SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Maggie I…I…’

  ‘This child inside me,’ she continued, patting her small stomach affectionately, ‘it’s the second coming. I am the chosen one Mr Costas. Me, Maggie Murphy! Chosen by God himself! Will you pray with me? Please, will you pray?’

  Angelos dry swallowed, his head wrestling to process such an onslaught of thoughts.

  ‘You are special Maggie,’ he spoke softly, carefully, aware that she genuinely believed what she was telling him, ‘are you sure, are you really sure that you’re pregnant? You have taken a test and it was definitely positive?’ He wondered for a second if the girl had gone mad like her mother had. What she was eluding to…it was insane…and it was dangerous. Placing his hands on her slim shoulders he sat her down on a nearby chair.

  ‘Who else have you told about this?’ The look on his face dampened her euphoria.

  ‘Only Father Benedict. As soon as I did the test and it came back positive. I know it sounds crazy Mr Costas, but it’s happened. I am carrying the son of God. There is no other explanation as to how this could’ve happened. Like I told you, I’m a virgin.’

  Angelos began pacing the bookshop, subconsciously rubbing his temples with his forefingers.

  ‘Father Benedict prayed with me,’ she said proudly. ‘After mother died I became a lost sheep among the flock. I told him about Santorini, how I had asked God for a sign and that God answered. He gave me the most important sign he could give.’

  ‘Father Benedict sleeps with prostitutes,’ Angelos snapped, struggling to remain composed. They would lock her up in a sanatorium and throw away the key. There had to be another explanation.

  Maggie’s expression dropped.

  ‘How can you say such things?’ her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘How many weeks gone are you?’

  ‘Six,’ she replied quietly. ‘Exactly six to the day.’

  His mind raced back to that night in Santorini, the night Maggie had drank too much: the conversation on the beach, how she had passed out and he had undressed her in the hotel room. He had left her there, covered her with a sheet, gone back to his hotel room and, God forgive him, had masturbated himself to fresh visions of her near nakedness. He had not seen her until the following morning. Was it possible she had woken and gone for a walk, met a suitor along the way? Had someone broken into her hotel room and pillaged her while unconscious? These were the only two possible options he could think of.

  Angelos’s heart was beating noisily inside his ribcage.

  ‘Maggie I have to ask you this: that night in Santorini, the night you drank the wine, I undressed you in your hotel room and left you there…did something happen afterwards? Did you go somewhere, meet someone?’

  She was staring at him blankly now, her smile of earlier all but evaporated.

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t believe that I am the chosen one.’

  He wished she would stop saying it.

  ‘I do Maggie, I do, of course, but try to remember…you were drunk…did you leave the room after I had left? Did someone come into the room?’

  ‘I was not drunk, Mr Costas,’ she explained, a little indignant. ‘It was the codeine tablets I had taken for my toothache. I must’ve taken one too many and, well, mixed with a little wine…’

  And then a white-hot fear swept over him. Six weeks gone. Good God! People would assume…they would think that he was the father!

  ‘Maggie, please listen to me,’ his voice was low and serious, ‘you must stop with this…about this…second coming business.’ He was terribly fearful for the girl. ‘I do believe you,’ he added quickly, secretly wondering if he might be able to call a sympathetic GP out to have a look at her, ‘but you have to understand not everyone has faith like you do Maggie, not everyone believes.’

  She looked hurt and in that moment he realised he loved her, truly loved her, and he was terrified for her.

  ‘We can say the child is mine, Maggie,’ he said, desperation apparent in his voice, ‘I will marry you and we will bring the child up together. No one need know about this. Only you and I and God will know that you are…the chosen one.’ He did not want to encourage her but he was also fearful of upsetting her, of pushing her over the edge.

  ‘Oh Mr Costas,’ Maggie’s expression softened, ‘my dearest friend, you have been so kind to me, kinder than anyone I’ve ever known and I have the deepest respect for you. But don’t you see, God has chosen me for a reason, his son will be born for the greater good of mankind. This is my purpose – I cannot deny his child to the world, I am merely a vessel for God’s work.’

  ‘Jesus Christ Maggie, stop!’ Angelos practically exploded. ‘What you’re saying is insane. The world will think you’re crazy, they will take the child away from you if you carry on with this. Please Maggie,’ he was begging her now, practically on his knees in front of her, ‘please at least think about my offer.’

  Maggie looked at her employer and friend with large watery eyes and smiled gently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice tinged with resignation, ‘I’m sorry you don’t understand. I want to thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me…for all you’ve done for me. You’re a wonderful man, Angelos.’ And then she left.

