The Ferryman
by Pat Black
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Soaked, miserable and redundant, Ricky takes shelter from the raging storm with a cheap bottle of Cava after his last day at work. He thinks things can't get any worse. But of course they can...
_____________________________________________________________________
The receptionist beamed at Ricky as usual and gave him a bit of small talk while he was on his way out. She clearly had no idea.
“Some weather out there!” She nodded towards the glass windows, pitted with raindrops. “Never mind a brolly. I think you’ll need a wetsuit.”
“Totally,” he said. “Monsoon season, eh? Well, best get a move on.”
“See you.”
The revolving doors almost away ran from him, and the building spat him out. The weather was an assault, a raging wind and slanting bolts of rain. Ricky knew it had been raining all afternoon and he’d seen the Artex-pattern puddles outside, when he’d been given his card and his gift vouchers, the awkward speech from the boss, the handshakes and lack of eye contact. But he’d had no idea how ferocious it all was outside, nice and sheltered behind double glazing in his beige strip-lit cocoon.
“Fucking brilliant,” he said, to no-one in particular, and put up his brolly. He strode into the wind, braced against the storm’s fury. To his right was the river, a raving grey ribbon with white frills. Beside the river was the road, where the puddles lay thick with the slow cars aquaplaning through them.
His brolly fought gamely for around fifteen seconds before its skirts were torn up over its head. But it did not die quietly; even collapsing the thing in order to stuff it in a passing bin was more of a fight than Ricky had expected. “Don’t take it out on me, fuck’s sake!” Just when it seemed he’d bunched enough of the flailing black material up to force into the bin, it unfurled and escaped into the air. It twirled away into the slanting rain, looping up into a jet black sky and back down into the river.
Ricky sighed down to his toes, then walked on.
There were a few other office buildings and industrial units out there by the river, but they were all square and nondescript as shoeboxes and there were no places for him to go out of the rain - not even doorways, alcoves or smokers’ shelters. He held his gift bag underneath his jacket and tried to muster some dignity amid the downpour. No-one watching would have been fooled for a second; the wind swatted him on the back and rump, propelling him into a run, and several cars sprayed him liberally with puddles. This indignity wasn’t quite enough sport for some; a few drivers – mostly white van men - went further, beeping their horns and flashing their lights at him.
Within minutes he was not just damp, but soaked. It was soaking behind his knees, soaking in the soles of his shoes, soaking in the crack of his archie. He still had a couple of miles to walk until the train station, but he wished for the golden glow of a passing taxi light.
When he could taste his hair wax, toxic and plasticky, Ricky decided to cut his losses and head for the bridge. There was an underpass beneath it, right beside the river; he could hold out there until the rain relented from the biblical to the merely torrential.
There wasn’t a soul down by the walkway; normally it was a thoroughfare for dog walkers and runners, but the only activity apparent was that of the water blasting through the railings along the embankment. Ricky had never seen the river like this in his life. It was like being at sea, whitecaps forming where the waters broke. Moby Dick might well appear from the foaming waters at any minute – frowning, naturally.
Out in the water, barely visible through the curtain of water, something bobbed. It was a buoy, a strange joke someone had cracked, as much of a landmark in the city as the traffic cone on Wellington’s head: though you couldn’t see it from this distance, there was a sign on the top of the hull, marked “JESUS SAVES”.
Some had speculated the Humane Society, the Samaritans or some church group had placed the float there to dissuade jumpers from the bridge. There were a lot of jumpers from the bridge, a frightening number of them every year.
At last, the bridge cut off the deluge at a stroke, and Ricky enjoyed the relative calm underneath it. The traffic susurrated above while the rain dribbled out of his sleeves in a long, slow trickle. It smelled in here; the usual dossers’ dungeon aroma of piss and something deeper, more ingrained. Old bodies, old dirt. There were a few old sleeping bags and bits of cardboard hidden in among some of the supports, but absolutely no sign of anyone living or dead.
So, when one flimsy bit of stray material twitched and moved to Ricky’s left, he nearly shat himself.
A face struggled to the surface of an ancient blue sleeping bag. It was one Ricky recognised, belonging to a haggard man he’d seen several times along the riverbank. Even for a dosser, this guy was an odd un’. On his way along the road in more clement conditions, Ricky had seen him hiding things under loose paving slabs and picking things up from the street, too small to be discerned by the casual observer. As always, the man wore a long grey ski jacket, perfectly complementing a fishbelly-white complexion and a rash of gingery-grey hair. Ricky had always thought of him as an old man, but now he saw that he could have been anything from 25 to 50.
