With total relief I answered: "Yes Your Honour, I do. Thank you."
"You may step down. We will see you in seventy two hours." He closed the file.
Everyone stood in unison as the Judge left his seat and returned to his office.
As I stood down from the dock, the guard released the cuffs. I felt free for the very first time.
I told you I'd help you," Paul said, shaking my hand. "I just have to sign a form for your release, get your passport and then we can go. Give me two minutes."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I was in a trance. I'd just been granted bail for arson and manslaughter! I had seventy two hours until the beginning of the case. I kept repeating in my head: bail for arson and manslaughter. I was exhausted and sat down on the nearest bench in an emotional daze.
To my right, the three men in their pin stripe suits were sitting behind their desks, organizing their files and paperwork for the next hearing. To their left, the attractive woman was still typing, her long legs stretched out with the tips of her shoes just visible beneath her desk. Paul was sitting down and signing something, then he stood up, shook hands with one of the men and walked towards me, slipping my passport into his shirt breast pocket.
"Okay Dave, let's get out of here," he said. "Let's get you cleaned up and fed."
I smiled and thanked him, the relief washing over me. We left the room, walked past the guard, along the corridor, down the stairs and out of the building.
The hostile crowd had thankfully vanished and we turned right, heading towards the car park. Moments later I was in the front seat of Paul's car and on my way to his apartment.
THE PROMISE
Paul's apartment was on the third floor of a small complex surrounded by palm trees and lush green gardens. The large terrace overlooked the town centre with a distant view of the sea. It was modern, built only two years before with pure white walls throughout and cream wood work. There were two double bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nice size reception room and a fully fitted kitchen. As we'd driven back from the court I'd noticed new developments being built everywhere; it was a booming time in property, Paul had mentioned in the car. It was a subtle reminder of my previous life and I walked around the place with a hint of jealousy; it was only a few months earlier that I'd had a similar apartment back in London. But there I was — crashing on a stranger's sofa in Spain, on bail for arson and manslaughter and with a court case to look forward to in three days' time.
My mind was racing faster than Ayrton Senna down the home straight as I felt the full force of the hot water pouring over my body in the shower. My eyes closed as the water cascaded off my face with the events of the past few days hitting me. I was scared; really scared. A few tears escaped and became lost in the falling water as I stood with my head down and the hot steam surrounding me. I turned the water off, opened the frosted glass sliding door, stepped out and began to dry myself. I wiped the steam away from the mirror with my left palm and a pair of dark brown eyes stared back at me. I became lost within the black pupils for a while and felt dizzy and light headed. Taking a step back, I stared at the smearing of facial features all over the mirror's surface. Drops of water fell from my wet hair onto my shoulders and as I hand dried my hair, I noticed my hairline in the mirror. Had it receded even more or was it just the smears I was seeing? I ignored it and in desperate need of a shave, I looked around for some razors but couldn't find any. Thinking that Paul could help me out, buttoning my shirt and with my jeans rolled up just past my ankles, I went to the kitchen to find him. He wasn't there, but there was a note with a key on the worktop.
Hi Dave, I hope you're feeling better after the shower. I had to go out. Help yourself to food. The key is for the front door if you want to stretch your legs. I'm back this later this afternoon. We'll chat later. Paul.
The writing was a mixture of scribbles, lines, letters and dots, but I managed to understand. That's nice of him, I thought, putting the key into my pocket.
The water came rushing out of the chrome mixer taps as I filled the kettle and switched it on. Now, what can I have to eat? I said it out loud as I opened the fridge, relieved that there wasn't a single orange in sight. I took a box of eggs, a packet of ham, some cheese and tomatoes and placed them on the worktop. The steam from the kettle screamed out of the funnel as the water reached boiling point and automatically deactivated with a noise that made me jump. Get a grip, Dave, I told myself. I poured the boiling water into a mug that had a Barcelona football badge printed on it and added some coffee, milk and sugar. As I stirred it, my thoughts turned to Paul. Why is he being so helpful? He's not a lawyer; he's a journalist for a national paper. Does he want a story? Is this why he's helping me?
I cracked three eggs into a bowl, stirred them with a fork then poured the mixture into a sizzling frying pan along with the tomatoes, ham and cheese. I grabbed the mug of coffee and perched on the edge of a stool, the questions racing around my mind. I slid the omelette onto a plate and began to eat, closing my eyes as I devoured each and every mouthful.
I drank the coffee and made another.
As I finished washing the dishes, the thoughts in my mind began to manifest and all I could think about was that in seventy hours I'd be facing charges of manslaughter and arson. I needed some air, some time to think, but time was my enemy — I could almost hear the ticking of the clock counting down the minutes to my trial. Finding my trainers, I slipped them on and headed down the hallway, passing various rooms on my way. One of them had its door ajar and I glanced in, noticing a passport on the bedside table. I knocked on the door, a habit of mine, paused for a few moments then stepped inside. When I opened the passport and saw my own face staring back at me, I was stunned at how much I'd changed in the three years since it was taken. I looked at myself with a sense of longing for the person I used to be, placed it back on the table and left the room.