  Six years later

  Angelos swung one leg over the other as he enjoyed his morning espresso on the terrace of his home overlooking the cliffs of Caldera. He took a deep intake of breath, enjoying the crystal-pure air as it filled his lungs with its goodness. He looked out to sea, sunshine dancing upon it like little sheets of gold leaf, shimmering and glinting and bringing him happiness. It was the small things in life which one must appreciate, this he had learned, like the ever-changing view which seemed to offer something new with each passing day; he would never tire of it. He only wished now he had sold up years ago and returned sooner. Perhaps things would’ve been different then, perhaps. He was sixty-two years old now, with less time left on the planet than he had already spent; that he would never marry or become a father he had come to terms with and such acceptance had brought him a modicum of peace at least, at last. But never a day passed when he did not think of her, such deep sadness and regret gnawing at his conscience, a plethora of what ifs and perfect hindsight almost mocking him. Margaret Murphy, his little Maggie whom he had watched grow from child to woman, loving her from afar, her quiet beauty and innocence so at odds with today’s world. She had been so very different to anyone he had ever known. Sipping his espresso he sighed deeply, a dull ache in his chest forming alongside his memories, memories that he could not fight and no longer tried to. Grief had its own agenda; that much he had also learned. He pictured her sitting opposite him, just as she had been that fateful night they had spent here on the island all those years ago now, her Mona Lisa smile and unblemished skin, her yellow sundress with the buttons, buttons he had opened as she lay sleeping on that hotel bed, her naked breasts which he had desperately longed to touch, imagining the feel of her skin on his fingertips…

  Angelos Costas would never forget Maggie Murphy’s screams as they took her away that day. He had watched from the bedroom window, along with the rest of the village, a village that had betrayed her, as the officials had dragged her from her home, arms flailing, her loud protestations clapping the air like lightening as they had taken her.

  ‘Help me, dear God, pleeeease, no… I am carrying the son of God! Please, no! Mr Costas! Mr Costas, please, somebody, stop them!’ she had glanced up at his window, her desperate pleas clawing at his heart, panic rising within him like a tsunami.

  ‘Maggie!’ he had called out to her desperately, banging the glass with the palm of his hand, ‘Maggie!’ But he could only watch as she had disappeared, fists pounding on the backseat window of the vehicle that had come to collect her, despair etched upon her beautiful tear-stained face until she was a speck in the distance. The villagers, some of who had afforded themselves a better view of the drama from their front doors, cast him disdainful
looks before closing them.

  ‘That poor girl,’ he had overheard two women speaking, ‘absolutely barking mad…just like her mother….and him, that dirty old man from the bookshop…getting her pregnant like that and abandoning her…virgin birth my backside…they went away together you know…Spain I think…’

  ‘It’s the child I feel sorry for,’ the other woman had commented with disingenuous altruism. ‘A mad mother…and a pervert for a father…poor mite…’

  Angelos had largely ignored the gossip and tittle tattle that had ensued but there was no mistaking such rumours had a detrimental effect on him both personally and professionally, his reputation as a respected business proprietor in the village left in ruins. Few had been supportive, many more not so, the age-old adage, ‘no smoke without fire’ tainting every aspect of his life. Had the girl consented? Everyone knew she was God-fearing – had he got her drunk and taken advantage? Was he dangerous, untrustworthy, an animal? Angelos was not one to pay credence to such slander with defensive explanations but in the end he could take no more. His good name sullied, his antique bookshop a virtual ghost town, he had sold up and returned to the island of his birth, Santorini, a honeymooner’s paradise, an irony that did not pass by him unrecognised.

  And so life had come full circle; he would spend his final days in the year-round temperate climate of his provenance, enjoying its spectacular natural rustic charm and undeniable beauty, his only wish being that it could’ve been with her. He’d attempted to contact her on numerous occasions, had written to the secure hospital in which she had been held captive but she had refused any contact whatsoever and his numerous heartfelt letters were always returned to him unopened.

  Maggie had given birth to a boy that following February and the child had been taken from her arms moments later. His imagination was a curse whenever he envisaged such a heart-breaking scenario. He could almost hear her screams and protestations as though he’d been privy to them, or perhaps she had been medicated into a zombie state. He knew what happened in those places: tortured souls subdued by medication, eradicating all emotion, hopeless empty shells shuffling through white wards and starkly furnished day rooms; the devil’s waiting room. She had named the boy Jesus, a moniker that clearly went no way towards her cause, although he had later come to learn that once awarded into the care of the state, his name had been changed to Charlie. He had kept track of the boy’s whereabouts, he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had brought him some small comfort; perhaps he had felt an obligation to her to ensure Charlie remained cared for until the day came when Maggie would be released and come looking for him, to reclaim what was rightfully hers. Charlie had been fostered out to numerous families, shunted from home to home, never quite long enough for the word to retain meaning. He had seen him once, in the local town on a day out with his foster parents. A striking, unusual-looking boy, he appeared happy and content, his face messy with ice cream, sticky smiles that had pulled at Angelos’s heart. He had stared at him for the longest time until his foster parents had eventually guided him away…

  The day he had received the letter would remain with Angelos Costas until his end. His initial euphoria when he had surveyed the hospital postmark on the envelope was to be so painfully short lived. He had torn it open like he himself was possessed. Had she written to him finally? Did she want to see him at last?

  Dear Mr Costas,

  It is with great regret that I write to inform you that on Tuesday 25th June 2012, a patient in our care, Miss Margaret Murphy, successfully attempted suicide by ingesting medication…

  He had not managed to read the rest. Not then anyway.

  Miss Murphy did leave a note addressed to you which I enclose with the deepest regret.

