A Smaller Hell Read online

  ‘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.

  I woke up to the sensation of being manhandled into a foil wrapper and on to a baking tray like a drumstick. Radios crackled and green uniforms drifted in and out of my field of vision, past the flashing blue lights. As they slid me into the yellow oven on wheels, I felt its warmth flood into my bones and darkness take me once again.

  Fly Away, Pigeon

  The accident and emergency room smell was unmistakable: booze, blood and disinfectant. Fluorescent tubes in the ceiling scrolled by as I was wheeled past the bungled and the botched, bleeding patiently in their plastic chairs. The orderly wheeled me into a bay and pulled the curtain halfway across: the worst revelation yet to come with the arrival of the doctor in the bay, who was about my age and had a kind demeanour.

  ‘Good day to you, Antony.’

  ‘I have to get out of here, Doctor.’

  ‘Hmmm, can I come with you? It’s been a long shift,’ he muttered whilst scribbling on his clipboard.

  ‘I feel a bit sick, but other than that, I'm alright, I think.’

  ‘We'll keep you in overnight just in case. The paramedics did an excellent job on you at the scene. I think it's just a case of mild hypothermia. With a little rest and hot food, you should be fine.’

  ‘Must I really stay in overnight?’

  Shahabuddin shook his head. ‘I would recommend it, but you can do whatever you want.’

  I smiled at him, let my head fall back on the pillow and closed my eyes.

  ‘Someone called Rachel is eager to see you. Should I send her up?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, as the orderly began wheeling me away to the ward. ‘Is the old lady … dead?’

  The orderly stopped.

  ‘There was no old lady. She died years ago. That was the gentleman's way of coping with her passing, you see. He walks along that promenade every day with her old blankets and shawls in her chair.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  Dr. Shahabuddin was neither smiling nor laughing.

  The orderly wheeled me along the corridor and into a lift. He pressed ‘5’, taking us to the top floor.

  Rachel was waiting for me in the hospital bay and rushed to my side as soon as my bed was up against the wall.

  ‘I was so worried. How do you feel?’

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘You look better than you did. I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Did you give me mouth-to-mouth?’ I said, smiling with cracked lips.

  ‘No, the old guy did.’

  My smile crumbled. ‘The old guy?’

  ‘He might have got a bit carried away towards the end. The paramedics had to pull him off you,’ she said, trying not to laugh.

  ‘You're having me on.’

  ‘He took out his teeth for you and everything. So considerate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The paramedics said that he'd revived you, but that the excess saliva was blocking your airway again when they arrived on the scene.’

  ‘So, just a great day all round, really. Should I assume that you already know about the blankets in the chair?’

  ‘I do,’ said Rachel, looking at the floor, again trying not to laugh. ‘I thought it was very brave anyway.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘You should get some rest before the police come up and take a statement,’ she said, stroking my forehead.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, they just need a statement for their paperwork.’

  ‘I think I will get some rest then,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, ok then,’ she said, smiling uncertainly. ‘Can I come back to see you tonight? I'll bring something to stop you getting bored.’

  I raised my eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘A book, you naughty boy.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I'm going,’ she tutted. ‘Here's my phone. Call 'home' if you need anything.’

  I didn’t know whether it was just my body returning to normal function, the drugs they'd given me or her use of the word home, but I felt a warm sensation in my chest as she held my hand..

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, closing my eyes and shuffling further down the bed, pretending to get ready for sleep.

  As she clip-clopped away in her smart office outfit, I found myself so distracted by the more pendulous parts of her body and her long legs, that I almost did not hear the crackle of the police radio from further down the ward. The warm, institutional stink bore down on me more heavily than ever now, making my skin sweat and my nervous system send p
ulses of panic through my limbs.

  Unsteady on my feet as I eased myself out of the bed, I searched for my clothes, but was unable to find them anywhere. For remaining inconspicuous, the hospital gown wasn’t ideal, but there was no other option. I unhooked myself from the drip and poked my head round the wall of the bay, trying to locate the source of the police radio. Two officers stood to attention, puffing out their pigeon-chests and holding on to various accessories on their belts or stab vests. They were talking with two pretty nurses, who were giggling and blushing.

