Nicola Barker
Wide Open
Thames Gateway #1
1998, EN
This is truly extraordinary work of fiction, taking readers into a small English seaside town, and into the minds and hearts of its remarkable inhabitants – a man named Ronny, weed killer by trade, who has some strange things in common with a man he finds dangling from a bridge; Nathan, the son of a pedophile, who toils in the Underground’s Lost Property department, endlessly logging missing items; Sara, purveyor of her family boar farm, and Lily, her teenage daughter, tragically born with unformed organs and blood that refuses to clot.
Starkly original and at turns hilarious, sad, and hopeful, ‘Wide Open’ brilliantly displays Nicola Barker’s delightfully singular literary talent.
Table of contents
1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11 · 12 · 13 · 14 · 15 · 16 · 17 · 18 · 19 · 20 · 21 · 22 · 23 · 24 · 25 · 26 · 27 · 28 · 29 · 30 · 31 · 32 · 33 · 34 · 35 · 36 · 37 · 38 · 39 · 40 · 41 · 42 · 43 · 44 · 45 · 46 · 47
∨ Wide Open ∧
One
Each day Ronny saw the same man waving. The man stood in the middle of a bridge, at its very centre point, but always looking outwards, facing away from London, never towards it. Ronny drove under that bridge in a borrowed car, a Volvo (the big bumpers reassured him), and into London along the A2 for three consecutive weeks. Every day, no matter what the time – he was working shifts, and by no means regular ones – the man stood on the bridge, waving.
He didn’t wave randomly. He picked out a car as a smudge on the horizon and then focused on that car alone, until it had passed from sight, until it had driven right under him. Until it had gone. Then he’d choose another car and the whole process would start over.
Ronny noticed that the man preferred white cars and yellow cars, that he never waved at red cars. Ronny’s car was green. He was waved at sometimes, but infrequently. He didn’t wave back.
Some days it rained. It was the tail end of summer. It was the beginning of winter. It was autumn, formally, but Ronny hated gradations. It wasn’t summer. Summer had gone. It wasn’t winter. Winter was frosty, traditionally, and it was nowhere near cold enough for frost yet. It was simply a wet time. The whole earth was sodden and weighted and clotted and terrible. It was raining. Always raining. But the man stood on the bridge and he waved, nonetheless.
On the last day, the final day of his three-week working stint, Ronny looked out for the man but saw that he was not waving. He was there, sure enough, but he was crouched over, hanging, it seemed, across the bar of the bridge. What was he thinking of? What was he doing? Ronny scowled and tried to keep his eyes on the road.
He didn’t want to stare, but his eyes kept shifting from the road to the bridge, from the road to the bridge. He indicated and then swung into the inside lane. He slowed down, inadvertently. A truck honked and jolted him out of his eye-high reverie.
He passed under the bridge and then out the other side. He checked his rear-view mirror. He couldn’t see anything. Why should he? He was on the wrong side now. He slowed down even further. Three cars overtook him. His foot touched the brake.
What was he doing? He didn’t want to stop but he found himself stopping. He pulled into the hard shoulder. He turned off the engine, unfastened his seatbelt, stepped out of the car, slammed the door shut behind him but didn’t pause to lock it. Instead he started off towards the bridge at a lively pace. His keys bumped and jangled against his thigh in his pocket.
He reached the embankment, drew breath for a moment and then began to climb. It was steep. The soil was damp. His shoes – white shoes – were muddied. He cursed.
Eventually he made it to the top. He clambered over the fence, crossed the road, and was finally able to see the waver up close. He felt an unexpected surge of gratification, as though this visual intimacy was something he’d longed for, only he hadn’t quite realized it.
At first glance the waver seemed fairly unexceptional. He had a beard and longish, tangled brown hair. He was pale. His clothes were shabby. He’d been crying.
Ronny drew closer. He stamped the mud off his shoes. “Is anything the matter?”
The man was bent double, was curled up like a dirty bandage, but he grew and grew like Jack’s beanstalk when Ronny spoke to him. He seemed to unfold, to unwind to his full height, which was considerable. Tall, Ronny thought, and thin. Ronny was thin too, but he felt much smaller.
“Is something wrong?”
The man was standing now, and Ronny saw that he had not in fact been squatting before but sitting, on a small battered-looking cardboard box. He had his left hand cupped, and in his curved palm he held something.
“What is that?”
The man answered, his voice nearly extinguished by the roar of the traffic below, “Come and see.”
Ronny drew closer still. He stared into the man’s hand. He inhaled sharply. The man’s fingers were shiny with scar tissue, but only on their tips, where they shone as smooth as wax, as pale as lard. Nestled in the centre of these strange fingers was a dirty palm. In the palm was a wasp.
“A wasp,” Ronny said softly. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It was in a puddle. I should have left it but I saw it was still moving so I picked it up. I believed I could save it.”
Ronny stared at the wasp more fixedly. It was still alive. It moved, but only slightly. It seemed to be arching itself, the dainty waist between its black thorax and striped abdomen virtually snapping in two.
“It’s been writhing,” the man said, his voice – Ronny felt – ridiculously emotional.
