Others (7 page)

8

It was around 10.30 that night that I stepped outside the pub in a side street near the seafront, the steady drizzle that had marred the day over with for the moment, but the streets still shiny damp. The noise from the saloon bar behind me died with the closing of the door and I took in great lungfuls of almost pure sea air, exhaling long and hard to rid my lungs of the residue cigarette fumes they’d been collecting over the past couple of hours. I felt only a little better now, the irritating sense of dissatisfaction that had been dogging me for most of the day dulled by booze and company. A burst of laughter behind me was raucous enough to pass through the thick wood and glass of the pub door and I was pretty sure it wasn’t at my expense: I knew nearly all the regulars, who were mainly of the - how shall I put it? - of the ‘exotic’ variety; young and not so young gay men, pen-sioned-off chorus boys of untold age but with fabulous stories to tell, cultured antique dealers who’d had other careers in their prime, but who now saw this last profession as a means of genteel employment for themselves and their (invariably younger) partners. There were shammers and schemers, duckers and divers, women who love women, the lonely and the disparate. A good bunch. And whenever I entered that bar I was greeted with friendly calls rather than odd stares.

The air may have been moist, but it was warm; warm and scented with the aroma of sea and salt. As I began to walk towards the front, depression settled over me like a well-worn cloak, and even the bright promenade lights at the end of the long, narrow street failed to offer any cheer. Moving along the glistening pavement I wondered why this mood of - what? I couldn’t focus on it. Inadequacy, perhaps? - had pursued me all day. Since I’d first opened my eye that morning, in fact. Since my conclusion that there really was nothing more I could do for Shelly Ripstone.

When I’d rung her earlier, she’d pleaded with me to stay on the case, even phoned me back seconds after I’d broken off the call. She’d offered to double my fee if only I would agree to continue the search for her lost son, and nothing I said would convince her that it would be pointless, that the child - and now I was beginning to doubt there ever was a child - had died only minutes or seconds after being born. Doctors didn’t lie. The authorities might, but then why should they in such a case?

Shelly had become more distressed. Didn’t I understand that a mother intuitively,
instinctively,
knew these things? And besides, the clairvoyant, Louise Broomfield, also had no doubts that her son was still alive. The evidence - or lack of it - said otherwise, I told her, but that had made her more aggressive. Pleadings became insults. But fine, I’d had plenty of those in my time. Firmly, and quite politely, I said my goodbyes and replaced the receiver.

This time she didn’t ring back.

I could, of course, have mentioned the fact that she had not been entirely open with me, that maybe - well, quite likely - her motivation had more to do with her late husband’s money than maternal love. But that would have been rude of me. And unnecessary.

Even so, this night I reviewed the case in my mind as I shuffled on towards the sea, yet still I could make no sense of her claim. Even if Shelly Ripstone
nee
Teasdale had given birth eighteen years ago and the hospital had been razed to the ground some time afterwards, the baby’s short existence would still have been noted by the General Registrar Office. But it seemed nothing at all had been documented, neither at the London office nor the one at Southport, where all such records were kept after the closedown of Somerset House in the capital. Also, in adult tracing the method is relatively simple, even if the disappearance is intentional (I rule out murder and dismemberment here); credit card purchases, the electoral roll, National Insurance number, bank statements, car registration, friends and associates - all conspire to track down an absconder; but when there is no life history, when there isn’t even any evidence that the subject of the trace was ever born in the first place except for the word of a bereaved widow of dubious (although understandable) motivation and possibly of distracted mind, then finding that person is next to impossible.

There was
nothing
I could do. I’d only waste time and the client’s money, and I’d never been into that kind of scam. No, I’d made the right decision. The assignment was a dodo, a dead duck. The agency had done all it could. So what was nagging at me? Why couldn’t I let it go?

‘Spare some change, chief?’

