The Canal (16 page)

“Why are you crying?”

“…”

“
Please
, why are you crying?”

“…”

“
Please, answer me
 …”

“…”

The other couple had stopped kissing and had started to tuck into their own food after the bored woman had interrupted them with it. After each mouthful they would stop to giggle and whisper. I don’t think they even noticed us sitting opposite. I don’t even think they knew we were there.

“
Please
, why are you crying?”

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“…”

“
Please
, I’m concerned … 
Are you okay
?”

“…”

She wiped away the tears from her eyes. She looked up at me, she looked over at them, all the while wiping the tears away, the woman’s heel still clicking.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I couldn’t really think of anything to say. It seemed impossible to say the right thing. I wanted them to leave, to leave us alone. Suddenly, she turned to look at me.

“I’m sorry.”

Before I could reply, before I could blink even, she rose from her seat and walked over to their table. She addressed only him, ignoring the woman, without even as much as a derisory glance towards her. The man and the woman stopped what they were doing and both looked up at her simultaneously. The man had a nonplussed look upon his face, probably thinking there was a problem with his order or something.

She addressed him only.

“Do you remember me?”

There was a long pause.

He looked at the woman next to him, then back at her, then back at the woman. He looked nervous, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his hand. The woman’s eyes began to narrow and her whole face started to contort. He looked back up at her.

“Er … I’m … afraid … I’m afraid I don’t, sorry. Er … Have we … Should I?”

“
You tell me
.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never seen you before in my life. I fear you may have mistaken me for another person, someone else in your life … I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry
?”

“Yes.”

“You’re
sorry
? That’s all you can say?
Sorry
? Don’t you remember me at all?”

“I’m sorry, but no, I clearly don’t. I clearly don’t remember you from anywhere, I have never seen you before in my life. Now, we were having a private conversation. I’m sorry, but …”

“So, you just want to leave it like that?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather, yes.”

“No. I want you to tell me who I am. I want you to tell me who I am. You have to tell me.”

“I’m sorry, but I seriously have no idea. Can you please leave us alone now?”

“
No
. Do you not remember who I am?”

“No,
I do not
. I have never set eyes on you before in my entire life. You have clearly mistaken me for another person.
Please leave us alone
.”

I was beginning to feel more than ill at ease with the whole situation. The bored waitress behind the counter was leaning on her elbows, chin in palms, looking over toward them, smiling, happy to be watching the burgeoning spectacle before her, happy, at last, that something was eventually happening that day. I remember uttering the word ‘no’ twice, but it went unheard in the ensuing mêlée. I watched as she threw the glass of water over him, the plates crashing to the floor, breaking into shards and fragments, scattering across the tiles into far-flung corners of the café. The blonde woman’s deafening scream nearly burst my eardrum. The man, now soaked, his white shirt sticking to his skin, rose
to his feet and pushed her to the floor. She immediately jumped back to her feet and continued her attack, swinging for his face, trying to pull his hair and scratch his cheeks. The other woman began to fight back, too, holding her, leaning over the table to grab her flailing arms, knocking it over in the process. More screaming and shrieking enveloped the room.

“
You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me
.”

And as soon as it had began it was over. She ran out of the café, turning right, up St. Peter’s Street towards Essex Road. I pulled some money from my pocket, I have no idea how much, but it was more than enough to cover what we had ordered. I left it on the table and I ran out after her, leaving the man and the woman from the whitewashed office block and the bored woman behind the counter to clear up the mess. I ran after her. I could see her, running erratically, people stopping to watch, to ask her if she was okay, as she made her way, clumsily up towards the busy Essex Road. I shouted after her. She continued to run away, heading for wherever it was she was heading. All I could do was follow her, up towards the Essex Road. As I drew nearer I could hear her sobs. When she stopped at the top of St. Peter’s Street with the junction of Essex Road she looked frantically from her left to her right, over and over again. Essex Road was, as usual, unbelievably busy, and she was clearly unsure of which way to go. I shouted to her. Passers-by in the street turned to look; cyclists and people in parked cars, people sitting outside cafés. As I finally got to her I reached out to put my hand on her shoulder. She turned to face me, screaming as if I was trying to attack her. I immediately let go of her and she wriggled free and, without looking, ran straight into the road. The number 38
bus screeched to a shuddering halt, throwing many of its crammed-in passengers, who were standing by the doors and in the aisles, to the floor. I could hear screams and much shouting. The bus was inches from her. The whole of Essex Road had stopped doing whatever it was it was doing and everything was focussed on her, standing in the middle of the road, facing the number 38 bus. She began to laugh, running to the other side of the road. I stayed opposite her and began to walk. I acted like I wasn’t with her, like I was a spectator, but everyone within the vicinity knew that we were together. I followed her once more as she continued to run, this time with quickening, assured footfalls, with purpose and determination. When I had walked far enough away from the initial scene in the road I too began to run. I ran as quickly as my legs and body could carry me, after her, on the opposite side of Essex Road to her. Heading up towards Balls Pond Road.

It was a Saturday morning. I must have been in my early twenties. I was with an old companion whom I have since lost touch with. She was older than me and was taking me to a new shop in Soho she wanted to visit that sold expensive, designer underwear. We boarded the bus on Balls Pond Road. As soon as I stepped on board I knew something was wrong. The driver was glaring at me. He held out his hand suddenly, beckoning me to stop. I waited, thinking that a young mother, or an elderly lady needed to get on the bus before me. I turned around: four regular-looking passengers were waiting there, the driver asked them on board before me with nothing, as far as I could see, that suggested they should each receive preferential treatment over me. My friend was waiting for me upstairs. I waited patiently until the four ordinary passengers had paid their fare.

“Excuse me …”

“Yes?”

“Why did you just halt me to let other people on before me?”

