Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

As I walk along, through it, inside the flickering light, I notice a black Mercedes car is following me along the road. At first I don’t think much of it, but then I recognise the man in the passenger seat: it’s one of the men from the flat in Toledo Road. He smiles at me, nodding his head, before the car picks up speed and moves away. My heart is thumping. I dash left into a loud, bright amusement arcade. I walk around it, shaking and confused. Groups of teenagers look at me, pointing, some of them laughing, others moving away as they notice my stick. I walk up to the cashier’s desk and change a ten-pound note. I try to act normal, like I would if I was in a film, which I’m not, but I feel as if I am. I wonder which machine or video game to play. Are they following me? Have they spotted me talking to Laura? Have they been following me all day? I walk up to a random machine, some war-zone simulator. I put in my money, pick up the machine gun attached to the machine and start to fire indiscriminately as soon as the action begins, holding the machine gun in one hand like I’ve seen it done in films, holding my stick in the other. I’m not really sure what, or who, I’m shooting at, but I continue to shoot at whatever moves. It feels good. I imagine it’s the men from Toledo Road, and once they’ve been obliterated I imagine it’s Jessica from my old office, then her boss whose name I’ve forgotten, and then the whole office. Pretty soon I run out of ammunition, because of my non-stop frantic shooting, and after about ten more seconds my machine gun begins to vibrate violently and blood begins to drip down the large video screen in front of me, slowly; deep, thick red, like the sails on the Thames sailing barges. Finally it obscures my view of the enemy, like a crimson veil.

GAME OVER

I take the words in front of me as a sign. I shudder and walk out of the arcade. The two words swirl inside my head as I make my way over to the other side of the road, where there’s less light, sheltered by the deep blackness of the estuary. My eyes are fixed on the road ahead, in case I spot them, waiting for me in their car, ‘GAME’, ‘OVER’ swirling behind my eyes, in that strange place in my head, deep behind everything but ever-present on the surface of my eyes, ‘GAME’, ‘OVER’ as real as the light of day.

blank space between the scenes

I cross the road. Every black car that crawls along the road to my left becomes a minor obsession, as I squint, straining to see if it’s them inside. I walk slowly along by the wall before the beach. I can smell the mud and the iodine, vapours flung into the air by the passing storms. I can see moody silhouettes out in front of me: three, maybe four figures. Is it them? Out of their car? No, just random people like me, out for a stroll in the rain. Everything becomes a blur again, like I’ve suddenly entered some blank space between the scenes, the whole set being shifted around me with each step, backdrops spliced and edited, as if the mood is being generated just for my own POV. I stop and sit on the wall. Across the road is the Cornucopia pub and behind that, just to its left, is the Sunset Bar. I’ve no idea what time it is; I check my phone but the battery has gone. But I can see them.

Just up the road, parked outside Benson’s Guest House, is the black Mercedes. I wipe my eyes. I can clearly see it. It’s empty. I figure they’re all in the Sunset Bar as I can’t see them through the windows of the Cornucopia, or walking along the esplanade. I understand immediately that this has created a problem for me to make contact with Laura. If they’re inside the club with her, there would be no way for us to talk. It’s an impossible situation. They obviously know what we’re up to — why else would they show up like this? Why else would they have made their presence felt? Slowing down to acknowledge me the way they did? Why else would they be parked outside the one place in Southend I’ve arranged to meet up with Laura?

he won’t bite

For some reason I look up at the night sky, cursing the clouds for obscuring my view. I want to see the stars, I really do. I want to know they are really there: that I exist beneath them and not caught in some other nightmare. I yearn for Saturn, my legs shaking. Just to see it now, hanging peacefully; it would be a comfort to me. Instead, because of night’s presence, or Saturn’s absence within it, the vertigo begins to take hold of me. I grip on to my stick, holding on to it as tightly as I can. When I look back down, a small, black Staffordshire bull terrier is playfully sniffing at my feet. It appears as if to mark the passing of time. I stroke its thick head and full muscular neck. Soon the owner joins it: a rather tired, skinny man who’s missing all his front teeth.

‘Fucking cold tonight, innit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry about him … Like … he won’t bite.’

‘Oh … I know.’

‘Fucking freezing, innit?’

‘Yes, the storm.’

‘Rocky! … Rocky! … Come here, boy!’

‘Hope it doesn’t rain like that again …’

‘Fucking freezing … Do you have some change for a cup of tea, geezer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, I do. Money … Change …’

‘Really … Oh …’

I dip my hands into my pockets and give him the pound coins, nine in total.

‘Fucking hell, man … Fucking hell … Rocky! … Rocky! … have you seen this? … Fucking hell …’

‘That’s all right, you should be able to get more than a cup of tea with that …’

‘Fucking hell, man … Fucking hell …’

I watch as the skinny, toothless man walks off towards the pier, with his faithful companion Rocky. For some reason they make me smile. I feel like I’ve made some kind of difference in his life, at least for tonight. It’s only nine pounds, but I figure he knows what to get with it.

part of the furniture

I head for Lucy Road. The black Mercedes isn’t there any more. I breathe in the cold air, exhaling slowly. I figure with them potentially gone, for the moment at least, it’s a good time to visit Laura in the Sunset Bar, like we’d arranged. The bar’s just ahead of me on my left, just around the corner. The car park and refuse centre across Lucy Road on the other side is dimly lit and I suddenly frighten myself thinking the black Mercedes might be parked across there, in the darkness, lights off, watching me. I stop, frozen. I look all around me: nothing, not a soul, just some distant whoops and cheers from a group of men in the Cornucopia. The street is empty.

The Sunset Bar is open. I can hear music coming from its doorway. I walk in and pay some money on the door.

‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘That stick?’

‘It’s a walking stick …’

‘You can’t come in here with that thing …’

‘But I need it …’

‘Leave it on the door. With the cashier …’

‘…’

I leave my stick with the woman behind the counter and clutch my rucksack tightly to my chest — they’re not having that as well. The club is dimly lit, the music is loud, so loud I can’t even distinguish what it is the DJ is playing. Gaggles of men are standing about, drinking from bottles of lager, all watching a girl dancing for them on the stage. The other girls are all standing near the bar, talking to the staff, waiting for the place to fill up with more punters. I can’t see her. I stand at the bar and order a whiskey. I sip it slowly, not wanting to tip myself over the edge. I need to be fully conscious.

I try my best to ignore the girl dancing on the stage, but it’s hard not to look as it’s what everyone else, except the other girls, is doing and I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. I turn to the dancer for a few moments and then turn away, watching the men, just in case the men from the black Mercedes are here. Most of the customers are in their early twenties, though some of them, those at the back, are much, much older. It’s strange, I’ve never hung around with other men in packs, and the thought of drinking with a large group of men in a strip club turns my stomach. It’s obvious to me that they have no idea what they are doing, they just seem to be going through the motions, doing what the man standing next to them is doing, acting like other groups of men they have seen in other bars. Most, left to their own devices, away from the pack, would shrivel up in a place like this.