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I run up the shale path, steadying myself on the steep bank to the boulder. Heart banging.
‘Gethin! Where are you? Gethin!’
Move round the boulder. See skid marks on the grassy slope. Scramble down on my arse until I see him. Splayed out his back on the sandy ground below.
‘Gethin, I’m coming. Don’t move.’
The bank flattens out to a ledge with a sheer drop of about ten foot. Too high to jump. I scrabble up to re-join the path. Start running down and slide a few feet until it’s safe to jump. Run around the cliff base to him.
‘Geth, for God’s sake, are you hurt?’
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. I crouch down, heart thumping faster.
‘Gethin! Can you hear me Gethin?’
Nothing, but I can see the faint movement in his chest. Get close to his face and feel the breath.
‘Listen, you’re going to be alright. I’ll phone for an ambulance.’
His face is waxy pale and motionless. How the heck will they get an ambulance down here? I pull my phone out. They’ll know what to do. Squint at the shattered screen glass. No signal: Emergency calls only. My hand shakes as I bring up the keypad to dial 999.
Industrial – Pat
I’m worn out and ready to give up, traipsing unfamiliar streets backing onto the river. Past warehouses with boarded windows; whirr of a welding workshop still in operation; then a trendy wholefood café and smart city living conversions. The river, contained in stone-built banks, moves sludgily around islands of silt and rotting branches occasionally sprouting new growth with the rustle of bird life. The cool brackish smell combined with diesel and rubbish hits me as I cross the road bridge for the third time. My good-as-new sparkly red pumps are starting to rub and it’s a bit chill in my silk top. Seven o’clock and the small amount of confidence I had in this evening is fast disappearing. What on earth was I expecting from an invitation to some unknown gallery from some woman I met for thirty seconds?
I turn into the next street and notice a line of parked cars and a sandwich board with a poster half hanging off it. I swear I’ve been down here already, but now I see it’s the sign for the gallery that I must have walked straight past before. I stare at it, my stomach jittery, still tempted to back out. A taxi pulls up and a young woman jumps out and helps an older woman pull herself up. The older woman beams at me from under her purple felt hat as they make their way to the entrance.
Go on, at least there’ll be someone else there. I give them a minute to get ahead before taking the metal staircase into the depths of a dilapidated factory building, graffiti on its breeze block walls. It’s hard to believe there’s anything here.
Then I hear the music, leading me along a passage lined with piles of junk, to a dim light at the other end. And there it is: the entrance to a hidden world. A long factory room with a glass roof letting in the soft evening light. I hang back for a moment, taking in the lines of paintings and the gleam of sculptures; people with plastic beakers of wine grouped round the exhibits, their chatter and laughter competing with the music; smell of fresh paint only partly hiding the hint of mildew. It looks something like a proper exhibition, and I realise how low my expectations have become since Cuttin’ Edge. But I’m wary of crossing the threshold, standing out as the intruder to this world.
The music is clashing, avant-garde, industrial. It suits the venue and makes me feel less conspicuous. I take a step in and look around for Gabriella but can’t see her. Bloody hell, don’t tell me she’s not going to turn up? I feel a wave of panic as I head for the make-shift bar. A guy in a black brocade frockcoat and highly decorated trilby pours me some wine.
‘Cheers,’ he lifts his cup to me. His short-trimmed beard has flecks of grey and I’m guessing he’s around my age. The trilby sports a long bronze-coloured scarf and there are silver jewelled spiders glinting from the rim. ‘I’m Alex, one of the artists,’ he says.
‘I’m Pat.’ I take a quick gulp of wine. ‘I had no idea this place was here, you know?’
He lifts his hat to me with a grin. ‘Glad you found us.’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone,’ I say, looking around.
‘Well, would you like me to take you round while you’re waiting?’ Alex asks. ‘Or by all means go by yourself.’
‘No, you take me, if that’s OK?’ I surprise myself by accepting his offer.
He takes his hat off with a mock flourish.
‘Do like the outfit!’ I smile.
‘Ah, you have to make the effort.’ He glances at the ranks of jeans and T shirts. ‘Not that anyone else has, apart from you, of course!’
I look down at my purple silk top, black skinny jeans, and the sparkly pumps. I agonised over the outfit, remembering Gabriella in her lacy camisole. Now I worry I’m overdressed.
Alex starts the tour with his semi-abstract paintings of industrial ruins morphing into shiny soulless structures.
‘It’s my response to a northern city in a post-industrial age. And I take my palette from the moors and rocks around.’
I can see what he means, looking at the landscape in front of me, with its layered muted blues and umbers, ochre and burnt sienna. It could be a natural rocky gorge, or a decaying cityscape.
