Lee Rourke - Vulgar Things

three thousand eight hundred

I walk towards her. With each footfall I’m sure it’s her. I run through everything I’m going to say to her: how she’ll react, where I’d take her, where we’d go to get away from everyone and everything. How I’ll take her to the island, no one would think of looking for us there. I just have to convince her that I am doing the right thing, that all this, everything I am doing, is for her.

I walk up the pier, past the new cultural centre, up the steps to the RNLI office, onto the top deck, above the crowds, towards the bell, where she is waiting. She has her back to me. Annoyingly, there’s a group of children playing loudly beside her. The children’s yelps and screams are irritating the men fishing on the deck below us. I look over the edge to see if I can see the toothless man from last night, but there’s no sign of him or Rocky. I turn back to Laura to find that she’s looking at me.

‘You’re here … We have to be quick …’

‘Laura …’

‘You’ve got the money?’

‘I’m so happy you’re here …’

‘Money?’

‘Yes … Yes … I’ve got it, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I want you to consider a different plan …’

‘What do you mean … I need the money, that’s why you’re here, right?’

‘I can help you … More than my money can …’

‘Please … I explained … I need to go home, things are not safe for me here any more. I’ll contact you … When I know it’s safe.’

‘You’ll be safe with me …’

‘I’m not … We’re not safe …’

‘Listen to me … Jesus, I wish those kids would shut the fuck up …’

‘What is it … Where’s the money?’

‘I’ve got it …’

‘Give it to me, before they come …’

‘There’s no one here … just these …’

‘Give it to me … Quick …’

‘All right … All right … Will you just listen to me, once you have it?’

‘Just give it to me, please … You’re the only person who can help me … You’re good, and kind … a kind, kind man.’

‘Okay, Laura, okay …’

‘I’m not who you think …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing … Laura’s a nice name …’

I pull out the envelope from my jacket pocket. I think, although I’m not sure, it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. I can’t describe how wonderful her smile is, it’s as if the pier, the darkening sea below, the sky above become charged with electric light, a real fizzing presence of light, of joy, charging around us. This is exactly how it feels, how I will always remember this moment, happening exactly this way, always.

‘Is it all there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Three thousand eight hundred?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I have it?’

‘…’

‘Can I?’

‘…’

‘What is it? … Time is running out …’

‘Please … Please … I just want to remember this moment, I wish I could capture it some way …’

something hits

It happens quickly. I’m stunned, frozen almost, barely able to process what is happening: two of the men come at me from behind, knocking me to the ground. My stick rolls along the planks. I grip on to the envelope. They pull me up and throw me against the rail, I hit it hard and it knocks the wind out of me. The children run back down the steps to whoever it is they’re with. I catch eyes with one of the children as he looks back, a red-haired one, who looks directly into my eyes like he’s just about to witness my execution, wide-eyed, excited and petrified, unable to stop looking. I don’t want to be the subject of this boy’s gaze, I want to be on the island with Laura, planning our escape, planning whatever it takes to feel part of the world around me.

Something hits me hard in the stomach: a fist that brings the bile up into my mouth. They pin me back, holding my arms away from my body. They spot the envelope in my hand. I struggle to keep it out of reach, but one of the men lunges for it, gripping on to it with me. We wrestle with it until I feel another fist under my ribs, forcing a reflex in me to let go of the envelope …

fishing

Nothing ever happens how you expect it to. The man isn’t holding on to the envelope tightly enough and it tears immediately, its contents fluttering into the sea air like a shit card trick: each note, one after the other, arcing, out of the envelope, over the rail and into the sea. There’s an almighty scream as the notes float, as gently as a bunch of petals, each stained with a lifetime’s grime, down into the sea. The two men let go of me to lean over the rail, helpless, wailing in their own language, as the men fishing below, leaving their rods behind, jump over into the depths to collect as many of the notes as they can, the strongest of them, including the toothless man from last night, pushing other swimmers out of the way, stuffing the wet notes into pockets and down their trousers in a delirious frenzy. I break free and run over to my stick, picking it up, running, running, running away from the scene. I run all the way along the pier, back towards the shoreline, back towards Southend. Away from them, from Laura, from everything. They can fight it out among themselves. The money doesn’t matter to me. I just want to find my place, I just want to feel real again.

Once I reach the gate to the pier I collapse into a heap. A crowd of people gather around me: some just to stare, others offering me help and comfort, but I can’t see them, only hear their voices, as the blackness descends all around me, their voices penetrating into me.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Do you need an ambulance?’

‘Give him some water.’

‘Give him some room.’

‘Loosen his jacket.’

‘I know first aid.’

‘He needs air.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Can you see us?’

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Do you know where you live?’

‘Can you tell us your address?’

‘Okay, lift him up.’

‘There …’

‘Place him on his side …’

‘Up …’

‘One … Two … Three …’

‘Okay, move back, please …’

‘Mind his head.’

‘Okay, shutting the door now …’

to the ground

I awake at Southend Hospital A&E. I don’t really remember much about my collapse on the pier, except I fell to the ground quickly, and with some considerable force. All I know is that it probably saved me from the two men. The doctor says I can leave as soon as I feel fit, so I get off the bed and grab my belongings.

‘Where’s my stick?’

‘Here, Mr Michaels …’

‘Thanks.’

‘Take plenty of rest … Drink lots of water …’

I feel embarrassed. I want them to leave me alone. I thank them and walk out of the hospital, feeling groggy, horrible and confused. I head back to the island.

random drawers

I begin with the CDs and records, leaving his Dr Feelgood collection alone. I pack everything I can into boxes, twelve in total, and stack them up against the wall away from the shelves. It feels like the caravan is about to tip over, I stamp about a bit, just to test that it’s okay. It is, so I carry on. I walk over to a desk and filing cabinet by Rey’s old bed. I stand there for a while, staring at it. Something’s not right: it’s too quiet in here, too quiet for a task as mundane as this, so I walk over to the Dr Feelgood collection and pick out an album at random. I pull the record out from its sleeve and give it a wipe with my arm. The caravan is soon filled with the sound of the guitar. I put the other record, the one that was sitting on the record player, into its correct sleeve. Then I walk back over to Uncle Rey’s desk. I open random drawers, each of them containing a lifetime of stuff that holds no meaning to me now. I don’t know where to start, so I just pull things out, not really sure what I’m supposed to be looking for. There are no more boxes to put all this stuff in, so I ram it all into a large black bin-liner. It’s mostly bank stuff: statements and letters spanning decades. In the top drawer of the filing cabinet, next to the desk, is a bunch of handwritten letters, all tied together with some parcel string. I undo the string and begin to look at each of them; it’s hard to read Uncle Rey’s spidery handwriting, but I just about manage to work out who they are addressed to: Mother. Some of the letters had reached her, but she had sent them straight back it seems. I look at the postmark, its ink fading: Bournemouth. The other letters hadn’t been posted at all; Uncle Rey must have given up sending them. I am immediately struck that he kept on writing them regardless, but the feeling soon passes. I gather each of the letters together and put them into my rucksack. These letters are my only clue, the final pieces in the jigsaw to Mother’s whereabouts, should I ever want to find her.