2. Small Town Sunday Walking Blues...

Down three flights, past doors through which I could hear TVs, music, shouting - the predictable backing track of domestic life. It seemed like all the passion was happening on the top floor.

I headed out of Shanty Square and along the seafront – head down into the gusting afternoon, following my shadow. The sea was rough on the incoming tide, but the air felt good in my lungs – like I'd snorted neat vodka.

At the jetty, I dog-legged down Wrack Alley and past The North Pole to the High Street. Nothing much happening there. One or two lads mooching about, hunched up in hoodies like urban monks, gawping at phones, toking skunk.

At the bus station, I nipped into the Premier to top up my 'leccy key. Jagdip gave me his usual cheery smile.

'Anything else, Harry?' he said, handing the key back.

'That's it, Jag. Thanks.'

I turned to go.

I stopped.

Hm.

The idea was in there. It was the suggestion in his voice. Deliberate, of course.

I turned back.

'Yeah, go on, then... quarter-bottle of Jacobite and a Hamlet.'

He put them on the counter. I looked at them.

'Make it a half-bottle.'

He already had it there, in his other hand.

A rattle of change out of twenty quid. Rent money, too. Needs must.

Jag gave me the wink.

'You have a good one, Harry.'

'I'll do my best, mate.'

At the junction, I cut across Mariner Plains, then down through The Narrows to the seafront again – the quiet end, after the arcades, fast-food joints and bait shops. Along a bit further and I was on the Hummocks – a scrubby stretch of downland, thumb-tacked with orange doggie-do bins, humping off into the misty distance towards the peninsula. I took the main path, up over the top of the Esplanade Theatre, squatting there in its shambles of Edwardian Gothic, like the bastard child of the Castle of Otranto and the Hackney Empire – all arches and columns and rust-bubbled ironwork.

('Coming soon – Punk Floyd 'said the poster on the rooftop entrance).

On the other side, the path dropped down to a little hollow, and the rain shelter I was heading for. Unoccupied. Good. I sat on the bench facing out to sea and took the top off the bottle. There was hardly a soul around. A couple walking their dogs on the beach path. An old guy from one of the homes (the trousers and shoes gave the game away), rooting through the grass for fag-ends.

I took a mouthful. It burned its way down, branching off through the tubes like anti-freeze. Far out, beyond the wind turbines, a container ship headed for Norway or somewhere. The only sounds were the wash of the tide up the beach, the wind in the grass, a dog barking way over, the ring of halyards against masts at the sailing club.

I felt settled again then. Away from things. The booze kicked in quickly and I felt the buzz coming back. I fixed my eyes on that ship. I could make out derricks, cargo bulks… and the bridge tower, like a block of flats rising above it all.

I lit the cigar, keeping the ship in my gaze. With the distance, it hardly seemed to be moving. I held up my thumb and finger, pincer-like, to measure the gap between it and the fixed point of a wind turbine. Slowly, I watched it disappear behind my thumb. I wondered if there was someone up there, on the bridge, with a pair of high-powered binoculars, having a gander at our coastline.

And what would they see?

The seafront buildings, cluttered like kitsch on a landlady’s mantelpiece. The arcades flashing like a Lotto winner's bungalow at Christmas. The odd shapes and lines and corners and edges. The clock tower. A handful of concrete tower blocks, like tombstones on the horizon. The steeple-points of half a dozen churches. A gaping jawful of teeth and fillings.

If they zoomed in a bit more, they might see a rain shelter with a raddled-looking bloke in it, raising a bottle, getting ever so gently pissed.

‘Who’s that old bugger?’ they might think. ‘What’s his caper? Where, in the 8-billion-piece jigsaw of human life, does he fit in? Is he an edge bit? Is he a corner? Is he part of the sky, or the flower beds, or the grass, or the earth, or the mud and shit? Is he one of those blank colours, that could fit in any of a dozen different places? Is he the missing piece, under the sofa? Or is he a part of a different puzzle altogether – not quite fitting anywhere, but getting pushed into place anyway, after a bit of snipping at the edges? Is he a bit with wording on it? Is he a bit with a face?

The old chap who’d been rooting for tabs suddenly stepped across my view and stood there, looking down at me – or rather, looking at my stogie, which was down to the last few drags. The best ones, really. The bitter-sweet ones you make the most of because they’ve got to tide you over to the next time. I handed it up to him and he put it in his mouth and puffed luxuriously. Then he nodded his head and scuffled off again – his shoes flapping where they didn’t quite fit, his trouser hems raised like sails on the bony masts of his legs.

I took a big swig. I tried to fit some of those puzzle bits together in my head.

I was low on funds and the Department of Work and Pensions was low on patience. On top of that, I didn’t have a single decent idea to write down, and hadn’t done for weeks. I was that most useless article on the whole spinning rock: a writer without a story. A middle-aged man without a job. A man always hopeful of sex, but getting too old to find someone to have it with. A man still able to give love - and to be loved.

Something had to change soon.

I shut my eyes for a moment and sat listening to those quiet, Sunday, winter afternoon sounds. A woman’s voice drifted in from somewhere, calling for a dog or a kid or something. A nice-sounding voice. Soft. A voice that had things attached to it: bright rooms, warmth, security, contentment. It made me think about someone. Someone from way back. Back when there seemed to be loads of life to live, and all of it looked… if not exciting, then at least enticing. It drew you on into it. I wondered when I’d next meet someone who mattered. I wondered if.

And I wondered whether the Datlens had finished baby-making practice for another day.

I put the cap back on the bottle and stepped out into the wind again – back along the path to the road. On the corner of The Narrows, I glanced up at the sinister black globe of the CCTV camera. Whoever was monitoring that afternoon must have felt like they were watching a montage of films by ‘60s East European directors, or something meaningfully static by Andy Warhol. Lights come on. Light go off. No one speaks. Nothing happens.

No one comes.

(continued)