'Only if they know you have it.'
'Paco,' Claire said. 'He did ask everyone in Puertito that day.'
'Which is why I want to hand it in.'
'If you hand it in, you will make yourself even more vulnerable. They will still be after the rucksack. Better you have it. Then if they find you, you can at least give it to them.'
'Paco's right. If you say you handed it in, they won't believe you.'
'He'd be that scared, they probably would.'
I had no idea how to respond. Did I look like that much of a coward?
'All I am saying is what idiot hands that much cash in to the police?'
Claire turned to me with that warm smile she was fond of putting on. 'Even more reason to stay with us.'
'I'll think about it,' I said, suddenly filled with mistrust.
Paco eyed me strangely. 'Don't think too long.'
'Paco's right. Offer's open. Whenever you're ready.'
Paco glanced at his watch. 'We better be going, Claire.'
'I haven't offered you a drink,' I said, relieved to see them go.
'Another time.'
Claire turned to me with a wink. 'Good luck.'
I saw them out and watched them drive away. Then I went back inside and marched from room to room locating the best hiding place. I ended up shoving the rucksack in the back of my wardrobe.
Paranoia took a stronger hold on me with every passing minute of that day. I grew sensitive to noise. A car slowed, and I was by the front window in a flash, back to the wall, peering out.
This was no way to spend a holiday. I had to get a grip.
There was only one way I knew of to inject normalcy into my situation. I wrote a shopping list in the order of the aisles and, forcing myself to leave the rucksack unattended, headed to Antigua, endeavouring to feel like, or at least appear like an ordinary guy.
Pushing my trolley around, I couldn't understand why the other shoppers kept stealing amused glances my way. Then I realised I wasn't wearing my sunglasses.
Muscle Strain
I scarcely slept. The warm milk and herbal sleeping pills I had taken the night before made no difference. All night, my thoughts were in the wardrobe with that rucksack.
The only good thing about the start to the day was my sunburn had eased, my skin markedly less tender. My nose was a touch blotchy where the old skin had peeled and my shoulders were beginning to follow suit, but the heat and the agony had faded. Getting out of the shower and seeing the reflection of my face with its panda eyes in the bathroom mirror, I wished I had some of Jackie's brown eyeshadow and vowed to tan my whole face at the earliest opportunity. Thinking back, I found it odd Paco and Claire had chosen to take no notice of my face. Perhaps they were simply being polite.
Back in my bedroom, I dressed then made the bed, folding and smoothing down the top sheet, and tucking it into the mattress and making sure the pillows and quilt were aligned neatly. I wasn't about to risk another visitor barging into my bedroom to confront an unmade bed. Besides, I always made my bed. It was just that one occasion when I hadn't, and I was punished for it with a Paco invasion as though, on some subtle level, he had been intent on shaming me. Or was I being overly neurotic? It felt like no accident that he should raise the topic of the prison right there where I had been having erotic dreams, erotic dreams involving men. Or had I raised the topic? Claire? I couldn't recall.
I made my way through to the kitchen. As I poured cereal and milk into a bowl, an insistent wind whistled through the gaps in the windows and door frames. The sound sliced through me. I wondered how the generations of folk who had resided in this old farmhouse put up with the sound. It interfered with what little concentration I had. I was disturbed enough by the hostel, the parachutists who fell to their gruesome deaths, and the rucksack. I really didn't need that continuous whistle grating on my nerves as well.
I filled the kettle and scooped coffee into the plunger and mulled over my plans for the day. I really ought to start pulling together ideas for a novel. Angela was right; I had terrific material to draw on after my experience in the cave. Yet Paco was also right; Tefía was not a location conducive to creative inspiration, especially since I was not given to explore the topic of trauma or the theme of brutality. As for the rucksack, I wanted to obliterate from my memory the ordeal surrounding its discovery and worried the damn thing was set to bring me further difficulties as I dealt with its presence in my wardrobe.
