Wrong Place Wrong Time

by David P Perlmutter

  I waited impatiently listening to the whirrs and clicks on the end of the line. Finally he answered.

  "Robert speaking. Can I help you?"

  He always preferred to be called Robert at work; he thought it sounded more businesslike, but to me my youngest brother would always be Bob or Bobby.

  "I have a collect call from Spain. Will you accept it, Sir?"

  Christ, of course he'll fucking accept it I said under my breath.

  When I heard the click of the operator leaving the call, I spoke.

  "Bob, it's me."

  "Dave…what the fuck's going on? Are you alright?

  "I'm fine," I lied, slightly taken aback by his greeting.

  "We've been reading about you."

  "What?" My stomach flipped and I held the receiver closer to my ear.

  "The papers," he went on. "You're in most of them. They're saying you're charged with theft and arson. That people have died. What the hell's happened?"

  I hadn't looked at a paper for days, maybe a week, due to being holed up in the cell. Suddenly I felt uneasy. I looked to my left, then my right and tilted the baseball cap further forward to try and hide my face. A woman glanced at me as she passed and I turned my back on her, the paranoia consuming me.

  "Bob, I never started the fire, I swear. I wasn't even there when it started. I saved two people's lives; I bet that's not fucking mentioned, is it?"

  "No," he snapped. "It isn't." How the fucking hell did you get into this mess?"

  I let out a huge sigh. "It's a long story. I'll tell you everything when I see you, I promise."

  "Yeah, right," he retorted. "And when will that be exactly? You've been charged, Dave. The papers say the court case is already arranged."

  "Well they've got something right then. It's the day after tomorrow. It's crazy, Bob, it really is. Everything's such a fucking mess and I don't know what the hell to do…I just can't…"

  "Slow down, slow down. Where are you staying?"

  "With this guy, Paul. He's a journalist. I'm staying with him until the hearing. I told him everything yesterday — exactly what happened — and he's gonna print my story. The real story."

  "Well, let's hope he does bro. Mum's a complete mess. One minute she was doing the ironing and flicking through teletext and the next minute your name was all over the fucking screen, right in front of her."

  "Shit."

  Nobody said anything for a while; I just stood there with the phone against my ear and my head resting on the glass pane of the kiosk. All I could picture was the look on Mum's face after the drink driving charge: the look of disappointment. I felt ashamed.

  Bob broke the silence.

  "Guess what? In one of the papers, your story's right next to a photo of George Michael."

  I laughed — we both did — but it was short-lived.

  "Another one said you stole a fifty eight grand engagement ring from the hotel."

  My eyes widened with the thought of it. "It's a lie, Bob. It all is." I paused, realising what I'd just said. "Well, most of it is, anyway. I did take some cash and a couple of credits cards… I'm guilty of that but…"

  "Dave! You fucking idiot!"

  "I know, I know. It was wrong and I hold my hands up to it, but I was desperate. I was messed up, Bob. So much has happened…stuff you haven't even read about. And seeing those fucking dead bodies…"

  My voice slipped away as the images came back to haunt me. Bob didn't say a word and I wasn't sure what he was thinking. It unnerved me.

  "I didn't have anything to do with the fire. Nothing. And that's what they're charging me with; arson and bloody manslaughter. But I didn't do it, I swear I didn't."

  I don't know how long the silence lasted but I gripped the phone like my life depended on it.

  "I believe you, Dave."

  When I heard his words, the emotion I felt was immense. It was as if someone who'd been sitting on my chest for the past few days had suddenly decided to get off. I took the biggest breath I could and felt my lungs fill with the comfort of having someone on my side, someone who believed in me. Yes, Paul had been there for the past few days, but he didn't know me. His belief in me meant nothing.

  "Anyway," I said, "how's Dad? I really need to speak to him. Is he okay?"

  "He's pretty calm, actually. It's Mum who's angry and upset with you…disgracing our name and all that. She's not happy, Dave. Anyway, why do you need Dad?"

