Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

I consider buying another bottle of champagne, but even clouded in booze something inside tells me that this isn’t a good idea. Plus I have dinner with Mr Buchanan tonight, that I should really be compos mentis for. So I continue to do what’s easiest — stare — hoping, hoping, hoping she’ll eventually look up and recognise me. She looks like an angel; nothing spiritual, but something transformed, glowing, existing on a higher plateau than the rest of us. It’s as if I’m looking up to her now, even though I’m slumped on a bar stool. She seems separate from the rest of the bar and I’m positive that I’m completely and utterly in love with her. It appears in me, this incredible feeling, something I haven’t felt for a long time, if ever. It runs through me, fills every corner of me. Nothing else can compare to this. Nothing else can touch her. She’s the most beautiful thing, angel, ghost, girl I’ve laid eyes on. I can feel it. It’s in me now. Right now. I’m transfixed by it, I’m scared of breathing, as though if I take one more breath she’ll disappear. I can’t even blink. I’m scared to look away, that she’ll vanish if I do.

When she looks up I want her to notice nothing but me. That’s how it should be. Suddenly, something takes my eye off her: the man and woman begin to row with each other, screaming and shouting like they’re the only two people in here. The group around them begins to back away, as if they’ve seen it all before, to give them room to argue. It’s a big mistake. I quickly look back over to her, but she’s gone. I suck the oxygen around me into my lungs and quickly grab my rucksack and stick. I go after her, leaving the bar in a blur of faces, shouts and screams. As I rush out of the door I’m sure the man shouts something at me. I ignore him without looking back. The cold early evening air hits me. I look left down towards the High Street: there she is, she’s turning right onto it, heading south towards the sea. I walk after her, lifting up my stick so that it doesn’t scrape the ground or bang into anything. When I reach the High Street I can still see her, she’s waiting across the road at KFC. I hang back, just out of sight, as the High Street is quite empty and I don’t want to cause alarm. She crosses the road then snakes across the High Street just after KFC. I follow her, my heart still pounding. She seems to be walking at a pace now. A young lad on a mountain bike cycles past her; he slows down, circles and cycles back to her. They seem to know each other. He’s a shady-looking lad and isn’t best pleased to see her. They exchange a few words before he cycles off away from her, and as he does this she quickens her step. As if she’s been told to get somewhere fast. I begin to walk as quickly as I can without causing any attention. I follow her left onto York Road, alongside what look like halfway houses, bedsits, drop-in and drug rehabilitation centres. The street is empty, which surprises me as much as it unnerves me. She heads all the way to the bottom, stopping at Queensway. Ignoring the pelican crossing, she dashes across the left-hand lane and stops at the barriers, steadying herself before hopping over it to cross the other lane. I begin to jog now, sensing that she’s getting away from me. She heads up the grass verge on the other side of the dual carriageway. Just as I’m about to tear out into the road I suddenly think better of it. I wait at the pelican crossing until the traffic stops and then dart over the road. I run onto the grass verge. She’s gone. I look at the name of the small road behind the grass verge: Toledo Road. She lives here, on Toledo Road. I can feel it. I know where she lives. It’s here. It’s got to be here. I’ve nearly found her. I just have to find out which house she lives in.

I walk back up York Road, using my stick to take the strain. The young lad on the mountain bike cycles past me, coasting down the hill. He spits on the ground and stares at me, slowing down to take a good look at me. I grip my stick, hoping he’ll pass without stopping. I look back at him and dig my stick into the road until he reaches Queensway. He heads along the wrong side of the road, ignoring the cars, towards a gap in the barrier. He heads through, crosses the other side and cycles up the grass verge to Toledo Road.

language is such a mess

I take my table at the Lobster Smack. Everything feels good, like I’ve spent the day reading at the beach, or something, but Mr Buchanan can easily sense that I’m more than half cut. I try to act normal, but this only makes things worse. It’s obvious that I have things on my mind and that I’m unable to control the alcohol in me. I swallow huge gulps of air, one after the other, hoping it’ll revive me, but it doesn’t and I soon give up and just sit there. I must look a mess, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

The pub is full. I regret not stopping off at Uncle Rey’s caravan first, just to freshen up, maybe have a wash, or a change of clothes. I’ve left my stick at the door for some reason, knowing that it won’t be taken. Mr Buchanan is behind the bar, smiling. I don’t know if it’s for my benefit or it’s just a thing he does when he’s behind the bar.

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Oh … lime and soda with ice, please.’

‘Not drinking tonight, Jon?’

‘Oh, no … early start on the caravan tomorrow.’

He walks over with my drink and a beer for himself. He sits down next to me, his body spilling over the chair.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘No. Please … take a seat.’

‘Thanks, Jon.’

‘That’s okay …’

‘So …’

‘So …’

‘How are you, Jon?’

‘I’m well.’

‘And how are things with the caravan?’

‘Well, yes, it’s warm … comfortable …’

‘No … I mean, clearing it … Your, you know … Rey’s stuff.’

‘Oh, that, yes, well … there’s still a lot to do …’

‘Right … I thought you’d be making progress by now, see …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there’s no sign that you’ve done anything …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’re no bin bags, rubbish, unwanted stuff … belongings … You’ve left nothing. It’s as if nothing has been touched … as if you’ve just been living there and not really doing anything. You do know that the lease is up? Rey only paid until the end of next week … And then …’

‘What?’

‘And then everything will be taken away.’

‘I see … I see what you mean … What if …?’

‘What if what?’

‘What if I moved in, started paying you rent?’

‘Well, no, see … it’s being rented out to contractors for, you know, the refinery. It’s closing down soon, the refinery, and there’re contractors on the island to help take care of everything. It’s all been booked already, contracts signed … We really have to get things moving here.’

‘Really.’

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘I know it’s hard. It’s difficult, I know. But I’m running a business, here.’

‘A business, I know.’

‘Listen, Jon … I know what happened is tough … it’s tough for all of us who knew him. I know how that sort of thing … well, I know what it can do to a family. He was a good man. A quiet man. He spoke softly. He was kind-hearted. I doubt he ever hurt a fly in his life. He had his secrets, like us all … You know, he just wanted to hide … but I just have to think of my business … Something like that happening, well, it gets in the papers, people start talking … And then, well, you know what can happen … These things aren’t good for business.’

‘Yes, he was a good man, from what I can remember … And I’ve been working in the caravan. I’ve been sorting through all his tapes and recordings … I’ve even found a book he attempted to write; it’s an odd thing, more about not being able to write it than anything else. It’s about the truth, his search for the truth, how to put the truth down on the page, I think … I don’t know what he was trying to attempt … some sort of facsimile, I think. But it’s full of mistakes, errors, smudges, spills, cross-outs. All I know is that I have to edit it, get it into some sort of shape … to see … to see if there’s anything worthy in it. Once I’ve done that, I promise I’ll clear the caravan. It’ll all be completed by the end of next week, honest.’