In the thick heat of noon, with the sun searing my back and a fishy odour assaulting my nostrils, I began to feel nauseous and faint.
At the end of the beach, I hefted myself up the two flights of stone steps that led to the restaurant. By the time I entered the deep rustic veranda of that distinctly Bohemian eatery, I was ready to collapse into one of its cheap-looking sofas.
From what I could see, the dining was all outdoors beneath rustic pergolas. One section had swathes of brightly coloured cloth, draped perhaps to resemble a Bedouin tent and held in place beneath a haphazard crisscross of beams that shaded the space between two cuboid huts. The back wall was the cliff itself. The father in me assessed the restaurant unsafe for children. A single rope hanging between low posts was all that stopped diners from tumbling over the edge. Jackie would have had a fit. Yet the restaurant was in a prime location overlooking the beach and the ocean and the cliff, and there seemed nothing to do other than kick back, enjoy the atmosphere and eat. And plenty were. Despite the dubious safety standards, beneath various sections of canopy, seated before an open-air cooking area that could scarcely be called a kitchen, an array of happy diners occupied every table. The chef, if he could be called that, was at work creating a paella in a huge dish over an open fire. He was a burly, bearded man in a t-shirt, apron and a baseball cap, cutting a most eccentric figure.
Ignoring his gaze which had locked with mine the moment I noticed him, I went around with the rucksack, receiving the same shaking heads and looks of confused puzzlement I anticipated. Finally, I arrived at a table where a man and a woman were enjoying drinks and the view.
The man was thin, swarthy, with thick dark hair tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. The woman had copper hair and a fresh, English appearance. There was an expensive-looking camera on the table. Tourists. Had to be. I held up the rucksack and repeated my inquiry.
'Does this by any chance belong to you?'
They both stared up at me at once, then the woman looked me up and down. By then, I was used to the apparent rejection of my question, me, my being altogether. I must have appeared as defeated as I felt. The man opened his mouth to speak when the woman said, 'You look like you need to sit down.'
The man's gaze returned to my face. He said something in Spanish. She replied. Then she said, 'Draw up a chair.'
'I'm not disturbing your lunch?'
'We were just leaving,' the woman said. 'You can have our table. Looks like you need it.'
I pulled out the spare chair and sat down, placing the rucksack on the floor between my feet. Bereft of its owner, I felt oddly like its guardian.
'I'm Claire,' the woman said with a broad smile, 'and this is Paco.'
'Trevor.'
She tilted her face at me, all inquisitive and interested. I felt strangely awkward.
'On holiday?'
'Sort of. I'm renting a farmhouse in Tefía for three months.'
'Escaping, then.'
I laughed. 'You could say that. I'm a writer.'
'Impressive.'
'Where in Tefía?' the man, Paco, asked.
'Heading from this direction, the third house on the left.'
A look of recognition appeared in Paco's face as though he knew the property well.
'And you?' I asked.
'We live in one of the inland villages.'
'Which one?'
'Tiscamanita.' The way Paco said the word gave an impression of ownership and I sensed he was a local.
'We restored a ruin,' Claire said with pride.
'You restored a ruin,' Paco said quickly.
She emitted an awkward laugh. 'Paco is a photographer,' she said to me. She reached into her purse and extracted a business card. Sliding the card across the table in my direction, she said, 'We have converted a corner of the house into a one-bedroom apartment. Self-contained. Private entrance.'
'Thanks, but…'
'With a spectacular view of a volcano.'
'He already has a place, Claire.'
She glanced out at the ocean. 'He might want to come to the island again or stay longer this time. You never know.' She turned her head, her gaze settling on my face.
'Indeed, I don't,' I said, pocketing the card.
'I hope you find the owner,' Paco said, looking down at the rucksack at my feet as he stood.
They said goodbye and wished me luck. I watched them walk away, then went over to the chef as I had seen others do, and ordered a plate of his paella and a beer.
