Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  Agente Lombardi nodded. “It’s how you say in England: Finders Keepers. Inspector Pio wouldn’t like it, but he’s not around, so take it.”

  Jack smiled as he pocketed his belongings. Paulo Lombardi was in danger of giving the police a good name. Two policemen came in through the main door holding steaming Styrofoam cups, filling the air with a sweet coffee aroma. Agente Lombardi greeted the men then looked at his watch. “It’s nine thirty,” he said to Jack. “You need to go left out of the main door then second on the right for about three hundred metres. After that, follow the signs for Vatican City.”

  Jack shook the young guard’s hand. “Thank you - for everything.”

  “Good luck, Mr Holden.”

  As he walked towards the main doorway, Jack searched his pocket and found the white plastic card. It was now officially his. The name on it wasn’t, though. He stared at it for a moment. J.M.H. Book. Then he smiled to himself. Sometimes it was impossible to see the wood for the trees. Of course. Why hadn’t he spotted it sooner? J.M.H. Book wasn’t a person, but a real book. The Book of Jeremiah.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  The breeze felt great against Jack’s skin as he tasted freedom for the first time in three days. It was starting to get warm, perhaps warm enough to dry out his clothes. His feet squelched inside his sodden trainers, but the novelty of his newfound liberty far outweighed minor niggles like wet shorts and soggy footwear. Smart looking people hurried about, no doubt on their way to work.

  Per instructions Jack had turned left out of the main doors before taking the second road on the right. He spotted a sign for Vatican City and pressed on. Hordes of tourists flocked there, and Jack had to weave between them. Must be nearly ten. He hurried past St Peter’s and down the street towards Café Santiago. His clothes were almost dry, but he could feel his body shaking. Good old fashioned nerves.

  He reached the café and peered through the window. Who was he expecting to see in there? The place looked empty. He took a deep breath and tried to control his nerves. His mouth turned to sand as he pushed the door and walked inside. He noticed a series of crucifix’s adorning the white painted walls.

  “Buon giorno,” said a voice. Jack noticed a short, bald headed man pop his head up from under the counter.

  “Buon giorno,” Jack replied as he scanned the pastries which had been placed near the counter. “Cafe Americano, per favore.”

  “English?” the man asked.

  Jack smiled at him. “Yes, English,” he replied.

  “Please sit down, I’ll bring it over. Anything to eat?”

  Jack declined and found a seat near the window which looked out onto the crowds heading towards Saint Peter’s Square. His hands started to shake. He’d never felt so nervous. Not even when Fiona had said: “We need to talk.” Four words no man ever wants to hear come out of his girlfriend’s mouth. He checked the clock on the wall. Five to ten.

  He stared out of the window again. Who was he looking out for? Like Quint the shark hunter from Jaws was going to walk down the street and pop into the café to meet Jack for a coffee. Who else might be behind it all? He half expected Fiona to open the door and shout: “Surprise!” Who else? Oh! He’d been through all that.

  The man brought Jack his coffee along with a bill for three euros. Jack plopped two sugar cubes into the black liquid and stirred with vigor. He’d need the sugar hit. He felt vulnerable sat there in the empty café. Waiting…waiting. He felt like getting up and walking out. Maybe he would be better off not knowing. His palms leaked moisture and he fought the nauseous feeling in his stomach. Woody Allen’s quote from Manhattan floated into his head: “Talent is luck. The important thing in life is courage.” Courage. Jack’s one remaining asset and it was taking every ounce of it to stop him from running out of the door. He checked the clock again. Two minutes to ten.

  The man behind the counter climbed a stepladder and Jack watched him write the day’s specials on a big blackboard. It felt weird that there were no other customers inside the cafe. Jack now felt bile beginning to rise up his throat. His trembling hands fidgeted with the half empty coffee cup. C’mon, show your face – whoever you are!

  “Der der…Der der...”

  Jack crashed the cup down on the saucer and alerted his ears to the violin notes. The sound was coming from the window. A ringtone. Not just any ringtone…

  “Der der…der der…. Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum…”

  Where the hell is it coming from? Jack stretched his hand behind the pot plant in the window and grabbed hold of something plastic. It was small Nokia handset which illuminated with the words “Private Number.”

  “Dah dah dah…”

  Jack glared at the screen for a second then quickly scanned the café. The man on the stepladder had stopped writing on his blackboard; he turned his head around, staring at Jack.

  I need to answer this!

  “Dum dum dum dum.”

  Jack hit the Answer button and John Williams’ brooding score from Jaws ceased. His throat felt as dry as soot. “Hello,” he croaked into the mouthpiece. He held the phone in his slippery palm waiting for a reply. “Hello,” he said again. Still no response. Maybe he should hang up, but then he heard a familiar voice down the line:

  “Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies,

  Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;

  For we’ve received orders for to sail back to Boston,

  And soon nevermore shall we see you again.”

  Shit! It was Quint’s voice. Best not to get too carried away, though. Anyone could play a movie clip of Quint’s sea shanty down a phone line.