The dosser nodded to him. “Some day, eh?”
“Monsoon weather. For sure.” Ricky fought the urge to move out of the guy’s space.
“What?” the dosser shouted, getting to his feet. Ricky moved back a step. “A monsoon, you say? That a fact?”
“Might as well be,” Ricky said. He felt inside the gift bag, enfolded his fingers around the stock of the bottle of Cava they’d got him from Marks. Anything Moet and above, he’d save. But Cava was a feasible weapon.
“It’s not a monsoon, nah,” the dosser said, stretching and arching his back. “Bit of a squall maybe. I’ve seen a real monsoon. When I was on the boats, know?”
“Oh right.” Ricky took a sidestep to the right, closer to the flowing curtain over his shoulder where the rain surged off the bridge.
“You’re alright there, mate,” the dosser said. “I’m not going to touch you.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You’re very welcome.” The dosser sneered, then spread his hands wide, taking in the bridge, the spars and supports. “Make yourself at home.”
Ricky nodded. “Think I will. Don’t know if this rain’ll go off, or what.”
“Maybe it won’t. Ha!” The dosser reached into his jacket and pulled out a half bottle of whisky. There was maybe a couple of inches left in it. “Hey! Look at that. A spot of breakfast for you, young fella?”
Ricky watched as the cap was unscrewed and the bottle placed against the dosser’s scabbed lips. “You’re alright mate. No thanks.”
“You sure? Yowch! It’s good.”
Ricky smiled. “You know what? Actually, I will. Fuck it.” He pulled the bottle out from beneath his jacket. “How do you fancy a drop of champers, mate?”
“Champers? That’s no’ fuckin’ champers. That’s Cava, mate. Somebody’s sold you a dummy.”
“Who cares? I didn’t buy it.” Ricky tore off the foil around the cork, then untwined the wire holding it in. Slowly, the cork loosened, then escaped with a muffled pop. “Anyway, it’s a celebration.”
“What you celebratin’?” The dosser tilted his head at the sight of the surging foam, a strangely feline gesture.
Ricky took a drink. Some of it foamed against the back of his throat, shooting into his nose. “Freedom,” he coughed, gesturing towards his old office – a reddish smudge through the rain.
“Freedom? What, did they give you your books?”
Ricky nodded. “Yes.” He took a long drink from the bottle. The fizzy stuff usually gave him heartburn in the end-up, but it was always a delight; bubbles right into the blood. “In so many words, yes.”
“How many words you want, pal? I’ve got a few. The tin tack. The bullet. Bagged. P45. Binned. Done. Finished. On the buroo. Given yer cards.” He grinned a peculiarly bright yellow, as if a child had coloured his teeth in with a crayon.
Ricky toasted him, and drank again.
“Well,” the dosser said. “You going to keep it all to yourself?”
“Not at all, mate. Here you go.” He passed the Cava to the dosser. Had the bottle been made out of gold, the bridge-dweller’s expression could scarcely have been more rapt. A feral gleam came into his eyes as he took the bottle and pressed it to his lips. The foaming stuff escaped out of the neck of the bottle, running down his chin and beneath the collar of his jacket as he gulped and gulped.
He belched a couple of times, frowned, then delivered the verdict. “Shite.”
“I thought so too. Well, it’s yours now, mate.” Ricky nodded at the bridge. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“You’re very welcome,” the dosser said. “So what now? Job Centre? Ha!”
“Maybe so.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I was laid off, too. Laid off the boats. And look at me... I got over it, didn’t I? Ha! This could be a new beginning for you.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Ricky wondered if he should brave the storm; the conversation was getting dull. “So, how about you? You up to much today? Got a busy schedule?”
The dosser wiped a hand across his mouth. His face was solemn. “Actually, aye. I was going to break my record.”
“Your record?”
“My swimming record.”
“What... out in that?”
“Sure.” The dosser shrugged. “I have my target.”
“What target?” Ricky couldn’t help but laugh. “Show me.”
“Jesus Saves, son. Jesus Saves.”
“What, the float?” Ricky squinted at the water. Then he saw the float, angled sharply in the choppy water.
“Aye. What else?”
