Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

I look over to my left, where the old barracks must have been. An old parade ground and mess houses have all been bought by a developer, and people — families, young professionals — are beginning to move in, buying into something that doesn’t exist any more. The whole place seems dead. I feel like I’m intruding, like I’ve gatecrashed a funeral. It’s like I haven’t just arrived but I’ve been spewed here, ejected and abandoned, here on the ness, for the elements to chip away at me until finally I crumble. It’s a strange feeling: being stuck out here at the first point of defence; the barracks and garrison just slightly hidden from view. It’s hard to ignore this place, nestled comfortably here by the sea, Sheerness and the hills of Kent out across it on the other side, wider, freer, the sea less restricting out here. It’s hard to imagine the numerous rivers and outlets gushing into the estuary at Foulness — large arteries pumping fresh water into its salty depths, a huge black river before me. It doesn’t seem real.

I walk down onto the beach below, a tangle of grass, concrete and shingle, where I walk to the water’s edge to trace the shape of the land better from the ness and beyond. I stand here. Fixed, rooted to the spot. There’s no point walking any further. There’s nothing else I can say.

something snaps

I can smell the sea now that I’m walking in the opposite direction. My stomach is full and I feel energised. I’ve decided to return to Toledo Road immediately, to knock on Laura’s door to see if she is there, to find out if that’s where she lives, and if she remembers me. I want to be sure that it’s her: the girl from the pier, the one who wants me to know that she’s in trouble. Surely that’s what she wanted out there, to tell someone, anyone. It just happened to be the right person … me. If I ignore her plea, then what’s the point in all this? This strange quest to find her? It’s no good, there’s nothing else for me to do, I just can’t get her beautiful face out of my head. I know that if I don’t at least try, she’ll haunt me until the day I die. It’s the right thing to do: I’ll just calmly knock on her door, that big brown door, and if she doesn’t answer I’ll just calmly ask if she is there, and if she is I’ll introduce myself, she’ll remember me. I’ll take her away to the island. We’ll watch the stars together at night and listen to that low rumble of the passing ships’ engines as they float by just beyond the sea wall. She’ll be safe out there, away from any danger, from everything and everyone.

Voices interrupt my thoughts: I can hear them on the other side of the wall, more than three it seems, talking energetically.

‘Did you fuck her?’

‘Course I did.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Her pussy … what her tits like?’

‘She’s fine, bruv.’

‘What’s her pussy like?’

‘She sucked me off, near Sainsbury’s, in the fucking bushes where Acky fucked Michelle Taylor. She sucked it right there.’

‘She’s well fit …’

‘I wanna go, too …’

‘She’d fuck anyone …’

‘Not you, you skank …’

‘Too much fucking cheese there …’

I listen, the sprawl of Southend seafront ahead of me, leading me on. The group of teenagers hop over the sea wall just in front of me, now the voices are real, one by one, four voices in total, dropping in front of me as if they’ve just fallen from the sky. I step to my right over to the cycle lane to allow them to pass but instead they circle me like an angry swarm of wasps. They’re laughing at my stick, egging each other on.

‘What you gonna do with that stick?’

‘Give us your stick?’

‘Leave him, let’s go …’

‘I want his stick.’

‘I need this stick, it helps me to walk …’

‘You a cripple?’

‘You don’t look like one.’

‘Fuckin’ mong.’

‘Mong.’

‘I’m okay, okay … I’m on my way home.’

‘Give us that stick …’

‘No.’

‘Give us that stick …’

‘No.’

‘Fuckin’ mong.’

‘No, leave me to walk home …’

‘No, you’re not …’

Just like they say, a red mist suddenly descends. I raise my stick and swing it wildly around my head. It narrowly misses one of the teenagers’ heads, and then another. All I know is that I need my stick and I want to get to Toledo Road as soon as possible. I begin to jab it towards their faces, the point of the stick millimetres from them. They back off. I go for one again, swinging the stick up and bringing it down towards their head like an axe. They manage to avoid it.

‘Come on … Come on … He’s fucking mental …’

‘That nearly fucking …’

‘He’s fuckin’ psycho …’

‘Come on … Come on …’

They half jog past me, as close to the sea wall as they can. I allow them to pass. Once they’re at a safe distance they begin to sling insults at me until I can’t hear them any more. Two of them stop and do some sort of hand signal before turning away. I’m in some form of shock, shaking, my breathing heavy and erratic. I’ve never reacted that way before; I usually walk away from confrontation.

As I continue to walk a large pebble smashes into shards at my feet. I turn around — the teenagers are throwing them at me; some of them narrowly miss, others fall way wide of the mark. The teenagers are laughing, hurling obscenities. I quicken my pace away from them, without looking back again, pebbles smashing all around me until I’m out of range. After a while they are dots in the distance. I continue to walk quickly, heading as fast as my short legs will take me towards her, energised, unafraid and in search of her, my beautiful Laura, heading to save her from any darkness, to bring her back from the depths of night, back up into the light of day.

short circuit

Toledo Road is busy when I eventually arrive. A removal van is causing havoc for two cars that are trying to get past and up onto nearby Hilltop Road. The driver of the removal van is refusing to back up to allow them to pass, informing them in no uncertain terms to ‘back up’ themselves and ‘fuck off back down the other way’. People are hanging out of windows and standing on porches watching. All except the house with the large brown door. I look in through the windows, half hiding behind the thick trunk of the cherry tree on the grass verge. The blinds are half closed so it’s hard to detect anything, but I’m sure I can see some movement inside. As the drivers all begin to shout at each other — one, the driver of a small Nissan Micra, seems to have taken it upon himself to step out of his car to have a go at the removal van driver — I slowly walk down the grass verge towards her house. I walk across Toledo Road as a fight breaks out: pushing and shoving more than anything. There are three buzzers at the door, a total of three flats inside the house. I stand there looking at them, the mêlée erupting on the street as more drivers step out of their cars. I ring all three at the same time; whoever lives here can all answer the communal door together. Nothing. I press them again. Still nothing. Then I press each buzzer one after the other, waiting a few seconds between each, worried that in pressing them at the same time the signal might have short-circuited or something. This seems to work, as I can soon sense some movement in the communal hallway. After a few more seconds the door slowly begins to open. A man greets me in just a pair of boxer shorts. He’s trim, muscular and covered in tattoos. I’ve clearly woken him up.

‘What!?’

‘Er … Does … Does Laura live here?’

‘Who? No.’

‘No … I mean, is there a girl who lives here with blonde hair, big eyes …’