The Canal Read online

  I was beginning to feel at home on the canal. I was convinced that I had made the right decision to walk to it each day, instead of walking to work as usual. If I was honest, there was only one thing I really missed: the walk to work, the route I took each and every morning, before I decided to stop all of that and head to the canal. My walk to work would take me through Shoreditch Park in Hoxton. The park was originally a site of high-density housing, most of which was destroyed during World War Two, most notably in the Blitz of 1940–1. Documents record numerous V1 and V2 rockets landing in the area up until 1945. Post-war ‘prefab’ houses lasted up until the 1980s when the whole area was eventually demolished and transformed into a park. Each morning I would see the same man and German Shepherd dog out on the playing fields. The man would have a green Frisbee with him, which would hold the dog’s attention, until he finally threw it up into the air, causing the dog to chase it and leap up to catch it between its jaws—which it succeeded in doing ninety percent of the time, regardless of the weather, most probably due to the expertise of the man’s throw. The dog always looked so happy doing this, each morning, rain or shine, over and over again. On the few occasions that the dog would mis-time its leap to catch the Frisbee in its powerful jaws I would feel quite sorry for it, and as I would continue through the park on the path built over what was once Dorchester Street, I would become quite sure that this miscalculation would affect me somehow, my behaviour, throughout my entire working day. That German Shepherd, the green Frisbee, and the man, all combining to alter my day at any time during my short walk through Shoreditch Park each morning. A wry smile would often eke its way across my face when I thought about this on my way back home after work, walking in the opposite direction through the park—the dog, the green Frisbee, and the man elsewhere, oblivious to the effect they had upon me.

  - seven -

  That very same evening I walked to her flat on De Beauvoir Road. I remember it clearly, as if it was yesterday. I even remember the cat, on the way, that sped out from a garden on Northchurch Road, into the traffic and almost under the wheels of an oncoming car. It cowered on the other side of the road underneath a plane tree. I walked over to it, the cat, making deliberate blinks with both my eyes. I wanted it to know that I wasn’t a threat. The cat blinked back, slowly. Then it walked over to me, close, executing three, maybe four, figure eights around my right leg, then stopping to rub its scent up against my shin. The cat, a tabby, made a loud noise that wasn’t quite like the traditional meow of a cat—it sounded like something else, something from the woods, something wild. I knelt down before it and allowed it to sniff at my outstretched fingers. It began to lick them with its sandpaper-like tongue. Northchurch Road was silent. Even the large, early Victorian houses seemed devoid of life. It was just me and the cat. Finally, it looked up at me and slowly blinked both its large eyes before walking off into the night.

  I had always wanted to own a cat. A ginger tom, to be more precise. My father wouldn’t allow this, though. When asked why, he simply stated that he didn’t want cats in the house. He would lie to me, proclaiming every time that he was allergic to them.

  “Why don’t you get a goldfish? They’re more or less the same colour.”

  He said this to me on many occasions, but it never deterred me from wanting to own a ginger tom. So, I befriended the next door neighbour’s cat—it was a ginger tom named Oscar. The name suited the cat, even though I hated a boy who lived around the corner from our house with the same name. I would feed Oscar the cat each day, ignoring my mother’s protestations. I was told that cats aren’t loyal, that if you start to feed a cat and the food is better than the food it already receives, the cat would walk out of its owners’ lives forever. I didn’t believe any of this, of course, but it sounded like a decent enough plan. I fed him everything I could get my hands on: cold meats, cheese, smoked salmon, tuna, and pilchards. Eventually, Oscar and I became inseparable, and one day Tom—the next door neighbour—noticing our new-found bond said to me, “Seeing as he spends more time with you these days you may as well have him.” From that moment Oscar became my cat. I let him sleep in my bedroom without my father knowing. In fact, Oscar slept in my bedroom most nights, if he wasn’t out killing, and if he did want to venture outside I would simply let him out through my bedroom window where he could hop onto the roof of our kitchen extension and then down into the garden. Most of the time he would want to stay with me and only occasionally would he stay out all night. When he did this he would return in the morning with a dead mouse for me, or a dead bird, a trophy for me to admire and accept. Then one morning he didn’t return. I waited for him, imagining he was off on some mini-adventure, but when he still didn’t return the following morning I began to seriously worry. I asked Tom if he had taken Oscar back in, but he told me that he hadn’t seen Oscar since he gave him to me. I knew immediately that something terrible had happened to him. It wasn’t until three days later that Oscar was found dead in our next-door-but-one neighbour’s garden. Apparently, he’d eaten some rat pellets, or something else put out by the neighbours to repel anything feral. After Oscar’s death, my father—on hearing about it—offered to buy me another “as long as it spent most of its time outside of the house,” but I quietly refused.