Having had more than enough of confined spaces, I took the stairs instead of the lift down to the ground floor. Concrete walls followed me as I walked down the three floors — thirty eight steps, another new habit of mine — to the bottom. I pushed open the glass double-doors, stepped out onto the pavement and had to shield my eyes from the strong rays of the afternoon sun. The warmth hitting my face and body was a feeling that I'd forgotten and I stood for a moment, my eyes closed in a trance, with my arms by my side. I was lost in the moment until a car sped past, the wind catching my face, and then the moment vanished.
The pavements were bursting with tourists and the cafés and restaurants were full to the brim with lunchtime diners. They were all undoubtedly enjoying their holiday without a care in the world, but with each step I took I felt they were looking at me — talking about me with their whispering voices. Very quickly I became uncomfortable and paranoid and quickened my pace as I back tracked, hesitating as I passed Bar Lolita. It was the place where my first gig was with Kelvin and Anthony and again I was reminded of how different things could have been had I made different choices. It was unsettling — the knowledge that a split second decision can completely change the course of someone's life.
I hurried along the side of the road until I came to Paul's apartment block, ran up the three flights of stairs — not counting this time — and turned the key of the door, closing it behind me. My heart was thumping and with sweat running down the side of my face, I closed my eyes and leant back against the door.
I had to do something.
The Spanish weather bulletin on TV had just finished and the presenter was placing sun images on the Spanish map, confirming that it would be another hot afternoon. I stretched out on the sofa, clenched all the muscles in my body, counted to ten, and let out a huge sigh. My eyelids were getting heavier and within a matter of seconds, they were closed. I lay there until the drone of the TV became a comforting hum and within moments I was asleep.
"Dave, Dave, wake up."
I let out a moan as I slowly opened my eyes and saw Paul in front of me.
"I'm
back. Did you sleep well?"
"Hi, um… yes, thanks," I replied, turning away and slowly closing my eyes again.
"Hey, come on, wake up. I'll make some coffee and then we can talk, okay?"
"Okay, white, one sugar," I said wondering why he was in such a hurry.
I was half asleep when he returned from the kitchen and placed a mug on the table next to me.
"So, do you want to talk about what happened?" he asked, staring at me.
I sat up, yawned out loud and reached over to get the mug, taking a sip of my coffee.
"So you're a journalist."
"Yes, I am, like I told you. But I want you to tell your side of the story."
I took another sip, my eyes caught by a painting of the Marbella Marina, just above the fireplace opposite me, reminding me of Rosa and the night of the party.
"Look at me," Paul snapped.
My eyes fixed on his. "Why should I talk to you? Papers never print the fucking truth, do they?"
"For fuck's sake Dave. I've helped you, haven't I? You're on bail. Why would I write something that isn't true? I promise mate, just tell me your side and only that will be printed. Nothing else, okay?"
The sunlight flowed through the large balcony windows as the temperature increased. I wondered if it was just me feeling the heat or if the weather girl had actually been right for once, but when Paul stood up and walked over to the kitchen to turn the air conditioning on, it answered my question.
"Dave, come on, it'll be good for you to let it all out."
"Okay, okay, but you'll only print what I tell you? Nothing else?
"Agreed."
Paul sat back on the black leather chair, got out his pad and pen and started to take notes.
I told him about the party with Rosa and when Peter had turned up drunk. I also told him in detail about how I saved Debbie and the rescue of the old man.
"I wonder how they're doing?" I said. "Better than me, I hope."
"Christ, I didn't know about that."
"You didn't? But you're a journalist."
"Yes, I am. And this is what I do — I find the truth. So tell me your story and I'll help."
"Well, I certainly need some," I said, finishing my coffee.
Placing the empty mug on the table next to me, I began to tell Paul what happened next.
"After the ambulance drove the old man away, I went back inside. I felt invincible at the time — crazy I know — but that's how it was." I paused. "Do you have anything stronger to drink?"
"JD?"
I nodded.
He placed a full bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and poured two glasses. I drank mine in one gulp.
"Thanks, I needed that."
He poured me another.
"Cheers." I said raising the glass, taking a sip and continuing.
"I passed two or three firemen helping people out and then I went to the first floor, but there was no one there, so I went up to the second. There was a copper there just staring at me. He freaked me out."
I took another sip of the drink.
"Go on, what happened next?" Paul said, flipping over the page of his pad.
"I turned the corner and fuck…"
I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass.
"Right in front of me, three bodies. Lifeless. Dead." I paused, swallowing the emotion rising in my throat. "I'd never seen a dead body before."
With his head down, Paul didn't look up at me as he continued to write.
"I felt sick. I just stood there and stared at them. It'll haunt me forever."
"Did you look for anybody else?"
"Yes. I stepped over the bodies…I had no choice… and went from room to room looking for people. Then I came to a room with the door open so I went inside and shouted to see if anyone was there. I was about to leave when I saw some change on the table."
I took another few sips.
"I'm not proud of what I'm gonna say now, Paul." I felt the prickle of tears in the corners of my eyes.