There was nothing for it but to let the novel issue ride. After breakfast, I spent the morning writing content for the Iron Force Fitness Centre website. A spot of lunch and I filled the afternoon composing a Top Fifty Non-Fiction Books of the Year post for a prominent literary blog whose regular writer had fallen ill with influenza.
By late afternoon, I was restless. A whole day cooped up indoors and my body craved exercise. The gym was the obvious place and, if I went soon, I might avoid those serious bodybuilders who seemed to occupy the gym during the day. In their absence, I would feel less self-conscious. I was sure no one would notice my sunburn in the muted lighting. Such was the reasoning which propelled me out the door.
At six, I was pulling up outside the gym, enjoying the buzz on the inner-city street, inhaling the fish and garlic cooking smells emanating from nearby restaurants and, pushing open the door on the interior cool, absorbing the loud upbeat music, the black and chrome and the faint odour of male sweat.
There were about ten men in the room. Luis was nowhere to be seen, so I hopped on an exercise bike and did the required ten kilometres at the required tension as per my fitness plan.
I had rack pulls, assisted chin ups, table rows and the rear deltoid machine ahead of me. The machines were lined up in a section of the gym that might as well have had a sign above it announcing “back day here”. Luckily for me, the behemoth doing his back routine was already working on his delts. No one else seemed about to use those particular machines. The men were evenly spread around the other areas, focusing on legs or arms or shoulders or chests. As long as I didn't look in their direction or in the mirrors, I figured they would take no notice of me.
The behemoth, a gruff-looking man with deep-set eyes and wide lips, was the same height as me, but we were hardly of comparable strength. At the rack pull machine, I faced the same difficulty removing the metal discs – twenty kilos each side, this time – and cursed the hulk for not having the presence of mind to consider who came after him.
Once I had a mere thirty kilos at each end of the bar, I adopted the dead lift pose Luis had shown me – feet under hips, grip at shoulder width, back arched and hips back to engage the hamstrings – and I adopted a hook grip, one hand under and one hand over the bar. With my head forward, I lifted the bar by straightening hips and knees, and pulled my shoulders back as I completed the move.
Luis told me to start at five reps of sixty kilos, and increase in increments of ten kilos, aiming for a hundred. Sixty was easy, seventy that much harder, and eighty felt like my limit. I should have listened to my body and stopped there. Instead, like an automaton, I followed Luis's plan and added another disc at each end of the bell bar.
I lifted, and nothing happened.
I lifted again, and the bar didn't budge.
I tried again and felt something give in my back.
Shaken, I let go of the bar, eyed the weights at each end in disgust and stood back. I swore Luis had set me up for ridicule, convinced I detected mirth rippling around the room. I looked around. No sign of Luis, and not one of those men came over to see if I was all right. I pinned my gaze to the floor, took a few paces then tentatively swung around from my hips. My back seemed fine.
I went and sat at the lat pull down machine, taking a few moments to recover from my latest humiliation. Luis had told me the exercise worked the whole back. I gripped the bar and pulled down in a moment of frustration and self-contempt. Nothing happened other than a sudden ping in my right shoulder. I had forgotten to adjust the weight pin which wa
s no doubt set to suit the strength of the behemoth.
I was an idiot. I could have done with my personal trainer at my side, but Luis was obviously busy elsewhere.
I eased myself off the seat and pulled the pin – which I found set at an astonishing hundred and thirty kilograms – and inserted it at sixty.
Ten reps and I went to the assisted chin up machine, setting the weight high to make it easy on myself. Eight reps and I was back on the lat pull downs.
Four super sets later and, suddenly grateful for Luis's absence and hoping none of the others was watching, I re-adjusted the pins in each machine to lighten the load. My reaction to my own furtive act was almost a reflex, borne of shame. But I didn't want to be more of a laughing stock than I already was.
The four sets of twelve table rows proved doable at the lighter weight, despite a nagging pain in my shoulder. All I had left was the rear delt machine.