“Well, you knock yourself out. You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you.”
The dosser snorted. “Suit yerself.” He drained the last of the bottle, then poured a steady stream of it out onto the concrete. “For the gods,” he explained. Then he took off, a windmill of spindly arms and legs, before vaulting the railings on the embankment and then crashing into the river.
“Hey... what the fuck?” Ricky ran forward into the wind and rain, clinging to the freezing railings.
The dosser was making some headway in the water, a gingerish head bobbing towards the float. He had a good forty or fifty yards to go.
“Mate!” Ricky screamed. “What are you doing?”
The head kept on bobbing – with astonishing speed, it had to be said – towards its target. Then a wave – or perhaps it was Moby Dick – folded over the dosser’s head, and he was gone.
Ricky scanned the water. No dosser re-appeared. The water moved fast, surging past him below the embankment.
He sprinted along to the lifebelt stand, snatched out the red ring and uncoiled the rope.
In the water, a hand forced its way through the surface; then a face, stricken, bearded.
Ricky hurled the ring out into the water, but the hand did not reappear. The lifeline trailed away into the water, the red ring as vibrant as a rose petal on the slate grey surface.
He had his phone out to dial 999 when he saw another arm, agonisingly close to the “JESUS SAVES” buoy, obscured by the rail. “Oh fuck it, fuck it!” he cried. He tore off his jacket, then crouched to untie his shoelaces.
He had gotten as far as placing one leg over the edge of the railings when someone gripped him by the shoulder, hard.
It was a policeman, and he was angry. “What are you playing at?”
“There’s a guy out there,” Ricky said. “In the water.”
The policeman drew him closer, smelt his breath, and frowned. “Is there fuck. Come on, get away from there.”
“You have to get the lifeline to him – there’s a dosser out there. He was under the bridge – he went in to swim over to the float.”
“Yeah, heard it, mate. Come on, away from there. Get yer shoes on. Come on, get away from there.”
Out in the water, the float shivered in the wind. The sign on top dipped in the water, as if to rinse its head, and the whole thing threatened to completely upend.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Soaked, miserable and redundant, Ricky takes shelter from the raging storm with a cheap bottle of Cava after his last day at work. He thinks things can't get any worse. But of course they can...
_____________________________________________________________________
The receptionist beamed at Ricky as usual and gave him a bit of small talk while he was on his way out. She clearly had no idea.
“Some weather out there!” She nodded towards the glass windows, pitted with raindrops. “Never mind a brolly. I think you’ll need a wetsuit.”
“Totally,” he said. “Monsoon season, eh? Well, best get a move on.”
“See you.”
The revolving doors almost away ran from him, and the building spat him out. The weather was an assault, a raging wind and slanting bolts of rain. Ricky knew it had been raining all afternoon and he’d seen the Artex-pattern puddles outside, when he’d been given his card and his gift vouchers, the awkward speech from the boss, the handshakes and lack of eye contact. But he’d had no idea how ferocious it all was outside, nice and sheltered behind double glazing in his beige strip-lit cocoon.
“Fucking brilliant,” he said, to no-one in particular, and put up his brolly. He strode into the wind, braced against the storm’s fury. To his right was the river, a raving grey ribbon with white frills. Beside the river was the road, where the puddles lay thick with the slow cars aquaplaning through them.
His brolly fought gamely for around fifteen seconds before its skirts were torn up over its head. But it did not die quietly; even collapsing the thing in order to stuff it in a passing bin was more of a fight than Ricky had expected. “Don’t take it out on me, fuck’s sake!” Just when it seemed he’d bunched enough of the flailing black material up to force into the bin, it unfurled and escaped into the air. It twirled away into the slanting rain, looping up into a jet black sky and back down into the river.
Ricky sighed down to his toes, then walked on.
There were a few other office buildings and industrial units out there by the river, but they were all square and nondescript as shoeboxes and there were no places for him to go out of the rain - not even doorways, alcoves or smokers’ shelters. He held his gift bag underneath his jacket and tried to muster some dignity amid the downpour. No-one watching would have been fooled for a second; the wind swatted him on the back and rump, propelling him into a run, and several cars sprayed him liberally with puddles. This indignity wasn’t quite enough sport for some; a few drivers – mostly white van men - went further, beeping their horns and flashing their lights at him.
