day?’
‘…’
‘Listen, I need to talk to you …’
‘I’m all ears …’
‘It’s Uncle Rey …’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘He’s dead … Suicide … Hanged himself.’
‘…’
‘It happened the other week, but no one knew. He’s been in that caravan all week … dead … I was …’
‘No one knew?’
‘No, no one … I was supposed to be travelling to the island today to clear things up. They asked me to come down, to clear his stuff, but I have to go to France to meet our new clients. I can’t get out of it …’
‘And …’
‘You need to go to the island … to clear Rey’s caravan, to go through his belongings and pack them all away … sort it all out before it’s removed.’
‘Jesus … Uncle Rey …’
‘It has to be done …’
‘Jesus, Cal … I don’t need this right now …’
‘Jon, please, it needs to be done … since Dad died there’re only us two, we have to take care of shit like this now.’
‘Fuck, Cal … Okay … I’ll go … I’ll go … I’ll do it.’
‘You need to go there first thing … You need to go to the Lobster Smack pub near the sea wall at the jetty and ask for the landlord, Mr Buchanan, he’s the owner of the caravan site, too … he has the keys …’
‘Right, right … Fuck, Cal, you owe me …’
‘I know … Like I say, I can’t get out of the France trip.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I roll off the sofa and fall into a dirty heap on the floor. My ribcage is seized in a paroxysm of pain. The previous night comes flooding back. I groan and think about what I should eat for breakfast.
recollections
The train journey from Fenchurch Street Station to Benfleet passes without incident, apart from a couple of trips to the toilet in the next carriage to vomit – something that repels the other passengers unfortunate enough to be able to hear my retching. As I walk back to my carriage the second time I hear two women talking about me, and I purposely slow my steps so I can hear each word.
‘Probably on drugs …’
‘It’s disgusting …’
‘Really … on a train?’
‘It’s disgusting …’
‘Other people around, too …’
‘Horrid.’
‘Some people have no manners.’
‘It’s disgusting …’
‘I hope he cleaned it up …’
‘Stop it!’
‘What?’
‘I can’t think about it …’
I walk down the aisle, back to my seat in the next carriage. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve packed a bag with enough clothes to last a week. I figure that’s how long it should take me to clear up Uncle Rey’s caravan. I’m not sure what to expect. I try to remember when it was I last saw him, but I can’t pin down any single encounter. He comes to me in a blur of phrases, the most prominent being: ‘I like it here, below the sea …’
He would always talk about the sea: how the island lay below it, everything in his life existing below sea level. It seemed to suit him, out there, all alone. Other phrases, other words appear in fits, as do events, songs and smells. I have vivid recollections of his stinking caravan from when I visited the couple of times to smoke weed with him, when I was a teenager. I liked him back then, even though my father distrusted him. Whenever I returned, my father would be there waiting for me. He would always say the same thing: ‘We lost him to wacky baccy and strange ways. He’s better out there on the island. It suits him out there below the sea.’
This was before my dad died. I can’t remember Dad ever visiting Uncle Rey. I just thought they didn’t get on. I never gave it much thought really. I always liked Uncle Rey, the few times I met him. His gnarled face cheered me up, his rasping cigarette/marijuana-burned voice, the songs he’d sing, his dreadful ukulele playing. Everything about him intrigued me: the fact that he’d never worked, had opted out. He seemed real in ways my father never could. Uncle Rey was lost; he made perfect sense to me.
I look out of the window. Green trees merging with the dark mud of the estuary, turning to a constant brown, a slutch that seems to stretch all the way to the horizon. It’s an unforgiving, blank landscape that exposes any irregularities: a church, a tractor, horses, a boat in a yard – before they too become dirt blots, blurs, interrupting the flatness of things.
the island
I stand on the platform at Benfleet with my rucksack. At first I’m unable to move, so I just stand there and watch the train crawl away towards the wilds of Essex: Southend and Shoeburyness. I watch it until it slips out of sight, around a curve in the track. No one else has alighted from the train with me. I stand on the platform alone. Once the train can’t be heard I am immediately struck by the silence, the slight whiff of iodine and a sense of déjà vu. I head towards the exit. I’d decided on the train that I’d walk onto the island. Then startling me, some seagulls swirl above, a sonorous spectacle, their vibrant and beautiful sound all around me.
It strikes me that I’m not really sure of the way. I know the general direction, I can see the oil refinery in the distance, but I’m not sure where the bridge is that takes visitors over the creek and onto the island itself. I know it’s next to some yacht club by the muddy creek, but I’m not sure which road to take from the station. Just as I step out onto the road, outside the station, I notice a man on a mobility scooter. I decide to ask for directions.
‘Which way is it to Canvey?’
‘Follow this road. It’ll take you across the creek. Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
Good luck? I’m only walking to Canvey, to clear my dead uncle’s caravan. I shrug my shoulders and continue to walk in the direction
