3. An Expedition To The Pole (iii)

A couple more pints, a wee dram and a bit of a tab later, Denise locked us all out for the night. Sherlock stood in the lee of the door and fashioned a spliff. Looking up, I saw Denise’s light go on in an upstairs room. Her shadow passed across the roller blind, then dropped out of sight as she slumped into a chair. Or maybe it was bed.

We slouched back along the damp, windy seafront – past the shuttered arcades and the empty B 'n' Bs, the derelict bandstand, the pier entrance with it’s weird statue of Neptune rowing a boat. Far up along the prom, a light winked on the end of Lantern Jetty. Behind it, the sodium-lit streets to the west of town glowed on the hillside like a raked-over pile of cinders.

Sherlock took a luxurious lungful and blew smoke up at the stars.

"It's almost beautiful in this light, Harry," he said.

"What is?"

He gestured with his arms. "This place. Here. This little corner of the planet we occupy."

"Dunhaven Bay?"

He passed me the number.

"You say that with such a dismissive tone, mate," he said. "There are worse places, believe me. I've been to 'em."

"I've been to a few myself," I said. "I'm just not sure 'beautiful' is the word I'd use. Dog-eared more easily comes to mind."

I toked and passed it back. It took the edge off.

"Beauty's in the eye of the beholder as they say, H."

"Yeah. And as Spike Milligan added: 'Get it out with Optrex.'"

He braced his shoulders against the cold.

"That's a bit unduly cynical, even for you. I mean, look at it. It's not so bad. We've got the beach and the sea. Open country a few miles out. And a decent pub to boot. What else do you want?"

Good question.

"I suppose I just never expected to still be here now," I said. "I always thought I'd be moving on."

"Where to?"

Another good question.

"To be honest... I don't really know. Like I said, I've been to worse places. I just thought maybe I'd find somewhere better. You know... that something would happen that would kick-start it all."

"Yeah? Like what?"

I knew the answer to that one. There had only ever been one.

"Alright... I always thought that by now, life would have brought me what I always wanted. Publishing a novel. Making a bit of money. Finding some freedom and movement. And it just hasn't happened. And before you know it... the years have gone by... and I'm still here. Economic necessity as much as anything else."

He coughed quietly.

"And there I was thinking it was the remarkable social life you enjoyed and the friends you had."

I gave him a look... and he winked.

"You know what I mean," I said.

He nodded. "It's never too late, is it? Bukowski was fifty before he got his break. How old are you now?"

"Fifty-six last birthday."

"And when was that?"

"Ten months ago."

"Right," he said, quietly. "Even so..."

He left it hanging there a moment, passing me the number again.

"If it's any consolation," he went on, "there once was a time when I was half your age. Now, I'm only three years behind you. Catching you up, mate."

He could make me laugh sometimes. Or cry.

We reached Shanty Square and turned in, out of that wind at last. A few lights were on in some of the rooms. The flicker of late-film TV sets. The tinkle of wind chimes on someone’s balcony. 

We headed for the island in the middle - a circle of grass with a skeletal chestnut tree - and sat down at the bench there, facing the sea, to finish off the joint. Above us, the stars were scattered like glitter on a blackboard, and a crescent moon rode a cloud like a beached galleon in the night. And yeah, I thought... there was something special about it. Maybe.

Someone flushed their toilet and we heard the water gush down the pipe.

"I've often wondered about that up there," he said, nodding towards the void. "If the universe is expanding all the time... then what's it expanding into?"

I glanced at him. In spite of the booze and blow, he couldn't have looked more serious if he'd tried.

"It doesn't work quite that way, mate," I said. "It doesn't expand into anything. It just expands... like a balloon being blown up."

He twisted his face, unconvinced.

"But if you blow up a balloon, it can only go so far, can't it. I mean, if you blow it up in a box... it has to stop when it hits the sides of the box. Stands to reason. Either that, or it'll just get so big that it'll burst."

A shooting star dropped suddenly, like a dying firefly.

"Quick... make a wish," he said.

I wished he'd change the subject.

"I left metaphysics behind about two pints ago, mate," I said. "I'll leave you to ponder on it."

I took one last puff, handed it back, got up.

"Sleep well, H,” he said.

"You, too."

I headed over to my door. As I got there, he called back to me.

"Course, it will all burst one day anyway, H. Then none of it will matter any more."

There was a thought to take to bed.

So I took it.

(continued) https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/4-away-words-i