The Canal (10 page)

“What do you think it will be like?”

“The future?”

“Yes, the
future
 … What do you think it will be like?”

“Well, it all depends on what you mean by the ‘
future
.’ ”

“I mean exactly that … 
the future
 … Everything that is ahead of us. What do you think it will be like?”

“It’ll be just like it is now, only things will look different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. Nothing more.”

She turned back to the whitewashed office block across the murky water. The canal became silent apart from a police helicopter hovering over the city towards Moorgate, hanging in the air like a dragonfly over a dead rat.

She turned to me.

“You’re listening to that helicopter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I like the sound of helicopters …”

“Me too.”

With this, inching closer again, her breath on my cheek, my neck, she lay her head on my shoulder. A jolt of sheer electricity shot right through me. I contemplated caressing
her dark hair. For a short moment nothing existed and it was the two of us. Then, as quickly as it had all disappeared, it all came back into focus: the murky water, the towpath, the discarded cigarette ends by my feet, my aching ribs, the bruises, the whitewashed office block, the expensive flats above, the iron bridge, the coots, the Canada geese, and the swans. All of it was before me as she took her head off my shoulder—like she had suddenly realised that what she was doing was wrong and unnatural—and moved away from me to the other side of the bench.

For a fleeting moment, the cloud passing up above me, above the canal, above the whitewashed office block, reminded me of a giant swan floating gently across the sky. It soon shifted and morphed into something else, something unrecognisable. Yet, before it had shifted across the sky and morphed back into an homogenous shape like every other cloud, the swan figure, floating above me, opened its wings momentarily and then closed them again, slowly, like it was about to lift away. I didn’t really think that much of it at the time, but now that cloud means everything to me: I imagine it over and over again. I search for them in the sky when I get the chance, but they never appear, and I know that it will never happen again, yet I still look up if the clouds are shifting at pace up above me, if I’m near a window—just in case.

I could see them in the distance, up on the walkway by the rusting iron bridge. I was sitting on the bench. I was looking at them through a gap in the privets on my left; they couldn’t see me. It was the same four teenagers who had attacked me. The bright redheaded one, the tall one, and the other indistinguishable two: The Pack Crew. They were
throwing things across to the other side of the bank from me, from the walkway, towards the company esplanade of the whitewashed office block, overlooking the murky water. What they were throwing looked like rocks, or possibly half-bricks. One of the teenagers was holding up his mobile phone to film the whole scene. On impact with the hardened concrete of the company esplanade, by a side entrance, the exploding rocks, or half-bricks, collided with a threatening sound: mini-explosions, the sound bouncing back off the concrete and whitewashed façade. For some reason it made me think of all those bodies falling from the World Trade Center, hitting the ground with astonishing force. I couldn’t help it. The rocks, or half-bricks, were being taken from a council building site near the rusting iron bridge. Islington council were repairing a footpath, leaving huge mounds of rubble and general waste in their wake. I remember thinking why the council hadn’t thought to cordon off the area so as to prevent such a thing from happening. There must have been some safety regulations for such a job? As the four teenagers continued to hurl the rocks, or half-bricks, over to the other side of the canal, another teenager appeared. He was on a motor scooter. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. He must have been no older than fifteen years of age. He looked quite menacing, though. Angry, like something bad had happened. He was revving the engine over and over again. The teenager with the phone pointed it towards him, filming him, too. The engine was at breaking point, struggling with the strain of each frantic twist of the throttle—the exhaust was spitting out a thick cloud of fumes and filth. The gang surrounded him, laughing and jeering at something he had said. Then he began to accelerate forwards, bursting through and out of the huddle, up and over the rusting iron bridge at great speed, skidding to a halt at the other side, then, with skill, swinging the scooter around, low, nearly scraping the
ground, to face the other way so he could ride back over the bridge again. He did this over and over again. A loud, threatening, manic figure eight. The noise was deafening. The gang, quite unperturbed, resumed their rock, or half-brick, hurling like it was their duty. Like something had told them to do it. Like automatons. The mobile phone still held aloft, still capturing the whole scene to be viewed again at leisure. The boy on the scooter continued his figure eight, revving the engine, pulling at the throttle mercilessly, his wheels burning, sliding across the rubble and bitumen. I watched them for about four minutes, until he lost control of the scooter, hitting something abruptly—probably the kerb, or some breezeblocks. He flew into the air and landed on top of the scooter, both crashing to the ground. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The gang stopped throwing the rocks, or half-bricks, and began to scream, to fall about, laughing in fits, gasping for air, holding their sides—holding on to each other. They all rushed over to the boy. Still filming it. He was lying, dazed, on the scooter. The redheaded lad switched off its engine. Then they picked the boy up. He started laughing, too, and repeatedly kicked the scooter. As soon as this began to happen the gang seemed to lose interest in the rocks, or the half bricks, and, encouraged by the tall lad with the shaven head and the teenager filming it with his mobile phone, began to collectively shout:

“Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over! Throw the fucker over!”

At first I thought they meant the boy who had been riding the scooter. It wasn’t until I saw the gang lift the scooter and throw it—managing to beat the railings designed to stop such a thing from happening—over the side of the iron bridge and into the murky water of the canal that I realised what they meant. I watched the scooter fall. It caused a
large splash, which startled some coots farther down the canal. They scattered in a cacophony of shrieks, their large feet paddling across the canal like their tiny lives depended on it. The scooter sank to the bottom of the canal. The gang, including the boy, ran away, leaving the scene in more fits of laughter. After I was sure they had gone I got up from the bench and walked over to the water’s edge near the rusting iron bridge. In the middle of the canal, submerged by the murky depths, I could see the scooter lying there, settling on the uneven bed. Swirls of oil began to appear on the surface of the water, shimmering as they caught the light, spiralling in the vortex created by the sinking scooter. My immediate thoughts turned to the coots, the Canada geese, and the swans. Then I began to think about the teenager with the mobile phone.

I wondered if he had filmed them attacking me?

As soon as the ripples abated, life began to return back to normal. Four yapping coots glided across the canal by the rusting iron bridge, circling above the exact spot where the scooter had entered the murky water. One of the coots dipped its head underneath a few times before diving down to investigate the new acquisition. The seeping swirls of oil and petrol on the water’s surface didn’t seem to bother the submerged coot at all. The remaining three entertained themselves with a random plastic milk carton. One of the coots pushed at it with its beak a couple of times before suddenly chasing it along, shrieking to itself in what I could only imagine was excitement. Then, as if orchestrated to coincide with some secret signal, each of the three coots dived down to join the first at the bottom of the murky water in unison. I watched as a tiny pattern of bubbles formed back up on the surface. They were down there for some time before, one by one, they popped up again as the large swan, its mate, and two Canada geese elegantly
paddled over to join the commotion. The four coots quickly moved on, over to the far side, beyond the rusting iron bridge. I watched the beautiful, elegant swan and its mate. He looked at me momentarily, and then looked away, heading towards the spot where the scooter lay. His long neck shot downwards, into the murky water above the scooter. The two Canada geese did the same. All three completing the investigation together. After twenty seconds or so of this they paddled away in the same direction they were originally headed, towards Hackney. I walked back over to the bench. She was there, sitting there, on her side of the bench. She was looking at me. She turned away quickly, back to the canal and the whitewashed office block.

Before I got to the canal that morning I had cooked myself a large breakfast of fried eggs, smoked bacon, fried bread, sausages, hash browns, black pudding, mushrooms, and fried tomatoes. I ate all this with four rounds of toast and a large pot of tea. I had been feeling intense pangs of hunger ever since the teenagers had attacked me. I walked to the canal that morning and I distinctly remember thinking about what I could eat for lunch. I was still digesting my breakfast but already I was thinking about lunch. I remember walking along the towpath towards the bench thinking about a huge plateful of lasagne and homemade, thin-cut chips. I couldn’t help myself. It’s all I could think about. Food had never really bothered me to such a degree as it did that day. I soon began to think about what I should have for dinner later that evening: I wanted duck fillets with red cabbage and cinnamon with a simple mash. I wanted to wash this dinner down with pints of Guinness—maybe four or five. Before I went to bed that evening I imagined I would have a hot steaming plate of crumpets with knobs of creamy butter, accompanied by a warm glass of milk and vanilla sugar. Then I would eventually go to bed, wake up
after midnight, creep into the kitchen and devour a leftover plate of cold meats from the refrigerator.

