Excerpts from lost novels
19 February, 2008

Eleanor stopped and looked down at the pavement. What was she doing? She knew she was supposed to be going to the gallery, to meet…what was he? A friend? A date? She thought back to the party in Clapham the previous weekend. She had been drunk, but not that drunk, and he was nice enough. All smiles and attentiveness. He had laughed at her jokes and seemed interested in her work and what she had to say.

And she was interested in him. Or, at least, she wasn’t uninterested. He wasn’t that attractive. Perhaps a little short for her. But, then, most men were. And he worked in publishing, which was pretty much the same as everyone that she knew. What was it that made her want to see him again? Was she just going through the motions? She was single, so she needed someone and he would do. Is that all it was? Shouldn’t she be waiting for the hit, the buzz, the gut-tugging pull of excitement that told her this could be forever, even after such a short time? Or was a certain sense of emptiness, a lack of expectation, a sign of something more practical and, in the end, more fulfilling?

Maybe I shouldn’t question it so much, she thought as she gazed down at the dust-filled cracks in the stones and the dots of squashed chewing gum, aged into black holes leading into nothing. People were starting to push past her so she walked to the river side and looked over the edge. She was going to be late, but she didn’t care. The tide was out and the grey-brown mud was exposed. A few seagulls were searching for food and staring at the glistening water. What were they looking at? She gazed at the swell and the tiny waves whipped up by the gentle afternoon breeze. She couldn’t see anything.

On the opposite bank, cars and people moved silently to and fro. All those lives that she could never know. Some must be tourists, some on their way to work. People driving to a weekend away, a dinner party, a wedding, a funeral. How many were setting out on a journey into the unknown? How many felt as if their life was in stasis, just going through the motions? Was she the only one? Or were they all the same, bored automatons listlessly doing the next thing because that’s what comes next?

After a few moments, she stopped looking at the people, the cars, the water, the seagulls. She stopped listening to the half-snatched conversations of passers by, the lapping of the water, the squawking of the birds, the engines of the riverboats, the distant roar of the city that had her surrounded, and the nagging, troubled silence in her mind. She felt claustrophobic. There was nowhere to go. She could turn around and walk away, but to what? Back to her flat? Back to the tedious flatmates and the possessions that she knew all too well? She could see a film, get a train. Pointless. And what of that poor soul waiting outside the gallery? Surely he was checking his watch by now, searching the milling faces for someone he recognised, wondering if he had forgotten what she looked like, wondering if he should call. It was all so predictable.

A noise broke the strand in her mind. It was a shout, from someone close by. She turned and saw a woman pointing desperately to the bridge with panic in her voice. Eleanor studied the painted iron arches. What was it? She couldn’t see anything. And then it became clear. A man had clambered over the side and was stepping from giant rivet to giant rivet, trying to pick his spot. He was dressed in a loose t-shirt and a pair of combat trousers but no shoes. She could see his hair, blown by the breeze. He looked cold, or scared. But he was determined. Eventually, he reached the middle of an arch, turning his back to the metalwork and facing the river, the city, the sky.

More people had noticed him. Some were calling out, others running around wondering what to do or making phone calls. One man, a tourist, was taking a photograph with his camera phone. Faint sirens were heard in the distance, but they could have been for anything. All the while, Eleanor stood motionless, transfixed with blank expectation. The moment seemed to last forever. Then there was a faint push, a contraction of the shoulders, and everyone watching fell silent.

The man arched his back and swung his arms above his head, like an Olympic diver, as he slowly sprung off the metal arch. He looked so graceful, like a bird, even, swooping down to pluck a fish from the watery depths. But everyone knew his purpose. A woman, perhaps the same one, shouted. No…Of course, it was too late. It had been too late ever since he contracted his shoulders. And down he fell, faster and faster, towards the grey concrete river. At the last moment, he changed his position, landing flatly, heavily on the surface, suddenly fighting against the engulfing waves.

But there was nothing he could do. The rip tide was pulling him under, pulling him under the bridge and down into the blackness. In a second, he was gone. Eleanor looked down and, not knowing what to do, stared at her fingernails. The red varnish she had painted on the week before was chipped and missing in places. She realised she didn’t know what to think. She wanted to cry, but not for him. People were walking past. Nothing had happened.

Suddenly, she was running, towards where the man had fallen, but soon far beyond, pushing through the crowd and with an increasing sense of panic. She was heading towards the gallery, but she knew that was not where she was going. She wanted to run forever and be swept up by the wind, to disappear in an instant. She ran on and on, hardly noticing where she was going, hardly feeling the burning in her lungs and her legs.

Eventually, she stopped by London Bridge, almost collapsing with exhaustion and cursing her feeble body. Nothing had changed, she was still empty. But she knew she didn’t want to be the same person ever again.