Waving not drowning

You would think someone would notice a body lying face down in the sand. How often do you see a body lying on a beach situated right next to the Royal Festival Hall? Surely someone would notice a body next to one of London’s premier tourist attractions?

My face nudges up against the sand, there are tiny grains stuck between my lips. I am trying hard not to get them in my mouth because then I’ll have to crunch down on them and that is just too much to bear right now because I’m cold, wet, not sure if I’m a body or still a person. I must be a person because I’m thinking about sand in my mouth. I move my bottom lip, yes I can move, I am a person but in what sort of state I’m not sure. I slowly lift both my arms and push them backwards. Swan pose is especially good for loosening those tight, stressed out neck muscles, Guna, my yoga teacher used to say. Just after she asked us who was menstruating. You can’t do Swan pose when you’re menstruating or maybe it’s Downward Dog, one of them, I can’t remember now. I’m not menstruating so that’s one less thing to worry about. I can do Swan all day long except I’m wet and cold and may be on my way out. I struggle to turn my head to one side, just to get away from the sand which I can now see is also littered with old plastic containers, carrier bags and what look like very old bones. I look up and from the corner of my eye see the sky, the clouds are rolling past at quite a speed but that might be oxygen deprivation, how long was I under for? It would be ironic to die in such a public place and have no one see me do it. With great effort I flop awkwardly onto my back and there is a small bird sitting in the tree above. His beak lets out a strange mechanical high pitched cheep.
Chheeeeepppppppityyyyy
It must be past seven. And just when I feel like I need to go to the toilet a head appears over the embankment wall, then disappears.
‘There’s someone down there,’ a voice says.
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course there isn’t. It’s probably just an old piece of wood or something.’
‘See for yourself,’ the voice says.
I try to drag my top down over my stomach but it’s set hard like paper-mache. If I’m alive, I want to have some semblance of dignity, not my big white stomach greeting salvation. I close my eyes again. I need to spit.
‘Christ I think you’re right. It looks like a woman. Where’s your moby? Call 999. No wait I’ll call. You try and get down there. Look there’s some steps over there.’
‘What if she’s dead?’ the voice asks.
‘We can’t leave her down there. Go on. Quick Quick!’
Silence and then footsteps next to my head.
‘Are you okay? Can you hear me?’
The face is nice and round and kind. A man with brown curly hair. I reach up to stroke it. He draws back.
‘What happened to you?’ he asks.
The sand on my lips is sealing my mouth shut.
‘What’s your name?’
He takes something off and puts it over my shoulders. It is nice to have something not wet on top. Something warm.
‘Jess,’ I whisper.

Sometimes things go wrong very suddenly. Like someone walks out in front of a bus without looking, or accidentally drops a boiling pan of water over their front or like in my case someone tries to drown you when you least expect it. Or things can go gradually downhill which up until recently had been the way with me, one thing leading to another disappointment and then slowly finding yourself becoming resigned to the idea that life is a series of misfortunes with momentary glimpses of something else. But I hurtled towards this mishap, this almost death outside the Royal Festival Hall with nothing but sand, rubbish and a Chheeeeepppppppityyyyy.

‘So her name is Jess, did she say anything else?’
‘She could barely speak. Do you think she’s going to be alright?’
‘It’s lucky it’s warm or she’d have died of hypothermia,’ then more quietly, ‘ these jumpers don’t realise the tide goes out in the morning.’
I feel myself on a stretcher, being lifted. I’ve absorbed all the heat from the man’s sweatshirt and am wet and cold again. A light silver sheet is wrapped around me like the ones people wear after they’ve run the marathon.
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ someone says.
The nice man’s voice has gone. I want to give him his sweatshirt and stroke his curly hair.
‘Miss, can you tell me where you live? What’s your surname?’
I close my eyes.

The very first thing was the finger. The small boy who gave me the finger as I walked past clutching a bottle of milk and the newspaper one bright Sunday morning. I’d waved happily as I passed his window. Welcome to the neighbourhood I’d thought. It hadn’t upset me, it was recognised that this was normal now; kids were not the same as when I’d grown up. Playing video games for hours on end, eating too much junk food, bursting with sudden anger for no reason. They wore hoodies and wanted to drown you in the Thames but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The finger was the first thing. The little boy who gave me the finger which I hadn’t noticed at that point as the beginning but it was.

It will all come out. For now I just want to sleep.