  Jack took a deep breath. “Who is this?” he said.

  The line remained silent. Jack could hear the rapid exhales of his own breath reverberating into the mouthpiece. “Are you there?” he asked.

  Still no response. Jack observed the man behind the counter descending his stepladder.

  “Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” Jack recognised the familiar drone of a dead phone line.

  He took the phone away from his ear and noticed the words ‘Call Disconnected’ written across the screen. The call list came up with the last call as ‘Private Number.’ A quick search of the handset revealed no other numbers or contacts stored. A brand new phone, he thought.

  Jack sat there unable to move or even think. Finally he put the phone down and stared into the coffee cup. As he did, several customers entered the café. Jack took it as his cue to leave. He pocketed the phone and left three euros on the table. “Ciao” he said to the man serving behind the counter, who shot him an uncomfortable glare but said nothing.

  A cool breeze confronted Jack as he stood outside the café staring down the Via at Saint Peter’s Basilica. His meeting with Quint had been a big disappointment.

  Chapter Eighteen:

  The San Remo internet café was full of students and Jack waited patiently for over twenty minutes until a machine became available. He’d already parted with three euros for twenty minutes in cyber space, leaving him with just five euros to his name. As he’d walked away from Café Santiago, he’d expected the phone in his pocket to sound out the Jaws theme tune again, but it hadn’t. What was Quint playing at? So, when Jack later walked past the internet café, his curiosity had got the better of him. Maybe Quint had already emailed him with an explanation about the episode in Café Santiago.

  Jack logged in, a rush of adrenalin coursing through him. One new message in his inbox. Damn! It wasn’t from Quint. Jack closed his eyes and accepted defeat. What was Quint playing at? He hadn’t bothered to digest the solitary new email in his inbox, but when he opened his eyes, he took in the sender’s name and the subject heading:

  ‘Sandra Chandler: Re The Stone of Destiny’

  Oh, here we go again, he thought. He clicked the mouse and prepared himself for another rejection.

  Dear Jack, the message read,

  Thank you for sending in the first three chapters of your novel which I enjoyed. I’m
interested in reading the remainder of your manuscript on an exclusive basis. If this is agreeable with you, please email me the full manuscript at your convenience.

  Yours sincerely

  Sandra Chandler.

  Chandler & Oliver Literary Agents.

  Jack noted the professional looking logo at the footer with all the contact details. It was bloody genuine! He re-read it several times though, just to make sure. He caught the reflection of his own smile in the screen as he sat there in anodyne rapture. He’d given up hope of any agent or publisher liking his work. It wasn’t a cast iron promise to publish, but it was certainly encouraging. Especially when he considered all the soulless rejection letters he’d received from agents. Oh Shit! He didn’t have the fob with him - the memory fob which stored the full manuscript as a Word document. Though he’d sold his computer, he kept important files on a memory fob as a backup, and that was sitting in the top drawer of his bedside table back in Gateshead. Jack cupped his hands around his face, his elation punctured. How the hell was he going to get back to England?

  He still had several minutes left on the clock so he opened a new window and typed “Jeremiah 29:11” then hit Search. The New International Version read: ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’

  Flipping between the two screens, Jack read both the scripture and the email from Sandra Chandler over and over again. What possible bearing might they have on his life - on his future?

  The timer at the bottom of the screen indicated that his time was almost up. Somebody was waiting to get onto the machine so he got up and left the internet café.

  Jack’s sticky feet made a conspicuous squelching sound as he walked over to the river bank. He hauled himself up onto an old stone wall which overlooked the Tiber then took off his shoes and socks and placed them next to him. He glanced down into the murky depths of the water. There had to be a way for him to get back home. There had to be! He rummaged around in the side pocket of his shorts. His passport was there, along with his iPod and front door key. Maybe it was fate that he’d kept hold of the key to his flat, instead of throwing it away. Instinctively he stuck his other hand into the opposite pocket and felt the rough exterior of the scallop shell. What else? Yes, the bank card or whatever the hell it was. He extracted it and held it up close to his eyes. J.M.H. Book. Yeah, a reference to the Book of Jeremiah. But could it actually be used as a bank card? A bank card needed a pin number right? He remembered his own pin number…it was four digits. Four digits: of course!

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Piazza Adriana: the ATM. Jack teased the plastic card into the mouth of the slot. He may have held it there for a good ninety seconds, but now the shadow of somebody behind him hurried him into action. His heart raced as he watched the contraption slowly digest the white card. The screen went blank. Maybe his hunch had been wrong? No, this had to work. The machine made an electronic churning noise as though devouring a digital banquet of data. Jack turned around. A suited and booted middle aged city gent stood back a respectable distance, checking his watch.

  Back to the screen: the banks logo re-appeared and Jack noticed a tiny Union Jack at the bottom right hand side. He touched the button next to it and a “Please enter your PIN” message appeared. Here goes. Jeremiah. Chapter and verse. He pressed the button numbered two on the keypad, followed by number nine and then the number one twice. He then took a deep breath and hit Enter. The machine stirred with a series of electronic beeps before another screen popped up, asking him if he wanted to check his balance. Jack smiled and hit ‘Yes’. It was bloody working! How much? His draw dropped as he read the amount on the screen: ‘500 euros’. “Do you want to use another service?” Yes: Withdrawals.

