Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

‘I guess I’m one of them …’

‘You’re not one of them … You’re different, there’s something special about you … and I’m not saying that because of the money …’

‘I don’t know about that … I know somebody who is, though … But I can’t reach her, she’s too far gone, into the blackness … I’ve tried to help her … Hopefully I’ll help her tomorrow, but …’

‘What?’

‘I just wish …’

‘What?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing …’

‘What? Is she your lover or something? Is that why you’ve been chased? …’

‘No, I hardly know her … I don’t know her … I don’t even know if it’s her, but I’d rebuild my entire life for her, just to be with her … It’s like one moment she’s real, like now she’s real and the next she doesn’t even exist, and I don’t know what to do about it. That’s what’s so incredibly beautiful and tragic about the whole situation …’

‘I’ll tell you what, geezer …’

‘What?’

‘After some kip — there’s a spare blanket over there — you come fishing with me tomorrow, that’ll sort your head out … Best thing there is … Fishing … Sorts a man’s life right the fuck out … I do all of my best thinking when I’m out on the pier, fishing. Everything goes away. I’m a fucking king out there, geezer, I tell you, a fucking king …’

‘Oh, I can’t …’

‘You must, you fucking must …’

‘I can’t …’

‘…’

‘…’

‘You see … I don’t want to forget …’

Sandra begins to wrap the bread and cheese back up while he rummages around for my blanket.

‘Here … This’ll keep your knackers warm …’

‘Thanks.’

I wrap the blanket around me; it reeks of wet dog and sweat. I don’t mind though, as I’m starting to really feel the cold. Rocky curls up beside me, intrigued and happy with the new guest. I use my rucksack as a pillow and grip my stick as tightly as I can. I thank them both for the sandwich and fall asleep pretty much immediately.

I wake at first light, the sun not even above the horizon. The birds are singing for the new morning above the pier. If it wasn’t for the horrible stench, the fact that I’ve just woken up hung over in a homeless couple’s makeshift home wouldn’t seem as horrific as it does, but the thick stench makes me gag a few times and I’m worried I’m going to be sick. I sit up and look through a gap in the black tarpaulin at the waves just a few metres from us, down a natural slope on the beach. The others are still sleeping. Rocky, the obvious perpetrator of the stench, is snoring, while the toothless man and Sandra are cuddled up as if sleeping here every night is the most natural thing. I reach for my stick and pull myself to my feet. I check my bag, and immediately feel bad for doing so; everything is there that should be.

I tiptoe out; out onto the pebbles. I walk from under the pier, up the beach a bit, towards the main drag. I turn and look out across the estuary: a couple of fishing boats are making their way back to Old Leigh, bobbing along, past the pier and down into the rays. I watch them for a moment, the chug chug chug chug of their engines just about audible above the seagulls following them back to shore. When they are out of sight, and the sound of the seagulls and engines has faded, I walk back up to the esplanade and make my way to the station, hoping I don’t have to wait long for the first train.

another box

I arrive back at Uncle Rey’s caravan in good time. If I’d got back last night I could have searched for Saturn in the night sky, even though there was a thick layer of cloud. I’d have waited for a break, for my chance. Instead, feeling quite sick, I let myself into the caravan, determined to finish the job I’ve been sent here for.

After plugging in my phone near Uncle Rey’s armchair to charge, the first thing I do is take ‘The Underworld’ out of my rucksack and return it to the rest of the manuscript. I’m sure that I’ll never read it again. I let out a sigh, which causes a gag reflex. I bring up some fluid into my mouth and immediately swallow it again. It burns the back of my throat. I run to the tap at the kitchenette and drink some cold water; it helps a little, but not much. I feel terrible. The next thing I do is walk over to the majority of Uncle Rey’s recordings. I search for the most recent one I can find. There seems to be a gap in his recordings: from about 2004 to 2006. I find a batch from 2006 to 2010 in a box by his TV, but little else on the shelves among his vast record collection. I contemplate putting some Dr Feelgood on, but my head feels like it’s split in two, so I think better of it. I can’t be ill today, of all days.

I rummage around in his things, collecting from about the place the empty beer bottles I’d not cleared up. Then I notice two boxes, both smaller than an average shoe box, on the top shelf of the bookcase, pushed back against the wall of the caravan. I pull over the armchair and stand on it to reach them. I pull them down and sit on the armchair. They’re covered in dust and have obviously not been touched for a long time. I open them; each box is filled with broken jewellery: gold and silver. It feels like I’ve discovered some lost treasure. Most of it is junk on closer inspection, and I’m not sure it’s really worth much money. Then I find a gold locket and chain in the second box, buried deep down underneath all the costume stuff, in the corner. I pull it out, like a magician pulling something out of his mouth: the chain is long, much longer than at first anticipated. I open the locket to find a picture of Mother inside, taken before I was born, no doubt. Her hair longer, her face thinner than I remember, dressed in the fashions of the day. I close the locket and put it in my rucksack. I feel betrayed. I close the boxes and continue my search in the bedroom.

I look everywhere: in each drawer, the bottom of his wardrobe, on each shelf. Eventually I find another box underneath his sagging bed. Again, it’s labelled.

For Jon #7 2013

There are no other CDs, tapes, DVDs et cetera, nothing else, no other boxes, just the one CD with the same label as the box. Where were the other six? Did the other six even exist? This must have been the last recording he made. I begin to tremble, walking over to the TV in the living room, pulling the armchair from the bedroom back in front of it and placing the CD in the machine. I press play immediately. The screen is black for an uncomfortable amount of time before it begins.

For Jon #7 2013

I never wanted you to have to listen to this, Jon. But I made it anyway, just in case something like this was going to happen. I guess I knew it was always going to happen. I knew you’d find out, I knew how curious you’d be …

[He takes a long, hard drag from his rolled-up cigarette. His eyes are blank, staring. The wrinkles in his face fold each time he sucks deeply.]

This isn’t the way things were supposed to be, this isn’t the way they … they were supposed to happen. I was supposed to finish my book, hoping that one day you would read that and we’d … Well … You would read that and we’d never have to speak about it. But here I am … speaking to you about it.

[He takes a swig of whiskey from a bottle by his side and then gets up slowly from his chair and walks off-camera, out of the frame. The rattling of tablets in a bottle can be heard. He sits back in his chair, slowly, running his gnarled hands through his grey hair.]

I don’t know who I am any more, you see. I know I once loved … I loved well … I was good at that, I know I was, people told me … But where … Where has it got me? Eh? … Eh? … Where? … Laura was everything to me, she was a beautiful woman, my beautiful woman, she was mine … Mine … I can’t say that enough, I can’t. What would be the point in not telling you this? If I think back, I can still smell her perfume. I can smell it now …