Thames Gateway 01; Wide Open Page 3

  How could you have a dry sea? And if the sea on the moon was wet, wouldn’t the water float off because there was no gravity on the moon to hold things down?

  He walked along the beach. The shells were actually quite hard on his feet. His feet were tender, underneath, and so was he. He held in his paunch. Nothing moved. He supposed that the muscles on his gut had stopped working. He breathed out. No, they had been working after all. He coughed. His belly hurt.

  The brown water lapped at his feet. It was icy.

  Oooohhhhh! Much colder than he’d imagined. He was naive like that. This instance was entirely typical. He moved back a step. The sky was massive. Flat land, flat sea, and a great big, dirty, mud-puddle of a sky.

  It looked like it was going to rain. He shivered. He peered over his shoulder to see if the girl had gone. It seemed like she had.

  As Luke strolled back to his prefab he confidently sidelined any thoughts of his own physical timidity (shouldn’t the sea feel warmer in cold weather? He’d certainly always thought so. He’d been misled, clearly) and instead he bolstered himself by imagining the cosmos; black, enormous, dotted intermittently with diamond-chip stars, and then a sea, floating. A giant sea with waves and foam and everything. Just, kind of, floating.

  He imagined himself, Luke Hamsun, on the moon, moon-walking. He’d been sent to the moon to recapture the sea, to tighten it up, to winch it down.

  Over his shoulder Luke pictured heavy ropes which were weightless because nothing weighed on the moon, and in his hands a dozen giant tent pegs. He was supernaturally powerful. He was Hash Gordon. He had no back problem. No gut-ache. His sciatica was a phantasm. He would never keel over and die. He was no longer forty-seven.

  And in some respects this was actually true. At least it could have been true in a different world. It just so-happened that Luke Hamsun was an earthling, and as such, he was obliged to endure the drag of gravity. He was grounded.

  But he endured phlegmatically, cheerfully almost. He didn’t complain. He saved his breath. In fact he hoarded it. He held it.

  ♦

  Lily, meanwhile, had made herself comfortable on Luke’s sofa and was inspecting one of his portfolios.

  “Oh good,” she said calmly, when he strolled back inside, turning a photo around so that he could see it properly, “now you’ve returned you can set me straight on this. Is that a pickaxe up her arse or…”

  “How did you get in here?”

  Lily lifted the photo and reappraised it. “If you’ve got no trousers then you’ve got no pockets. If you’ve got no pockets then you’ve got no keys.”

  Luke felt enraged, violated, defiled, but when he finally spoke it was with great softness. “Put those down and get out of here.”

  Lily, rather surprisingly, responded to the softness. She closed the portfolio.

  “You’re a bit of a pervert then, on the quiet?”

  “You’re a silly little sneak.”

  “A what?”

  Lily stood up, smirking. Luke felt embarrassed by his nakedness and picked up a coat from a chair by the door. He put it on. He looked ridiculous now, naked, wearing only a coat. The coat was incriminating.

  “So that’s why you’ve come here,” she said, pouting deliriously, “to take some more of these dirty pictures?”

  “They aren’t dirty pictures.”

  She’d struck a nerve. She knew it. She always knew. She laughed. “So what’s that then?”

  Against the wall, yet to be hung, stood a picture of a naked female cupping her breasts like they were two neat apples, but the breasts had been yanked up high as though she planned to pillow her chin on them. It looked uncomfortable.

  “It’s a nude.”

  “A nude. Oh. I get it.”

  Lily continued to eye the picture.

  “Ouch!” she said.

  “Get out.”

  “Certainly.”

  She sauntered towards the door.

  “If you break into my house again I’ll call the police.”

  Lily just giggled. “I didn’t break into anything. It was wide open.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m getting out.”

  The sea lapped coldly outside the prefab’s door. Three giant steps and she was in it. Fully dressed. Feet, knees, hips, breasts. She waved her arms at him.

  “I’m freeeee!” she screamed.

  He hated her then. She was free.