  "I need a favour; a big one. And I can't ask Mum. Bob… take this number down, phone Dad and get him to call me now, okay? I'll be waiting. I'm in a phone box, so be quick."

  I could hear him opening and closing a drawer. "What's the number?"

  I carefully read it out to him, two digits at a time, and made him repeat it back to me.

  "Just look after yourself, for God's sake. We're so worried, and Mum… well…"

  His voice trailed off.

  "Don't, Bob. I know. You don't have to tell me."

  "Dave, just…I don't know… just take care, alright? I love ya, mate."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I love you too, Bob."

  I put the phone back on the hook and stood there for a while, tapping my fingers against the window pane, pulling myself together and waiting for it to ring.

  It didn't ring.

  Did I give him the right number? I started to doubt myself as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes — it seemed — were turning to hours. I paced around outside, back and forth, kicking my feet over the loose cobblestones on the ground. I collected a handful and tried to place them in a pyramid on the verge. It was trickier than I'd anticipated — the ground was uneven due to a clump of dried up weeds. I pulled a few out, brushed at the loose dirt with my fingers to flatten the earth and tried again, successfully this time. With another small stone I knocked the pyramid down, a stone at a time, and then rebuilt it.

  I began to think my Dad wasn't calling.

  'If I knock off the top grey stone, the phone will ring within the next ten seconds.'

  Bloody mind games.

  I dislodged the stone on my first attempt and it fell amongst a couple of fag butts and an ice lolly stick. I picked it up.

  Staring at the phone and tossing the stone from one hand to another, I began to count: One, two… come on Dad, hurry up… six seven… please, just get on the fucking phone…and then just on cue, on number ten, it rang. I darted to the kiosk and had the receiver in my hand before the second ring.

  "Dad?"

  "Yes Dave, it's me."

  "Look…I know I've screwed up again, but I really need you to help me."

  "For Christ sake, why is it always bloody you? Your Mum's so upset and angry. She cried so much when she read the papers. Dave, everyone is so worried."

  He was calm, just like Bob said, and it took me by surprise.

  "I'm so sorry. But I didn't start the fire, I swear I didn't. Dad, it's me…you know I'd never do anything like that."

  "I know, son. We all do. But you've been charged with it. This is bloody serious."

  "Tell me about it."

  I heard him take a deep intake of breath and blow it out slowly.

  "How are you?"

  "I've just spent a week in a cell with nothing to eat apart from bloody oranges. I've got no clothes…everything's gone…apart from what I'm wearing. Dad, I need to get out of here. I can't handle it. I need a ticket from Malaga airport…I don't give a shit where to… just book me a flight, please Dad."

  He didn't say anything but I could hear him pacing up and down, his slippers clicking across the floor.

  "Dad?"

  "Son, it's wrong."

  My Dad was an honest, hardworking man. I knew what I was asking him to do would be going against everything he believed in.

  "I know it's wrong. But I can't deal with this. They could put me in prison, Dad. Fucking prison! I can't do it…I just can't….please… book me a ticket, please…"

  There was a pause. I closed my eyes really tig
htly and started to see patterns, binary and grids. I held my breath. Then Dad spoke.

  "So they didn't take your passport?"

  "Yes, they did. But I've got it. Well… I can get it."

  "David…"

  "Dad, please…no questions…just help me…please help me…"

  His voice was low and I could hear all the hurt in it as he said a single word: "Okay."

  There was a pause and I breathed out a huge sigh of relief.

  "I need to get out of here tomorrow. The court case starts the day after. I'll pay you back for this, I swear."

  "I'll make some calls and see what I can do. I'll phone you later. Can I call on this number?"

  "Yes. Say about six?"

  "Okay. Speak then, son."

  "Thanks Dad, I love y…"

  Before I could finish, the line went dead.

  The sun was at its strongest at that time of day and for once the heat didn't agree with me. I needed some shade, so with a quick pace to my stride and looking down to count the cobblestones, I made my way back to Paul's apartment. I turned the key, opened the door and heard someone in the kitchen. I closed the door quietly.

  "Shit." I blurted out loud, taking a step back as a man appeared in the hallway.

  "Are you the English one who used all my razors?" he asked, his distinctive accent telling me he was the German flat mate.

  I wanted to say: are you the German one whose razors they were? But I thought better of it as I'd used the whole packet.

  "Yes, I am," I said. "Paul gave them to me. He said you wouldn't mind."

  "Well I fucking do."

  "Sorry," I shouted as he passed me, strode to his bedroom and slammed the door.

  I also headed for a bedroom — Paul's. I opened the door carefully so not to disturb Robert and a smile appeared on my face when I saw my passport was still on the bedside table.

  "Just be there tomorrow… just be there," I prayed under my breath.

  The hands on the square-shaped clock in the kitchen ticked their way to five forty five. I finished my fourth coffee in as many hours, put the baseball cap back on and made my way out of the apartment. I ran to the telephone box and waited for Dad's call.

  Please God, let him have a ticket. Please…

  I repeated the words like a mantra, over and over again, until finally the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and held it against my ear.

  "Dad?"

  "Yes Dave. Good news. I phoned around and managed to get a flight, tomorrow night at seven into Gatwick."

  I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest. "That's fantastic! Thanks Dad!" I started to shake, the enormity of what I was about to do suddenly registering with me. "So, where do I get the ticket?"

  "You have to go to a travel agent in Fuengirola. It was the only way to get you a flight at short notice. I've got the address…"

  "That's fine…really Dad…I can't believe I'm coming home! Okay, hold on, two seconds, I need to get a pen."

  There was nothing in the phone box and the closest building was a cafe across the road. I let the phone hang, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and trying to keep my eye on it in case someone picked it up I dashed over the road, picked up an old receipt from a table and practically snatched a pen from the waiter.

  "I'll bring it right back," I yelled, darting back across the road.

  "Okay Dad, what's the address?"

  I wrote down the details, double checked them and thanked him again for his help.

  "Just get there and get on that plane. I'll be at the airport to pick you up, okay?"

  I nodded my head, unable to speak.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, son."

  When I heard the click of the receiver I hung up the phone. In just over twenty four hours, I'd be going home.

  On my way back to the apartment there was just one thing on my mind — one thing standing between me and my freedom.

  I had to get my hands on that passport.

  MISERY

  The apartment was as quiet as I'd left it and both Paul and Robert were out. I placed the baseball cap where I'd found it — hanging from a hook above the lonely three legged table in the hallway — and walked to Paul's bedroom. I hesitated outside and tapped on the door, just to make sure. As I expected there was nothing but silence.

  The passport was still in exactly the same place. Even though I could see it clearly from the doorway, I walked over to the bedside table and picked it up, checking the photo to make sure. The same face staring back at me confirmed it was mine.

  Do I take it now? Or wait till the morning when Paul has left for work?

  But if he takes it with him, I'm fucked.

  And If I take it now, he'll see that it's missing. And I'm fucked.

  I heard someone fumbling with a key, trying to unlock the apartment door.

  What are you gonna do, Dave?

  The apartment door opened and I heard footsteps in the hall.

  "Shit", I muttered, placing the passport back in exactly the same spot. I tiptoed back out of the room, closed the door and headed quickly over to the bathroom directly opposite. Within seconds of closing the bathroom door, the footsteps passed and carried on towards the kitchen. I needed to pee anyway and I took care of it with my hands trembling and beads of sweat pricking at my face. I flushed the toilet, swilled my hands under the tap and wiped them on a towel, running it over my forehead before putting it back.

  Paul was on the terrace and leaning against the black wrought iron rail. He turned around when he heard me.

  "Hi Dave. How're ya doin'?"

  "I'm good, thanks. I was in the bathroom."

  He gave a flick of his head as if to say ' right…okay' and I cursed myself for being such an idiot. What the fuck did you say that for? Where else would you have been?

  I joined him on the terrace. The view was majestic: the lush green gardens complimenting the blue of the cloudless sky with the calm, sparkling sea in the distance.

  "Fancy a cold beer?"

  "Sure, don't mind if I do. Thanks."

  Returning from the kitchen he handed me an open bottle. I took a mouthful. I needed it.

  "You look edgy," he said, picking away at the San Miguel label on the bottle.

  "And so would you if you were up in court."

  He nodded. "How are you feeling about it?"

  "Oh, I can't wait, you know, being accused of something I didn't do."

  "I'd said I'll be there to help you."

  "And what happens if you can't?"

  "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we …."

  "Come to it. Yeah, yeah… but it'll be too fucking late then, won't it?" I went inside and sat on the sofa. Paul followed me in.

  "Fancy another?" he said, heading for the fridge.

  I nodded.

  He handed me the bottle and went back out on to the terrace.

  Sipping my beer, I stood up walked over to the book shelf that was free standing against the back wall. Eyeing my way across the hardbacks, something caught my attention: a thin booklet entitled Costa Del Sol. I put the bottle on the top shelf and slid it out. Flicking through the pages, I passed the typical tourist information jargon until I reached what I hoped would be there: maps of the local area.

  "You alright mate? You coming out here?" Paul shouted from the terrace.

  "Yeah, sure. Just having a look at your books," I said as I searched the index at the back for Fuengirola.

  "There's a great selection. Help yourself," he replied.

  Flipping to the map on page nine, I saw the coast line to the right — a beautiful, vast expanse of blue. Next to it was a selection of green, blue and purple colour coded roads. I knew where I was and I knew where I needed to be and my eyes carved out the route on the page. Motorways and streets, A355, A355-7, A7102, turn left here, turn right there, over this roundabout, over the next roundabout: it went on for miles and miles. Looking at the index beside the map it told me the journey was about thirty five miles, begin
ning to end.

  "Found one you like yet?"

  Fingering the different coloured spines of the neatly stacked books on the top shelf, I paused at a title: Misery. Sounds about right, I said under my breath. It was sandwiched between The Tommy Knockers and Christine. I pulled the book out, opened it and hid the map between the pages.

  "Yep, Misery."

  "Oh that one! It's a great book; I'm a big fan of Stephen King."

  I wouldn't have guessed.

  "I can see! I'll check it out tonight."

  I joined Paul back out on the terrace where he was reclining on a sun lounger and basking in the late evening sun.

  "By the way, I'm out tonight; a bloody work meeting. I'll be out most of the day tomorrow too, so I'll catch up with you tomorrow night, okay?"

  "Yeah, fine," I said. But just don't take the bloody passport, I heard myself thinking.

  Paul headed indoors and I sat on the terrace enjoying the rest of my beer, taking in the last remains of heat from the day's end. I focused on a bird as she flew higher and higher into the sky, her wings a perfect silhouette against the withering sunlight. This time tomorrow night, I thought, as she became nothing more than a dot in the sky, I could be on my way home.

  QUESTIONS

  "Help yourself to another beer and something to eat, Dave. There's a lot to talk about before court, so I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Okay, thanks Paul," I shouted into the hallway. "And yeah, we'll definitely chat tomorrow." I opened the fridge under the kitchen worktop, pulled a cold one from the row of bottles lined up on the shelf and flipped the top off with an opener. "Actually, I've got other plans," I said out loud when I heard the door close.

  Taking a sip of beer, I scanned the contents of the fridge and grabbed four slices of ham, four slices of white bread and a jar of mayonnaise, immediately thinking of the son of Elvis as I made my sandwiches. I wondered where he was; how he was. I wondered what his life had been like and how many more stories he could have told me had I stuck around a bit longer. It was ironic to think that had I hung out with a homeless, drug-taking bum on the beach, I wouldn't have even been in this mess.