  The emergency evacuation instructions were printed above the sink on which I was leaning, and with them was a map of the hospital's fifth floor. The nearest exit to the stairwell was about fifty feet away, but the corner I had to turn was only about twenty. Waiting until I was sure that they were distracted, I made a dash for the next bay, my bare feet slapping on the cold tiles. I steered into a bay and hid behind the wall. The old man in the bed was sucking on an oxygen mask and looking at me with wide, startled eyes like an oversized, sickly pigeon. Peering round the wall, I saw that the policemen were still engaged in their civil servant dating game, now laughing themselves, one of them exchanging bits of paper with one of the nurses. Blood was thudding through my head as I walked out of the bay, not daring to look back. I planned to run only once I'd rounded the corner, but the adrenaline got the better of me and I launched into a panicky sprint, the sweat on my forehead cooling as I picked up speed.

  The stairwell was freezing and spiralled downwards into near darkness, sending up voices from the depths below. I ran down it as far as I could go in the hope of finding a fire exit, attracting a few suspicious glances on the way down from arriving visitors climbing upwards. There was an unlit corridor at the bottom, lit at the end by an oblong of daylight. I ran towards it, pushed the emergency exit bar and burst out into the cold November air and into one of the black cabs lined up outside.

  Hideout

  By the time I reached the house, the sun had almost set. The taxi driver at first refused to drive down the street, citing insurance reasons and mumbling something about paying for another windscreen, but I convinced him that kicking me out at the corner in my hospital robe was tantamount to murder. As we drove up the street, nothing stirred amongst the boarded up houses and pubs or in their yards overgrown with giant weeds. Nearer the river, the docks glowed with patience for more industrious times. I got out of the cab and asked the driver to hold on for a moment while I fetched the fare from inside, but he just told me to forget it and drove away.

  As if it wasn’t difficult enough negotiating the broken glass, stinging nettles and rusty syringes in bare feet, I’d also barricaded the yard door from the other side to improve security, ruling out an easy entrance to my hideout. I held everything in as far as I could and took the leap of faith off the wall and into the back yard, praying that no trailing bits of flesh would catch or snag as I jumped down into the weeds, trying to avoid the nettles. Beyond the wall, I could hear boots in the alleyway. They stopped, then began scraping over the gritty cobbles in an attempt at stealth. I held my breath and pushed into the nearest corner, so that should he look over the wall, he would struggle to see me right beneath him. As I crouched against the freezing, slimy bricks with near-frostbitten balls, I felt as though I was being watched. Three feet from my nutritious extremities stood an inquisitive alley rat with a gleaming set of incisors.

  Soaking wet and back on the brink of hypothermia, I finally managed to climb through the broken kitchen window once both predators had given up on their prey and gone foraging elsewhere. I immediately went to the hiding place for all my remaining worldly possessions and was relieved to find them still there. The boiler cupboard provided just enough space for my duffel bag, which I pulled out from behind the redundant copper green vessel itself and threw on to the bare floorboards in the front room. Some of the firewood I had prepared the previous night was still stacked by the tiny fireplace. An old kitchen chair had proved ample, once broken up. I had meant to pick up some firewood or coal during the day, but what with the panic attack, the wounding, the blossoming of a star-crossed romance, the sea rescue, the hypothermia and the hospital break, time had run a little short. I twisted up some newspaper and set a fire with the broken bits of chair and some lighter fluid. Holding a match to it created a glorious warmth, lighting the room softly. I made sure it was burning properly then stripped off, throwing the wet, dirty hospital gown in the makeshift laundry basket in the corner. I dried myself with a towel I had found in one of the cupboards and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  Using my duffel bag as a pillow and my charity shop reefer jacket as a mattress, I made myself as comfortable as possible, wondering whether the chimney would give me away. No-one could see into the house on account of the plaster board covering all the windows. The boards were covered with graffiti, but there was only one gang insignia that seemed fresh. I wasn't able to make out the word, but the image behind it looked like a compass needle set to north. It was unsettling to see kids’ clothes hung out to dry in the odd back yard in the alley, but never any children playing in the street. The cobbles of these roads seemed only to be trodden by those hunting, those in flight or those lost in the wilderness of their minds, unaware of and unmoved by whereupon their feet struck. There was no light recreation to be had in these streets: only the kind that took place in dark alleyways, just like the one at the rear of the house. I had heard things which I'd sooner forget, but thankfully seen little evidence left behind.