Within minutes he was not just damp, but soaked. It was soaking behind his knees, soaking in the soles of his shoes, soaking in the crack of his archie. He still had a couple of miles to walk until the train station, but he wished for the golden glow of a passing taxi light.
When he could taste his hair wax, toxic and plasticky, Ricky decided to cut his losses and head for the bridge. There was an underpass beneath it, right beside the river; he could hold out there until the rain relented from the biblical to the merely torrential.
There wasn’t a soul down by the walkway; normally it was a thoroughfare for dog walkers and runners, but the only activity apparent was that of the water blasting through the railings along the embankment. Ricky had never seen the river like this in his life. It was like being at sea, whitecaps forming where the waters broke. Moby Dick might well appear from the foaming waters at any minute – frowning, naturally.
Out in the water, barely visible through the curtain of water, something bobbed. It was a buoy, a strange joke someone had cracked, as much of a landmark in the city as the traffic cone on Wellington’s head: though you couldn’t see it from this distance, there was a sign on the top of the hull, marked “JESUS SAVES”.
Some had speculated the Humane Society, the Samaritans or some church group had placed the float there to dissuade jumpers from the bridge. There were a lot of jumpers from the bridge, a frightening number of them every year.
At last, the bridge cut off the deluge at a stroke, and Ricky enjoyed the relative calm underneath it. The traffic susurrated above while the rain dribbled out of his sleeves in a long, slow trickle. It smelled in here; the usual dossers’ dungeon aroma of piss and something deeper, more ingrained. Old bodies, old dirt. There were a few old sleeping bags and bits of cardboard hidden in among some of the supports, but absolutely no sign of anyone living or dead.
So, when one flimsy bit of stray material twitched and moved to Ricky’s left, he nearly shat himself.
A face struggled to the surface of an ancient blue sleeping bag. It was one Ricky recognised, belonging to a haggard man he’d seen several times along the riverbank. Even for a dosser, this guy was an odd un’. On his way along the road in more clement conditions, Ricky had seen him hiding things under loose paving slabs and picking things up from the street, too small to be discerned by the casual observer. As always, the man wore a long grey ski jacket, perfectly complementing a fishbelly-white complexion and a rash of gingery-grey hair. Ricky had always thought of him as an old man, but now he saw that he could have been anything from 25 to 50.
The dosser nodded to him. “Some day, eh?”
“Monsoon weather. For sure.” Ricky fought the urge to move out of the guy’s space.
“What?” the dosser shouted, getting to his feet. Ricky moved back a step. “A monsoon, you say? That a fact?”
“Might as well be,” Ricky said. He felt inside the gift bag, enfolded his fingers around the stock of the bottle of Cava they’d got him from Marks. Anything Moet and above, he’d save. But Cava was a feasible weapon.
“It’s not a monsoon, nah,” the dosser said, stretching and arching his back. “Bit of a squall maybe. I’ve seen a real monsoon. When I was on the boats, know?”
“Oh right.” Ricky took a sidestep to the right, closer to the flowing curtain over his shoulder where the rain surged off the bridge.
“You’re alright there, mate,” the dosser said. “I’m not going to touch you.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You’re very welcome.” The dosser sneered, then spread his hands wide, taking in the bridge, the spars and supports. “Make yourself at home.”
Ricky nodded. “Think I will. Don’t know if this rain’ll go off, or what.”
“Maybe it won’t. Ha!” The dosser reached into his jacket and pulled out a half bottle of whisky. There was maybe a couple of inches left in it. “Hey! Look at that. A spot of breakfast for you, young fella?”
Ricky watched as the cap was unscrewed and the bottle placed against the dosser’s scabbed lips. “You’re alright mate. No thanks.”
“You sure? Yowch! It’s good.”
Ricky smiled. “You know what? Actually, I will. Fuck it.” He pulled the bottle out from beneath his jacket. “How do you fancy a drop of champers, mate?”
“Champers? That’s no’ fuckin’ champers. That’s Cava, mate. Somebody’s sold you a dummy.”
“Who cares? I didn’t buy it.” Ricky tore off the foil around the cork, then untwined the wire holding it in. Slowly, the cork loosened, then escaped with a muffled pop. “Anyway, it’s a celebration.”
“What you celebratin’?” The dosser tilted his head at the sight of the surging foam, a strangely feline gesture.
Ricky took a drink. Some of it foamed against the back of his throat, shooting into his nose. “Freedom,” he coughed, gesturing towards his old office – a reddish smudge through the rain.