  I walked slowly onto De Beauvoir Road. Four youths on loud scooters sped past me. They made me jump. They had taken a short cut through the designated cycle routes on Northchurch Road and were probably on their way to Dalston from the direction of Islington or Cannobury. I found them quite threatening and I looked back a number of times to check that they hadn’t noticed me as an easy target. Luckily they hadn’t—obviously they had more important things to attend to. The streets were quiet and empty again.

  It was a Victorian terrace in keeping with the area: original sash windows, pale brickwork, basement and loft both in use. All the lights were on. The house looked like it had been split into two, maybe three private flats. I had no way of knowing which one she lived in. I began to wonder if she actually lived there at all—she could have stolen the purse from someone; it might not even have been hers. It could have belonged to anyone. But then I remembered the photograph. I crossed to the other side of the road, by an old print works that had now been renovated into expensive warehouse-style apartments. At least I thought it was an old print works. I stood beneath a street lamp and two large plane trees that hung over the road, reaching upwards into the night, their branches reflecting the orange hue of the streetlamp back down onto the road. I looked up at the old print works, up at the peeling paint from its decaying, forgotten sign, the white paint fading: Collins & Hays. The building had huge windows, one light on in the top apartment, no sign of life whatsoever, the whole building gated and protected from the outside world.

  I felt extremely uncomfortable, like I was stalking her—I was stalking her. I began to think that it was a bad idea and that maybe I should go back home, sit in my chair and do nothing. But I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot. It felt like my body had taken charge, like it was my body that was making all the decisions. So, I waited, there beneath the street lamp and between the two large plane trees, shedding their bark, bathed in the orange hue, a warm, welcoming glow soothing my body. I looked back across the road, to what I assumed was her flat. I looked into each window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only one window had its original wooden shutters open. It was the main window to the first floor, to the right of the main entrance. Even though there was a light on inside the large, high-ceilinged room, it was still impossible to see what was inside, especially from across the road. Just its initial size could be estimated, and maybe a bookshelf on the far wall, in-built, fitted. I couldn’t really be sure from my position. I concentrated, trying to focus, to block out any interfering light that might have impaired my view.

  After about fifteen minutes, maybe more, I noticed some movement in the first floor front room: a shadow moving into the room. Then what I thought must have been a lamp was switched on.
It began to flicker, a metallic grey, filling the whole room with its presence—it was obviously the TV. I looked at the house next door to check. Its interior was also bathed in the same flickering metallic grey, each flicker and waver in exact synchronicity with the metallic grey light in her room. They were obviously watching the same TV channel. I thought about all the other houses in the area, in the whole of London, or the entire country for that matter.

  I was convinced that she was in the room, somewhere, sitting on her sofa, watching the TV for no other reason than there was nothing else to do—because that’s what we are supposed to do. A lower state of boredom: being bored with something. A state of boredom that I have no interest in. TV will not save anyone from boredom, it will only help to prolong the inevitable. We use TV, thinking it helps us to beat our ongoing emptiness, but it doesn’t, it can’t. It’s a mechanism of our own avoidance of it. Through TV we are beaten. Its very existence is proof to me.

  Suddenly the flickering stopped. I immediately looked into the house next door: its room was still bathed in the same metallic grey. Her room became shadows again. She had obviously switched off her TV. This made me smile, but I soon stopped, due to the awkwardness of my situation. Then a warm glow filled her room, a milky yellow, like honey: it was a reading lamp in the far corner of the room I saw when I stood on my tiptoes. The new light had altered things, opened everything up. It allowed me a brief view of her: she was curled up on her sofa, reading a book. She was wearing what looked like jogging bottoms and a white, baggy t-shirt. My calves began to ache. I stepped back down to catch my breath. Then I stood up one last time. There she was, before me, in her own flat.