I’d almost passed by the figure huddled in a doorway before his voice, both plaintive and cheerful at the same time, brought me to a halt. I peered closer, searching for a face among the darkness and rags, but only when the headlights of a car crawling down the narrow street lit us both up did I find one. Wide, friendly eyes looked up at me and I realized the beggar was a kid, somewhere between seventeen and twenty, with spiky hair and a ring through his nose and grime on his skin that looked more than a week old. The sleeves of his ragged jumper were pulled over his hands, even though there was no coolness to the night, and his well-worn boots were metal-tipped and too hardy for the season.

‘Just for a bit of food, like,’ he said, working for whatever I was prepared to give him. He seemed uncomfortable under my scrutiny, perhaps with my features. What he couldn’t appreciate, though, was that I was only doing my job. Even half-drunk, I did what I always did when I came upon vagrants or beggars (not necessarily the same thing): I gave them the once-over - all of us at the agency did - trying to catch any resemblance to photographs on our files, old images of persons gone astray, missing youths, absent husbands, absconded wives, even mothers or fathers who’d decided normal society wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You never knew when you might strike it lucky.

He became uncertain, having had a good look at me as the glare from the headlights had peaked before moving on. He appeared very uncomfortable now that we were in the shadows again. He drew up his boots and curled up in the doorway, his body seeming to shrink.

‘It’s okay,’ I said quietly - soothingly, I hoped. When did you last eat?’ It was important for me to know.

He didn’t answer straight away. His neck craned from the untidy bundle of clothes, and he looked around the doorway’s corners, up and down the street, as if searching out other company. This was a lonely little side road though.

This morning,’ he answered at last, his face featureless in the gloom. He cleared his throat, a nervous rasp.

I sighed and rummaged through my pockets, finding only a pound coin and a few odd pence. ‘Fuckit,’ I grumbled to myself and reached inside my jacket for my wallet. Pulling out a ten-pound note, I sensed a fresh, a more trusting, alertness about the boy.

‘Promise me you’ll get yourself something to eat, okay?’ I thrust the note towards him and he accepted it with both hands.

‘Bloodyell,’ he said in a low breath. Thanks, man. I mean, really - thanks.’

‘Sure.’ I stepped away from him. ‘Remember: food. Right?’

I could just make out the nodding of his head before I turned away, already wondering if he’d stick to the handout’s condition, or if he’d head straight for his regular supplier.

A tenner wouldn’t buy him much, so maybe he’d just drink it away. I let it go: I could only make the offer - the rest was up to him. I’d learned a long time ago it was all you could do.

As I neared the seafront there was more activity. Tourists strolled arm in arm along the broad pavements that edged the wide King’s Road, many of them still in shorts and T-shirts, despite the earlier drizzle and the lateness of the hour, all of this - the people, the coast road, the edge of the beach below the promenade railings - lit up by street lamps and festive lights, lights from hotels, restaurants, the big cinema and theatre complex, lights from traffic rushing by as if late for curfew. And noise came from all directions, the jabber of crowds and their laughter, and muted music from bars and clubs, the conversations of diners drifting from open doorways.

I stepped over a puddled gutter that rainbowed oil or spilt petrol in its waters, and waited anxiously for a break in the traffic, a chance to cross the broad expanse of road at my own lively but slow speed. The gay lights of the Palace Pier stretched out into the blackness, their mirror image on the sea below dancing with every wave that rushed to shore. The pier resembled an ocean liner in celebratory mood.

Taking my chance, I made it to the centre of the road, then waited for a gap in the opposite lane’s flow. Faces stared out at me from passing cars, one or two vehicles even slowing down so that their occupants could take a more leisurely look, and I saw myself with their eyes, a ridiculous stunted shape, bent as if cowering in the roadway, a clown of a figure whose mask was not funny in transient headlights, its shadows too severe, mien too crooked, the body too unseemly. Laughter passed me by as I waited; someone even took the trouble to wind down a passenger window and call out to me, call out something I didn’t quite hear and did not want to hear. I seized the moment to hobble the rest of the way, my bad leg dragging across tarmac as it does when I’m tired or inebriated, my left arm waving in the air ahead for balance. I arrived safely but a little dead in heart.