“You know why?”

“
Pardon
?”

“I said … you know why.”

“What do you mean?”

“
I said you know why
?”

“What!”

“Last night …”

“
Last night
?”

“Yes.”

“
What?!
”

“I remember you from last night … You were on my bus …”

“Last night? I wasn’t
!
”

“Yes, you were
!
”

“
I wasn’t
 … I didn’t even get a bus last night.”

“Don’t fuck around with me! I’m calling the police. It was you who spat at me.
Last night
, as you were all leaving, after I asked you all to leave my bus for harassing passengers …”

“Look here, I have no idea whatsoever what it is you are talking about. I didn’t get on a bus last night.”

“Don’t fuck with me. I’m phoning the police …”

“I’m not fucking with you,
I’m telling the truth
 …”

“I’m phoning the police.”

“Why!? Why!? Why!? What have I done? I just want to get on your bus!”

“
Right
. I’m radioing the depot right now … H-H-H-Hello … Y-Y-Yes, Okay, I need the police, I am the driver of …”

The driver proceeded to inform the depot of his exact whereabouts the previous night when the alleged incident,
supposedly involving me, took place. He described me to the person on the other end of the line. I realised that he could have been trying to frighten me, though, as some act of revenge or something. After the phone call he turned back to me. People started to grumble and complain. His face grew redder with each second that passed us by.

“Listen, here,
get off my fucking bus!
If you get off my bus now the police won’t arrest you.
Get off my fucking bus
 …”

I realised his call to the depot had indeed been faked.

“
No
. It’s my right as an innocent person to remain on this bus …”

“If you don’t get off my bus this instant I will turn off the engine and no one will go anywhere …”

“Turn it off … I’m going nowhere.”

He turned off the engine.

The entire bus became silent.

Then, when the passengers had finally realised what was happening, everything seemed to erupt: a cacophony of anger and hatred. All it took was the silence; the sense that things had stalled.

The passengers’ shrill voices cut into me.

“
Get off!
”

“
Get off the bus, you fool!
”

“
Get off! I need to be somewhere!
”

“
Now!
”

“
Leave, fuckin’ innit!
”

“
I’ll throw you off if you don’t move!
”

“
Get off now!
”

As all this was happening, the driver stepped out of his cabin. He was small and stocky with a low centre of gravity. He gripped me by the collar, and in one swift move managed to open the emergency exit and throw me off the bus and onto the pavement. I noticed my friend, halfway up the
stairs to the upper deck, looking down at me. Before my friend could get off the bus the driver shut the door, started up the engine and resumed his journey. I can still remember each face, peering down through the window as the bus trundled away from me, bathing me in its rotten fumes.

It was at that moment, there on the cold pavement, that I realised I was ordinary and not destined for great things.

We were at the top end of Essex Road, near to Balls Pond Road. She suddenly turned right, heading east into De Beauvoir Town. The traffic was noisy, that incessant London drone. Gaggles of scooterists were hogging the road, reviving their hairdryer-like engines at the lights, cutting corners and generally terrifying any pedestrians who attempted to cross the road before them. Some took particular delight in inching forwards, as if attempting to mow one down, as people crossed at the pelican crossing. The road seemed to be filled with them, buzzing about like swarms of angry wasps without a care in the world. It was completely depressing.

I’ve never wanted to hang around in packs. Even when I was at the age I was supposed to, and my friends ventured off to Highbury to watch the Arsenal every other weekend, I would make my excuses until they eventually stopped asking me.

She had stopped running and was walking along quite slowly now, naturally puffed and out of breath. She stopped a couple of times to stroke a cat that had been following her; a small tabby cat that looked undernourished, though probably wasn’t—being as most domesticated cats are overfed and quite fat. She crouched close to it, down to the ground, the cat looking up, circling her, rubbing its scent
glands against her shins, lifting up its tail, exposing its anus for her to sniff, to inspect, to classify DNA, then falling to the ground, rolling onto its back in complete and utter submission.

I stopped walking and rested by a garden wall to watch. She obviously knew I was there, watching her and the cat, but she didn’t once acknowledge my presence behind her.

The cat soon trotted away, content with itself, as an Islington Refuge Collection van pulled into the street, its pack of binmen it contained quickly scurrying in and out of gardens, rummaging around for black sacks of rubbish. The cat fled quickly, down into a basement flat’s front garden—if you could call it that—and out of the way.

Again, she began to walk, although she set off with a little bit more purpose this time. It seemed she had finally decided where it was she wanted to go. I naturally presumed she was going home, back to the safety of her flat, but she turned immediately right onto Southgate Road, heading in the direction of the canal again. It made perfect sense to me: she had to find somewhere she could feel anonymous, where she could observe and become invisible—where she could belong. I followed her along Southgate Road, past the Northgate Pub and the small cluster of shops next to it. The canal wasn’t that far away.

I was beginning to realise that I had lost control—what little of it I had had in the first place, that is. No—that I had never
had
control. Boredom had left me behind, I had succumb to its weight, its unheard-of centre within me. I had embraced it and it had completely consumed me and now I was bored of it. I was bored of boredom. There was nothing
I could really do about this. I was like everyone else: I needed something to fill the gap, the time that dragged us,
and it
, along with it, to return me to the ground beneath my feet and hide away from our gaping hole like everyone else. Who was she to me? Why was she suddenly in my life? Was she there to serve as some warning? Revealing all to me? Everything that isn’t really there?

Following her along Southgate Road, as I did, seemed real to me, like I was snapping back from a daydream, or some unknowable space outside of myself. As we neared the canal things began to focus within me again; things became normal as we drew near to its space—the only space we could exist together within, where things started, at the boundary of Hackney on Islington, on the canal, by the side of the rusting iron bridge that connected everything.