While I waited for my order, I checked the tide times on my phone and discovered I had been right – nothing wrong with my powers of observation or my memory – just my understanding of tides. There was almost a two-metre difference between low and high tide, depending on the day, and that amounted to a lot of water. The beach gradient being slight, it stood to reason the tide would rush in the way it had, stopped on the beach only by that bank of pebbles.
Why hadn't I stopped and thought about what that woman exiting the cave had been trying to tell me? As I considered my answer, I came face to face with a quality in my nature I hadn't truly acknowledged before. I was too quick, too impulsive, too eager to prove – to a gym instructor, for goodness sake – that I was not an ignorant fool. I had taken in at a glance the new information about tides and assumed I had acquired some sort of deep knowledge. I saw now that my assessment was a form of arrogance. After all, even if I had considered what that woman had been saying, I probably wouldn't have taken much notice. Was I always so quick to assume that I was right?
The arrival of my beer distracted me from my thoughts. The paella that came soon after was delicious. The view and the entire experience of that rustic café proved a salve for an otherwise confronting morning.
A Moment of Conscience
With its usual cunning, the savage summer sun had done its worst to my skin, the effects not felt until later, until I was back at the farmhouse after my ordeal, the burn developing like a photograph, radiating its fiery heat in the dark of the windowless room where I sat for an hour sipping beer. My skin stung the most on my shoulders, nose, forehead and scalp, those areas of my body that had borne the brunt of the infernal blaze, while my legs, submerged in water for a good deal of time, were still white save for my already sunburned thighs. I also sported two irregularly shaped white discs around my eyes. I looked like a panda. So much for sunscreen. Adding to my woes, I was fast developing a pounding headache that painkillers failed to touch. I felt nauseous, I had a raging thirst, and I radiated heat like a blast furnace.
I had planned to visit the gym later in the afternoon, but in my condition, I was fit only for quiet times in darkened rooms with soft furnishings. I couldn't frown, I couldn't squint, and I certainly couldn't smile. When I did, I paid the price.
I drained a second bottle of San Miguel and went and stood in the shower, letting the cool water soothe my skin. I stood there for a goodly while. Ten minutes had passed before I was patting myself dry and carefully dabbing my skin with dollops of Savlon. Dressed only in boxer shorts, I dragged my poor, smarting body to the kitchen where the rucksack, the cause of my agony, sat on the bench.
Seeing it there, I rued the moment I made that decision in the cave to bring it with me. I should have left well alone, or followed a tiny voice inside that suggested the moment I had exited the ocean that returning to my car, or at the very least, heading for the shade provided by the main restaurant, were good ideas. If I had taken my own advice, much of my sunburn would not have been so severe. Instead, I had roasted like a beast on a spit while strangers on the beach slowly gave their answers as to whether or not they were, or knew of the owner of the offending item.
I should have given up after it became apparent that no one knew anything about it. But that part of my brain that likes to leave no stone unturned, made me approach every single person on the beach.
In point of fact, I ought to have gone straight to the police there and then, handed the ruddy thing in and been done wi
th it. Let them find the owner.
I should have done all of that, but I hadn't. And there the rucksack sat, ownerless, in my kitchen.
I could, I should still go to the police. But I was in no fit state to drive.
Should, ought, should. Bollocks to an inner monologue filled with guilt and self-recriminations! It was about time I summoned some positivity into my life.
I unzipped the main pocket and was about to extract the contents when caution kicked in. Was it wise to tamper with what might be evidence? Shouldn't I at least be wearing gloves?
I found a pair of rubber gloves in a drawer. They were still in their packet. I ripped the plastic open, extracted a glove and inserted a hand. The rubber was tight and pulled at my skin. I hadn't thought my hands were sunburn tender until that moment. Must have caught the sun when I was carrying the rucksack up above the water.
I had to tug and tug to get my fingers partway into the finger holes and gave up trying to put the glove on properly when each digit was about halfway.
