31.

□ When I got to Parry’s Rosemount flat, the couch was covered in newspaper. He grabbed the nearest page and waved it as he searched under his living room table for more drink.

“Liska,” he said. “She’s dead — and you’re famous. I hadn’t heard of either of you before she died. But now I know all about you. Look at that!”

“How do you reckon I’m famous?” I asked.

“I know who you are,” said Parry, “— but don’t worry — I’m a big fan of what you and Liska did.”

As Parry poured me a tumbler of sea-dark wine, I read the article in the newspaper, amazed at the pictures on display. Parry passed me some more cuttings, and said “See!”

It was awesome — Liska had hit the big time. There were many sheets of newspaper on Parry’s couch and Liska was in them all. There was even an example of my work in one of the papers which had opted to present the Liska story in a two page photospread. Parry threw aside his parking supervisor’s peaked hat and dashed off to change his clothes, and I drank my wine and flicked through the cuttings.

There were no surprises. All the small silver beings of the art world had begun their games the very second that Liska’s death had become known, with Mr Sharma leading the charge. From the papers I gathered that after Liska had died, Mr. Sharma had steered his showboat from the centre of the channel towards the bank, while the art-lovers waited in speechless wonder for the miracle of her work — which Mr Sharma had announced that he would sell. Everyone had something to say about the death of Liska and, as is sometimes the case in the newspapers, there was something weirdly pre-ordained about the blow by blow post-mortem consummation. There was another renaissance coming — all the papers agreed with that. Art was always exhibited with a characteristic know-it-all standing beside it telling us about its nuances, tones and swings, and Liska’s death was no exception. Mr Sharma was one of these know-it-alls and he appeared in several of the newspapers explaining Liska’s work. Liska had achieved artistic status at last and even more, one of the papers pronounced stoically in a short column:

The tragic death of artist Liska this week was followed by calls to improve the safety records of our North Sea ferries, which over the last year have hosted similar fatalities.

A flake of foam fluttered to the surface of the water and the art world continued pretty much as per usual, making a whole lot of fuss about very nearly nothing.

cf. Paul Struth : No Work Today (2001) House keys, one pint of milk [to be changed each four days], daily newspaper [to be changed each day].

It took an hour for Liska to drop. I hung like a gargoyle from the back of the ferry and the guilt began at that very lonely moment. Liska was in the sea and she must have been wondering where I was and why I couldn’t be there with her — and even while I read Parry’s newspapers, I could still hear her call. I closed my eyes and there she was in the water. I shared the same sight, the view of the ferry, travelling away from her. Liska was under the water and alone. The air was punched out of her and she was conscious in a new way. At that point there was only one thing that mattered to Liska and it was that I was there with her, in the sea.

Liska surfaced and felt like she had nearly lost her breath. The next shock she experienced was the wake of the ferry and the way it rolled her up and over. At that point, Liska’s only thought was to wonder where I was. The thought departed and Liska went under again and couldn’t feel her feet. She wanted to shout my name but she was too cold to shout. Rising and falling above the surface of the sea, Liska recalled some of life’s sensations — being penniless — a shot of light from a car window — the sadness of her family. Liska knew that I hadn’t jumped with her, and she watched the ferry leave, that huge ship becoming tiny very quickly. I was stuck to the railing of the ship as if by frost and when somebody grabbed me, that was when I closed my eyes.

That’s exactly what happened — I closed my eyes. When Liska jumped from the ferry, I couldn’t even bear to look — far less act. I could only shed tears. The tears were all I had to prove myself — and I heard a voice.

“Let go.”

It was a clear-as-a-bell voice from the back of my mind.

“Jump,” said the voice, “you jump now.”

My tears fell and I didn’t let go, despite the voice. I couldn’t prise my hands off that boat, then or ever. Watching the ferry, Liska let out a long breath and realised that she’d coped with the fall. All Liska thought about as she watched the boat travel away, was how long she had to wait. The sea was noisier than she had thought. Even in the middle of the sea, away from the boat, the water gleamed black, flexing muscle and swelling.

It was only when I was held by someone that I pretended to fall, as if I were about to jump. The man who held me had anticipated me. I’ve not been able to face the memory of that man without turning it away, because in that moment I pretended that I had to follow Liska. I tried to follow Liska but the next thing I knew was that I’d failed to act, and she had gone.

I gasped for breath.

Sometimes Liska dies as soon as she hits the water but I know that’s just a fiction. I know that however hard Liska falls she’s always going to come to the surface and wonder where I am.

In fact Liska didn’t even break a limb — she was treading water — and she even wondered if she could be there for hours. When she was waiting in the water like that, Liska wondered if she should swim a little, but she couldn’t get any purchase. If she tried to move, she was always pushed away and there was no way to control her direction.

The sound of the sea. For me it’s like heaven, ethereal and yet loud, like a crashing aeroplane. Every day I hear stories of drowning — such anecdotes seek me out. Drowned lovers in the local river, and the sinking of fishing boats and ferries — I can’t pass a radio without hearing another story of a drowned person. The passive enjoyment of the sound of the sea isn’t possible for me anymore, and if I sit in a chair to concentrate on something else, you bet it’ll creep up on me. I can’t go to the beach because the sea makes such an alarming gulp. It lifts Liska to the top of a wave and throws her down again. There’s a silent place between the waves sometimes, and Liska looks above and sees the stars — cold stars meditating on her. Look at that girl, a drop in the ocean.

I think of the end of Liska’s life as one short and revolutionary moment. Liska’s head goes under the water where it’s quieter and finally she says ‘help’. Funny, but ‘help’ may be one of the few words we learn with conviction — the one word we may never say, or maybe only say the once.

“Help,” said Liska — and it didn’t matter that no other person could hear, because the word gave her brief warmth. I thought of Liska as I’d remembered her, smiling at me from her studio — but she’d finally gone. True loneliness was Liska’s because she’d managed to say the word at last: “Help.”