nothing really but when everyone started to whistle the ridiculous novelty song each time he walked by, it became a bit of a nuisance. A nuisance, yes. But Jennings was not vindictive. Where was the harm in it any way? Surely it was a harmless practical joke. Earnest decided that he must pull himself together.

  *

  Saturday morning brought with it the number 23.

  He had hardly slept any way but when he opened the small curtain over the caravan's tiny kitchenette so he could look down on the river as he sipped his tea and the number 23 glared at him from where it had been placed in the centre of the window, held by will it seemed, as there appeared to be nothing of an adhesive nature, his heart began to triphammer as it had done at various points in the depths of the night over the past week.

  He no longer thought that this was a harmless practical joke. He felt hunted.

  The numbers 41, 36, 30 and 27 had found their way to him as had the first on the river bank; the others had been scattered about the setting of his life: the locker- twice more since the appearance of number 43; on his dustbin lid- under the brick that he rested upon it- to prevent foxes and stray dogs from getting at his meager leftovers; on the ferry, tucked almost out of sight under the opposite bench; on the trunk of the tree next to the seat that he sometimes took at lunchtime in the park if he couldn't bear the canteen (which was more often now); in his own post box among the flyers and generic letters addressed to The Occupier- he rarely received personal post; nestled among the weeds that had overtaken his would-be vegetable patch in the lush ground behind his caravan as though it too had grown there; the number 26 had fallen out of the book, Dostoevsky's The Double and other stories, he was trying- and failing – to read. He had become suspicious of the slightest movement around him; he had even taken to looking out and along the river bank from the protective metal shell of his home with his binoculars to try to catch the culprit in the act but to no avail. He feared everyone. In the High Street he studied people's faces as they drifted by but felt convinced that every one of them was hiding something from him. Some secret, some joke.

  Earnest began to fear that he was going insane.

  He breathed deeply trying to slow his heart rate; he could see the tiny aside in the local newspaper. Postal Worker Dies Alone. And the byline: He was not found for a week. "He was a loner. Kept himself to himself," said Frank Osbourne, his superior at The Post Office. Et cetera.

  23

  The number had undoubted significance but for Earnest nothing more monumental than the beginning of his paranoia-induced agoraphobia. Perhaps if he stayed in and closed the curtains it would stop. But somehow he knew that it would not. This was harassment, he thought as he poured his tea. He noticed that his hand was shaking causing the spout of his mother's old teapot to dribble tea onto the formica worktop. He placed it gingerly on the stove and reached into the far recesses of the cupboard above the sink. He moved old jars of preserves that were now far beyond their use until he touched what he wanted. Whisky. He poured half an inch into his cup. The whisky had been his mother's too. Saved for medicinal purposes. She had needed a lot of medicine, he thought grimly and remembered the smell of it beneath the old lady aroma of her face creams and eau de toilette.

  He drank deeply from the cup wincing at the taste; he had never been a drinker. It seemed to steady his nerves. He refilled the cup with tea allowing an inch for another tot (again, his mother's word) and drained deeply, this time with more confidence. The next drink he took neat, the amber liquid searing into his consciousness, his eyes watered but his wavering thoughts seemed to solidify. Half-an-hour and a third of a bottle of whisky later, Earnest was resolved upon two things: he would go to the police station and tell them of his harassment and he would buy another bottle of whisky; mother had been right, it did have healing properties. As he headed into his curtained sleeping area to find some clothing, he staggered slightly. At the age of

  45

  he was drunk for the first time in his life and decided that- yes- given the circumstances, that was quite alright. Earnest felt his stomach lurch; he made it to his portaloo with only nanoseconds to spare before his gorge rose in a burning combination of tea and scotch. Tears running freely down his cheeks, Earnest wiped his mouth miserably and looked at his wind-up clock. It was 9.15.

  *

  Sergeant Peter Sandals raised his salt and pepper eyebrows and took a sip of his tea. He leaned on his elbows over the information/ enquiries counter and said: "Sir, with respect, I think that you should go home and sleep for a while. You look in dire need of a few hours and-" He coughed awkwardly. "-with respect, you may have had a little too much to drink."

  Earnest was flabbergasted. That morning he had taken his first significant drink in a lifetime and now he was being labeled as some kind of alcoholic. He had felt flustered enough by the whole experience as he had told the desk sergeant of his complaint, felt the telltale flush of embarrassment colouring his face and the sergeant's knowing (presuming) attitude only served to emphasise his discomfort further. He had laid out the cards in order as he had explained what had occurred over the last week and as the numbers 45 to 23 shone in the artificial light of the
police station, he felt ridiculous. The alcohol proved to be useful though. Where he would usually shrink away in habitual concession, he now felt indignant.

  "I'm sorry Sergeant that you think this is the rambling of some kind of drunk but- I assure you- that the only reason I have had a little whisky is for- medicinal purposes."

  Sandals flexed his eyebrows once more. Really sir, the look said, they all say that, don't they?

  "Look- someone is deliberately harassing me and I have no idea why. I've done nothing to credit this kind of treatment. I'm-"

  Nobody, he thought.

  "- a tax paying citizen. I've never been in trouble with the police." His voice rose to a querulously indignant whinge. "In fact, I've never even made a complaint to the police and the first time I do, you treat me like-"