One glove would do.
Gingerly, I extracted the contents of the rucksack item by item and laid them out across the bench. A beach towel, rolled up like a sausage, brightly coloured, damp and smelling of the ocean. A pair of tattered plimsolls minus their laces. The soles were worn and the canvas stained. They had certainly seen better days. A journal with a plain blue cover, brand new and devoid of even a scribble. My attention was drawn to the bulging front pouch. A pair of shorts and a t-shirt were crammed into the small space. Both were old and faded. Little more than rags. The t-shirt had a hole near the hem. The pockets of the shorts were empty. I found a bottle of sunscreen in one side pocket and a mobile phone in the other. The only other item filling the bottom of the rucksack's main compartment and too large to extract with my one gloved hand, was a bundle of what felt like piles of paper wrapped in some old cloth. I pulled on the second glove as best I could and then eased the package out of the rucksack and opened the cloth.
My jaw fell open. There before my eyes were bundles of cash secured with rubber bands and stacked in five neat piles. I picked up one of the top bundles and riffled through the notes. They were all fifty euros and a rough guess told me there were twenty in that bundle. That was a thousand euros. How many bundles in a pile? I ran my finger up the pile nearest me and counted ten bundles. That meant fifty bundles altogether. If they each contained a thousand euros, then I was staring at fifty thousand euros.
Fifty thousand euros!
I was unsteady on my feet. My eyes filled with greed as my mind whirled with possibilities. A car. Pay off the mortgage. Book another holiday. Anything at all.
Leaving the cash sitting there, I patted down the rucksack, delved into every pocket, double and triple checked, tipped the rucksack upside-down and gave it a vigorous shake, but there was nothing else to be found.
My hands were sweating inside the rubber gloves. I peeled them off and let my skin breathe while I gathered my thoughts.
That cash belonged to someone, and I had no right to keep it. Or rather, to appease my conscience, I needed to at least try to identify the owner.
The clothes and towel were not telling me much. The only identification was that phone. I switched it on and was surprised when I could swipe straight to the home screen. Not screen locked then. With strange anticipation, I went into messages. Empty. Phone log. Nothing. Social media apps. Not activated. I went into contacts and found two phone numbers, both mobiles and both unnamed. I hesitated. Should I try calling those numbers? It seemed the most direct way of finding out what was going on. But a small, cautionary voice inside stopped me.
I had the presence of mind to switch off the phone's power to save the battery. Then I surveyed the contents of the rucksack one more time. Aside from the cash, the items were those of a regular beach lover, someone who had already gone for a swim – the damp towel – and fancied another. The plimsolls conjured a young holidaymaker, a surfer maybe. Someone who had scored a cheap flight. Someone who liked to holiday off the beaten track. The lack of a water bottle suggested the individual – male, judging by the shorts – had not planned to stay long, but then no one would, not in that cave.
The money put a different complexion on things and a number of thoughts galloped through my mind all at once. Uppermost, whoever the rucksack belonged to would go back to the cave to fetch it. It occurred to me in an isolated thought that the ledge where the rucksack had been hidden must have been above the waterline even in the highest of tides. The sand had been dry there, as far as I could recall. Perhaps the rucksack hadn't been there that long, and I had somehow managed to miss the owner altogether as the tide raced in, even as I stood on the beach approaching every single person there. For no one in their right mind would have swum in the other direction. From what I had seen on maps, the coastline consisted of a long stretch of cliff.
Did the rucksack really belong to that couple I had passed as I approached the cave? Thinking back, the man had appeared agitated. Was that why the woman wanted me to turn back? In case I found the rucksack? Nothing to do with the tide at all? But if that was the case, why disappear from Puertito? Why not wait around for me to appear, empty-handed or laden?