  The letter was not a long one; written on a plain sheet of manila white paper it had simply read:

  My dearest Mr Costas,

  You were always my greatest friend and I am sorry. Please watch out for Jesus. I pray for him every day. He has much work to do. I will never forget the beauty and kindness you showed me in Santorini, the place where God came to me in the night and gave me his son. Now my work here is done. Goodbye Angelos, you will forever remain in my heart. Your dearest friend, Maggie Murphy x

  Angelos’s sense of mea culpa was vastly ill-proportioned and yet he could not prevent blaming himself for such a tragic set of events, the sequence of which began in Santorini. Though he had hoped it would be the beginning for them, it had in fact been the antithesis of it. Maggie, his little Maggie, had been detained under the Mental Health Act, distraught that no one believed her ludicrous story and deranged with grief when they had taken the child from her. As a result she had taken her own life at just thirty-one years old.

  Angelos drained the dregs of his espresso and thought about the day ahead. He was heading off to Athens for a literature convention and had been rather looking forward to it all week. While the bookshop was gone, his love for literature remained unchanged and these days he enjoyed purchasing pieces for his personal collection. He took a spoonful of yoghurt and honey and bit into a piece of wheat toast.

  ‘God damn it,’ he clutched his face. He’d only gone and broken a tooth. He ran his tongue over the jagged edge inside his mouth and groaned. Now he would have to take a detour to the dentist. The thought did nothing to elevate his moribund mood.

  Athens was tipping 110 degrees; the hottest it had been all summer and the heat exacerbated the dull ache inside his mouth. The boat trip had been busy and uncomfortable and he was relieved when they had finally reached the capital. He had hoped he may get away with waiting until he was back on the island before needing to get this crown looked at but the initial minor discomfort he’d experienced had now escalated and wisely he decided he could not afford to be tardy. He would need to get it seen to right away if he was to enjoy the convention on any level. Such circumstance reminded him of the time he and Maggie had visited the city together, how she had been forced to lose a tooth such was her fear of visiting a dentist. He recalled how terrified she had looked, how small and childlike she’d seemed sat in the black leather chair as the dentist had inspected the contents of her mouth, how he now wished he had stayed with her and held her hand throughout the ordeal. But she had insisted he go and he had duly granted her wish, not wanting her to know that his book convention had merely been a ruse all along. Perhaps he would return to the very same surgery and get his tooth looked at; after all they had been extremely accommodating and he vaguely recalled the address. Perhaps they would remember her, the young pretty English woman with her older ‘husband’ who’d needed an emergency extraction? Or perhaps he just hoped they might.

  The waiting room was cramped and hot and Angelos resigned himself to the fact that he would probably lose the entire morning there. Looking around the small stark room he tried to find something familiar that would remind him they had ever been there together, him and Maggie, all those years ago. He wondered if there would ever be a day that might pass when she did not haunt his every waking moment and if he would feel guilty if that day ever came. The chain of events that had ultimately led to her taking her own life had been so tragic, so avoidable, yet so unexplainable. Sometimes he had wondered if Maggie had had a secret lover and to cover up her ‘sins’ she had concocted an elaborate, frankly insane story. Over the years he had imagined every possible scenario of that night in Santorini; he had even considered, albeit briefly, if he himself had committed the act and blanked it out. Only deep down he knew it was not possible. The memory of that evening ran Panavision sharp in his mind, every detail, every word spoken and every intricacy replayed like a broken record on repeat in his mind with acute clarity. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, he opened his wallet and stared at the two photographs that were neatly placed there. The first was of himself and Maggie, taken by an accommodating passer-by at Akatoriki City. They were stood next to one another, close but not touching, their faces lit up by the sun and smiles. Maggie looked so you
ng and happy that he wanted to cry out, to expel a primeval sound that was lodged inside his chest. The other photograph was of Charlie. Angelos had taken it surreptitiously the day he had spotted him out with his foster parents in town. The boy’s wide, dark brown eyes encased by long lashes had an almost melancholy look about them, his nose a little hooked, rosebud lips reminiscent of his mother’s and his abundance of dark black curls gave him an angelic aesthetic. He knew it had been wrong to take a photograph without permission but he was glad he had it now; knowing that part of her was still alive in that boy gave him small comfort. He smiled faintly at the picture. He was such a distinctive-looking little child with a funny nose and all that curly hair. Maggie would have adored him, and he would have too if only she had let him… If only she had…

  ‘The dentist will see you now,’ the nurse addressed him abruptly in Greek, her bedside manner clearly in need of attention. He nodded and followed her through the door.

  ‘Mr Costas?’ the dentist said with his back to him. ‘You have broken a crown, is that right?’

  He turned from the desk and greeted Angelos with a cold smile.

  ‘That’s right, this morning over breakfast. The pain has escalated rather rapidly I’m afraid…’

  ‘Hmmm, let’s have a look, shall we?’ He began prodding and probing for a few moments, the sound of his metal instruments against bone making Angelos feel instantly uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s in pretty bad shape, Mr Costas,’ the dentist sucked air through his own teeth, ‘I could try and save it but in my opinion it will have to come out,’ he said.