A Smaller Hell (4 page)

As I exited the warm building through the back door, I realised how draining the interview had been.  I felt as if I'd been lured in by the pretty Christmas lights and the music, chewed up, drained of nutrients and shat out on to the icy pavement.  My jacket didn't offer much protection against the wintry blast raging through the alleyway.  Although it was only 10 a.m., it seemed much later; the daylight struggling to find its way into this obscure little nook of the townscape.  At the end of the alley, I could see the customer car park, glowing with Christmas lights and already bustling with shoppers and natives.  I wrapped my hand a bit tighter in the first-aid bandage, pulled my jacket together and made for the car park.

When reached the end of the alley, an old VW Golf pulled up next to me. It was the pretty applicant who had come to my aid earlier in the waiting room.  The window whirred downwards and she smiled at me.

‘How's the hand?’

‘Oh, I'm fine,’ I said, even though blood was still seeping through the bandages.

‘Come on, let me see.’

I held out my hand, which she unwrapped and inspected gently.  ‘That needs stitches.’

‘Oh, come on.  It's just a scratch.’

‘My mother's a nurse.  She's off today.  She'll take a look at it for you,’ she said, smiling at me and patting the passenger seat.  ‘Come on, get in.’

I was not looking forward to the journey home through the frozen wilderness of the docks. ‘I don't want to put you out,’ I said.

‘Not at all.’

I rounded the car and got in.  Inside it smelled of expensive shampoo and strawberries, a welcome break from the exhaust fumes, cheap pasties and the tang of stale booze wafting from the cellar vents of the pubs.  We pulled away from the store's car park and into the city traffic, which was like a stampeding herd of steel livestock, honking, screeching and growling at each other.

‘Thank you for this,’ I said, drained.

‘No problem.’

‘What's your name?’

‘Rachel.’

I was hypnotised by the motion of the car and the sweet smells therein.  My eyes were heavy and for a moment I began to drift into sleep.

‘Aren't you going to tell me yours?’ she asked.

‘It’s Tony.  I haven't slept much this past week.  My bed is perched on the edge of a wharf.’

‘Oh, I know what you mean.  Tractors and sheep can be just as bad though.’ 

‘Steel sheep.’

‘What?’

‘Bad sheep,’ I murmured, returning to sleep. 

Another silence passed and blackness washed over me as I was swept along on a magic carpet equipped with strawberries and air conditioning. 

A cold breeze brought me round rudely and I looked up to see Rachel's outline above me.  She was undoing my seatbelt and as my eyes adjusted, I realised something was amiss.  She had developed laughter lines during the journey. 

‘Errr … how long was I asleep?’

She laughed gently and helped me out of the Golf.
 
‘I'm Rachel's mum, Liz.’

‘Did I say anything … in my sleep?’  I asked, squinting against the low winter sun.

‘You were dreaming,’ Rachel said.

The place we'd arrived at might as well have been a thousand miles away.  There were rolling green hills, ancient stone walls separating the fields, the salt from the estuary carried on the fresh breeze and before us stood a tiny sandstone cottage, which looked warm and welcoming.

‘Now let's get you inside and have a look at this hand of yours.’  

The house was only lightly decorated.  A lot of sandstone was still showing in the rooms, next to the millstones and antique farming stuff about the place.  Rachel led me into the kitchen and I was overwhelmed by the view across the fields, down to the wide river along which a small mountain range had been whittled to perfection. 

‘Ok then, let's have a look.’ 

Liz had already started unwrapping my hand.

‘I love it here.  It's so peaceful,’ I said, wincing as Liz poked and prodded at the wound.

‘It's up to you: either I fix you with butterfly sutures and you put up with a bit of scarring, or we go and sit in casualty for two hours, by which time it will be too old to stitch anyway.’

I thought on this for a minute.

‘The first one, please.’

‘Are you sure you trust me?’ Liz asked.

Rachel and I walked over to the old wooden love swing halfway down the large garden.  There was an apple tree beside it, stripped of its fruits and leaves by the salty winter wind.

