The Woman on the Pier

by B P Walter

  As I’m coming back down, the secretary on the desk stops me. ‘Sorry, we’re just letting guests know that there’ll be a function in the main dining area – a party for the Southend and Shoeburyness Adult Entertainment awards. So dinner will stop serving at 6.30, but you’re welcome to go in any time before then.’

  I stop and stare at him. ‘Adult Entertainment?’

  He looks embarrassed. ‘I know, it’s an unfortunate name, but we’ve been assured it doesn’t mean anything dodgy. Just stand-up comedians, musicians, that kind of thing. I think they got annoyed at the amount of children’s party entertainers and teen bands entering and clogging up the shortlists, so they inserted the “adult” word.’

  I’m aware the taxi is probably waiting around the back of the building by now, so I just nod and try to extricate myself from the discussion. ‘Right. OK. Thanks for the warning.’

  ‘Can I not put you down for a table? You can have dinner early? Table for two for you and, er, your friend?’

  His eyes flick towards the armchairs. From this angle, we can just see some legs, evidently belonging to a teenage boy, and some trainers that have seen better days, protruding from one of the chairs, resting up against the coffee table. They’re jiggling up and down slightly, causing the copies of Essex Life to jerk close to the edge. There’s a small smile playing on the man’s lips.

  ‘Er, no. He’s my… my son. I’m just putting him in a taxi. To the train station. He’s going to boarding school.’

  I don’t know why I’m making up such a detailed story, but there’s something in the receptionist’s face that’s making heat flood to my face.

  ‘Oh, really? That’s nice,’ he says, a little archly, with a slightly raised eyebrow, then turns back to his computer.

  I consider telling him that I don’t like his tone, but I can’t waste any more time. I leave the main desk and walk over to the sofas, raising the lad out of his seat by just a tilt of my head, indicating that we’re leaving. We exit the hotel in silence and, bent double against the wind and rain, rush as fast as my bruised body will permit round to the side where there is indeed a clearly marked taxi waiting for us.

  ‘Never seen weather like this,’ the driver says as he pulls out onto the road. ‘Bloody washout. It keeps getting worse. And they’ve had all them floods across some parts. Heard it on the news just now.’

  He flicks the radio on, but instead of news we’re treated to the chorus of ‘Hold On’ by Wilson Phillips. I glance to see what effect this has on my young friend next to me, who was probably born over a decade after this track first arrived in the world, but he’s busy tapping away on his phone. Probably messaging his brother.

  ‘Any news on your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s woken up, sort of. But keeps going back to sleep and… being sick. While she’s asleep. I think my brother finds that a bit scary. It’s not very nice.’

  No, it isn’t, I think to myself. And definitely not something two teenage boys should have to deal with.

  ‘Is your father… around?’ I was going to say ‘home’ but decided to be a little more vague.

  ‘He died. Well, disappeared. Mum’s always said he died. Said he pissed off the wrong people and they bumped him off, but I think she’s just watched too many shit films.’ He lets out a short laugh.

  ‘What type of thing did he do? For work, that is.’

  Something changes in his face slightly when I ask this. It becomes slightly surly, a closed-down look that makes it clear he’s controlling his expression, almost like he’s trying not to get upset. ‘He did all sorts. I think it was a building firm, something like that. He used to run jobs for them. Find things for them. Near London.’

  I don’t want to press the subject. It clearly upsets him in some way and I can fully understand the feeling of having some nosy individual prod at one’s most sensitive points, carrying on with the questions until finally you just want to shriek at them. He’s sniffing again and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to cry, but he controls himself with a short cough and straightens up, pressing his feet into the back of the seat in front of him, causing the driver to grunt pointedly.

  Before long, we start slowing down on a road of what look like rather grim council houses and I figure this is where he must live. I offer the driver my debit card and he taps it on his contactless machine and hands it back.

  ‘Down there,’ the boy says. ‘That’s where it happened.’

  It takes me a second to realise what he means, then I have a nauseating realisation that I’ve inadvertently returned to the site of my car accident.

