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By William Shaw Typography & design by Exhibition and installation Website |
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The beach, between the piers Mickey abandons his wheelchair on the pebbles near the boardwalk. Last night he slept in Regency Square again. Now he makes his way down the sloping expanse of stones on two hands, one leg and a stump, sliding the cushion to protect his footless leg. He clutches a bag of clothes he’ll rinse in seawater after the swim. The accident left him incontinent. On hot summer days his dark clothes can be pungent. A South Londoner, he came here to get away from the violence. He’ll hang out with the skateboarders by the West Pier, or if he’s lucky, cadge an occasional Malibu and coke from one of the bar owners. Some days he goes bacon-and-egging in the streets – begging enough for a rock. Not that he’s a junkie. He doesn’t do heroin. Not into that. Just likes to open up his brain at the weekend, that’s about it. The tide is low. The sea is a long way off. Day-trippers, towels laid on the beach, watch. No one seems sure if they should help or not so they just sit, half watching, half pretending not to. Aged 19, after leaving boarding school he broke up with a girl and life unravelled. He had a breakdown. He’d do things like walk outside Buckingham Palace, naked. During one episode he threw himself off a roof. They had to amputate the leg below the knee. There’s a silver ring on his finger, shaped like a dolphin. Aged 36 now, he’s homeless, disabled, and he can’t seem to keep a girlfriend. So all he can do is love himself and love the sea. A couple of metres above the water, he leaves his bag and cushion behind, then drags himself into the spume. The surf catches him. He pulls himself into it until he’s afloat. A couple of strokes and his head disappears. In the water, the slow, crab-like crawl gives way to something elegant, fluid. His dreadlocks disappear again. He loves to dive among the waves.
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