I remember thinking to myself, as I was walking over to my bench, that I should calm down a bit—that I should snap out of it.

She was wearing a navy blue Chinese-style workers’ blouse with matching three-quarter-length trousers and flat shoes. They looked like ballet shoes, although they weren’t. I distinctly remember thinking she looked good. Really good. Her hair was parted in the middle, bobbed and clipped at the sides with two red hair clips. She was carrying a small handbag. As usual, she was staring straight ahead across the canal at the whitewashed office block. She yawned a couple of times, big, wide yawns, sucking in the oxygen around her, each yawn lasting an age. She didn’t seem to care, not bothering to cover up her mouth. Suddenly she turned to me and began to stare. Nothing else but a long, penetrating stare, her eyes wide open. She stared at me for what seemed like a lifetime, although it was most probably only a couple of seconds. Then she turned away, back to the whitewashed office block. In those couple of seconds it felt like I had stopped breathing, or like I had forgotten how to—as if I was momentarily dead. The weight of those two seconds—the weight I felt—a suffocating weight that consumed me. For those two seconds, listless in its grip, I was dead.

And then it passed.

I wanted to shuffle up to her, to playfully squeeze her leg and make her laugh. I wanted to see her laugh so much. I knew this would be futile. I knew that if I tried such a thing it would probably be the last time I ever saw her.

Suddenly there was a strange sound, a racket and brouhaha that sounded odd. I leaned forward and looked immediately to my right, towards Wenlock Basin and Islington. Two men were staggering along the towpath. One of them—both were clearly drunk—was carrying a large bag of apples, while his companion was holding a large plastic bottle half-filled with a clear liquid. Both of the men were eating the apples, taking huge bites, finishing each in two or three gulps, then throwing the core into the canal, whilst spitting the pips to their feet and taking liberal swigs from the large plastic bottle. As they approached the bench I realised that they were both Russian, or maybe Polish. They had hard-looking, Slavic features and were dressed in thick, woollen polar neck jumpers. When they passed the bench they both turned and stopped. They looked at me and then, in unison, looked at her. Then they said something. I shrugged, not understanding. She continued to stare straight ahead. Again, they said something. I could smell the alcohol pouring from their mouths. Again, I shrugged, trying to gesticulate that I simply couldn’t understand. They repeated it again, and again I shrugged. Then they offered us both an apple from the bag. I refused. Then they offered us both some of the liquid in the large plastic bottle, indicating to us that it was good, that it would warm the insides—at least that’s what I understood the simple gesticulation of rubbing the stomach, executed by both men to mean. Again, I refused. They both began to laugh. I wanted them to leave us alone. I wanted them to carry on to wherever it was they were going, but
they stood there laughing to themselves at whatever it was we had done—or not done—to amuse them. And still she continued to stare straight ahead, at the whitewashed office block, like they weren’t even there. Like I was imaging it. Dreaming. As my right leg began to shake they both turned to start shouting at a cyclist who had suddenly sped past them a little too close for comfort. The cyclist continued towards Hackney. The two drunken Russian or Polish men began to run, to stumble after the cyclist, shouting their obscenities at him. Then, as if it was quite normal to do so, they began to throw apples in the cyclist’s direction. As they did this, moving away from us, one of the drunken men fell onto the towpath, tripping over an uneven slab, still shouting and trying to throw apples. His friend helped him back up to his feet. Gradually they staggered away, soon forgetting about the cyclist. I watched them. After they had passed under the rusting iron bridge, they began to throw apples at each other, both missing, the apples hitting the murky water or smashing onto the towpath. I watched them until they disappeared out of sight. Soon their voices faded, too. And then nothing, just calm, like they had never appeared. A strange hallucination. I turned to her. She was still looking over at the whitewashed office block.