  In fact she had screamed I’m freezing! but a small wave had hit her.

  She had no grand scheme. Not yet. Nothing like that.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Four

  No one else would do these jobs. It was like being a spaceman, but with all of the discomfort and none of the glory. In the trade they called them skins. There was a theatrical side. Ronny did that sometimes but he hated being around children.

  Then there was the industrial side. Councils hired him to spray weedkiller, to clean stuff up, to juggle with noxious chemicals. Someone had to do it. So Ronny obliged. He was that someone. A consummate professional.

  Others found the precautionary clothing bothersome and claustrophobic. Several people had sued after contracting breathing difficulties and skin infections from handling dangerous substances. Ronny knew that this was because they took off their helmets when it got too hot. They didn’t take precautions. He always took them. That was his trademark, his hallmark. That was his stamp of quality.

  Anyway, it was part of the kick. No air. To be enclosed. The chafing, the sweating. The chronic discomfort. That was all part of it.

  He wore white shoes. Special shoes. In fact the entire get-up was white, even the helmet. Ronny peered down at his shoes. He thought about the man on the bridge, wide open, and in the same instant he thought of Monica.

  Monica.

  She had been his confidante. His correspondent. His best friend. His only friend. He’d liked it that way.

  Monica had an opinion on everything. She had an interest in biology. Physical things. She was an adventuress. She hated to be enclosed, which was why, finally, she ended up in Sumatra, in the rain forests. She was working out there with a journalist.

  They were interested in DNA; all that complex genetic stuff which, quite honestly, meant precious little to Ronny.

  Monica could never simplify the nature of her work in conversation without becoming impish and flirtatious. If Ronny couldn’t understand what it was that she was doing she’d crystallize it by saying, “I’m interested in what it is that makes a man a man, Ronny. I’m interested in apes.”

  So they were searching for a missing ape in the forests of Sumatra. A missing link. A great ape. A fantastic ape. A pale giant. He walked on his hind legs and to all intents and purposes he resembled a man but his feet turned inwards. And unlike his human relations he had no big toes.

  Monica had never seen him. She’d seen Ronny though, but only fleetingly, a long time ago. He’d made a great impression. He’d become indelible. He’d left his footprint in the mud of Monica’s brain. She couldn’t shake him.

  Oran-pendic. That was the ape’s name. Mr Unpronounceable. In his dictionary Ronny saw that orang – or something quite like it – was Malay for man. Like in orang-utan which roughly speaking translated as ‘man of the forest’.

  Oranpendic was not in his dictionary. He didn’t exist. Not yet, anyway. When Monica found him he would exist but not before. When Monica found him Ronny too would see him, not physically – nothing nearly so dramatic – but slotted in among all his other words and definitions. On paper. In print. In bold.

  But for now the oranpendic was their own special creature. Not a fact or a definition. Nothing absolute. Merely a fragment.

  Ronny looked up pendic for the exercise but could find only pend which meant to hang (as in ‘pendant’). He guessed the word had something to do with per-pend-icular. Upright. Vertical. But frankly he found both this description and the original name unsatisfactory.

  Oranpendic.

 
; Monica didn’t give a shit. It didn’t matter. She was more interested in the hunt. She’d been called a hoaxer. Well, not Monica so much as the journalist, Louis, who was the truly infamous half of the duo.

  She’d heard him on the radio and then she’d saved up all her money working as a lab assistant at a school in Swindon to fly out and join him. She was impulsive like that. Some called it gullible. Either way, she was never afraid. Nothing daunted her.

  Initially the journalist had been discomfited by Monica’s presence. He’d felt invaded. Monica could have that effect sometimes. But then he grew accustomed to her and they began the hunt proper.

  Ronny had seen several articles about the hoax. Naturally people doubted the existence of the oranpendic. But the journalist claimed to have seen him, briefly, and his account of this fantastical discovery was fairly convincing.