‘How close are we to the sea?’ I asked.

‘The river runs right into the estuary just over there,’ she said, pointing beyond the trees in the distance. 

‘If you go to the promenade on the other side on a windy day, you can see the waves crashing over the sea wall.’

Rachel sat down on the love swing.  I hesitated, put off by its rickety appearance and the uncomfortable truth that since I'd stopped boxing, my backside had doubled in size.
 
‘Is it safe?’

Rachel smiled and patted the spot next to her.  I sat down and inhaled all the glorious scents around me: the wet grass, the sea salt, the bark of the apple tree, Rachel's shampoo and the faint tang of manure from the fields. 

‘Thank you for today,’ I said, looking down at my neatly sutured and bandaged hand.  ‘Your mum's nice as well.’

Rachel looked at me out of the corner of her eye and grimaced.  ‘Don't say it.’

‘Well ... she is a bit, isn't she?’

‘Just because she's a nurse,’ she said, hitting me on the shoulder. 

‘She looks like you,’ I said, waving to Liz who was at the kitchen window, preparing our lunch.

‘Is that supposed to be smooth or something?’

‘I'm not the one who suggested we sit on the love swing.’

‘
Everyone
calls it that.  That's just what it's called,’ she said, hitting me again. 

‘All this touching business as well.  What am I supposed to think?’

‘I was just trying to help out someone who had an unfortunate episode right in front of me.  V
ery
unfortunate,’ she said.

‘You saw I was injured and you pounced.’

‘Do you know that you drooled on yourself while you were passed out?’ 

‘Fine.  How deep is that river down there?’

I got up to walk off and she pulled me back down by my injured hand.  I pretended that she'd hurt me more than she did.

 ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching her hands to her mouth.  I clutched my hand between my knees, doubled over in fake agony.

‘Oh God, it’s started bleeding again,’ I gasped.

‘I'm sorry.  Let me see.’

All that was waiting in my clutched, bandaged hand was a V-sign.  She gave me another slap before chasing me back up the garden towards the cottage.  As I reached the door, I realised that she had the key, so I conceded defeat.
She gave me a long kiss, making my head spin.

‘You're not going to pass out again, are you?’

We resumed our kiss, oblivious to her mum's voice calling us in for lunch. 

As we sat over our clean plates at the ancient wooden dining table, we talked and laughed of everyday things, until the subject of where I was from came up. 

‘Well, all over the place, really.  Wherever there's work, I suppose,’ I said.  ‘Before I worked in the call centre, I used to coach boxing down south.’

Something was crawling on my leg.  I jolted the table and all the plates and cutlery as I stood up to brush it off.  Nothing there.  Rachel was blushing.

‘What is it?’ Liz asked.

I looked at Rachel. 

‘I thought it was an insect.  It's gone now.’

‘So are you still boxing now?’ Liz asked.

‘No, haven't boxed for years.  Shoulder injury.  I just do a bit of training here and there.  Not enough though,’ I said, patting my belly.

‘Then where did you get the broken ribs?’

‘I must have happened when I passed out in the waiting room,’ I lied.

‘When you had your panic attack, you mean?’

‘Mum,’ Rachel interrupted.

‘It wasn't a panic attack.  I just haven't had much sleep recently.’

‘Well, I think you should come back for dinner one night this week so that I can take a look.’

‘How did you know?’ I asked, standing up from the table.

‘You hold them every time you sit down or stand up, and don't breathe for about ten seconds afterwards.’

I looked down and sure enough, I was clutching my left side out of habit now.

‘Oh,’ I smiled, embarrassed at my transparency. 

‘Will you come again for dinner?’ Liz asked.

