Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  It took twenty minutes to get from the airport to Estacio Sants. An impressive building, Jack thought. He headed for the exit, and, once outside, felt the searing Spanish sunshine warm up his face. Even in the height of a good English summer, you never got sunshine to match that.

  He took his jacket off to stop himself sweating like a weight watcher in a cake shop, and then headed past the skateboarding kids in the square and down Calle Rector Triado. Push bikes flew past him at terrific speeds. He remembered the first time he’d walked down that street and nearly been run down by a cyclist. Car, train, motorbike and aeroplane seemed perfectly acceptable transport fatalities, but death by bicycle would be plain embarrassing.

  Turning right down Sant Nicolau, Jack arrived at the apartment block and rang the buzzer.

  “Hola!” said the female voice over the intercom.

  “Hola. Soy Jack Holden. Tengo una reserva.”

  “Ah si. Bienvenida Jack.” He thought he recognised the voice.

  Jack heard a buzz and pushed the door. The hallway looked dark as death in comparison to the bright sunshine outside. He walked inside and up the stairs, where a familiar face greeted him at the first floor reception.

  “Nice to see you again,” Isabella said in perfect English. “You are travelling alone this time?”

  Isabella was just as he remembered. Her dark skin, home to the creases and folds caused by Spanish sunshine and middle age; her welcoming hazel eyes and, as Jack got closer, the strong smell of cigarettes on her clothes.

  “Yes, alone this time,” Jack said without hint of an explanation. “One trip to Barcelona is never enough, Isabella. How are you?”

  “I am fine, thank you,” she said.

  “And business?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, could be better, but we are surviving. Thank you by the way for publishing the nice review on Tripvacation, after your last stay.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So you are staying with us just for two nights?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ll pay you now if that’s ok.”

  “Yes of course,” said Isabella.

  After Jack had signed the paperwork and handed over his euros, Isabella showed him to his apartment in the adjacent building. It was a smaller place than the one he’d shared with Fiona, but stunning nonetheless. A huge en suite double bedroom led out onto the balcony. It wasn’t the best vista in Barcelona; mainly just the roofs of other people’s apartments, but it beat the view of back to backs in Gateshead any day of the week. The open plan kitchen led onto the lounge, which also had access to the balcony. Everything looked modern and clean.

  “If there’s anything you need, please, just ask me,” Isabella said. “Places to eat, that sort of thing.”

  “Thanks, Isabella. I think I’ll try that place you recommended the last time I was here. The tapas place off Avenida Diagonal. We loved it there.”

  “Oh si. Paco Meralgo. You can remember how to get there?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Head down Muntaner, off La Avenida.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “Well, if there’s anything you need. Just ask.”

  “Will do. And thank you. The apartment is wonderful,” Jack said.

  Isabella smiled at him, and Jack felt a pang of guilt. It wouldn’t be fair on her to find his dead body.

  “Have a nice stay,” Isabella said as she handed Jack the key and made for the door.

  “Hasta luego, Isabella.”

  Jack heard the front door shut with a loud noise that reverberated around the apartment. He grabbed his duffel bag, placed it on the bed then opened the balcony door and walked outside. The warm air felt pleasant as he sat down on a chair and absorbed the view. The tall edifice of the Hotel Torres Catalunya to his left, then an array of shiny multi coloured tiled rooftops. A dog hobbled down a metal stairway outside an apartment; a woman hung out washing on a makeshift line.

  Jack decided to change into shorts. He then left the apartment, heading back up Calle Rector Triado to the supermarket Eclat. He enjoyed browsing around foreign supermarkets. Occasionally, you’d strike gold and discover a product with a rude name. He bought some food staples, along with two six packs of Estrella; his favourite beer.