  Monica had a theory about faces. She said honesty was something you could see in a person’s face. Someone’s sincerity, their integrity, was as apparent to Monica on the first meeting as their hair colour or the shape of their nose. This was her preoccupation. Her instinct.

  In fact she had two main instincts. The first was for honesty, and the second told her that the oranpendic was alive but that he was afraid. The threat of discovery terrified him. So he kept hidden.

  She wrote to Ronny.

  ♦

  He’s afraid, Ronny. I know that much. He lives and walks in fear. Some days, if I wake early, I go out alone just after dawn. Everything is glazed. The air is full of moisture. It’s as thick, as dense as a woollen scarf pressing down on to my lips and up into my nostrils.

  At these times I dream I’ll see him. But he’s pale like the mist and he’s so afraid that it’s as if he’s only a ghost. I always have the camera – not Louis’s big professional thing, I have my own, a cheap one that I’ve never yet used, just in case – but I sometimes imagine that if I tried to photograph him, the fear, the focus, the technology, would obliterate him. And all that would remain – in the camera, in the world – would be vapour. A mist and a smell.

  Fear has its own special aroma. Like soil. Like cider vinegar. Did I lose you yet, Ronny? Did I? Could I?

  Here’s the truth. If I saw him I would not photograph him. It would be so rude, don’t you think? I’ve never told Louis I feel this way. He’d scoff. I mean that’s why he’s here, after all. He has more to lose than I do. He’s been publicly and uniformly ridiculed and slandered, so that’s fair enough.

  But if I saw the oranpendic I would not photograph him. I would kneel and I would hold out my hand. I would not stare. I’d look off sideways, like a friendly cat. That’s what I’d do. I’d adopt a submissive posture.

  Oh God Ronny I wish you were here. I’m sorry you lost your hair. I am. Did I ever say that before? I can’t remember. Do you miss me? My own hair is long now. I tie it back. Otherwise it catches on twigs and on branches. It’s stupid and impractical but I’m growing it as a tribute. I’m growing it for you.

  You feel very close at this moment. Is that stupid? Are you near me? Are you out there, hiding in the jungle, watching, waiting but I just can’t see you? Is it me who’s dense or is it the forest? Is it me?

  Shut your eyes Ronny, and imagine me here. Close your eyes. Close them. Do you see me? My hair is longer. My nails are dirty. Do you see me? I am kneeling: I am holding out my hand.

  Take it. M.

  ♦

  Ronny continued to stare at his shoes. White shoes. Then he stirred himself and picked up his bottle of weedkiller. He had walked five miles that day. He’d sprayed every crack in every bit of pavement. No weeds would come after he’d been. There would be no green after he’d been. No lush diversity in the pavement’s monotony. He’d seen to that.

  It was hot inside his helmet. But Ronny walked and he sprayed. Like a tomcat, scenting all those docile miles with the stink of poison. He didn’t think of the poison though, only of Monica. His own breath soaked his face. The forests were hot and airless. Like this, he supposed. He was close to her. She was right. He was very close. And she was certainly a rare bird.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Five

  He drove home later than he’d anticipated and hit the rush hour. In his keenness to evade it he’d skipped changing, so wore his white skin-suit, in full, but without the helmet. From the neck downwards he resembled an alien. Or an astronaut. He even wore his plastic gloves, which generated a curious friction on the steering wheel as he turned corners.

  Pulling up to a roundabout in Lee Green, Ronny noticed something exceptional. A man was standing on the island in the centre of the roundabout. He was tall with a beard, his arm was extended, his left arm, and in his hand he held something that shone in the glare of many headlights. Something gold.

  The traffic was heavy. Ronny waited his turn to join the flow. He stared at the man. Someone flashed their lights behind him. He took his chance. He pulled into the traffic. He did one circuit. He did two. On the third circuit he indicated left and slid into a parking space outside the World of Leather showroom. He sat for a while and gazed at the showroom through his windscreen. Then he climbed out of his car and walked back over to the road. He stopped at the kerb, put his hands to his lips and yelled.

