The River

This morning I am stood on the iron bridge that spans the snaking river that rages through the girdle of the Underbelly. The river is as fascinating as it is filthy. Its contents are swallowed and vomited twice daily to and from the estuary at its club foot. Steep banks of solid dysentery brown mud preserve long abandoned boats of all size and purpose in the river's sticky legacy. Any eulogizing voice should be ignored when it comes to the river. This is a natural dirty flow and the residents of the Underbelly wish for a giant squeegee every National Lottery payday. Its huge tidal range amazes even those who see it every day. As in all other parts of life, the most dynamic part of the valley is the shittiest; the river is the bowel of the Underbelly. Whilst we in the Underbelly sleep, a watery peristalsis rumbles on under us all spreading its infections. During the winter months, there is more than a healthy trade in sandbags as high tides, full moons and heavy rains conspire to swamp us all. It is thought that at least three tourists are washed away and consumed by the floods each year although it is unusual for their bodies to wash up within walking distance of the Underbelly such are the river's forces.

The invisible council workers have welded huge plant tubs to the side of the bridge in what can only be an ironic attempt to beautify the scene. They have been filled with gifts donated by the Underbelly's French twin. Nobody seems to have noticed that the geraniums that now sit precariously balanced over the creamy brown soup are the French equivalent of our lily; a symbol of death.

The tide is out and the cliff face that buttresses one side of the valley bears the mark of last night’s wealthy torrent. The river is low and it's easy to make out rotting timbers and ropes poking up from the bed. To approach the river's muddy banks would be suicidal, even birds designed for wading tread carefully. I look down as the first surge of the morning bores its way upstream; the eddy's that form around the stanchions are mesmerizing. My attention is drawn to what lies on the opposing silt bank. Even from this distance the object is unmistakable. I run further down the bridge and double over the railing to get a better look. Face down and naked, the body of a woman lies caked in her own primordial soup. The river's surge continues and laps over the woman's head, washing her hair. A shock of red dyed hair is revealed and instantly I recognize her as Trudie. I let go of the railing step back almost falling into the road. A car screetches past, missing me by three quarters of an inch.