Picking up Misery along with my food and beer, I headed out to the terrace and lay back on the lounger. The night sky looked beautiful and I was mesmerised for a while by the stars twinkling against the blackness with nothing but a gentle murmur of people below and the distant sound of the swishing sea in the distance. Across the horizon, tiny lights bobbed up and down from the ships castaway in the emptiness of the ocean. The night was still humid but there was a slight breeze which, when caught, made my whole body shiver.
I opened the book and the map slipped out onto my lap. Twenty odd miles to Fuengirola and another fifteen or so to Malaga airport. It looked like a simple, straight forward route on the map, but that wasn't the problem; the problem was how the hell would I get there with no money or transport? I guessed hitch hiking and walking were my only two choices. And this was my choice; no one else's. I was scared — in fact I was terrified — of the consequences of court, the chance of being found guilty and then the eventuality of prison. There wasn't any way I could handle what all of that would entail so I had no choice but to leave. But I was equally as petrified at the prospect of running.
My thoughts turned to my family and all I was putting them through; how I was embarrassing them and shaming our name. I felt terrible for bringing my Mum to her knees and I felt terrible about asking Dad to buy a ticket and for putting him in that position.
"I'll sort your ticket out Dave, but it's wrong. You know that. You're jumping bail and you'll be in serious trouble with the law if you get caught. But you're innocent, son. You are innocent, aren't you? So it will be okay, won't it?"
It was a question I couldn't answer and nor could he. Quite frankly, I didn't want to face it.
I knew deep down that Dad was right — that what I was about to do was wrong on so many levels — but I couldn't take the chance of the alternative. It would be their word against mine. Who would the judge be more likely to believe? Me, a homeless, broke Englishman who'd been found with stolen credit cards at the scene of the crime, or the Spanish police who were so convinced I was guilty that they were taking me to trial? Even though I was grateful for Paul's offer of help, he was no lawyer. What the hell could a British journalist with no legal experience possibly achieve in a Spanish court room? What could he possibly do or say to get me off?
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that they'd find me guilty. But the more I thought about running — fleeing, jumping bail, whatever one would call it — the more panicky I became. Dave, you can't run. What happens if you get caught? You'll be fucked. If you think it's serious now, just you wait. They'll lock you up for life.
Every bone in my body was telling me to run. But if I did, I knew the next twenty four hours would be the most dangerous and terrifying of my life. The questions continued. What if you don't make it to the airport in time? What if they arrest you at the travel agents? What if you don't make it through passport control? What if Paul notices the passport missing and calls the police? They'll shut down every fucking border out of this place.
A trickle of sweat made its way down on to the tip of my nose and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. That's not sweat, Dave…it's a fucking tear! How the hell do you expect to pull this off when you can't even hold yourself together?
I stood up and paced the balcony, unable to settle. My mind was a muddle of questions for which I had no answers. I tried to think of another time in my life where I had to make a decision — a serious decision — when I had absolutely no idea what to do. I drew a complete blank.
The moon was full — a huge white orb in the sky — and it shone down in all its glory, highlighting the curves of the waves. I leant against the balcony rail watching the glimmering lights of the sea rising and falling, with the mash of thoughts in my head becoming nothing but a jumbled mess. When a sudden gust of wind took me by surprise, a cold shiver played tag along my spine. I tried to convince myself it was just the weather but I wondered if somebody somewhere was trying to tell me something. My muscles tightened and my stomach felt like a brick as reality took its hold of me. I had to make a decision — quickly — and stick to it. Faltering at this point, with so little time left, was doing me and my nerves no favours at all.
The night drew on and the moon slid further across the sky, but my mind hadn't settled. With fear lapping in my belly, I slipped into the lounge, walked through the hallway from the kitchen and headed for Paul's room. His door was partially open and again I hesitated, tapping on the door. My passport — covered with a slight layer of dust — was still there. It hadn't moved, not even a centimeter from its spot on the bedside table.
Do I take it now?
Will he notice?
Of course he will, you fucking idiot.
I knew if I was going to do this, I had to wait till the morning. "Just another few hours", I heard myself say as I felt the alcohol from my fifth bottle of San Miguel take another stab at my ever-growing, unstable mind.
Leaving the bedroom door as I found it, I headed back to the terrace. I clocked a packet of Marlboro cigarettes on the side table in the living room and picked it up along with the box of swan vestas sitting on top of it.
Outside the night was still humid but there was a cold chill in the air. I struck the match against the side of the box and sheltering it with my hand I lit the cigarette and inhaled. My first drag felt pretty heavy on my head and made me slightly dizzy but I became seduced by the fragrance of the smoke and inhaled again. As I exhaled I watched with fascination the small circles of smoke rings I blew, each one growing larger, spiraling upwards and eventually evaporating into the darkening sky.
With each intake of smoke, my breathing quickened. I sat down on the lounger and with the anticipation of the next twenty four hours nursing me, put my face in my hands. My shoulders convulsed, releasing all the tension I'd felt over the past seven days.
I knew I had to do what I had to do. But always at the back of my mind, haunting me, there was a single thought.
If I run, will I make it?
Will I make it back home?
HEADLINES
Particles of dust floated lazily around the living room as the morning sunlight streamed through the double-glazed doors. I'd been awake for an hour or so, unable to think of anything but the day ahead. Although my mind was perfectly clear and I knew exactly what I had to do, I couldn't settle; my stomach was in twisted knots. I walked through to the terrace, leaned over the balcony and gazed out at the calmness of the ocean in the distance, trying to block out the sound of Paul clattering noisily about in the kitchen.
"Hey Dave, there's a coffee on the table."
"Thanks," I said, not bothering to turn around.
Out at sea, a liner was making its way across the horizon, on its way to another place. I watched it inching its way across the water as if at any moment it would be sucked beneath the waves and lost forever.
"Right, I'm off to work. I'll be back around twelve," Paul said.
Did he just say twelve?
"There's a lot to talk about before tomorrow," he went on, "so we'll chat this afternoon, okay?"
I spun around to face him, my heart suddenly in my throat. "Twelve?" I said, trying to sound calm. "I thought you said you were working till seven."
"Change of plan. I think you need me a lot more than they do today."
I stood there, frozen to the spot, not having a clue what to say or do. Fuck. All the plotting… the phone calls… the hours I'd stared at the ceiling, meticulously planning everything down to the very last detail…and for what? For him to just fuck it all up?
I had to think of something, and fast. If Paul was going to be in the apartment all afternoon and expected me to be there, I needed a reason to not be. How the hell I was going to get hold of my passport without him noticing it was gone was another matter entirely, because the first thing he always did after work, without fail, was go to his room to get changed. Still, I had no time to worry about that yet.
"I've
got plans this afternoon," I said, racking my brain for an excuse. "I'm sorry, mate. I didn't think you'd be here."
"Plans?" He looked at me, the slight tilt to his head unnerving me.
Shit. He's suspecting something already. Think Dave!
"Yeah," I said, suddenly conjuring up the man who'd been on my mind for the last few days. "The Son of Elvis; I bumped into him yesterday on the beach. We're meeting up for a walk and a smoke later…ya know, what with it being my last day of freedom."
"Will you stop being so bloody pessimistic. You don't know that."
"Okay," I said, relieved that he may have believed it. "I'll rephrase it. We're meeting up for a smoke later…ya know, what with me fucking shitting myself about court tomorrow."
For a moment we just stared at each other and nobody said a word. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders and a quick shake of his head that implied he wasn't at all happy about it, he said "fair enough" and picked up his jacket.
"When will you be back?" he said, standing in the doorway.
"Seven? Like we originally agreed?"
"How about six?" he said, picking up his keys.
"Fine," I told him, not wanting to argue with him or draw attention to my panic, even though I knew that just one single hour could bring about my downfall. "I'll see you at six."
Paul left the building and I stretched my body over the balcony, waiting until I saw him push open the main apartment doors and appear in the street. When he strolled to the end of it and turned the corner, I went back into the living room, picked up my coffee and checked the clock in the kitchen. The second hand ticked its way around it, sweeping past the numbers at an alarming speed. It was nine twenty and there were less than ten hours to go until my flight. I finished my coffee and balanced the mug strategically in the sink on top of the dirty plates from the night before. Heading towards Paul's bedroom and pumping with adrenaline, I suddenly heard a door slam shut.
"Shit, Robert," I said under my breath, completely forgetting he hadn't yet left for work.
"Guten Morgen," I said, facing him in the hallway. I'd picked up a German phrase or two in the last few days in an attempt to be civil towards him, but it hadn't worked so far. As expected, he completely ignored my greeting, stared at me as he passed me, and then left the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Great… he's fucked off, the freak, I thought, taking the final steps to Paul's room. I had no idea why Robert hated me so much, but to be honest, I didn't give a shit.
Paul's door was closed. I knocked — as I always did — and unsurprisingly, no one answered. I turned the handle, pushed open the door and my eyes immediately steered towards the bedside table.
There, next to the lamp, was my passport.
I walked directly to the table and stared at it, my eyes flitting from the passport to the lamp and back again.