  As he wandered back to the apartment, he thought about Isabella. Could he really put a lovely lady like her through the ordeal of discovering his dead body? It would haunt her. Besides, he’d thought that cutting his wrist would be the best way to end his life, but when he’d visualised it, he’d done the job in a bathtub like the one in the previous apartment in Barcelona, the time he’d stayed there with Fiona. This smaller apartment only had a shower. He didn’t like the idea of slitting his wrist in the shower. Maybe he should have taken those pills when he’d had the chance. It would all be over by now. No guarantee that his body would have been discovered in his flat though. It would’ve taken the smell of his rotting corpse to stir Karen downstairs into action. He’d probably have been left undiscovered for weeks.

  Feeling hot, he walked up the stairs and into the apartment. He placed the groceries in the kitchen and the beers in the fridge. He needed to take his mind off the practicalities and logistics of suicide. The idea of an open top bus trip around the city entered his head. Like the one Fiona and he had taken; the Hop on Hop off tour. After freshening up in the bathroom, he changed into his red Barcelona FC training shirt, grabbed his sunglasses and headed outside.

  Dust hung about in the humid air from the building work taking place near the apartment. Nippy scooters weaved through the narrow streets as Jack made his way onto the main street and down towards Placa Espanya. It seemed just as he remembered; bustling.

  He stared up at the mighty edifice of the Arena: a former bull fighting ring, now a shopping and cinema complex. He crossed the road and went inside. Hundreds of well-heeled shoppers grazed around the boutiques. Jack made his way up the series of escalators to the viewing area on the top floor. He remembered doing this with Fiona and sharing a romantic kiss as they stared out at the stunning Barcelona landscape.

  A thin shimmer of smog spoiled the view a little this time, but the vista remained impressive. To his left, hundreds of rusty brown roofs lead a pathway to the impressive suspension bridge. Directly below him, the two towers set back from the square stood proud; a majestic gateway into the beating heart of the city. People exercised their dogs in the sand covered park. He felt a million miles away from Gateshead, and for a moment, a million miles away from death.

  Chapter Three:

  It was nearly three o’clock by the time Jack boarded the Barcelona City Tour bus. He’d paid thirty euros for a two day pass. The price had gone up. The bus would take the Orange Route which covered the west of the city. Tomorrow, he planned on taking the Green Route around the east side. He declined the offer of headphones as he’d heard all the spiel before, but took one of the maps. Making his way up the stairs to the fresh air, he found a seat at the rear, in front of the sheltered canopy. Donning his shades, he observed nationalities of all shapes and sizes making their way up top.

  The breeze felt pleasant on Jack’s face as the bus sped into life and made its way past Estacio Sants and up towards Camp Nou where it made a brief stop to let people on and off. He’d taken the Camp Nou tour the first time he’d visited Barcelona. Fiona had acquiesced on that one. The bus then headed towards the heavy traffic on Avenida Diagonal. Shoppers headed in and out of El Cortes Ingles; the quality department store.

  Through the heavy city traffic, the bus hit a red traffic light by Gaudi’s La Pedrera. Everyone ignored the No Standing sign and made their way to Jack’s side of the bus, cameras pointed at the strange curvy building on the left, whose name in Catalan translated as “The Quarry.” Jack admired the unusual swirling chimneys known as Witch Scarers. Impressive, but no Sagrada Familia.

  The bus came to a stop and most of the top deck suddenly cleared, only to be replaced by several new faces. Once more on the mo
ve, the tour headed into the classy Eixample district, and notably, along The Block of Discord. Gaudi’s impressive Casa Batllo came into view on Jack’s right. The locals called it “House of Bones” and Jack could see why. The mosaic façade had faded to a withered bone hue and the upstairs balconies resembled skeletal eye sockets.

  Again, the bus stopped to let more tourists on and off, before heading for Placa Catalunya. As they turned into the touristy square, Jack looked over to his right and saw the gateway to Las Ramblas. Blackpool had its Golden Mile and Barcelona had Las Ramblas. They were both equally as tacky in his opinion. Though, to be fair, you probably had less chance of getting mugged or pick pocketed in Blackpool.