  “RONNY!”

  The other Ronny gave no indication of having heard him so he whistled and called again.

  “RONNY!”

  The other Ronny turned, cocked his head to one side but did not move. Ronny waited for a gap in the traffic and then jogged over. The other Ronny continued to hold out the glittering object. It was a watch.

  Ronny raised his voice over the honk of the traffic. “What are you doing here?”

  The other Ronny showed him the watch.

  “I’m holding out this watch.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m offering myself. I’m offering my time. To this island.”

  After a pause he added, “I like that suit. You look like the Michelin Man.”

  “It’s protective clothing.”

  Ronny stared at the watch. It seemed familiar. The other Ronny caught him looking.

  “Recognize it?”

  Ronny swallowed, suddenly unnerved. “Should I?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that I think it might be yours.”

  Ronny took a step backwards. “I don’t own a watch.”

  “Yes you do. You’re wearing one.”

  Ronny blinked. “I mean I don’t own that watch.”

  “It has an inscription on the back…”

  The other Ronny turned the watch over. Engraved in the gold were the words: “To Big Ron, with love, your Elaine.”

  Ronny began shaking. His suit quivered and it made a strange synthetic sound, a noise like a gust of wind hitting the canvas jib of a small sailing boat, a sound like the beat of a swan’s wings in flight. It was clearly audible but the other Ronny seemed not to notice.

  “I wish I could whistle like you do,” the other Ronny said, “but I can’t whistle at all. I never learned.”

  “Whistle?” Ronny scowled, and then recollected. “Oh…” As a kind of strangled appendix he added, “In fact it’s my father’s watch,” and then, with startling synchronicity, his nose began running.

  He rubbed at it with the back of his glove, but the glove was plastic and soaked up nothing. Instead it smeared moisture across his cheek for the chill evening air to tip-toe over.

  The other Ronny continued to inspect the watch. “It looks expensive. Will he be wanting it back?”

  “No.” Ronny shook his head and then sniffed violently. The other Ronny glanced up. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  He focused in on Ronny’s face. His gaze was like the pure sweep of a bowling green; it was flat and it was plain and it went on and on. Ronny was alarmed. He began blinking rapidly. A nervous tic.

  The other Ronny looked crestfallen. “I’ve brought back some bad feelings. I’m sorry.”

  He curled his han
d around the watch so that Ronny was no longer obliged to look at it. Ronny said nothing but he kept on blinking. If he stopped blinking he’d start crying and that wouldn’t do. He’d never cried.

  But he remembered the watch. Very clearly. And mixed in with the memory was the scratch of rough hessian and the pungent taint of cider vinegar. Something acrid.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Who?”

  “Big Ron.”

  “Yes.” Ronny nodded.

  “The way you spoke earlier made it sound like he was still living.”

  “He is living,” Ronny struggled. “I mean, in my head.”

  Again he put his gloved hand to his face.

  “Actually,” the other Ronny intervened, “you have a rash. On your cheek. You should stop touching it.”

  Ronny took his hand from his cheek and swore softly. “My gloves might have chemicals on them.”

  “You should’ve taken them off then.”

  “They’re attached to the suit. I was in a hurry to return the car. It isn’t mine.”

  The other Ronny craned his neck to peer over at the car.

  “Green Volvo,” he mused, unhelpfully.

  “Yes.” Ronny spun around and jogged to the edge of the island. His nose was still running. His eye began stinging. He’d been clumsy. He hated himself for it.

  The other Ronny watched impassively as he jinked through the traffic.

  Back at the car, Ronny unzipped his suit and unrolled the top half down to his waist. It was a complex manoeuvre that took several minutes, during which time the pain in his cheek intensified.

  He scrabbled around in the sidepocket on the driver’s side of the car and located a bottle of water which he unscrewed, sniffed and then poured on to his hand and dabbed over his cheek. He repeated this process several times and then inspected his face in the side mirror. His cheek, nose and left eye were slightly puckered and swollen. He applied some more water.