“It’s been in so much pain.”
Ronny adjusted the blue woollen hat he was wearing. He pulled it low over his eyebrows. He cleared his throat, cautiously. “I don’t think wasps feel pain,” he said, anticipating a strong reaction.
The man glanced up, clearly indignant, his eyes, Ronny noticed, a wild cess-pit green, his cheeks drawn and hollow. “How can you know that?”
“I don’t. I’m just guessing.”
“Well you’re wrong. Look properly for a second and then try and tell me that it feels nothing.”
Ronny tried his best to look properly. The wasp stirred, only slightly, but it seemed to be shuddering. Its movements were small yet jagged and loose and horrible.
“It’ll die in a minute,” Ronny muttered, vaguely disquieted, withdrawing again and wishing he could ask the man why it was that he waved, but he didn’t because he fancied – quite correctly – that his timing might be off-kilter. The man continued to focus on the wasp.
Ronny inspected his watch. It was getting late.
“I’ll be off then.”
The man was very quiet, seemed barely to breathe he was so intent on his vigil. Eventually he said, “I think he’s finally going.”
Ronny nodded and turned to leave. This was a private moment. He had no wish to intrude. He took several steps and then…
“My God!”
He spun around, his heart racing. “What?”
“The wasp!”
Ronny smiled weakly at his own faint-heartedness, but he stepped up again with no visible signs of resentment.
“See?”
The man showed Ronny his hand. Ronny looked. The wasp was still. It was dead.
“It’s dead.”
The man grunted, unimpressed. “I know it’s dead. But did you see the sting?”
“The sting?”
The man pointed. “When it died it curled up, incredibly tightly, and then the sting came shooting out from the back there, the whole sting was revealed in that final moment.”
Ronny felt absurd but he bent forward any
way. Sure enough, he saw the sting.
“I see it.”
“There’s a wonderful logic to it sliding out like that,” the man said, almost smiling. Ronny tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“He’s at rest. He’s surrendered. He’s finally given up his weapon.”
Ronny considered this for a while and then said, “No. I don’t see it that way at all.”
The man looked up. “You don’t? So how do you see it?”
“Well…” Ronny scratched his neck. “He’s a warrior. His weapon is drawn even in death. Especially in death. That’s the whole point of a wasp. He’s the kamikaze pilot of the insect world.”
The man smiled at this, he stared at Ronny intently, at his neat edges, his apparent cleanliness, his bright, pale face. Eventually he said, “That’s very funny.”
Ronny rubbed his nose, modestly.
“But all the same…” the man continued, “it’s not actually true. Only bees die when they sting. Wasps work differently. They’re tougher. He’s given up his weapon. That’s plainly how it is.”
Ronny didn’t agree but he merely shrugged. He found it hard to commit himself to disagreements.
The man was silent for a while. Ronny studied him. He seemed very young but his face was not a very young face. It was lined, vertically, and not in the places normal faces creased and wrinkled. It was as though he’d only just woken up from a hard sleep but his face hadn’t shaken it, hadn’t hurled off its sheets and its blankets yet to get on with the business of living.
He seemed ludicrously pliant and tractable, but singular. He seemed…Ronny shuddered at the thought…he seemed wide, wide open. But you couldn’t survive that way. Not in this world. Not for long. Ronny knew it.
In fact he prided himself on being shut right up. Like an oyster. Like a tomb. Like a beach-hut in winter; all bolted, all boarded. Like the bright lips of an old wound. Resolutely sealed.
“Well, I think I’ll be going,” he said finally, swallowing down his unease and then feeling it bob back up in his throat like a ballcock.
The man glanced at Ronny, but only quickly, as though he could barely stand to drag his eyes away from the dead wasp. “Today’s been worthwhile after all,” he muttered. “You know? Just to get to see the wasp and the sting and everything.”
Ronny thought the man must be deranged but he nodded anyway.
“Do you need another look before I bury him?”
“Need?” Ronny smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”
The man sighed. “He feels so hollow and light now that the life has gone. Before he had a kind of weight. Some gravity. But not any more.”
Ronny turned to go.
The man spoke again, a parting shot, it seemed, because as he spoke he also turned. “I’m Ronny.”
Ronny froze.
“Ronny?”
The other Ronny stopped turning.
“What?”
Ronny pointed to himself.
“I’m Ronny too.”
They both paused.
“Uh…actually,” Ronny said, “I’m Ronald. How about you?”
The other Ronny shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“We’re The Two Ronnies.”
The other Ronny didn’t get it. “What?”
“Like in the comedy show.”
“What comedy show?”
“You don’t remember The Two Ronnies? The little one with glasses and the bigger, fatter one?”
The other Ronny shook his head. “No.”
“Oh. I thought everybody knew about them.”
The other Ronny pointed at the wasp and said, “I think I’d better bury him.” He started walking towards the edge of the bridge. He walked strangely. Ronny thought that this was because there was something wrong with his legs but then he realized that his shoes were several sizes too large. They were white shoes.
“Excuse me…”
The other Ronny stopped walking. “What?”