Careful to set the pin at the desired weight, I leaned forward on the seat, gripped the bars and pulled my arms back as far as they would go. In a final surge of determination not to look like a weakling, I yanked on the bars and gave the reps everything I had. It was only when I eased myself off the machine after the last rep that I knew I had injured a muscle in my shoulder.
Ignoring the pain, I returned to the exercise bike.
Only then, when I was pedalling the final kilometres of my workout, did Luis appear, entering the gym through the back office. He caught my gaze in the mirror and issued his beaming grin. As he came over, I winced in response to a sudden dart of pain. My shoulder was threatening to seize.
'Hey, are you okay?' he said with much concern in his voice.
'I think I just strained a muscle,' I said between breaths.
'Back day?'
'How did you know?'
'You want to get some ice on that right away. Come with me.'
I forwent the last kilometre, eased myself off the bike and followed him over to the sofa by the main counter. He went out the back and returned with an ice pack. As he placed the pack on my shoulder, he stared into my face. I was instantly reminded of my panda-eyed appearance and expected him to break out into laughter any second.
He didn't. Instead, he said, 'Stay there,' and he went to attend to another client.
I did as I was told. The sofa faced the doors to the street and I watched the blue of the evening sky give way to tinges of pink as sunset drew near. I had no idea how long I was meant to sit there, but I needed pain killers at the very least if I was to make it back to Tefía.
The gym was filling with heavyset men who all seemed to know each other. They milled about over by the rack pull machine. Regulars. The behemoth – who I surmised had been discreetly observing me during my whole workout – came and sat down beside me. I had to quell a strong urge to stand up and walk away.
I wasn't expecting him to speak English and almost jumped when he said, 'Can I take a look?'
It took the briefest moment to realise he was referring to my shoulder. In that tiny fraction of time, a cavalcade of paranoid thoughts bolted through me.
Always the cooperative type, I removed the icepack. He then placed his bear-sized hand on my shoulder and commenced kneading my flesh. His fingers were hot and hard and worked into the muscle. Despite the additional pain, I experienced immense relief. I almost groaned and an unexpected glow rose up through my loins. I was back in Vince's bedroom in an instant. What the…?
The man took his hand away and told me not to bother with the icepack. He remained where he was, uncomfortably close. He said, 'You want to take something for this?'
'I think I need to.'
I was presuming he would fetch some paracetamol, maybe laced with codeine, but instead he invited me to follow him to the men's.
The men's!
Surely he wasn't planning to seduce me? If he was, I wouldn't stand a chance. There would be no contesting him. He would overpower me in an instant and I, with my ambivalence and strange desires, would no doubt be biddable and offer no resistance. I was appalled at myself for even thinking along those lines. Yet despite all my misgivings, when he stood, so did I, and as he headed off, I obeyed like a pup, walking behind him, noting the tautness of his butt, the rolling gait and the shoulders twice as wide as the rest of him.
Once the door had closed behind us, he said, 'There are drugs you can take that help build muscle and lose some of that.' He stabbed his finger into my paunch. I recoiled as my old companion, shame, infused me. The behemoth didn't fancy me then, that much was clear, not me with my podgy gut.
'Steroids?' I asked.
I had never considered taking steroids.
'I can give you a Tren/Test combo now and these, for later.' He handed me a bottle of pills.
'And these are?'
'Clenbuterol. And don't worry. They're not steroids. They burn fat. Take one only in the morning. Any later and you won't sleep.'
I opened the bottle and counted about fourteen pills.
'How much will this set me back?'
He frowned. 'Depends how hard you train.'
'No, sorry, I meant what is the cost?'
'The cost? Fifty euros.'
'That's extortionate,' I said before I could stop myself.
He shrugged and waited, his face expressionless.
'And what about the other thing you said?'
'The Tren?'
'The Tren. How do I take that?'
'I can inject you now if you want.' He looked at me expectantly.
