The road from Eastbourne pier

john bessant
5 min readApr 24, 2024

There’s not a lot in life that you can rely on. But some things never change, some things are so certain you can steer the rest of your life by them. Like the weather on Easter Bank Holiday.

This one was living right up to expectations and then going the extra mile to make certain of delighting the customer, never mind satisfying them. Steely grey skies hanging low over a sea dark with oily black waves, wind lashing dirty white foam on their crests. Rolling with the inevitability of a drunk heading home on a Friday night, unlikely to make it before pitching over at the roadside. On the beach the only activity was from sand which the wind viciously winkled out from between the pebbles where it had been hiding and hurled in random directions. Oh, yes, and it was raining. Of course.

Walking along, or rather fighting a way into the teeth of the gale hammering the seafront houses, towards the pier. Fragments of sound were being picked up by the wind and thrown at me at random intervals; the effect was like tuning an old radio, catching audio glimpses of different lives as it spun along the airwaves. Gradually the source became clearer; a band must be playing on the pier, Bank Holiday entertainment for the holiday masses.

Probably seemed like a good idea at the time. From the promoter’s point of view the idea of live music to keep the punters entertained while they ate and drank their way through chips, kebabs and beer under springtime sunshine, the sea gently glistening behind them. From the band’s point of view a nice day out by the seaside, make a change from playing London pubs and anyway the money was better and they might even get a few more likes on their social pages.

Not such a good idea now, though. Approaching along the promenade I stood in the shelter of the newly-refurbished Victorian bandstand, itself far too worldly-wise to even think of music before May. I could make out the probable location of the Easter festival gathering about halfway along the pier — a handful of huddled grey shapes and the sound of the band’s singer desperately trying to cheer them up. Good luck with that.

Closer to them and I can make out the line-up, hear some of the set list. Not bad, a five piece is what I’m hearing, bass, drums, guitar, keyboards and the energetic front man. Tight enough and a respectable range of covers, keep the tempo up in this weather but ring the changes, soul, ska, eighties anthems, get people moving (I can make out a few bodies bouncing away as I approach the makeshift stage). Closer inspection finds no sign of a keyboard player and I realise they are playing along to backing tracks — they must be tightly rehearsed to be able to do that but also probably bored to tears, can’t wait to get back in the van and on the A21 in time for a few pints in their home pub. Still the singer’s got a long ponytail and plenty of London swagger, preaching his gospel to the poor provincial punters.

They’re playing halfway down the pier, where the cafés and bars draw the crowds (when there are crowds) towards the central structure where there were and will be evening shows in the season. A ballroom once upon a time but dancing at the end of the pier is history now, much like the pier itself. Everything fades and rusts away — the metal below constantly being inspected for when the red cancer becomes incurable and the pier joins the others closed around the country.

But not today, right now it’s being repaired and refurbished, scaffolding clinging to it like seaweed slapped against it by the tide. There is a way to walk around the scaffolding, on to the very end of the pier before you turn but why would you bother? Builders debris and leavings everywhere, wind rattling polythene wraps, cages of materials, nothing to see here, no point, move along. Especially as the rain is now gathering itself for a grand finale to the afternoon, the first heavy drops landing like an advanced heavy infantry group pushing through the drizzle to begin the invasion in earnest.

Which is why it was a good place to leave him. Spreadeagled, face down in the bottom of a boat being stored for the winter. Unless you looked closely you’d not notice him and even if you did catch a glimpse as you hurried past you’d probably default to thinking it was a punter with a bit too much inside him, sleeping it off. To the casual eye.

To the sharper eye there’s enough about the lack of movement to draw you closer; looking down you can see the stream of dark liquid in the bottom isn’t just oily water which has gathered there. It’s also significant leakage from what must be multiple stab wounds or one big slash. Whatever, it’s gathered in a pool, dull and dark.

The rain comes on full volume; the band suddenly stop, no point in getting their gear damaged or themselves electrocuted. Anyway the set was nearly over, if they pack up now they might still escape before the rain sets in for the night. The small crowd has already dissolved, heading back to boarding houses and hotels, wondering how to pass the rest of the time until they can eat, drink, dance, celebrate the holiday. Most have already hit the pubs.

Someone will find him soon enough, though he might have to wait until Tuesday when the builders return to work. Not that he’s going to worry; in his state he’s past knowing or caring what day it is. Mind you it’s a long way from London, though from the point of view of the firm who had him ‘seen to’ that was an advantage. Less evidence to help trace it back, more time for the waters to muddy before pieces get laboriously assembled and the police figure out the connection.

The band are nearly finished, there’s an almost military precision with which instruments go into cases, amplifiers are wheeled back towards the space where they’re marshalling the gear before hauling it back along the pier and into the van. Their roadie is supervising, loading the bigger pieces into a couple of flight cases, big long boxes on castors, black with metal edges for reinforcement. They could always double as coffins if the music business got really tight and the band thought about diversifying into funeral transportation and care…

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john bessant

Innovation teacher/coach/researcher and these days trying to write songs, sketches and explore other ways to tell stories