Lonesome River Walk

*

Friday.

Here again at this time of night with these same noisy, drunken fools. Why at 11pm every Friday night do I find myself sitting at this same stupid, crowded horrid little table with a the same damp beer mat covered bar jutting in to the back of my head? Three pints down and straining over the alcoholic hubbub to hear Steve telling me about the Hammers chance for glory this season. Steve has never played football and doesn’t know anything more than what he gets off the telly. I can’t stand football chat but nevertheless I sit with my plastic smile and mild mockney accent listening to my boss waxing lyrical. At least we are not talking programming, I think Steve knows less about his second favorite topic of C standards than he does about football which is a shame because we are both professional programmers.

“Gotta go”, I mouth across the table, tapping my watch as an afterthought as if to intercept any incoming protests. It was sort of true, if I missed the next train then I would find myself on the last one. The last one of a Friday night is essentially a moving cage of drunks, suddenly deprived of the diversion of holding a bottle to their lips and faced with a choice of either general social abuse or entry into the first stages of the hangover. Neither are pretty, you don’t want to get the last train.

I push myself up from the table and turn towards the door, gaining a wet sleeve in the process as I steady myself with the bar. A portly guy leaning against the door staggers out of my way to let me past. He seems cheerful and red faced in spite of apparently having poured a pint of something brown over his Italian cotton piqued shirt. Really, a bib would have been a better choice.

As my footsteps hit the cobbles outside the pub, a sobering draft of cold London air hits my face. Suddenly the world feels a little bit better, the noise has gone and this little bit of Finch lane is as it has been for hundreds of years; cold, hard, a little damp but seemingly tolerant of those who pass through it. A beautiful little stroll past the Bank of England for a few moments and I find myself descending deep into the earth to find my way to the deepest part of the station from which my train will depart. There is a tiny queue by the lifts but the spin down the almost spiral stairs with sprightly dodges to avoid the little pools of vomit and general rubbish left by the last travelers is a marvelous treat.

The train seems pretty deserted and is leaving almost immediately, excellent. I pop in my IPod and stare at the black reflective window until we pop out of the ground and the panorama of East London starts to unfold. Not long at all until I am above ground and walking away from the lights of the station down towards the river path. I have taken this route more and more since Stephanie left. She used to hate it late at night, especially after I was mugged that one time. For me, I much prefer the mildly uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take the very old, very dark, exposed path by the river to the alternative choice of the well-lit but scummy little road with its parade of hooligan pubs and fast food joints.

The path is well cobbled, a few meters wide flanked by a guard rail to stop accidental river access on one side and a very high spiked fence on the other. Nobody else comes this way and it is an ill-advised route so I take it.

It is turning into a rotten night, there is light drizzle as I get to the waters edge. The top of the black iron railing stopping unwary travelers toppling into the fast moving muddy Thames is sodden and I take delight in whipping my hand along it as the band in my head and I change key. I am getting wet rapidly but home and a nice pot of tea are not far away.

Looking across the river on clear nights you can see the sky-scrapers reaching up to the clouds, constantly illuminated up with all sorts Banking adverts. I often wonder if someone is really doing a decent costing of the amount of extra custom these guys get compared to the amount they burn in electricity 24/7. I have a sneaky feeling it is the same sort of money that buys Italian cotton double-cuffed bibs. However tonight is not a clear night and I can’t see anything, not even a faint glow, that is pretty rare actually.

Damn London river fog. Fight the creeping feelings. Why am I still here in this job? I was excellent at math at school, why am I working in a shitty computing job?

Pay the rent is the answer. Why didn’t I travel, I did when I was younger, I even spent a year in Spain, why am I in the rain alone still in London?

I kicked a stupid rock that bounced down the path, enveloped itself in the fog and then made a clang as it hit the river railing. Shit, alone in the fog, middle of the night next to the river, ah crap.