“Freedom? What, did they give you your books?”
Ricky nodded. “Yes.” He took a long drink from the bottle. The fizzy stuff usually gave him heartburn in the end-up, but it was always a delight; bubbles right into the blood. “In so many words, yes.”
“How many words you want, pal? I’ve got a few. The tin tack. The bullet. Bagged. P45. Binned. Done. Finished. On the buroo. Given yer cards.” He grinned a peculiarly bright yellow, as if a child had coloured his teeth in with a crayon.
Ricky toasted him, and drank again.
“Well,” the dosser said. “You going to keep it all to yourself?”
“Not at all, mate. Here you go.” He passed the Cava to the dosser. Had the bottle been made out of gold, the bridge-dweller’s expression could scarcely have been more rapt. A feral gleam came into his eyes as he took the bottle and pressed it to his lips. The foaming stuff escaped out of the neck of the bottle, running down his chin and beneath the collar of his jacket as he gulped and gulped.
He belched a couple of times, frowned, then delivered the verdict. “Shite.”
“I thought so too. Well, it’s yours now, mate.” Ricky nodded at the bridge. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“You’re very welcome,” the dosser said. “So what now? Job Centre? Ha!”
“Maybe so.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I was laid off, too. Laid off the boats. And look at me... I got over it, didn’t I? Ha! This could be a new beginning for you.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Ricky wondered if he should brave the storm; the conversation was getting dull. “So, how about you? You up to much today? Got a busy schedule?”
The dosser wiped a hand across his mouth. His face was solemn. “Actually, aye. I was going to break my record.”
“Your record?”
“My swimming record.”
“What... out in that?”
“Sure.” The dosser shrugged. “I have my target.”
“What target?” Ricky couldn’t help but laugh. “Show me.”
“Jesus Saves, son. Jesus Saves.”
“What, the float?” Ricky squinted at the water. Then he saw the float, angled sharply in the choppy water.
“Aye. What else?”
“Well, you knock yourself out. You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you.”
The dosser snorted. “Suit yerself.” He drained the last of the bottle, then poured a steady stream of it out onto the concrete. “For the gods,” he explained. Then he took off, a windmill of spindly arms and legs, before vaulting the railings on the embankment and then crashing into the river.
“Hey... what the fuck?” Ricky ran forward into the wind and rain, clinging to the freezing railings.
The dosser was making some headway in the water, a gingerish head bobbing towards the float. He had a good forty or fifty yards to go.
“Mate!” Ricky screamed. “What are you doing?”
The head kept on bobbing – with astonishing speed, it had to be said – towards its target. Then a wave – or perhaps it was Moby Dick – folded over the dosser’s head, and he was gone.
Ricky scanned the water. No dosser re-appeared. The water moved fast, surging past him below the embankment.
He sprinted along to the lifebelt stand, snatched out the red ring and uncoiled the rope.
In the water, a hand forced its way through the surface; then a face, stricken, bearded.
Ricky hurled the ring out into the water, but the hand did not reappear. The lifeline trailed away into the water, the red ring as vibrant as a rose petal on the slate grey surface.
He had his phone out to dial 999 when he saw another arm, agonisingly close to the “JESUS SAVES” buoy, obscured by the rail. “Oh fuck it, fuck it!” he cried. He tore off his jacket, then crouched to untie his shoelaces.
He had gotten as far as placing one leg over the edge of the railings when someone gripped him by the shoulder, hard.
It was a policeman, and he was angry. “What are you playing at?”
“There’s a guy out there,” Ricky said. “In the water.”
The policeman drew him closer, smelt his breath, and frowned. “Is there fuck. Come on, get away from there.”
“You have to get the lifeline to him – there’s a dosser out there. He was under the bridge – he went in to swim over to the float.”
“Yeah, heard it, mate. Come on, away from there. Get yer shoes on. Come on, get away from there.”
Out in the water, the float shivered in the wind. The sign on top dipped in the water, as if to rinse its head, and the whole thing threatened to completely upend.
About the Author
Pat Black is a thirtysomething writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow. He says he has made that difficult transition from aspiring novelist to failed novelist, although he has had a couple of short stories published. He’s the author of Snarl, a completed novel about a monster that tries to mount the Houses of Parliament. Holyrood emerges unscathed, for now.