A man's life flashes before his eyes as he drowns.
A man's life flashes before his eyes as he drowns.
His fingers rake through the shingle; the grit of a thousand years impacts beneath his terrified, clawing nails. The undertow of the same merciless wave that pitched him off his feet, drags him scrabbling down the beach. Sand and shell scour his abdomen and shred the skin from his chest. He panics and flails, but she doesn't see him. She dances on the sand with the others, swaying to the thudding rhythmic music, arms waving above her head, like seaweed floating in a current.
He lurches up, a creature from the deeps, and blows a spume of salt water, but his pedalling feet find no purchase and he plunges backwards into the swell. He rises again, a flying fish, a leaping dolphin; he wills himself up into the air, but founders, exhausted, in the roiling surf. Stomach full of brine, lungs burning from lack of air, he goes down for the third time. The warm dark ocean caresses him, soothes him. He sinks slowly, hair rising from his head like tentacles, bubbles hiccoughing from his lips, and soon all his fear has gone.
He is a foetus again, floating in amniotic fluid, womb-cossetted, drifting in a pinkish dream to the sound of the ocean's heartbeat.
Suddenly, the waters burst and he is thrust, with unseemly haste, into a world of bright lights and loud noises. He sucks and slavers, wet red lips searching for a nipple. Saliva drools from his tiny wailing mouth. His fists beat a milkswollen breast.
And now wet nappies chafe between his legs; uric acid stings his rash-red skin. Angry tears leak from tiny squeezed-tight eyelids. Instantly, he tumbles into a warm bath afroth with suds; flotillas of yellow ducks and bright red boats bob in the swell created by his chubby thrashing legs.
At once the boats turn to paper, soggy in the algae of the litter-strewn pond. His socks and shoes are sodden, his bare knees muddy, but his heart is free. Then the thick green sludge of the park lake turns turquoise and he stands, toes curling over the cold, tiled edge of the swimming pool, ready to dive. On the count of three. One Two Three! The chilly chlorinated water bloats his nylon trunks, shrivels his boy's penis.
The scene segues into that walk by the canal when, awkward and arrogant by turns, he sweet-talked Fiona Harkness into helping that same penis to grow, to entice it, with inky nailbitten fingers, to burgeon and splurge. Copious and gelatinous, the seed spat against the old warehouse wall, one more enigmatic stain on the slimy, pitted bricks. Fiona Harkness wept against his shoulder - hot, frightened tears - then ran away. He made the seed spit again, alone, many times after that, made it leap into the sky like the Trevi Fountain, where he stood casting coins aimlessly, bored and listless, one summer holiday, waiting for life to begin.
And life began: Immersing him in the excitement of a first car and a first carwash, it oiled his hands and splattered him with axle grease. Susie Logan lay on the back seat, moaning, and his heart clappered like the windscreen wipers sluicing off the driving rain. He tasted her sweet, salty juices and sucked in the smell of sweat, musky, from her armpits.
And two weeks later, the fascinated disgust of his first encounter with menstrual blood.
Then here he is, larking on the river in a punt, swilling cheap red wine and throwing bread rolls; a tidal wave of music drowns the shouts of outraged citizenry. Coffee in the canteen, beer in the Union bar. Urine, vomit, blood. Showers after footie. Then showers after squash; chatting with colleagues at the watercooler. Latte and white wine with the boss; and secret hoards of booze back home, cans in the fridge, bottles in the cupboard, to help him cope with the knowledge that this is his life.
The ferry trip to Boulogne to replenish supplies; him staggering about the deck; the Channel, flat as a black satin sheet; the choppiness all internal, the storm raging within.
Another shower scene: Petra slithering her soapy little breasts up and down his body, kneeling in the shower tray while he gasps with pleasure and surprise, the needle-spray tattooing his upturned face; Petra sliding sinuously back up again, hipbones like flint protecting the smooth camber of her belly. His hands clutch the glistening globes of her behind the way a frightened child clutches its mother.