The self deprecating thoughts were getting rapidly chased out by the more sinister memories of getting mugged not far from here. Slammed against the stone cobbles from behind, the bang loud inside my head as my skull hit the ground. The freezing steel of the blade pressed under my ear against my neck and the vicious winding punch that drove into my rib, delivered by the same fist that then pulled my wallet out of my pocket.

My IPod stopped, out of juice or wet, I don’t know. Either way it left me all alone in the eerie foggy darkness with just my thoughts tumbling around me.

I shuddered as I walked, pushing the thoughts out as best I could. The grey green fog now really coming in quickly, starting to obscure even my feet was not helping. I could no longer see the path in front of me at all and would have been utterly adrift save for the railing which I knew ran almost all the way home.

Every now and then something in the river moved or splashed. In the dearth of vision my other senses heightened and so each bump shot nerves down my back and added a little sweat to my already soaked palms. Little noises from the river, probably birds but also things floating with the tide, jostling each other in the current.

Don’t think of the barges. Don’t think of the barges. Every year many tens of people drown in the Thames. Most are drunk and either fall or dive in, not realizing the power of the deep water flow. For others, it is serves as a somewhat romantic method of removing oneself from the rat-race. Many are washed out into the Channel, but even more are trapped by the barges. Ancient creaking steel monoliths anchored in the side stream, serving to catch whatever detritus London drops into the murky drift. A swimmers nightmare, the currents towards the inflows increase and funnel and the underwater filters prevent even large fishes escaping.

Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop winding yourself up, drunken twit. I resolved to stride forwards into the gloom, one hand tightly gripping the icy railing as I heard a sob.

A cry.

Fuck Fuck Fuck. No, I didn’t hear it, I can’t have, not here, not tonight, I told myself, my heart pounding in my chest. Then, again, as if for clarification, louder this time came another sob. I saw her, a long black figure emerging out of the rolling fog. She was sitting on the steps down to the river that mark the access to the beach and the half-way point of the trip along the path. Ideally I wanted to pass on by but the guide railing along which my hand had been running came to a brief gap, filled by her body.

I am not a brave or particularly generous soul and in London, as with other big cities, it doesn’t pay to be one. The general rule is that you don’t get involved if it doesn’t concern you. I hoped to pass behind her as if I had never been there but as I grew close the vision with which I was presented slowed my pace until I was at a standstill, transfixed and gripping the last piece of iron.

She was young, no more than 30 I guessed. Long, straight, jet-black hair swept back over cream shoulders, tumbling down the back of a long, full-length ball gown. Her face white, almost as alabaster, but punctuated with dark eyes and full, apparently black lips. She was tall and slim but not thin, her body stretching down to delicate polished shoes that rested several steps below. Her arms, exposed from the shoulder down crossed in front of her as she peered out over the invisible expanse of water.

“Hey”, I stammered which came out somewhere between a word and a clearing of my throat but did indeed serve to announce my presence.

She didn’t start but did turn quickly to face me. Touching her eyes, she looked up at me and smiled, “Hi”. An accent, but I don’t know what.

“Are you ok”, I asked, looking down at her flawless oval face, peering into her dark eyes.

“Yes, fine thank you. I am enjoying the night”. Eastern European I think or maybe Scandinavian?

“Ok”, I responded, as she turned back to the river.

Not knowing what to do, I started to shuffle past behind her. Obviously she was cold, it was late and raining and even I was cold with my 3 layers of suit and coat. I wanted to say it but the adrenaline building inside me told me that I was going to stutter.

“Are you not chilly?”, I shot out as I rounded her.

She looked up at me again and this time smiled up at me properly. “Why no, would you like to join me?”

She was stunning; her soft, full lips parted just a fraction to reveal gleaming white teeth. I had to tear my eyes off her stunning mouth, only to fix them back into her gaze.

I took my coat off and draped it around her shoulders and moved to sit down on the stone step next to her. She giggled a beautiful silvery laugh, again showing brilliant white teeth, I don’t know why I fixed on them.