The much larger question was why would anyone want to hide a rucksack full of cash. Obviously, because it was dodgy money, stolen maybe, or the proceeds of crime. Drug money? Had to be. Whoever had hidden the rucksack knew someone was or would be on to them, and they needed to hide the money in the most unlikely of places while they headed off to attend to something else.
What a bizarre hiding place!
Unless they really needed it totally out of the way and utterly inaccessible.
In all likelihood, someone else would be on the hunt for that cash and motor mouth me had approached everyone on the beach and in both of the restaurants, flaunting that rucksack to all and sundry.
Alarm raced through me. Someone might have recognised the rucksack, pretended not to so as not to attract attention, and then followed me back here.
I went straight to the window and peered out through the net curtains up and down the road. There was no one about, no suspicious car parked anywhere nearby.
But that didn't mean I was in the clear. Word would go around. I would be the gossip of the day for all those I had approached, an idiot English tourist with someone's lost rucksack.
My suspicions landed on that couple in the Bohemian restaurant, Paco and Claire; they had been rather too quick to give up their table and leave. They were the most likely suspects simply because they were the ones who took the keenest interest in me. Everyone else had expressed indifference. Not them. They invited me to join them. And I had fallen for their trap and told them exactly where I was staying.
Yet why give me their business card? If they were in any way implicated, wouldn't they rather hide their own identities, not flaunt them? Maybe Claire thought to lure me to their place in order to do heaven only knew what to me. After all, she did seem rather keen to lure me to Tiscamanita. I pictured the couple, all self-assured and relaxed, and told myself I was being paranoid. That couple had exuded a mix of indifference and mild concern. They lacked the air of the criminal. There was nothing shifty about either of them. In all, they were not the criminal type.
Then again, you never could tell.
Considering all the various implications of my situation, it appeared I was left with no choice. I had to drive to the nearest police station and hand in the rucksack. The longer I hung on to it, the worse for me it would be. I pulled on the gloves, wrapped up the cash and then I began returning the contents to the side pockets.
As I picked up the cash bundle, I hesitated. There was more to this than met the eye, and I was making a string of baseless assumptions. The truth would reveal itself if I waited. If anyone pounded on my door, I could act dumb or hand over the cash. Or I could simply hide the rucksack and pretend I had handed it in to the police and then make a run for it after whoever it was had left.
/> Whatever I chose to do, one thing was certain, while doubt and suspicions replaced hard truth, I couldn't spend a single euro of that cash.
Uncertainty
I woke tangled in the sheets again. To my great relief, they were dry, but I was sporting one almighty erection, and I badly needed to pee.
Drifting into my mind were wisps of a dream, translucent images of nubile flesh, barely defined.
A party was going on all around me. I was standing beside a swimming pool. Scantily clad revellers cavorting. Heavy metal played in the background. Laughter rose. Then a man appeared in the water. He gazed up at me and smiled. He pinned me with his gaze as he hefted himself out of the pool. He was naked. His member glistened. Suddenly, it was all I could see. I knew the man to be Vince.
I disentangled myself and went to the bathroom to deal with the awkward situation of a rock-hard penis and a bursting-full bladder. My balls were aching, and I needed to urinate. The balls took precedence.
As I washed my hands, I mused over why Vince should suddenly be popping up out of my unconscious and into my dreams. Those furtive days of frenzied tugging were well and truly in the past. Back then, neither of us had ever discussed being gay, and in the whole time I was married to Jackie I never once felt desire for a man. I had to admit the tendency must have been lurking in me, if weakly, or I would never have let Vince handle my cock with only the mildest alarm and revulsion. Surely a purely heterosexual man would have socked Vince in the face the moment his fingers landed on their member. To me, his soft boy hands were titillating in the extreme. My sexuality felt ambiguous in the recollecting. Yet I still had no desire for, or attraction to, a man, not even in my imagination. So, what was filtering up? Did it mean anything? Or was it just the trickster playing games with me during this most vulnerable phase of my life?
A Prison in the Sun Page 6