Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

‘Oh, I love you, you know … I want to take care of you for the rest of my life …’

‘Aw, really, that’s nice … I like you, too.’

‘I feel like I’ve met my soul mate …’

‘Aw, really …’

‘Yes, I just wish it could have happened a long time ago …’

‘Aw, that’s so sweet to say …’

‘I love everything about you … But I love your body the most … I haven’t seen a body as good as yours in such a long time …’

‘What about your wife’s? … I bet she’s really nice …’

‘We don’t …’

‘Have sex? … Aw …’

‘No … We don’t … It’s dead … That’s why you …’

‘Aw, that’s so sad … I’m really sorry to hear that … it’s a shame …’

‘But I have you now, my beautiful soul mate …’

‘Soul mates … I like that …’

‘We are …’

‘Do you still buy your wife presents?’

‘Yes, sometimes, to make her happy …’

‘Aw … Nobody buys me presents …’

‘I will … My beautiful … I’ll buy you anything you want …’

‘Really … Would you?’

‘Of course, my love … I’d like to take you ballroom dancing …’

‘…’

‘Would you like that?’

‘…’

‘That would be so good, to take you dancing, to show you off … Can you dance?’

‘Like on Strictly …?’

‘Yes, proper ballroom dancing …’

‘They wear lovely dresses … I’d need a new dress …’

‘Would you like that?’

‘Oh yes, a dress …’

‘And the dancing …?’

‘Oh yes … dancing, yes.’

‘Ah, my love …’

‘Hmmm …’

‘What is it?’

‘I’d never be able to afford one …’

‘A dress?’

‘Yes …’

‘I’ll provide you with a dress, my beautiful … we can go up to London one day and I’ll buy you one …’

‘Aw, that’s so sweet … They have nice ones in Selfridges …’

‘Yes, they do, my love, my beautiful love …’

‘We can go next week.’

‘Yes, we can …’

‘Oh, Timothy, you’re amazing …’

‘You are, too. Mandy, I love you so much …’

As the man says this, the woman breaks out into a fit of coughing and sniffling. I look over at her, she’s clearly withdrawing from crack cocaine or something, her emaciated face is waxy with sweat and she is continuously rubbing her nose, congealed bits of white spittle congregate in the corners of her mouth, visible even from where I’m sitting.

‘Hey, hey, my love … Shall I get you a tissue …’

‘Oh yes, sorry, please … yes …’

When he gets up to go to the bar she immediately stops coughing and begins to text someone on her phone. When the man arrives back with the tissues, she begins to sob.

‘Hey, hey, my love, my poor, poor love … What’s wrong?’

‘…’

‘Please, my love … What’s wrong?’

‘…’

‘Tell me, please …’

‘It’s … It’s …’

‘It’s what?’

‘…’

‘What is it, my poor love?’

‘It’s my landlord … I owe him rent … Oh, I’ve been so stupid, so, so stupid … It’s so hard, bringing up four kids alone, they’re grown up now, I never see them, they never help, but still … I have no money, I didn’t pay my rent for months, just so I could get through Christmas, you know, have a good Christmas, you don’t think about the debt at the time, and I’ve not paid him … and now … and now …’

‘What is it, my love … What is it?’

‘He says he’s going to evict me …’

‘When?’

‘Next week … I have nowhere to live, my ex is a psycho …’

‘How much do you owe him?’

‘…’

‘How much?’

‘…’

‘Mandy, I love you, how much.?’

‘Four thousand eight hundred quid …’

‘Mandy, my poor love, it’s okay …’

‘Really …’

‘Yes, my poor love … I’m going to help you … I’ll transfer the money … I have the money for you … I have money in banks doing nothing … I have lots of money to help you. I can help you …’

‘It’s more like five thousand five hundred …’

‘That’s okay, my love …’

‘Aw, Timothy, you’re so kind … You’re such a kind beautiful man … I’ll give you my bank details, we can go to the bank … then we can go to my flat …’

‘Yes, my love … Anything for you …’

I leave them to it. There’s no point in interrupting him, to tell him to stop, that it’s all a lie and she’s simply playing him for a fool. Even when he gets up to go to the Gents, I leave him alone, it’s not worth it. These things must run their own course.

looming windows

I return my gaze to the estuary. The storm is racing in again. I can see others behind it, all waiting in line to hit Southend, these looming windows, one after the other. Now the lightning is forking from the dense clouds, hitting the water about six miles out. It’s like a light show out there: the different colours of the sea — from almost black to deepest green in a flash. The bursting-full clouds drooping lower now, like everything is about to come crashing down, or a great weight is pushing it towards us. This time the rain falls even harder, so much so that I take a large breath when it hits the windows. Down below, this side of the pier, I can just about see the outline of a Thames sailing barge, struggling through the torrent. I wonder what it’s doing out there in this weather at this time of the evening. It’s a magnificent vessel, beautiful in design, completely unique. It looks like it’s doing okay out there. I worry about it being hit by the lightning. The sight of this flat-bottomed barge makes me feel extremely proud for some reason, and I begin to feel a strange kind of emotion well up inside. My eyes fill up, for a start, and I struggle to contain myself, to hold everything back, swallowing and coughing, but I manage it, something that pleases me.

I soon notice another barge behind the first, and then another, and another. Five in total, all edging their way up the estuary in the failing light. It’s a truly beautiful sight. It must be a convention, or a club. I stand up and walk towards the window, just as another sheet of rain hits it. Everything is blurred, but I can still just about make them out. I try to take some photos with my phone, but they don’t come out too well. The photos look dark and murky, blurred into a wash of grey turning into deepest black, the blood-red sails of the barges just about visible in the blackness around them.

When the light eventually fades I sit back at my table and flick through the photos, about twenty-five in total. If I flick through them quickly I can trace the barges’ movement along the estuary, as they move en masse. I’m struck by their blood-red sails, deeply thick red against the black of night. It makes the photos feel like a moving painting, if such a thing is possible — or better still, a vision. As if it hadn’t really happened and what I was looking at was one of those ghost photographs I sometimes hear about, where someone has taken an innocent photo only to find something else has invaded the frame once it’s been developed: a figure, a hooded man, whatever — it doesn’t matter to me.

artificial light flickers

When I step out of the hotel the cold air gives me a hug and I curse myself for not bringing a proper overcoat. I zip my jacket up to my neck, hunching over as I walk down Pier Hill towards the seafront. As I turn onto the esplanade, right by where they kissed earlier, the multicoloured neon lights shrouding each amusement arcade glow all around me. Everything is buzzing, the artificial light flickers, I feel like I’m trapped in static, like I’m walking within a scene from a film on a huge screen.