  ‘Your car was turning out of the road down there when – smash. That other big four-by-four – a huge fucker – kind of totalled yours. It was horrible.’

  I stare down the empty road, awash with water gushing into the drains and some small branches that must have come down in the winds. ‘It was horrible to experience,’ I say. ‘Although I don’t remember much of it. Just the sound, really. Nothing much else.’

  The road does feel faintly familiar, although I’m not sure if it’s a true memory, fighting to get back, or if it’s my brain filling in the gaps with all the emotions I’m feeling.

  ‘If you can’t remember it, shouldn’t you still be in hospital?’ he asks.

  ‘Probably,’ I say. An impatient huff from the taxi driver. ‘Come on, we’d better get out.’

  Michael leads the way to his front door, my hair getting more or less soaked in the seconds it takes for us to scurry to the front door. Inside, I cast an eye over the rubbish in the hallway. Discarded junk mail, free local newspapers, takeaway boxes. A rather horrible, musty, stuffy scent hits me as I walk further in. Then another boy comes into view, stomping down the stairs. He looks tired and stressed, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a faded Star Wars branded T-shirt. He looks about the same age as Michael. I wonder if they might be twins, although they’re not identical. This one isn’t as classically handsome – more normal looking, with less evidence of a toned physique, just an unremarkable build, neither fat nor ultra-skinny, and light-brown hair.

  ‘She’s in the bath still,’ he says to his brother. Then he sees me and his eyes widen. ‘Why’s she here again?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Michael says, then turns to me. ‘You can stay down here while I sort out my mum.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I’m here to help. I’m happy to. If she’s unwell, we’ll get her sorted.’

  I’m not quite sure why I’m taking the role of ‘competent adult’ here. Maybe it’s because I just can’t stand the thought of these two boys having to deal with an unwell, unstable parent on their own. I am the only competent adult.

  Michael looks unsure. ‘It can be a bit… not very nice. She can be not very nice sometimes.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ I say, in a businesslike tone.

  We journey upstairs. Although the lights are on, the stairway and landing are dark and dingy. The bathroom is also in need of a good clean.

  Michael crashes in, the door knocking against the bath, causing a dark mass inside it to flinch and murmur ‘Fuuuckoffff.’ I stare at the woman inside. She’s lying in water up to her shoulders. She’s in old, dark jeans that have tears along the sides and what looks like a black jumper with a white graphic of a kitten’s face on the front.

  ‘The cold water woke her up,’ Michael says. ‘But now she won’t get out. I tried dragging her but she scratched me so I told her she can stay there.’

  I glance at the boy and see red-raw nail marks on his arms. Christ, is this what these boys have to live with?

  ‘I thought she’d gone back to sleep,’ he continues. ‘But when I said I was going to call an ambulance she started effing and blinding, so she can’t be that ill.’

  I look at her pallid, sickly looking face. She’s younger than me. Early thirties at the most. She must have had her boys young. Very young.

  ‘We really should call an ambulance,’ I say. ‘If you think she’s taken pills. Do you know what t
hey could have been?’

  Michael looks panicked now. ‘No, please. Please don’t. She’ll be furious and it only makes more problems.’ His face is earnest, pleading. ‘We’ll just get her dry and into bed. She’ll sleep it off.’ He looks over at his brother. ‘Did you clear up the sick? Where was it?’

  ‘She threw up in the bath once. I let the water out and started again. And she was being sick in her sleep in her room. But I’ve put her duvet cover into the washing machine. We haven’t got any washing powder, so I’ll get some tomorrow.’

  Tears almost fill my eyes at the thought of the boy stripping his mother’s bed of vomit-covered sheets and going out to buy detergent. My little girl never had to do anything like this. I would be the one clearing up sick. Her dad would run out to buy washing powder. If either of us were unwell, she wouldn’t be expected to care for us.

  ‘We can lift her together,’ Michael is saying.

  The other boy nods. ‘OK.’