  As usual, I didn’t really know what to do, or what I was doing. The obvious thing, the thing that most people would have done, was either to have kept the purse and its contents, or to have handed it over to the police to sort out its recovery. I had done neither. I was outside the owner’s house, staring in through her window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But it wasn’t enough, I had to do something more. I peered into the front garden, which was neat and well-kept. There was a garden/basement flat to the property that I hadn’t noticed from the other side of the road. The blinds were open and I could see directly into what was a bedroom. A man was lying on his bed—half naked—he was a bit fat and extremely hirsute. I looked back up to her window directly above him—it was in stark contrast. I wondered if they knew each other, whether they exchanged pleasantries each time they bumped into each other in the communal garden path, or in the street. I doubt they ever did. He didn’t look like the sort, and I already knew she wasn’t.

  It was at that moment that a man appeared from the house next door. He was dressed in expensive designer casual-wear. His garments were garish and tacky: over-the-top lapels on his jacket, a bright polo shirt underneath, the collars turned up, skinny trousers, so skinny it was a wonder he could move.

  “Excuse me!”

  “Yes …”

  “EXCUSE ME! What are you doing just standing outside this house?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve been watching you for the past twenty minutes. You have been acting suspiciously …”

  “No I’ve not.”

  “Yes you have. I’ve been watching you.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any law against me standing here in the street …”

  “Don’t take the piss!”

  “I’m not.”

  “Listen, just be on your way, okay!”

  “On my way where?”

  “Wherever it is you want to go. Just not here.”

  “But I want to stand here.”

  “You can’t stand here.”

  “Yes I can.”

  While he said all this he was walking towards me. Then he suddenly slipped and fell over. He looked in considerable pain. I helped him back to his feet. It must have really hurt him because he remained quiet. Then he turned away and began to slowly walk back into his house next door. When he got to his front door he turned back towards me and stared for a long time before saying one last exasperated thing to me.

  “Just go away!”

  Just go away? Where? Where did he want me to go? I was outside her flat for a reason: I had her purse, her money. I was in the one place I should have been at that exact moment. There was nowhere I could have been going to—I couldn’t go back to my flat or the canal now that I knew where she lived. I had just cause, I had something to do, a purpose. Where else could I go? Where did he think I could just potter off to?

  I moved closer and looked into her flat through the window, rising up on my toes to get a better look. She was definitely in there; it was definitely her, reading, curled up on her own sofa, in her own home. The milky, honeyed glow surrounded her. I wanted her to look up and notice me, so that I didn’t have to keep straining, stretching up on to my tiptoes. She seemed to be completely engrossed in whatever it was she was reading. I was aware that there was some rustling in the privets down by the small driveway into the property. At first I didn’t want to look—as tempting as it was—because I didn’t want to lose sight of her, though eventually I did shift my gaze. I couldn’t really make out what it was to begin with but I soon figured that it must have been a fox, or a large rat. Then I saw it: the smallest fox I had ever seen. At least I thought it was a fox. It had lost all of its fur and looked quite alien-like, its once bushy tail nothing more than a brown, leathery, thin whip-like thing. It was eating something that looked like a discarded chicken wing. When the fox eventually noticed me it stopped eating and simply looked up at me—a few seconds, if that—before it picked the chicken wing up and trotted off through a gap in a wall by the side of the house. When I looked back up, the curtains had been drawn and I couldn’t see into her flat anymore. I began to panic a little. I paced up and down, muttering to myself. I wanted to throw something at her window: a bud from a tree, a stone, something that would attract her attention enough to reopen the curtains, long enough to peek outside and see me. I began to walk away, towards Englefield Road, but I soon turned back and stood outside her flat again. The neighbour was at his window, staring over to me. He gesticulated to me that he was about to phone the police. I shrugged. I knew that his efforts to disperse me were futile, and the last thing someone like him would want would be to have the police involved. I hadn’t done anything wrong for a start and he knew it. He was trying to threaten me, to appeal to what he thought might be one of my fears. In fact, the only person who had done anything remotely threatening was him, when he confronted me in the street. He was acting out of sheer vanity, ego, and embarrassment. He was a fool. He knew all too well that his actions were over the top and erratic. There was nothing he could really do. I ignored him and turned back to her window. Nothing. No lights, no movement, nothing. Not even a quiver of movement behind the curtains as if she might have been spying on me through them. The whole house was now bathed in a dark, almost menacing hue. Everything seemed closed off to me, it all seemed distant. Her life lay behind those curtains, all of it, every last morsel, all of it contained within the walls inside. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.