There was something about being injected with illegal substances in the toilets of a gym that caused me to feel sneaky and excited even as I baulked at the very idea. It occurred to me in a dizzying instant that this might prove to be the very inspiration I was looking for to write a novel. I would put myself through a course of the illegal steroids for the purposes of research. Think of it as an essential experience. An author needed to strive for authenticity, after all.
'How long will the Tren last?' I said.
'A week.'
'The cost?'
'Fifty euros.'
I exhaled loudly.
'If you buy the Clen, then I give you two weeks of Tren for fifty. That good?'
I hesitated.
He shrugged and smiled.
'And I give you some Test as well.'
My conscience stepped in with words of caution. I knew it was illegal to take steroids in this form. I could have gone to a pharmacist and purchased the legal versions. But I doubted their efficacy, and I just wanted to get fit fast and look halfway decent as a man. Maximise my potential, so to speak. What price fitness? I pulled out my wallet and handed him the cash. I stood back as he prepared the syringes.
I had no idea what to expect. I had never taken steroids before and anticipated a sort of recreational drug high. That euphoria didn't happen and the pain in my shoulder was just the same as well. On his way out, the guy tossed me a couple of pills in a blister pack. I saw they were the painkillers I had been hoping for and swallowed them down.
The next moment I felt a tickle in my chest and started coughing. No, not coughing, hacking my guts up. I doubled over, heaving and struggling to inhale.
What the fuck!
Terror charged through my veins.
I was going to die.
I was definitely going to die.
I didn't die.
The cough went as fast as it came, and I knew then the cause was one of those steroids that guy had stuck in me. What other side effects did I face? I wasn't about to wait in the gym toilets to find out.
I slung my gym bag over my good shoulder and strode through the premises, dodging by the equipment and avoiding the gazes of the fit and muscle-bound men I passed. Out in the street, my shoulder flared up again. I thought the painkillers would take maybe an hour to kick in. I headed straight for the café on the corner.
Inside, the place was empty. Judging by the number of un-cleared tables, everyone had just left. A tired old man appeared behind th
e counter and eyed me inquiringly. I ordered an orange juice and some tapas and sat at a table by the counter that was less strewn with half-eaten food and cups than everywhere else.
Beside me, I noticed a small table littered with an array of magazines and the day's newspapers. I wasn't expecting anything in English, but my gaze settled on words I could understand, and I reached over.
I didn't read further than the front page. Under a photo of a tiny beach beneath a cliff was the headline: Body Discovered Washed Up on Remote Beach in Betancuria Rural Park.
The body of a young man was discovered the day before by some hikers on a remote beach about halfway between Puertito de Los Molinos and Ajuy. The report went on to discuss the strong ocean currents and the perils that can befall the unsuspecting. The man was said to be in his mid-twenties and born on the island. His name had not been released, as the death was subject to police inquiries. There would need to be an investigation into the cause of the tragedy, but the authorities assumed it was an accident.
I was stunned. That young man could have been anyone, but what if he had been the owner of the rucksack? I paused. Then the money was now mine. Finders keepers. That was the thought that caused me to set the newspaper down and retreat into a private fantasy, of a boat or a holiday home, a swimming pool, a fancy car, whatever it was that fifty thousand euros would buy.
As I sat, enthralled by my new-found wealth, the codeine kicked in, adding its own weak buzz to my euphoria. The old man brought my order. I slurped the juice and munched my way through the pickled fish, and after paying for my fare, I headed out the door into a fading sunset.
Sandra Flint
I awoke the next morning in astonishing discomfort. I hadn't known such vice-like pain since I relocated a wardrobe from one bedroom to another at Jackie's behest. It would look better by the front room window, she'd said. No, not said, insisted.
Now I felt crippled. As I eased myself out of bed, yet again I reminded myself of the need to stretch all the muscles I was hell bent on strengthening. If I didn't, before long I would be stiffer than tensile steel.
A Prison in the Sun Page 8