Soon they are island hopping, the Aegean a pale aquamarine coruscating in the sunlight. They paddle, hand in hand, on the shoreline. They eat fresh sardines by the water's edge, watching the ebb and flow as a lazy day drifts by. The legs of their table are embedded in the sand, the chequered cloth flap-flaps in a gentle breeze.
Domestica. Retsina. Metaxa.
The setting sun turns the sea blood-orange red; Petra's bikini, tiny triangles of white against her goldenbrown skin, turns an innocent blushing pink.
And now the flat plain of her belly swells with his seed, incubates their child. The gurglings, the kickings.
Champagne and holy water.
Then those small breasts distended and oozing milk, smelling of sour curds.
Soggy nappies and babypoo. Orange juice and puke. Tears and spilled Ribena. Eyes red-raw with weariness; bathroom lights on at dawn.
He swirls and drifts, intoxicated by lack of oxygen, becalmed by suffocation.
And now they're moving house. A rainy day, baby in buggy, furniture covered in plastic sheeting. He plumbs in the washing machine. He swills the floors. He steams off the wallpaper. There are paint kettles, paste brushes, ladders.
See him watering the lawn in summer; walking the dog in autumn; building snowmen on winter afternoons. All of them splashing together through puddles, the child's wellyboots just like Dad's.
Mortgage and mortise-lock.
Garage and garden shed.
And then:
Beer in the pub with his mates. Chardonnay at the winebar with his clients. Whisky at the office. G & T at home. Petra washing dishes. Petra making dinner. Petra taking the kids to school.
Holidays in France each year. Vineyards and degustation. Campsites and gites.
Soon, teenagers fill the house with racket. Arguments, petulance, slamming doors. He has a quick one at the local. A night out with the lads. Weekends away on business. Missing hours and evenings. Absences unexplained.
And Petra weeping silently beside him, in a bed that is otherwise so very very dry.
He's flying high above the ocean, now. New York. Dusseldorf. Bahrain. Girls in the rain in Manchester. Girls in the sauna in Berlin.
Bierkellers, browncafes, sportsbars.
Room service, minibars, carryouts.
And everywhere: neon-lit sleaze.
Table dancers, lapdancers, private dancers. Saki and Geishas. Sweatlodges and Swedish massage.
He is awash with fluids: alcohol, mixers, perfumes, lubricating oil. He marinades in liquor and drowns in a rank ichorous flux.
Sweat, saliva, blood.
Tears.
Tears at home. Tears at bedtime. Tears at breakfast. Floods that threaten to wash away the last seawall of their marriage. Women at the office. Secretaries, colleagues, sandwich vendors. The water breaks through the dyke.
Her name is Marina; she has red lips and wide hips and legs that almost break his spine when she twists them around his waist. He stays over; they roll and writhe in damp foetid couplings. He lies drenched, feverish, against her limp pillows. He steeps in her rusted bathtub until his fingertips shrivel.
Condensation laminates the walls; mould festers in the cracks.
Take me to Goa, she pouts. All my friends have been. Besotted, he can't refuse her. She's young and fresh and ready. She wants everything he has to give - and more.
There are beach huts and parties; mango lassi spiced with marijuana; a full moon wavering huge above the water. There is dancing, raving, Ecstasy. Her lips are wet, shiny; her eyes glitter in the starlit night. He sucks in his paunch and determines to cut out the booze. Health kick. Gym. More exercise. Might as well start now.
He runs into the Arabian Sea, Hawaiian shorts plastered against his heavy muscled thighs, dark hairs coiling over the knotted cord. Not in too bad a shape. Considering. Can still pull the birds. Cut down on the hard stuff though. Wine from now on. Occasional beer. He leaps into the ocean, threshes through the surf as it curls on the shoreline. He plunges deeper, waves lathering the sweat from his body. He braces himself for the big one, confident, arrogant. This is his time.
The wave engulfs him, sucks him down, drags him through the shingle. His nails claw and rake. He splutters and chokes. Mucus, phlegm, vomit pour from his nose and mouth, mingle with sea water, and stream away.
And still she dances on the beach, in a trance, as he is too, now.
end
First published Writers' Forum August 2003
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