  The bus came to a stop and everyone bar Jack alighted. He’d gotten on at Placa Espanya, so he would go back round to where he started. The bus began to fill up again with tourists. Jack watched the pantomime of them hobbling up the steps, argue where best to sit, and then fumble around with their headphones. “I can’t hear a damn thing,” one American woman said to her elderly husband. Yeah, Jack thought. That’s because the tour hasn’t started yet, and when it does, you’ll be listening to it in Dutch.

  He reached for his phone. No missed calls. No messages. That should be his epitaph. He stared at the wallpaper photo. A picture of Fiona and him. Pathetic. He’d not called anyone for about a month now. Out of boredom, he checked his last received call. It had been from Rose, three weeks ago.

  He put the phone back in his pocket and made a mental note to start drafting an email to his sister once he’d gotten back to the apartment. He had a rough idea of what he was going to say. He’d decided against starting it with: “When you read this I shall be dead.”

  Jack wondered how he’d be remembered. All the people who’d shafted him over the years might crawl out from under their rocks and say what a top bloke he was. A line from William Holden in Sunset Boulevard summed it up. ‘Funny how gentle people get with you once you’re dead.’ Like he gave a shit anymore.

  The bus eventually got going and headed south. It came to a stop by the elegant looking Gothic Cathedral. Jack thought about getting off but churches were all the same, weren’t they. He preferred looking around graveyards. Like his rainy jaunt around Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, perusing the tombs of the famous: Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt, Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison.

  Then, on a visit to LA, he’d spent an afternoon exploring Forest Lawn Memorial Park in the Hollywood Hills. Notable interments had included Buster Keaton, Liberace, Stan Laurel and Telly Savalas. As morbid as it probably sounded, Jack had really enjoyed spending that afternoon in the Californian sunshine. He’d wanted to visit Jack Lemmon’s grave at the Westwood Village Memorial Park to take a photo of Mr Lemmon’s genius tombstone inscription, but it had been too far to travel. ‘Jack Lemmon in…’

  The tour bus travelled down to the sea front and Jack caught a glimpse of the marina where hundreds of boats littered the water. Their sails reflected the sunshine back onto the ocean which sparkled like a glittering prize. Another brief stop at Colom then down towards the World Trade Centre’s modernist building. The bus headed upwards from there towards the looming Montjuic (Hill of the Jews, in ancient Catalan). The steep and crooked road led them up past the Gardens of Miramar, where Jack and Fiona had once enjoyed a stroll. Wisteria blossomed everywhere. Its violet hues covering the ancient stone walls.

  The bus came to a stop, but Jack decided to stay on. You could take nostalgia too far. He toyed around with the idea of taking the cable car which was located a bit further up the mountain. Another happy memory and one he decided he’d like to repeat, even though he knew it would feel hollow doing it on his own. Jack alighted with several other passengers when the bus reached stop number six at Fundacio Miro. A brief walk up the hill, and they reached the cable car station. Jack wiped the sweat off his scorching forehead. He’d probably look like a lobster tomorrow.

  Nine euros for a return ticket up the mountain in the cable car. He’d been tempted to get a single and walk back down. He managed to get a car all to himself and the beach and harbour soon came into view as it climbed steadily into the clear blue sky. The trip to the top took five minutes. As he got off, he glanced up at the castle which towered above him. As castles went, it was ok, but then, he always thought of them in the same terms as churches. Once you’d seen one...

  He hadn’t taken the cable car to explore the castle - he wanted the view: the best in the city. A thin haze shimmered in front of his eyes as he peered over the castle wall. From his vantage point, Barcelona looked no bigger than a model village.

  The sunburn on Jack’s head began to bother him so he headed to the café, ordered a cold Estrella and sat down under a parasol shaded table. He placed the cold bottle to his forehead, which instantly anesthetised the burning.

