Iain Sinclair - Downriver

She was listed as a suicide. Nobody took much interest. It didn’t rate a mention in the Hackney Gazette . She had been cremated — bones spun and crushed, mixed with strangers — before her boyfriend heard a whisper. He would not accept the coroner’s verdict: wanted images to project and study, commissioned Davy.

‘I found out,’ Davy said, ‘the Hoxton Mob ran dogfights here. That’s the blood. They had sacks of sawdust for the pit, boarded the windows; heavy metal on the turntable, and muscle on the door. Plenty of interested punters; both sides of the river, both sides of the law. Anyone with a wad. Bare-knuckle boys. Low boredom threshold. Had to start blinding the animals.’

His informant was a garrulous old lag who had leeched on to Davy’s congenital innocence, eager to fill him in on the activities of an agent provocateur , operating out of Heroin House. This phthirus on the unsullied polis of Hoxton was denounced, with all the pressurized moral fervour available to a man who had spent most of his adult life commuting, in high-security vans, between Wandsworth and Durham. Hoxton was dead ground: botched social experiments, beyond the wildest fantasies of developers. The perfect territory for breeding pit-bulls and grading hooky electrical goods for Club Row. The shelter of con-men, junkies, sneak thieves: every known degree of villain.

Davy learned they were going a bit green at the Eagle Road nick; recycling all the confiscated drug hauls. They also massaged the arrest statistics by pulling in a few of the slow payers, rapping the odd knuckle, and snipping the tendons of the lippy minority. They doubled the car pound as a freelance export warehouse: villains — who knew how to show their appreciation — picked the cream of the crop (the Mercs and the Jags) for Italy or Nigeria: the old Tilbury run.

Davy traced the curvature of the girl’s river with his finger; dodging the demons, snakes, and voodoo masks. The paint was still wet enough to stick to him. He would never sell these walls at Sotheby Parke Benet.

It was probably time to disappear, I told him. The slides had been handed over and he had his money. None of this story, he could be certain, would ever see the light of day — even in the agit-prop columns of City Limits . Certain risks were naked masochism. On your bike, son. There is nothing left to exploit.

IV

‘Blot out the landscape and destroy the train’

Mary Butts

There was once a woman whose job it was to entrain daily for Greenwich to capture and fetch back the ‘right time’, so that the watchmakers of Clerkenwell could make a show of precision, repair their damaged stock with transfusions of the real. I like to imagine her gold-cased instrument wrapped securely in folds of green felt (billiard cloth), carried, egglike, in a wicker basket: a Romantic icon. There is an almost disgracefully sexual charge in this solitary figure; long-skirted, widow-veiled, standing unhurried on the rural platform. Beyond her are the fields; woods, masts, the white tower of St Alfege. And the useless masculine impatience of the city; waiting, primed, for her return.

Late-travelling gentlemen, the loungers, obviously speculate upon her identity, and the purpose of her journey. Some of them doubtless involve her in their fantasy lives, make a mistress of her — savagely, or with self-hating tenderness. Poets nibble at her presence. None of them begins to approach the elegance of her secret. It is like an unconfessed pregnancy.

The railways pre-emptively ‘privatized’ time, put it to work on a grid system; an exploitable resource, they branded it with their own copyright: ‘railway time’. Before passengers demanded the printing of timetables, time could be a local affair — whatever the village clock said that it should be. Time died at its own pace, suiting its transit to its location. But now, by decree, anywhere and everywhere had to come over, check in, attach themselves to the machine (heart) locked within the dome on Greenwich Hill. The telephone conspired against them. Each station down the line had to conform with Lewisham, ‘clock in’; slaves to this unbending fiction. And, if time spent fishing is not deducted from the allotted span of your life, then time spent on the telephone counts double: beware!

A few remote and bloody-minded hamlets (disciples of Chesterton) refused to play the game and surrender their defective versions: take us as you find us, or leave us alone. They remained out of synch with the system; those five or seven minutes were their own — kidnapped, unaccounted for. Trains smoked out of the city, upholstered in comfortable certainties, removed from the rush of dirt and commerce. The passengers dined, took port, cut their cigars and consulted their pocket watches. But they would never arrive at a destination that was unable to accept their account of the journey. They disappeared into a void — dim light in a tunnel, a suspension, an entropy, where the lost minutes mounted into lost lives. The competing descriptions of time peeled away from each other, until a single carriage could contain travellers from many eras: not quite seeing each other, and always seven minutes away from the world.

The myriad routes and branches that followed on the unrestricted planning permission granted to the railway companies meant that time was also deregulated, released from its bureaucratic prison: now anybody with voting shares could call the shots. We were recklessly plunged into a lake of temporal Esperanto; and with no Stephen Hawking to guide us. We shook loose the spectres trapped in unopened Baedekers. We beat coprophagous adulteries from the smoking rails. Heavy secretions from elbow rests clouded the windows with crows’ feet. I came to believe that the railways could be operated mediumistically to unravel all their own mysteries . The sightings of Spring-heeled Jack were no more than the first exhibitionist raid on the warp, a showy example — a mild preview of the horrors to come, clubbed from the trees by the sightless charge of capital.

It was for this reason I paced the platform at Homerton, ready to attempt my experiment on the North Woolwich train. I walked along until I found an empty compartment. There was no point in dragging bemused civilians into a potentially morbid temporal anomaly. I sat beside the window, with my back to our potential destination. I took out my grandfather’s presentation chronograph (‘by his patients on his leaving MAESTEG in appreciation of his services, Xmas 1898’), the work of ‘H. White of Manchester’; inserted my fingernail into the necessary slit and began to wind the hands ‘backwards’. But back to where? Back only in the sense of defying the tidal advance of the clock’s crafted mechanism. The shuddering movement of the train on this lost nocturnal route might be tuned by the intention I expressed in my physical actions: the deed itself had no other meaning.

I heard her voice before I saw her face. ‘ Love and man’s unconquerable mind .’ The Voice was light, steady, uninflected, quoting more than extemporizing: the voice of an actress at the final run-through. Mocking? Ironic? The accent was one I couldn’t pin down — either shore of the Great Lakes. Detroit? Toronto? The train was moving now, gaining speed, but we were ‘going’ nowhere. What I saw beyond the window did not change. This is difficult to explain. It was much more than basic back-projection, or travelling matte: when I forced the window open — cold air rushed against my face. I could taste the usual cinders. The perspective was quite normal; we were devouring a diminishing ladder of track. The escarpment leant away from us; stacked with institutional blocks, whose outlines remained defensive and sharp. The carriage shuddered over sleepers with a soothingly regular ration of clicks and clacks. If you tried to lift a coffee cup to your lips, you would deposit the contents in your lap: everything was normal. Yet the ground beyond the tracks remained fixed . However fast the wheels churned, the landscape was static. Lights shifted through the windows of the Hackney Hospital — like a self-propelling lantern of mercy. Trees lost their leaves. Black clouds revolved like a diorama, unwound to plunge headlong into the silver smokestack. ‘Here’ could not shift: it was incorruptible. We slid sideways, backwards, ahead — futile as wasps animated by the false sun of autumn.