  He couldn’t believe it. The card worked. Five hundred euros would be more than enough to get him back to England. He pressed a few more buttons and waited for the machine to release the booty; stuffing the crisp notes down into the deep side pocket of his shorts. Jack then withdrew the card from the slot and turned around to see the suited gent shoot him a wary glance. Jack smiled at him. ‘I got the money I got the money!’ he sang in his head. Up until this moment, everything that had happened to him might have been explained away by rationale and reason. A scam or a prank, like what Zoe had thought. But this business with the bank card and the PIN number coming to him in a cryptic dream – well this was…this was supernatural. No other word for it.

  The sun nearly blinded Jack as he walked into the piazza. Shame he’d left his sunglasses in his bag. Maybe he should buy some more? After all, he had five hundred euros to his name. No, that money was for a plane ticket back to England. He had to get there pronto and email the rest of his book to Sandra Chandler at the agency. With his shoes now dry, he walked with a fresh spring in his step and a smile on his face as he moved at a brisk pace over the Ponte Cavour, a tourist route used by pilgrims on their way to Saint Peter’s.

  As Jack made his way down Via Tomacelli he suddenly stopped dead, causing the woman walking behind him to dart out of the way in order to avoid an embarrassing collision. He apologized but she muttered something unpleasant sounding. When she was safely out of the way he bent down and picked up what had caught his eye: a scallop shell. Another one. He held it in his hand as he continued to the end of the street. Was he meant to find this shell? Over the last three or four days it felt like everything had happened for a reason.

  Via del Corso ran left and right. Which way? Hello! Another scallop shell in the middle of the pavement to his right. He needed to get to the airport as soon as possible – not follow scallop shells that might take him on a wild goose chase. No, the scallop shells meant something. But what? An air of excitement gripped him as he hit the heavy pedestrian traffic near the Pantheon. He tried to scan the broad pavement but there were too many feet in the way. He couldn’t see any more scallop shells. Were these shells markers that would lead him somewhere? Maybe he’d get to meet Quint in the flesh. Which way now? Had he missed one? Perhaps he should head back and retrace his route.

  The Pantheon looked less spectacular during the day, Jack thought. He assimilated himself into the throng of tourists lurking around the edifice. Sightseeing wasn’t on his mind, though. His eyes studied the area for a scallop shell somewhere on the pavement. No, he couldn’t see one anywhere. He changed his gaze to eye level and browsed the area with the steely concentration of a surgeon in theatre.

  There! Not on the pavement, but drawn on a wall in chalk below a street sign. That had to be a marker didn’t it? Jack made his way through the meandering crowds and slipped down a quiet side street. He stared up at the chalk drawn scallop shell and smiled. He assumed he was on the right path, but within a few minutes, he found himself back at Via del Corso.

  Which way now? He crossed over the road and examined the street sign. Vatican to the left and Coliseum to the right. According to the sign, heading straight on would bring him to the Trevi Fountain. Jack wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around for a marker. Perhaps another scallop shell on the pavement or drawn onto a wall? Nope. He couldn’t spot any clues telling him which direction to head. Was there something he’d missed? Again, he looked around. There had to be a scallop shell around here somewhere. He opened up his fist which housed the shell that he’d picked up off the pavement. He looked at it as though asking the shell for direction. Impatience now gripped him and he began to think about packing in the hunt. He needed to get to the airport anyway. As he put the shell in his pocket, he noticed a rickshaw scuttle past him down a side street. His eyes did a quick double take at the logo placed next to the words “Sushi Mania.” Yeah, definitely a scallop shell. A fresh burst of excitement filled Jack as he ran down the narrow street after the rickshaw.

  Following it down the cobbled streets was tough going. He felt the sweat dripping down his back. It was surprising just how bloody fast the things could go. He’d lost track of where the h
ell he was. What with all the twists and turns. He’d noticed tourists and locals alike staring agog as he chased down the streets after a rickshaw. If only they knew. Well, they’d probably lock him up and send for the men in white coats. What the hell was he doing? He was running away from the city chasing after a damned rickshaw. It was no use though…he just couldn’t keep up. The rickshaw headed right at a set of traffic lights and by the time Jack reached the junction thirty seconds later, it had disappeared from view. Damn! This wasn’t in the script.

  Sweating heavily and with a raging thirst, Jack felt like he’d scored a little victory when he spotted a fountain across the road. He ambled over, eager to splash the cooling waters against his face. He reached the oasis and noticed the sculpture in the centre: a man nestled upon the tailfins of four dolphins. And the man was sat on something. Two valves of a shell, by the look of it. A scallop shell! Jack cupped some of the ice cool water in his hands. He was about to splash it over his face when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar face on the opposite side of the fountain. Oh My God! It can’t be! The scallop shells had led him to his prize.