Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

‘Lots of girls live here … Who do you want?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Girls … You want girls … You come back later, we have plenty girls for you later.’

‘Wait … Wait … What do you mean?’

The door shuts in my face. It doesn’t take me long to realise what he means. I feel like puking. I walk away, as the man from the Nissan Micra is running back to his car, the man from the removal van chasing after him. I walk away from Toledo Road, my ears ringing, dizzy and nauseous. I realise one thing: I know where I need to be tonight before I visit the Sunset Bar.

you must have found something

I spend the late afternoon back on the island in Uncle Rey’s caravan. It’s about time I attempt to start what I came here to do: to clear and remove his private belongings. I decide to start with packing his clothes into bin bags so that they can go to a charity shop. Items of clothing are scattered about his caravan where he’d left them: on tables in heaps and under the bed, in the kitchenette and bathroom, on the floor by his record collection. It takes me over an hour to collect them, neatly folding them up before putting them in the bags. I separate them: jeans in one bag, trousers in another, et cetera. While I’m folding his T-shirts I pick up one that catches my eye. At first I don’t realise, but it’s a Dr Feelgood T-shirt. I like it: plain black with a print that simply reads Oil City Confidential in white. I give it a sniff: it reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke. I throw it aside, determined to give it a wash in the sink and wear it at some point.

After I finish, I place the bin bags — twelve in total — outside by the door. If I’m up to it I’ll take them to 2nd Hand Rose. I feel like I’ve accomplished something at last. I take a shower. It feels glorious, as if I haven’t washed in weeks. I sit on the floor, cross-legged, motionless, breathing slowly, thinking of Laura, and let the cold water fall on me. I’m desperate to set eyes on her again. I know she’ll be at Toledo Road, and if she’s not there, she’ll be at the Sunset Bar. I’m getting closer all the time. I can sense it. There’s something about the guy who opened the door, like he knows I’ve been following her, like he’s seen me hanging around. It’s as if he knows just how much I need to see her. I continue to let the cold water fall on me. I crawl out onto the cold floor. There must be something I can use to dry myself. I grab some tea towels hanging over some boxes near the kitchenette and pat myself dry with them.

I wash Uncle Rey’s Dr Feelgood T-shirt in the sink with some washing-up liquid and dry it immediately with a hairdryer. Just as I’m about to get fully dressed for the evening my phone rings. It’s Cal.

‘Jon, how are you?’

‘Cal … Just sorting through Rey’s clothes … I’ll take them to a charity shop tomorrow.’

‘Oh, nothing you can sell, I imagine … Anything else?’

‘Yes, I found an amazing T-shirt, looks like it fits, too … He wouldn’t mind if I wore it, would he?’

‘Jon, the man was a tramp. Why would you want to wear his rags? Is there any legal stuff? You know, a will. Have you gone through his papers yet? There was a lot of stuff there, I remember.’

‘A will … Right …’

‘Yes … have you found anything like that?’

‘Oh, that … well, no … I’ve not got to any of that yet …’

‘You must have found something? You’ve been in that dump since Friday evening.’

‘Well, I’ve been cleaning the place, you know … and clearing away his junk first … I’ll get to all that stuff tomorrow …’

‘Okay … Well, keep me informed …’

‘Yes.’

‘Speak soon, Jon.’

‘Yes.’

What’s the point? How can I tell Cal Uncle Rey’s left me all his money? Everything Uncle Rey had he’s given to me. How am I able to explain that when I don’t even understand it myself? He’ll never believe me. He’ll think I forged something, or stole it, or whatever. There’s no point in telling him the truth. What does the truth matter? There’s no such thing. It’s best to keep quiet, to keep low, to move away. And I already know who I want to come with me. I have enough for us both, to start up a new life together somewhere, away from everything. As soon as I persuade Laura to come with me, as soon as I’ve taken her away from whatever it is she needs taking away from, as soon as my work here at the caravan is finished, we’ll vanish together. It’ll be like we never existed: there’ll be no more work, no more phone calls from Cal, just me and her, wherever it is we choose to go.

haunting

I’m back in Southend. I need to waste some time before I go to Toledo Road. The High Street is empty apart from a few stragglers and the odd man walking from the betting shops to the pub. Just before the railway bridge I turn left onto Clifftown Road and walk up it for no other reason than it looks like the sort of side road that might house a pub. And it does, by the look of it: an old Wetherspoons, a dive, toothless old soaks and the dregs of Southend. I walk straight past it to the railway station. From here I can see another pub: a huge Victorian building, dark and elegantly decaying: the Railway Hotel. I pick up my pace and head straight for its doors. There’re two men arguing outside. I stand beside them for a while, listening, then I attempt to walk into the pub, but a woman blocks my path. She must be in her late fifties. She’s wearing layer upon layer of clothing and has a yellow helium balloon tied to her right wrist. She’s in a world of her own, rather childlike, happily bumping into the door frame. She’s smiling, singing along to some song that’s playing inside, mouthing the words theatrically. In her left hand she’s holding a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, which at first looks rather incongruous but then after a short while begins to make perfect sense. She stops in her tracks and stares at me for some time.

‘I’ve blocked your way … the Tupenny Bunters are on in a minute … Great little band …’

‘…’

‘You look so much like an old friend of mine …’

‘It’s okay …’

‘No really, it’s freaking me out, dearie … you really look like him …’

‘Really.’

‘He was a dear friend … A good, dear friend … lived on Canvey.’

‘Where?’

‘On Canvey … A good, dear friend.’

‘…’

‘He passed away …’

‘…’

‘So sad …’

‘Excuse me …’

I walk away. I can hear the woman calling after me but I don’t turn around to look. I can’t face the thought of it being Uncle Rey she was talking about. I run into Prittlewell Square and sit down on a bench facing the sea below the cliffs. The sky is dark and blackening quickly; it feels like I’ve reached the end of the world: nothing but the empty abyss before me. Even the cliffs are falling into it. I understand how clichéd and corny my thoughts are, how others have sat on similar benches and had similar thoughts, but I can’t help weaving myself into it, into the grid of others, lost in the same void, the same space. I’m seeing and thinking it right now, so it has to be real, surely? Even if I’m not the originator. I grip tightly on to my stick, so that I don’t fall away too, like the cliffs before me have. I sink back into the bench. I try to compose myself, but my head’s spinning, my heart is thumping, like I’ve been spiked with something nasty and fear-inducing, like someone has plugged me into the grid and everything that has gone in before me is now charging through me like all hell has broken loose.

some fucking present

Toledo Road is enveloped in blackness: a thick, deep black that even the street lamps can’t seem to penetrate. It’s one of the things I miss about London: the street lights are brighter there, and there are more of them, too. London resists night — it’s found a way of defeating the blackness. This place is continually surrendering itself to night’s pull. There’s no escape out here by the estuary.