  I’m pleased to be exempted from this arrangement and I don’t argue. After ignoring the doctor’s insistence that I shouldn’t exert myself, the pain in my arm and shoulder has risen considerably. I feel for my box of tablets in my pocket and, while they heave their dripping mother out of the bath and into a teetering standing position, I go over to the sink and turn on the cold water and scoop some into my hand. The tablets leave a bitter taste in my mouth and I rinse out a filthy-looking glass so I can take in more water.

  ‘…the fuck? The fucking posh bitch… she here again?’

  So she recognises me too. What did I do here, in this awful house? How did I find myself within its terrible walls? I feel ill and disorientated with the confusion of it. The need to get out of the grim bathroom overwhelms me.

  ‘I might go and wait downstairs,’ I say, as the boys half drag their mother out onto the landing and towards what is presumably her bedroom.

  ‘OK,’ Michael says, and they disappear through the door. I hear a thwump sort of sound – they must have dropped her onto the bed – then the sound of Michael ordering his brother to get her wet jeans off and find a towel.

  Feeling guilty that I should be helping them, I head downstairs. The dingy open-plan kitchen-and-lounge area makes me want to sob. I had imagined collapsing onto the sofa and waiting for the pills to do their work, but the thought of sitting amongst this mess horrifies me. Within a few seconds, I locate a roll of big pink recycling sacks that the council delivers, and start shovelling the detritus – pizza boxes, cartons that look like they once contained Indian takeaways, empty crisp packets, kitchen roll, promotional Dominos flyers – into the one of the bags, wincing each time I have to use my bad arm to steady myself.

  By the time the boys return, I have cleared most of the kitchen work surfaces and the small, unstable kitchen table and put on the washing machine, having found an old, dust-covered box of Ariel tablets in a Lidl bag next to the back door. Two and a half bags of recycling lean up against the sink while I sit in one of the cheap chairs and wait for the pain to subside.

  ‘God, what have you been doing?’ Michael says when he comes in.

  ‘I thought I’d tidy up a bit,’ I say. The other boy is looking at me warily, as if I’m exhibiting threatening behaviour.

  ‘I’ve never seen it looking like this,’ Michael says.

  ‘I haven’t finished. There’s more to do. I just needed to sit for a bit.’

  He nods and sits in the only spare seat next to me. The brother hovers awkwardly, his hands in the pockets of his pyjama trousers. Eventually he says, ‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ and wanders away. The sound of him climbing the stairs follows, then the closing of a door.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘She’ll be OK. She started telling us to fuck off and leave her alone when we were getting her into dry clothes. Usually better than not talking at all. She’s sleeping now. Unless she dies in the night, things will be back to normal tomorrow. Not that this isn’t normal.’ He kicks a leg of the table and it wobbles precariously.

  ‘Does… does she work?’ I ask.

  Michael lets out one of his short, hollow laughs. ‘She borrows money, then offers the guys favours when she can’t pay it back. My dad left her some in a bank account. Evan found the statements once. I think about five grand. But we barely saw any of it. After she’d bought us computers and some new clothes to make herself feel better, she pissed the rest of it up the wall – mostly weed, vodka, and machines.’

  ‘Machines?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘You know, betting machines.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘I understand.’

  Silence falls around us. The hum and rhythmic thump of the washing machine is somehow comforting, mingling with the rush of the wind and rain still continuing outside. We sit there for a while – it feels strangely comfortable, cosy even, us both at the table in the kitchen, sheltering from the storm. Although it’s only the afternoon, the light outside is once again diminishing, as if night is falling.

  ‘I’ve never known weather like this during the summer. It’s quite astonishing.’

  He nods. ‘Our school’s flooded. Or part of it is. They say the site’s unsafe for us. A tree’s come down near it too. It’s like the end of the world.’

  I’m struck by a memory of desolate weather and ruined landscape depicted in the film The Road, both deeply depressing and strangely beautiful. Maybe this is the end. Maybe the water will wash everything away. And all the hatred and sorrow in the world can be cleared and we can all start again.

  After a few more beats of silence, Michael says: ‘So. Your memory. How you going to get it back? Is there anything you do remember?’

