The Gorge

The Gorge

It's wet. It always rain's here. Coulda been doin it forever. But ahv
never been here before, shoulda been, its not that far away. Not even a
streak aw white or flash aw colour, just flat grey sky, mist risin up
through the gorge to meet it. Mundane wet. Dank too. Ma clothes are
limp, hangin off me like there's hardly enough aw me to hold them up,
few more minutes aw drizzle an all that'll be left is a puddle of rags.
Slick Fist Dan. That's why ahm here. Some shite about his mum.
The wooden bridge slats are dark, musta been treated with creosote, is
that the stuff they use, probably not, but coated with somethin a long
time ago, the bridge has been here a while, longer than me is all ah
can be sure aw. Shiny cobwebbed prints stretch along. Left behind by
some animal. Ma tracks. They glow there a while, half ma foot on one
slat, half on another, not one full print bein contained in one slat
cause ma feet are too big or the slat is too narrow, fadin as the rain
dissolves their pattern.
With no tracks there are no clues as to how ah got here. Ah walked to
this point midway along the bridge, ah know that much, but if someone
passes this way for all they know ah maya been here forever. Ah coulda
been placed here, held by the head in the fingers aw a giant hand,
legs-a-twiddlin, set gently down, or created when nature farted an
followed through. Tracks would make it easier to understand ma
presence, without them ah become a fixture, like the black spindly
bushes taperin down, clingin to the sides aw the gorge. Why those
bushes don't let loose their tense roots an grow somewhere more
agreeable ah don't know. Ah couldn't stand it, ahd let masel fall into
the seethin water, twist in the cold, poppin up for air as ah spin ma
way downstream to be cast up on whatever shore.
An hour ahv been here, expectin no-one an responsible to nothin, free
ah suppose, but in the very act aw not expectin ahm as fixed as the
Scot's pines clusterin around. There's no measurements here to give me
an idea aw how long ahm goin to remain. Elsewhere ah can go into a pub
an get a pint, sit maself down with a fag an the paper an drink till
ahm done. In that frame ah can introduce other elements, like going for
a shite, or doin the crossword, or havin another pint, or maybe a dram,
fillin out the frame. Either way after one pint or three or five an ten
fags ahm gone, never havin needed to wonder what ah was doin. But here
there's nothin. Ahm regulated by nothin. Nothin frames this moment an
ah feel anxious. Ma life is a field full of stinkin shite, each day a
step in the dubs, but expectation is second nature an regular trends so
beaten into submission that, though there is none, that is ma freedom
of movement. Here ahm prickled, feel itchy, with doubt maybe. Here ah
have to relax outside the frame, dumb ah suppose, nothing new there
though ma dumbness isn't stupidity but still a constant source of worry
an perplexment an by certain standards ah may be as thick as
shit.
Ah didn't mean to come here. Its all Slick Fist Dan's fault, the claim
that his mother flung herself off this bridge an lived, supposedly
found three days later at the mouth aw the river on the Firth, gibberin
about trout with her clothes in tatters an a pebble in her fist. Slick
Fist says he charts his life from this point, every thought, action,
emotion bein an emanation, reaction or skittery jobby from the image aw
his mother up to her knees in water that wasn't quite fresh an not
quite salt. Slick Fist has been known to talk a lot aw bollocks. Well
ahl see. Ma tracks have gone, ahm glad they're away. There's people in
the trees, first folk aw the day, walkin along the gravel track on the
far side aw the bridge. A family ah think. Two adults an a couple aw
kids, though why they should be a family ahv no idea. The kids don't
look too happy about things, heads bowed in yellow and red macs,
scuffin ahead. One aw them jumps onto the safety bars an peers down
into the gorge, mum runnin over and pullin him back. Now they see me.
Ma stomach turns wishin they weren't lookin but ah can't look away an
here it comes, the prod, the old shame that strangers always spring.
Mum ushers the kids past me an there-they-go-a-skippin-by followed by
the mum's nervous glance an dad's thin grimace. The tracks! Ah saw her
lookin down an wonderin as she passed. Ahl run after her an tug her by
the sleeve an tell her how long ahv been here, explain ma lack aw
tracks an she'll go aaah an understand an we'll drink tea from their
thermos an exchange jokes an stories about kids for ah have a few aw ma
own, three, no five, all at university, all in regular contact, all
home aw a Sunday for dinner an good home comfort. They disappear into
the forest. Ah remember now. There's a nature trail around here,
painted signs on trees explainin the creatures that lurk in the forest
an aren't going to seen for shit on a day like this. But the parents
won't have told the kids that, same as ah wouldnta told them any form
aw the truth if they'd asked how long ahv been here.
Today's a red letter day, ah knew it as soon as ah woke up. Today's
the day ah see into the nature aw Slick Fist an much as ah hate the
bastard ahl scientifically analyse his story about his mother for flaw,
embellishment an the universal odour of shite. This is somethin to be
followed through, not quite a crusade, less than that, much less, an
issue, maybe somethin to do is all. Ah coulda simply lain in bed for
hours today, starin at the cracks on the ceilin or clawin at ma sheets
till forced to masturbate or make a cup aw tea. That's the usual choice
an really it could be a lot worse, it's a definite balance aw sorts an
maybe even worthy, the choice could be to wail like a baby or wait for
the postman an grab his hand as he posted ma mail. But instead ah came
here. Let others picture these choices, ma walls are transparent, open
to the street. On ma bed ah lie, frayed like an old carpet, pickin ma
feet or tossin an turnin, starin death-like at white walls an peerin
into questions that move boulders an raise issues an bring tears an
flush secrets an push buttons an spin issues an sense danger. We've all
got a stake in this kettle aw cabbage, movin along an peerin in an in
the end we all pass.
Ah don't know why ah bother hitchin. It's all unexplainable in the
claustrophobia aw cars an ma babblins usually last to the next lay-by
before ahm bundled out like a corpse an maybe reversed over a few times
to make sure cause why should strangers open their doors an be expected
to listen to ma pish? Who am ah to expect patience from strangers, its
all ah can manage to stop masel hittin random folk with ma stick as ah
pass them in the streets, though aw course ahm too weak for that an-
Strange. A presence. Ahm aware aw somethin but ah don't know whether
its solid or spirit but its definitely right next to me. Is it possible
to sneak up on someone on such a narrow bridge? There's a man at ma
shoulder. Maybe he's been placed here like me. When ah look up he looks
down so ah look down an he looks up an he musta seen the nervous tense
of ma shoulders cause when ah look up he doesn't look down again. He's
smilin. Like he's won.
- Morning-
-
- Quiet here-
-
- I jog down here every Saturday-
-
- I stop in the trees and look for wildlife-
-
- Sometimes in summer you get young couple heading for quiet
spots-
-
- I watch them with my binoculars-
-
- But its autumn-
He's a jogger, or that's his claim. He's wearin trainers which would
appear to support the claim but for all ah know they could be the worst
runners in the world, as much use as a pair aw brogues, a dead
give-away to the claim he was a jogger. There's a lope to his run,
somethin too smooth an dirty, he's the kind of guy who's always got an
itchy arse. Ah should run into the trees, follow the nature trail, the
pointins aw badgers an the signposts aw squirrels to the family ah saw
a while ago an warn them. But maybe they know him. Maybe he lives next
door, these assumptions are just guesses an at the end of the day ahl
not do anythin so what's the point in even thinkin about it.
Anyway, there's more important considerations. Like the fact that ah
must be real. The jogger's given me the first reminder ahv had for a
while. He spoke to me, trusted me as a, not as a friend but an ally
perhaps, someone unlikely to bring down judgement. So ah suppose ah
should be in someway grateful to him but ahm not. Ah most certainly
will sit in judgement, ma feet tramplin his face, ma stick pokin out
his beady eyes. Ah could even tie him to a tree, arms spread so he
can't scratch his arse.
Wonder why he talked to me anyway, what safe reflection he saw. Ah
can't trust ma features, there's a quality in ma glance that strangers
read as recognition, even across crowded dancefloors or seethin pubs
eyebrows raise and people bound over to begin conversations. Don't get
it, ah always think ahm rollin the stony impassive reel but ah must get
it hopelessly wrong an just come across as some frantically beckonin
circus freak. Maybe ahm so innocuous as to be rendered neutral, seen
less as human an more object. Maybe the jogger wasn't even talkin to
me, just speakin out loud in the centre aw the bridge. Ah was merely a
lump aw somethin that happened to be beside him, fixed, like the safety
rail or the Scots pine. Same in shops, that non-plussed non-hurried
blankness, a non-event in the life aw the assistant like the blur aw
the pavement walkin along in a daydream. Suits me fine. Ah can handle
it, ahm a professional after all. Ah think.
The gorge, ok, ok the gorge, the gorge, too many frustrations pickin
at me with their tiny axes, too many neural connections flickerin or
sparkin an short circuitin. Ah remember the mustiness when ma motors
burnt out. Ah still smell... smell aw what? Not mustiness. Fust. Fust,
though it doesn't convey the proper sense aw damp, a kind aw athlete's
foot moistness. Fusty wetness. That's it. Dank again! Course. Ahm just
dank. Standin in the middle aw this bridge in the thin pissin rain.
Slick Fist Dan caused me to come here ah remember. The claim is that
his mother jumped off the bridge. Was she alone ah wonder? Maybe the
jogger was watchin from some clump aw bushes with his binoculars as she
clambered up on the rail. Would he a done anythin, shouted out, maybe
not, that mighta scared her an she coulda fallen. The last thing you
want's to be scared when you're about to jump into a gorge. Too scary,
a real brown trouser moment that you can do without when you need all
your wits together. Only someone totally rational an in complete
control aw their life could ever contemplate jumpin into a gorge.
Suicides aren't fit for padded analysis, they're icons, the epitome of
free will, humanity nailed down. The jogger woulda stood there with the
lenses clamped to his eyes in blind awe. Anyway, this was decades ago,
the jogger wouldnta been born yet, he's younger than me though ah don't
know how old ah am rightly or wrongly.
Slap bang in the middle of the bridge. She musta jumped from here, she
wouldnta launched herself from the near or far side aw the bridge
because then she woulda plummeted down through whippy broom an stingy
gorse, bouncin off rocks, the whole experience unpleasant an deeply
unsettlin. But then again Slick Fist did say her clothes were all
tattered when she was pulled from the water by some bemused farmer. The
bushes could wella broken her fall, bumpin an scratchin an slowin her
so much she hit the water with a soft splash.
Ah drop a penny to see how long it takes to hit the water. The
measurement'll tell me how long it took for her to hit the water. Lost
it in the darkness. The two pence was easier to follow but still
disappeared into the void with a last flicker aw bronze. Could get a
stone an- What do ah need a stone for? Ah could count the seconds it
takes to hit the water but what then? What would the number four, four
seconds, actually mean? Four seconds plummetin equals instant death?
Maybe. It'd just be another guess. Ah would say anythin over ten'd mean
certain annihilation but the gorge isn't that deep so in the end the
experiment is useless an-
- Are you alright?-
Ah near leap over the safety rail in fright. Where do these people
spring from, why do ah never hear them comin, why do they creep up on
me?
- I mean it's really wet and you don't have a jacket-
-
- We've got a blanket in the car if you want?-
-
- Are you cold?-
- Four seconds plummetin equals instant death though ahv no proof for
this conjecture -
She backs away pretty quick. Ah dare not speak. Look what happens when
ah do, things blurt out whether in fear or spontaneity ah do not know
but do not like, an to go further, to explain ma words would be to
enter dubious territory which may wella generated hostility or
laughter, but either way left me weak an confused when it wasn't even
me who made the contact in the first place.
They're away into the forest. Ahm glad they're gone. She was very
pretty, ah saw fields aw barley wavin in her eyes. An concerned too
though ah didn't ask for that concern. Ah only came to see about Slick
Fist's mum. But ah didn't like him, the way he hovered behind her,
behind her questions, glancin ma way an lookin away. He made a mess
with his footprints on the slats, shufflin about like that. No doubt he
was impatient to be gone to the forest with her. Maybe ah should warn
them about the jogger with the binoculars. She was right about the
jacket though. Don't know where the hell ah left that. Ah had it
wanderin along the road from town. Ah had it when ah crossed the cow
field. Ah, ah remember. Ah put it over ma head when ah was sittin in
the byre eatin a scotch egg cause there was a leaky roof an the
breadcrumbs were gettin soggy. Musta left it there. Quite a
cross-section that one. Rain, a filthy byre, a man eatin a scotch egg
with a coat on his head, a wee goblin squattin in the dark.
There's more sounds in the trees now. Ma presence is so silent an
still ah can be ignored by the creatures in the burrows an branches,
they're safe to come out and chitter to friends in the bracken. If ah
stand here long enough ah may even gain the trust of the paranoid
squirrels, feel them runnin up my legs an nestlin against ma neck. Ah
may even take the squirrels home, feed them peanuts in the pub, though
this would no doubt attract ridicule and mistrust, like a man who keeps
pet squirrels is not be trusted near children, fire or motorised forms
of transport. But it's too late now anyway, it wouldn't be natural, ahv
thought it through an drowned the spontaneity. To buy squirrels dry
roasted peanuts now would be like a denial aw self.
A raindrop quivers on the end aw ma nose. If ah was finely balanced
it'd send me topplin over the barrier. Ah move slightly and its gone,
fallin through black air an hittin the water, tumblin along
self-contained, dissolvin slowly an disappearin. As ah turn the forest
moves with me. Ah assume ahm seen by the hidden animal eyes but no hush
suddenly falls. Ahv been here long enough to be accepted. Ah can tune
in an listen, see what went down, what Slick Fist's mum really did
here. A slippery wooden bridge, her tracks meltin as she sat on the
safety barrier, watchin the peaty water below. Somethin's tellin me to
slip into the memories of the past so ah better do what she did, maybe
ahl hear an see better that way. Steady though, the wind howls through
here like gas through the cleft on the arse aw the world. Ah turn
carefully. Ma last two footprints where ah stood on the bridge not two
minutes ago will soon be gone. Finally ahl put this issue with Slick
Fist to rest an never speak to him again or at least not for a day or
two. She did jump, ah know she did. She did it right here in the
middle, not over by the bushes an thorns. Only one way to know for
sure. Broom an gorse won't slow me, ahm dead in the middle.