A group, a horde, of language students - Brighton is always full of language students - paused to allow me through, the hush in their voices as I avoided touching any of them making their alien whispers easy to comprehend. I lowered my head even more, ashamed, vulnerable - naked under their gaze - not even my alcohol haze dimming the ocular assault, and I kept moving until I reached the ornate rail overlooking the lower promenade and beach. There I leaned, my chest pressed against hard metal, my only eye watching the blackness of the sea’s horizon, a barely visible dark against dark, and I concentrated on that alone so that self-pity would not overwhelm me. My breath came in short heaves and my hands clenched the rail tightly until my thoughts, my feelings, began to settle; not calm - I didn’t feel calm at all - but to quieten down, become absorbed into me so that my hands on that rail no longer trembled, so that my gasps steadied, my breathing became deeper, more even. With the quietening, there soon came the question: why had I panicked so quickly, so easily? Ridicule was something I’d borne for as long as I could remember and pity for the same length of time, but I’d learned to cope; hadn’t accepted, could never accept either insult, but I’d learned to endure. So why this abrupt overpowering fright? Why had my mental equilibrium, that hard-earned stability gained only after a lifetime of abuse and sniggers and curious glances if not downright ogling and well-meaning but so often demeaning patronization, why had it so swiftly deserted me? Had I only kidded myself that I’d adapted to all those jibes and kindnesses? Well no, because I knew I’d only ever placed a barrier between myself and the prejudices and good intentions of others. I suppose my surprise tonight was that the shield was gossamer-thin instead of cast-iron thick. Even the whisky and beer I’d consumed that night had failed to dull the senses, to thicken that self-preserving defence even more.

An urge to be nearer the sea overcame me (because the sea was clean and as far away from people as I could get?) and I lurched from the railings, heading towards the ramp that led to the boulevard below. I was aware that my shambling walk was exaggerated by weariness - and yes, no excuses, by alcohol too - the limp now a parody of my normal gait, my hump even more rounded. Crouched and shuffling, I hastened down towards the beach, momentum increased by the slope’s angle.

The ramp was wide enough for wheelchairs and delivery vans alike, but not user-friendly for hunchbacks of awkward stride, and I steered myself to one side so that I could slide my hand along its rail, steadying myself, occasionally gripping to control the descent. Near the bottom, customers were overflowing from the Zap club, milling around its door, spilling out on to the level boulevard. Getting in my way.

Now I deliberately kept my head bowed, my one eye watching other people’s feet as the noise from the club’s open door became horrendous, the chatter of voices around me intimidating. I could tell by the shifting of legs that some of the crowd were anxious not to become an obstacle in my way; others failed to notice me though, only becoming aware when I tried desperately, solicitously, to nudge by without giving offence. A girl’s shriek was followed by laughter, a male’s derision followed by embarrassed shushes.

At last I was through, but as I raised my head to see the way ahead I was confronted by the customers of the Cuba Bar, a large section of its patronage seated at tables arranged in an open area outside the bar itself. I slunk around them, regretting my impulse to reach the seashore, aware that not only did people
en masse
stare harder but that they felt anonymous enough to voice their humour or shock. Several of them pointed me out, and one or two shouted comments, and only when my feet crunched pebbles did I stop running.

I sneaked away from the bright lights towards sweet covering darkness, away from mocking sounds and cries of pity, making my way diagonally across the beach so that I’d also be moving closer to home in my sea quest. Noise behind me became a general hum of voices and music, the stony shore grew dimmer with every shuffling pace, and I’d almost reached my tidal sanctuary when I heard the insult that was the worst of all, the one I dreaded because it was never the end of it, it was always the precursor to further torment.

‘Oi, fuckin Quasimodo!’

They were sitting around in a circle on the stones, unnoticed in my rush, difficult to see in their mainly dark attire. They drank from cans of beer but the smell that drifted across our neutral ground was pure weed; their spliffs glowed in the gloom, bright one moment, a dull amber the next, each burning dot thick with Jamaican promise. I ignored the call, hurrying on, my feet sliding on the little pebble hills that spoiled any rhythm I could build, but something large and hard struck the hump of my back. The stone clunked on to the beach and I went on.