  I pulled the blanket around me and as I drifted off to the crackle of the fire, I thought of the kiss that Rachel and I had shared and her smile when I saw her in the hospital. The small wrinkles in her forehead as she leant over me in the hospital bed. Even the thunderous horn blasts from the docks couldn’t keep me awake that night. I slept long and deep, the pine in the dying fire like a soothing incense.

  Sabre

  I woke to the strains of ‘Man of the World’ by Peter Green. Beside me on the bare floorboards, the phone that Rachel had lent me buzzed and crept along the wood. The display screen read MUM HOME.

  ‘They told me you'd discharged yourself from the hospital.’

  ‘Just didn't want to get bogged down in police statements and all that.’

  ‘Is something going on? Where are you now?’

  ‘I can't tell you. I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘I told the police at the hospital that I only knew your first name and didn't know where you lived.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ I reassured her.

  ‘It was the truth.’

  ‘I'm sorry if this all seems a bit paranoid, but I just need some time to let a few things cool down.’

  ‘And you can't tell me?’

  ‘I can't.’

  ‘Well, will you at least come for dinner tonight?’

  ‘I'll meet you at the store, round the back where you picked me up last time.’

  ‘7 p.m.?’

  ‘I'll see you then.’

  I hung up the phone and floated in the boarded up darkness of the morning, a few shafts of light penetrating the smoky room. I made a list of supplies I would need for the next few days, now that I was satisfied that I wouldn't be found here; at least not by the police.

  I was now down to the last packet of Twiglets and the last tin of pineapple chunks. I had to decide just how comfortable I should make myself. I could spend my remaining money on a camping stove and a pan or two, maybe even a kettle; or on hot meals over the next few days in the darkest, dingiest pub I could find, hoping that no-one would take any notice of me.

  I put on my trainers and snuck out. As I walked closer to the docks by The Captain's Rest, wondering how many captains had actually taken their rest there, how many buckets of sea-salted, scurvied blood had been swept up after closing time, the result of sailors, fishermen and dockers disagreeing over spilt pints and dubious wagers. Where were those men now? Dying in a nursing home somewhere? Alread
y committed to the bosom of the sea? Maybe some of them were still braving the high winds and perilous swells that they had come to know so well throughout their lifetimes. I liked the things that the ghosts whispered of while I stood outside the Captain's Rest and I wished that I could have been there while they were able to swill ale, smoke pipes and tell their stories in full voice.

  But their time was past, as was the ale house's that stood before me, tattered and lifeless.

  A door swung open violently as I peered through the stained, leaded diamond windows.

  ‘What the bleedin' ell do you want?’

  I was shocked to see one of the ghosts standing before me in the flesh: a tall, white-haired man in a mended navy blazer. He had a great mass of white beard, yellowed at the corners where his pipe rested and emitted the scent of exotic tobacco.

  ‘I just wondered … erm … whether anyone was … I heard someone,’ I stammered. ‘I thought this place was empty.’

  ‘Aye, it is.’

  His accent was local, but skewed as if he’d spent a long time far away. He went to close the door in my face, assuming that his brash, unfriendly greeting would ensure that I would take the hint. I stuck my foot in the door jamb to stop it closing. He scowled at me and moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, his wild white hair blowing in the sea breeze. I noticed the medals on his rather grubby blazer.