Rachel and I talked in the car for hours while we looked out across the river.  Fast food wrappers and empty booze bottles rattled up and down the promenade, while the stinking river churned a sinister hue of froth.  Everything here was violated, even the skyline by the looming tower blocks, though it seemed as if it was violated for
us
.  The sea breeze carried salt and the promise of colder weather to come.  Elderly couples wrapped up in their warmest scarves, coats and gloves hobbled along the promenade hand in hand, taking time every now and then to observe the dubious beauty of the scenery before them.  I wondered what sounds and smells returned to them in their attempts to recapture the glory of their courtship days.  I had read of a large outdoor pool, a fairground, a race track and a tower here before the war.  I imagined the jingle-jangle of carousel music in the distance, people laughing and splashing in the pool, the smell of the cockle stalls and for the fine diners, fish and chips, the roar of the race car engines and the brew of motor oil and sea spray mingling in the air with their now ancient lovesick promises that things would always be this good.  How many ghosts might return to the promenade, haunted by the echoes of those promises, perhaps eager to catch a glimpse of what could have been?  Would they laugh at the survivors shuffling about in this briny detritus?  Or would they cry?

‘I sometimes come down here to think,’ said Rachel.

‘Yeah, who wants all that peace and quiet in your back garden?’

‘You can be a sarcastic shit, do you know that?’ she said, frowning at me.

‘I’m only kidding. What do you think about?’

‘I think about other waterfronts.  How many other people around the world are sitting on the promenade or the beach, trying to figure it out?’

‘Figure out what?’

‘Well, that's just it.  I don't even know why I come here.  I suspect none of the other people do either.’

‘Dogging?’

‘You're disgusting.  Look at this couple here,’ she said, nodding towards a gentleman pushing his wife along in her wheelchair.  ‘They probably spent their Sunday afternoons spent picnicking on the grass verge over there or riding the carousels or watching the races … ’

‘You're far too sentimental.’

‘You're just upset because you're nearly old enough to remember all that.’ 

The sound of breaking, crunching glass just outside the car caused me to open my eyes as the old dears were shuffling past.  The gentleman lifted his left moccasin, revealing a used needle, smashed and stuck to his sole with its rusty red contents dripping on to the pavement.  He tried to reach down for it, whilst leaning on his oblivious sweetheart, and set her chair in motion towards the seawall ramp, leading down into the churning icy brown swell. 

‘Don't touch that!’ I shouted at the old man as I jumped out of the car and raced past him.

Startled, he pulled his hand away, crunching his foot back on to the pavement.  By now, the wheelchair had picked up speed, but the old lady remained wrapped up in her blanket as the chair sped towards the water.  I managed to grab the handles just as it reached the ramp and dug my heels into the slimy seaweed to no avail.  We were heading for the furious, filthy bed of brine at speed.  I braced myself for the shock of the tide's icy grip, but three feet short of the water line, my boot heel caught on a hole in the concrete.  I hung my head in relief before trying to turn her around and haul her and her chair back up the ramp.  Rachel was pointing at the water, but I couldn’t hear what she was shouting above the noise of the sea.  I looked up to see the old lady's pink blanket being tossed about in the dirty waves.  The chair was empty.

‘Throw me that life belt!’ I shouted to Rachel.

She was standing there at the top of the ramp, hands clasped over her mouth.

‘Quick!’

She pulled the life belt free from the sea wall and threw it down to me.  After tying the orange rope around my waist, I threw the belt into the river close to where the blanket was still dancing beneath the murky surface, braced myself and ran down the ramp, waiting until the last moment to dive.  I swam downwards, clutching handfuls of water, desperately trying to find the old lady.  My hand wrapped up in something, but as I surfaced I saw through stinging eyes that it was just the blanket.  I threw it aside and dived again, my other hand tangling up in something else this time.  I'd not felt the true brunt of the current until this point and when it threw me, I felt completely helpless as it pounded me into the barnacled seawall.  I could hear Rachel's screams intermittently as the crashing of the waves allowed.  I struggled to recover the life belt before a huge wave swallowed me.  In its fearsome belly, I saw the colour of cats' eyes when they have spotted prey, sharp mermaid's purses containing the eggs of some cold-blooded creature, plastic shopping bags, seaweed and the salty taste of regret before falling unconscious.