  What was he going to do about topping himself? With the sunshine and bus tour as a distraction he’d not really been focusing on the elephant in the room. Or should that be, suicide in the room. He should’ve taken those pills back in Gateshead. Think! He’d never fancied the idea of a hard impact death, but then again - did it really matter? He could get totally wasted and then jump off the top of the Arena. Back home, he’d toyed around with the idea of jumping off the Tyne Bridge. From Spirit FM’s studio window, he’d occasionally observed poor souls climb over the bridge barrier and peer down into the cold wet unknown. Mostly cries for help, the police would coax them off the edge and lead them away to safety.

  It was twenty past four by the time he finished his beer and caught the cable car back down the mountain. Along with several other tourists, he waited at stop number six for about ten minutes before the next bus showed up. Once on board, he made his way up top. None of his fellow tourists had tried to engage him in conversation. Having never travelled alone before, Jack wondered if that was normal. Did solo travellers get universally ignored? Jack had always been an outgoing sort of fellow, but he wondered if his descent into depression had cast a shadow over him. Maybe he looked like the sort of person you wouldn’t want to talk to.

  The bus sped towards the Olympic Stadium, where most of its passengers alighted. From there, it headed towards the National Museum of Catalan Art where it stopped again before setting off for stop number nine: Poble Espanyol. The replica old style Spanish village had been a bit of a disappointment to Fiona and Jack when they’d paid to look around. Mainly pseudo artisans trading their wares and tourist trap restaurants peddling inferior, overpriced grub.

  After travelling past The Caixa Forum, the bus arrived back at Placa Espanya. Jack got off and checked his watch. It was twenty past five. He headed past the twin towers and down towards the apartment. Darkness greeted him as he opened the external door. The air felt cool and he drank it in. Inside the apartment, he entered the bedroom and disrobed. A cold shower might help him feel human again.

  Jack returned from the bathroom several minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist. He rummaged in his wash bag for some after-sun. The lotion instantly soothed him as he applied it to his face and neck. He changed into some baggy shorts, put on a fresh t-shirt and then headed to the kitchen for a beer.

  How had it come to this? Two days away from death. He remembered the story about the man facing the firing squad told by Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky’s ‘The Idiot’: the man who knew he had only five minutes left to live. He had broken those minutes down to truly focus on his life. In those five minutes he’d felt more alive than at any other time. Then, unexpectedly, came a reprieve. His future though, would never be as exciting as those minutes he spent awaiting death. Like the anecdotal man in front of the firing squad, Jack’s demise felt an eternity away.

  He headed back into the bedroom and took out his netbook and the travel adaptor from the duffel bag. Within a few minutes, he was online. No new messages, his email reminded him. What a surprise. He hit the tab to compose a new message and typed Rose’s email address into the recipient’s window:

  “Dear
Rose,” he typed…eventually more words followed.

  “Please don’t be alarmed, but I suppose you will be anyway. I’m afraid life got the better of me and I decided to exit stage left. I really didn’t see a future worth living, and, though you may see this as a coward’s way out, I ask that you please don’t judge me too harshly. I ask that you will always remember me fondly and that you will not let my selfish act have a negative impact on your own life. You have a bright future ahead of you, Rose. If there is an afterlife, I hope that I will see you there, many years from now.

  Love always

  Jack x”

  Not bad, he thought. Not very long though, and a bit sketchy on the detail. Then again, he imagined suicide notes, in general, to be fairly short. He clicked on Save to Draft. The email didn’t need to be sent until Friday and he might decide to redraft before then.

  “Ping!”

  A new email. The sender’s name: ‘Quint.’ Jack consciously raised his eyebrows at the name of his favourite character from his favourite movie; Jaws. No subject appeared in the heading, and there didn’t appear to be any accompanying email address. He opened the message, expecting to be offered a cheap supply of Viagra or the promise of millions of dollars from a Nigerian prince. What the hell! Jack moved back from the screen and re-read the words: