Lee Rourke - The Canal

“I don’t know …”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly who I mean …”

“What were they doing?”

“Come here, look. I’ll show you …”

“Where?”

“ Here …”

I walked towards the water’s edge, near to where the scooter had been thrown in. I beckoned her over to me. She was, at first, a little hesitant, choosing to continue to stare out across the murky water at the two lovers. I beckoned her over to me again. She looked at me for a second, then paused, before looking back across the water. They flicked their cigarettes into the canal before walking back into the office. I followed him in particular; through the looming panels of glass as he made his way to his desk. Once inside the office he acted as if the tryst outside had never taken place. I looked back over to her sitting on the bench. She was looking, it seemed, at the woman as she made her way to her own desk, also acting as if the tryst on the esplanade a moment ago had never taken place. When both the man and the woman were settled at their respective desks — checking emails or whatever it was they were doing — I beckoned her over one more time. She looked over towards me. She couldn’t hide her sadness. I could feel it welling up inside of her. She stood up, slowly, and walked over to me. It seemed to take forever, each footfall purposely placed in front of the other. When she eventually got to me, standing by my right, not too close — she remained silent. I pointed towards the submerged scooter.

“ There! Look what they did …”

She remained silent. The handlebars of the scooter were clearly visible. I could see them. I pointed towards the scooter yet again.

“Look! See it? … There! … Do you see what they’ve done? …”

She took one step closer to the canal’s edge.

“I can’t see anything …”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t see anything … there … in the canal. I can’t see anything.”

“But it’s obvious … as clear as day …”

“I can’t see anything.”

“ There! There! The handlebars, just there, breaking through the surface of the water …”

“No … I … No.”

“Do you think I should contact the police?”

“What for?”

“Because it’s stolen. It’s a stolen scooter, they dumped it here. From that bridge. They just let it drop, just like that. They were filming it all! On their mobile phone! Filming it! Into the water. No one even noticed, apart from me. No one looked up from their desks. Only me, the geese, the coots, and the swans noticed it. Where are the dredgers? Why aren’t they here to clean this mess up?”

“They’ll be here in time. I’m sure of that. It’s their job … This section, this stretch of the canal must be on their agenda, their work sheet or something, if they have one, that is …”

“Well, they should be here. It’s been days, weeks. I’ve been waiting for them. They should be here by now, shouldn’t they?”

“I’m sure they …”

“All this needs to be cleaned up. Those kids can’t be allowed to do such a thing. There’s not even any CCTV. At least I can’t see any, can you? It must be well hidden if it is there. Maybe, maybe they’ve been caught on that? Maybe I should speak to the security desk of that office block across the way there? Maybe they have it on film? Or maybe we can somehow get hold of their mobile phone?”

“I doubt it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would they have their security cameras pointed at that bridge up there? Away from their own windows and doors? And who on earth is going to get their phone? You ?”

“You’re right.”

“I know I am.”

I felt stupid. I was truly embarrassed. I felt the sudden urge to get away, to remove myself from the canal. I wanted to take her with me.

“Are you hungry? I’m famished.”

“Not really …”

“I know a café … The Rheidol Rooms … just around the corner.”

“I know you do. You’ve already said. We don’t need to go there right now, not now …”

“Why?”

“Because we’re okay right here …”

“But wouldn’t it be nice for us to just get away from here? And do something else for a change? Do something other than sit here all day long?”

“There’s no need to do anything else.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Something has to be done about those lads, those four … that gang, the gang who attacked me … Don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing we can do about them.”

She began to yawn and then pick at some skin on the cuticle of her right index finger. She looked genuinely upset, like something truly tragic had happened. That same look you find on the faces of witnesses to car crashes some time after the initial shock of the event, the fatal collision, when the realisation of the severity — the actual impact — begins to reveal itself. She walked back to the bench and sat back down; I followed her. Her breathing became heavier. I shouldn’t have asked her; it was none of my business.

“Do you know the man across the way?”

“ Pardon ?”

“The man from the office over there? The one who was just talking with the woman on the company esplanade?”

“I’m sorry … I don’t know who you are talking about, I really don’t. I should go now …”

“No, no, no … Please … Don’t …”

She stood up. She was rankled by my question. I should have followed her, caught her up and apologised, but I didn’t. I watched her as she walked away towards Shepherdess Walk. I turned to look inside the whitewashed office block, to see if I could see him. I could. He was sitting at his desk, busying himself with some paperwork. Transferring the information contained on each sheet — whatever it was — on to his company PC. I imagined them, the sheets of paper, to be invoices. Piles and piles of invoices, other people’s information, the lifeblood, the mechanism of the times: paper converted into binary code, into html, xml — metadata. Codes. All of us programmed to shift electronic information within an abyss we cannot see, touch, or feel. An abyss of our own design, information hurtling through it, back and forth, from one place to the next and then back again in the blink of an eye. It never ends. It never stops. I watched him typing the information into his company PC: the figures, words, acronyms, and codes flashing up in appropriate boxes via the snazzy, specially designed software package used for such a purpose. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he stared into his flat-screen monitor, the artificial light emanating from it diluting his tired pupils, as he moved onto the next invoice in the pile like an automaton. I thought about the many years I had wasted processing similar information, on similar company PCs and laptops, in similar buildings. All that information I had sent into the ether, the abyss, with each click of the mouse, each press of a button and tap of a key, over and over and over again, five — sometimes six — days a week. Each click like an act of bored violence.

I shuffled to my feet. I felt like laughing: how absurd he looked. How stupid he looked sitting at his desk, processing all that information, sending it on its merry way into an abyss of our own design. How utterly stupid he looked, utterly useless, without the slightest intimation that it was all starting to slide, to slip away.

I stayed on the bench by myself for the rest of the day. I did nothing but watch him. I didn’t even think that much. Not even about her. I was close to happiness — for a short while at least — and then the feeling was soon dulled by the fact that I knew it wasn’t going to last.