  So I stood there, outside her flat, the two plane trees and the old print works behind me. I could have been there for hours, it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t interested in time, I was interested in her. I was interested in getting to her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get to her. I didn’t know how to. Walking up to her door and simply knocking on it until she appeared wouldn’t have been enough. It wouldn’t have been enough.

  De Beauvoir Road was quiet, except for the distant furore of a group of lads walking down Englefield Road, up ahead in the direction of Kingsland Road. It was a comforting racket, it made me feel warm and happy. I couldn’t recall the last time I had walked drunkenly down the street with a group of friends, arm in arm, staggering, singing, and happy. I looked off to where De Beauvoir Road joined up with Englefield Road, by the small roundabout, a
s the group of lads were passing. I could see there were six of them in total. Two of them were wearing Arsenal Football Club shirts—they must have been warmed by the booze, as it was quite cold to be wearing just a football shirt. They must have been to the match, I figured. I had lost track of the time. I suddenly realised that before I started walking to the canal I would have known whom Arsenal would have been playing, because I was interested in things like that back then. Things like football matches back then actually mattered to me. The days following my first encounter with the bench and with her could never be the same. I was distinctly aware of this. Standing there back under the plane trees, it rattled inside me like something loose within a wind-up clock. Some cog or regulator that had somehow worked itself free from the rest of the tightly tuned mechanism, yet still not integral enough to bring things to a halt.

  Little by little, it began to dawn on me that my actions were proving to be quite futile. I was caught inside something that I didn’t quite understand. The very fact that I was standing outside her flat in the street was testament to this. The thought that she probably wouldn’t have cared if she had known I was there was proof enough. But there I remained, outside her flat. My eyes felt heavy and I strained to keep them open. I folded my arms and leaned back against one of the plane trees. All that concerned me that night was her presence, behind those curtains—the eeriness that I somehow felt close to her.

  - eight -

  I must have fallen asleep, as when I next looked up the streets were deserted and there was no sound whatsoever, not even the sound of traffic in the distance, or an aircraft or helicopter overhead. It must have been the early hours in the morning. It was a miracle I hadn’t fallen over. I was cold. Maybe it was around three or four a.m., I don’t know. How could I have fallen asleep? It didn’t quite add up. I was standing up, for a start. Surely people would have walked past me and disturbed my slumber? I couldn’t believe that I had fallen asleep, but I realise that I must have done. I looked up to her window. All the lights were on—not just the reading lamp, all of the lights—in every room. Her curtains were wide open and she was standing there, at her window, looking directly at me. I shivered with fright. She looked like a ghost: ghoulish and vacant. It took a moment to sink in: she was completely naked. I began to shake quite uncontrollably. I should have walked away, but I didn’t. I walked towards her flat instead. As I walked towards her she put her hand on the windowpane, palm out, her fingers spread. I tried to ignore her medium-sized breasts and thin strip of pubic hair but I couldn’t. I needed to get inside of her flat. Inside her. I opened the wrought-iron gate and walked into the small garden. All the basement lights were out, only the fierce light from her window poured down upon me—the shadow cast from her naked, stoic form spread itself suggestively up towards the neighbour’s wall at an obtuse angle, darting outwards, past me, through me. I looked up to her silhouette above me, hanging over me, as I walked up the steps to her front door. My skin felt like it was bubbling. I began to sweat, it poured down my forehead, and down the small of my back, I was completely and utterly outside of myself. I banged on her door, I shouted out to her. But she wasn’t there. I stepped back, retreating back down a couple of steps. The curtains were firmly shut. It was as if she had not been there at all, at the window, staring at me—but she had. I saw her, I’d looked into her eyes. I knew that I hadn’t been hallucinating, that I wasn’t insane. I stepped back up to her door and began to thump it again. This time I shouted her name—or what I understood to be her name, the name I had found on the business card in her purse. I shouted this name over and over again. Nothing. My voice echoed in the street. Eventually, a dog started to bark in the distance. I knocked on her door three more times before walking away. I held her purse in my hand; I wanted to hand it to her, to make sure that it was returned to her safely.