“We’re wearing the same shoes.”
The other Ronny peered down at his shoes. “These aren’t my shoes.”
“Not yours? Then whose are they?”
“I don’t know. I must’ve picked them up somewhere.”
Ronny drew closer to the other Ronny. “You know, it’s a rare thing to see someone in white shoes. And those shoes are special. They’re the kind I wear for work.”
The other Ronny frowned and looked down at his shoes a second time. “Maybe they are your shoes.”
Ronny squinted at this, baffled. “Pardon?”
“I got them in Lost Property. Maybe you lost them and I picked them up. I’m called Ronny. So are you. Maybe the person on the desk got us confused.”
“Lost Property?”
“On the Underground. The tube. At Baker Street.”
Ronny let this sink in for a few seconds and then he said softly, “My brother works there.”
The other Ronny was clearly impressed. “Really? In the office?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Uh…reddish hair. Blue eyes. Quite short.”
The other Ronny grinned. “I know him.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. That’s Nathan. I know him. I go in there all the time. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been going in there.”
“What for?”
“I keep losing stuff.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The other Ronny bit his lip. “Nathan? Uh…a month.”
“How did he look?”
“I think he looked fine.”
Ronny was clearly delighted, but he spoke with an element of restraint. “Well that’s good then.”
“So…” the other Ronny seemed genuinely interested, “when was the last time you saw him?”
“Ten years ago.”
The other Ronny mulled this over for a while and then said, “I’ve got a whole family somewhere that I’ve never even met. Brothers and sisters. All lost.”
Ronny didn’t want to appear competitive so he laboriously adjusted his collar in an attempt to distance himself. “That’s a great pity,” he said finally, “luckily I have no sisters.”
The other Ronny looked serious. “Yes, that is a relief.”
“It is?”
Ronny was bemused. The other Ronny gazed up at the sky. It had begun to rain again. He turned his attention back to Ronny. “There’s this famous story about a man who meets someone purely by accident but the more they find out about each other the more they realize that they have things in common until finally they realize that they are the same person. I don’t know who wrote the story.”
Ronny took a deep breath. “It wasn’t a story. It was a play. It’s by Ionesco. And what happens is that the two men realize that they have the same life but that they are in fact different people.”
“Oh. Right.”
The other Ronny suppressed a grimace. He was clearly dissatisfied with this piece of clarification.
“Which makes the whole thing even more absurd.” Ronny added, as an afterthought, “anyway…” He pulled off his hat, “we don’t look alike.”
Without his hat Ronny resembled a king prawn, fully processed; legs gone, shell gone, ready for serving, soft and pink and pale and smooth. Pure and unadorned.
His was a gentle face, a complex mixture of blankness and fullness. He was plain as a boiled sweet, but his eyes were deep, complex and dark-ringed, and his lashless lids were swollen. His irises were the mellow, golden brown of raw cane sugar.
“You’ve got no hair.”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
“Alopecia.”
It began raining harder. Ronny put his hat back on again. The other Ronny hunched up his shoulders to keep the rain from dripping down his neck. “Did you get here by car?”
Ronny nodded. “Green Volvo. I parked on the hard shoulder.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Yes.�
��
“Unless you broke down.”
“No. The car’s fine. I stopped because I thought you might be intending to jump.”
“Me?” The other Ronny looked flabbergasted. “From this bridge?”
Ronny felt embarrassed. To hide it he said quickly, “I’m on my way to work. I’m in Tottenham for a while.”
The other Ronny didn’t seem to register.
“So…” Ronny struggled, “uh…what’s in the box then?”
“The box?” The other Ronny looked down. “This box?”
“Yes.”
The box was approximately a foot and a half square and firmly sealed with strong brown tape.
The other Ronny paused and then smiled. “My soul.”
“Your soul?” Ronny didn’t like this kind of talk. He didn’t like talk of souls.
Ronny smiled even wider. “I’m kidding.”
Then he added softly, without prompting and without feeling, “I used to live on Claremont Road. In a squat. Now it’s gone. They built a link road over it. So I decided to give myself up to the road. To many roads. And now I’m on the motorway. I’m trying to find out what I can get back from it. I’ve been waving from here for three weeks.”
Ronny was pleased to have had his first question answered at last. By way of recompense he said, “I live on the Isle of Sheppey. By the sea. Not the sea, really, the channel.”
The other Ronny nodded. “Yes, Sheppey.”
“You know it?” Ronny strained to think of reasons why a person would go to Sheppey.
“Did you pass through to catch the ferry?”
“No.”
“Are you a keen birdwatcher?”
“No.”
He paused for a moment. “Were you in prison there?”
The other Ronny smiled and said, “I know someone who lives there.”
Ronny checked his watch. “I’d better be off.”
He proffered the other Ronny his hand to shake. He wanted to seal this interlude, formally. He was pleased with it but he wanted it contained.
The other Ronny couldn’t shake his hand.
“I can’t shake your hand,” he said gently, “I’m still holding the wasp.”
“So you’re left-handed,” Ronny said, “like me.”
Thames Gateway 01; Wide Open Page 1