  I try to think back. It physically hurts me to fish around in the ruined clutter of my mind, but I’ve managed to find an anchor point to the past, although it’s only in fragments. ‘I can remember the attack on Piccadilly Circus. That’s a few weeks ago now. I remember being very upset about it because it brought… it brought back…’

  I see him work it out before I can say it. ‘Your daughter?’

  I nod.

  ‘But I don’t remember it fully. Or what happened around that. I think I went to a friend’s birthday party, but I don’t recall much of it. It’s like trying to see underwater. Just vague shapes. And I don’t remember anything about Southend. Maybe, if I try, I can remember travelling here, or maybe getting to the hotel. That’s becoming clearer. But I still don’t know why I picked this place. Or what I did here.’

  ‘Or me,’ he says in a small voice.

  I knew I would have to tackle this head-on soon, and it might as well be now.

  ‘Michael, I don’t know why I got myself involved with you… Part of me is worried that I somehow led you on or, I don’t know, used you unfairly. And I know you want answers too. From the sounds of it, it was me who sought you out, but I can’t think why, or what I’d want to talk to you about.’

  He’s watching me intently. His eyes are so earnest, as if willing me to go on, but I have little more to say.

  ‘I thought you were after some kind of… I don’t know… hook-up. My brother does it sometimes with older women, but he usually finds it online. And I could tell you were staying here by yourself – I don’t know, I figured you’d left your husband or something – and you, well, just wanted to shag someone. And I hadn’t got laid in a while so I thought, why the fuck not, and we met at the hotel, we went up to your room… but like I said, as soon as I tried to start something, you got, well… weird.’

  He stops, looking as embarrassed as I feel.

  ‘And then?’ I prompt him.

  He takes a breath. ‘And then you kicked me out. But then you came to my house. And before Mum told you to leave, you were about to say something. Explain why we met. Why you already knew where I lived. It was like… like this big thing you were going to share.’

  I stare at him, genuinely lost for words.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t remember it?’ he says, looking more hop
eful, leaning in towards me.

  I wish I could offer him something more, but I just shake my head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t.’

  I think he’s going to cry and I reach out and put a hand on his. ‘Listen, Michael. I’m not in a very good place right now. I don’t know, maybe I wasn’t in a right state of mind when I said all that… maybe there isn’t a big secret I wanted to share.’

  He shakes his head now. ‘No, I’m sure there was. You seemed upset or stressed, but you were certain of it. And you had something in your pocket, something you kept touching.’ He shrugs, ‘I don’t know. I just think… if you left your home and your husband… surely there’d be a proper reason why?’

  I turn my gaze to the dusty, stained floor, unsure how to respond. ‘I think,’ I say, trying to clearly articulate the situation for myself as well as for him, ‘I think I came here because I just couldn’t go on with how I was living at home. It was just getting so awful. Toxic. Both me and Alec, my husband, stuck in this terrible place. Our grief about Jessica manifesting itself in different ways. We became strained. I think I must have just not been able to stand it any longer.’

  This makes sense to me as I say it. It sounds like the truth. A line from Michael Cunningham’s novel The Hours comes to me, where a woman has to explain why she left her child and husband: ‘It was death. I chose life.’ I choose not to share this literary reference with Michael.

  ‘I know that doesn’t explain about the thing you think I may have said to you—’

  He cuts me off, ‘You did say to me.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I hold up a hand, and then wince with the pain. I let a few beats of silence pass before continuing, more for myself than for him. ‘When Jessica died, it kind of ripped me and my husband apart. I think some couples come together at times like that. We’ve had little to do with the other survivors and families of victims of the Stratford attacks – just a few trips to these horribly sad meetings they organise. But I understand some of the parents of other teenagers who died have said that having each other has got them through it and may have even strengthened their love for each other. It sounds strange to say it, but maybe I can understand why it could work that way. It’s been rather the opposite for me and Alec. Things are broken and nasty, and I think I must have run away to escape that. Get some fresh air. New experiences. And maybe I got a bit carried away. Lost my senses a bit.’