"It's okay," Paul said calmly. "Just take a deep breath and let it all out."
Another sip of whisky passed my lips.
"I took the cash — all coins — and two credit cards. I wasn't thinking. I was desperate and…oh, I don't know…I was in a state. I'd been through a lot that night Paul. You know that now."
"We've all done stupid things that we've regretted."
"I know. But taking the cards has got me into this fucking mess."
"That's why you must tell your side of the story. So, what did you do next?"
"I put the money and cards in my pockets and left. I ran down the corridor and came to the bodies again. I stepped over them as I was going to go to the next floor, but I couldn't. I couldn't breathe. So I went outside and sat down on the grass. I was looking around, watching what was going on and thinking of those dead bodies."
"What time was this?"
"Not sure. I guess about seven."
"When were you arrested?"
"As I was sitting on the grass, a copper shouted and started walking towards me. It was the same one I'd seen in the hotel. He grabbed my arm, took me to his car, searched me and that's when he found the bloody card and my passport. He checked the names and handcuffed me as soon as he saw they were different."
"What about the other one? You said that you took two cards?" Paul checked back on his notes.
Journalists…they don't miss a trick.
"I did, but he only searched my back pockets and I had the other one in my front, which I forgot about cos it happened so quickly. He handcuffed me and threw me in the back seat. That's when I remembered about the card and I stupidly hid it in a vent, but they found it and that's when the shit really hit the fan."
I stood up. I was a bit unsteady on my feet due to the whisky. I walked slowly across the room towards the door to the terrace. The door was closed and I gently placed my head against the double-glazed glass. With the sun reflecting on my face, I stared out at the far distant view of the sea.
"Paul, I know I screwed up with the cards, but I didn't start the fire, I swear. And that's what I'm charged for. It's fucking crazy and I just don't know what to do."
"I know you didn't. I believe you. But it's not me you have to convince, it's the court."
"Exactly. The court. What if I don't convince them?"
"I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Well, I'm hanging from that bridge now by my fucking neck. It's easy for you to say — it's me who's been charged."
I poured another drink and sat back down.
"That's why I need to print the truth, and I will." Paul closed his pad and stood up. "I need to go to the office. I'll see you later."
Before he left, he threw a packet of razors towards me that belonged to his German flat mate, Robert.
"Here. You need one hell of a shave; you'll look better for the court case. Robert won't mind."
"Thanks," I replied, catching the packet in my hands.
He also handed me a blanket.
The door closed and I heard Paul's fading footsteps along the corridor. I poured the last drop of the bottle into my glass, drank it, and with my head spinning, I lay back on the sofa.
Lost in thought, I focused on the rise and fall of the razor packet on my chest with each breath that I took. When my eyes began to get heavy, I pulled the blanket over my head to shut out the light, and for those few beautiful moments between awake and sleep, I was at peace. It was only when a door slammed somewhere in the apartment building that I jumped and my brain kicked back into action.
Dave, you've got to do something.
GEORGE MICHAEL
Nine hours and nine razors later I felt the smooth skin of my face. I didn't look so bad after all, apart from the week old clothes I was wearing. I'd been up for an hour or so — since eight when Paul had woken me with a mug of coffee.
"I'll be at the office for most of the day, so hang onto the key," Paul said, picking up his
wallet from the three legged antique table in the hallway, the one piece of furniture that seemed lost amongst the modern décor.
"Okay, thanks."
"See ya later," he said, closing the door behind him.
I walked straight to Paul's bedroom and opened the door. Seeing that my passport was still on the bedside table, I closed the door and went back to the kitchen.
My mind was working overtime as I tied my laces. I needed to phone home to talk with Dad and I wasn't looking forward to it in the slightest.
Wearing a blue baseball cap that I'd borrowed from Paul, I left the apartment, walked down the thirty eight steps and emerged in the bright morning sunshine. The cap had the standard white Nike tick on the front and wasn't something I'd normally choose to wear, but as it partially covered my face and was somewhat of a disguise it made me feel less paranoid.
Crossing the main road, I hurried along the cobblestone street until a few yards ahead of me I spotted a telephone box. I ran the last few feet, slid into the kiosk and picked up the receiver. Suddenly my mind was blank and I had no idea what to do; it seemed like an age ago when I'd called Mum from the hostel and I'd completely forgotten the procedure. It was the thought of Mum that made me change my mind about calling home; I really didn't feel ready to face her.
Scanning the board in front of me, my eyes flitted from top to bottom, ignoring the blur of Spanish until I finally found the English translation I was looking for.
'For operator services, please dial zero'.
Of course, you idiot!
In what seemed like an eternity but was just a few seconds, a female voice answered. "Can I help you?" she said, her broken English crackling down the line.
"Yes. I need to make a call to the UK and want to reverse the charges."
"To the UK?"
"Yes, yes please," I told her.
"And to which number?"
I gave her one of my brother's numbers: his office. He was also working in the property business just outside London in a leafy and wealthy area of Middlesex, as a manager for an established Estate Agency.
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