In my mind I was eight years old and back at home, sprawled out on the lounge floor with Pink. There'd be twenty items laid out on the carpet in front of us and I'd study each one before closing my eyes, waiting for Pink to take one of them and hide it away. We used Mum's egg-timer to count down the seconds — I was only allowed three minutes to tell her which item was missing. I usually told her in about fifteen seconds.
I picked up the passport, held it in my hand and stared at the table — a table that now looked incomplete. I shifted the lamp, shoved it more to the middle, trying to hide the empty space. It looked odd and I moved it back again. I glanced around the room and saw a book on the chest of drawers; Stephen King: The Running Man. I grabbed it and carefully placed it in the empty space, first vertically and then horizontally, shifting the angle until it looked right. But no matter which way I turned it, it looked awkward.
I perched on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. Yes, I could take my passport and make my way to the airport, but Paul would be back in his room by twelve fifteen, throwing off his trousers and putting on his shorts. He'd notice it was gone; there was no two ways about it — it would take a fucking tsunami to prevent him getting out of his work clothes.
Clenching my fists in anger and frustration, I leant over and thumped the pillows, over and over again. I grabbed the top one from the four spread across the top of the bed and laid it across my lap, burying my head straight into the middle of it. My eyes closed, my tears filling them. White squiggly lines floated under my eyelids, dashing back and forth. I tried to rein in my thoughts; my mind telling me that I had to think, to fight, but my heart telling me I'd already lost.
You're not going home, Dave. Just face the music. It's over.
I must have stayed in that position for five minutes or so, feeling like my whole world had collapsed around me. I needed my passport and it was there — right there in front of me — but there was no way I could take it. It was thirty five miles to the airport and Paul would notice it gone and alert the police way before I'd made it even a quarter of the way there.
I was fucked.
I sobbed — my tears dampening the clean, white cotton of his pillowcase — knowing that the game was up. I could move that lamp around the table as many times as I wanted, but the irregularity would always be there, glaringly obvious with its passport shaped space.
There's only one thing that looks like a passport, Dave. And that's a passport.
I sat bolt upright on the bed.
Dave, you're a fucking genius.
My heart thumped in my chest and I could feel small beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. I reached over to the bedside drawer below the lamp, yanked it open and rummaged through a stack of papers and envelopes, a couple of batteries and a condom. But there was no passport. I ran around the double bed to check the other bedside table that housed a digital clock and a matching lamp. Big red numbers displayed the time: nine thirty five. I closed my eyes, repeating under my breath, please be there, please be there. I opened the drawer and rummaged through it: another heap of papers, a couple of pens and a half empty tube of cream. I glanced at the label, not recognising the name, wondering what it was for, but threw it back down and carried on looking. There was still no passport.
I had to get to the travel agent to pick up that ticket. I had to get on that plane at seven o clock. I had to find it.
In fury, I slammed shut the drawer and the lamp toppled over, falling onto the floor. I bent down, picked it up and placed it in exactly the same position it had come from — with its base perfectly covering the only shape on the desk that was free of dust.
Patches of sweat appeared on my shirt under my arms as the heat suddenly became unbearable. I wasn't sure if it was me or the room and I glanced out of the window. The sun was getting higher in the sky and glancing back at the clock I saw nine thirty nine become nine forty. My breathing quickened; I had just over nine hours to get on that plane.
I knelt down and searched under the bed. Nothing; just shoes and empty boxes. Standing up, I walked towards the mahogany five drawer cabinet beneath the window. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I felt my blood pulsating around my body and rushing straight to my head, like a milkshake being sucked hard through a straw. I opened every drawer from top to bottom and then again from bottom to top, pushing around various items of clothing, tee shirts, shorts, jumpers, underwear and socks, but nothing.
To my left was the en-suite bathroom. I dashed in and opened the mirror fronted medicine cabinet above the wash hand basin. Facing me were a selection of small medicine bottles, a tube of toothpaste, some shaving foam and razors, but no passport.
He had razors, the bastard.
There was a brown, clear bottle with Paul's name clearly printed on the label: a bottle of pills for high blood pressure. I considered taking a couple but thought better of it. I closed the cabinet door and caught my reflection staring back at me. Even though I was clean shaven, total panic was etched across my face; I looked like I'd aged twenty years in twenty minutes.
Striding out of the bathroom I closed the door and slumped back down on the e
dge of the bed with one question replaying itself over and over inside my head: Where the fuck is it? C'mon Dave, where the hell would you keep yours if you lived here?
I stood up, steadied myself, placed the pillow back at the head of the bed and smoothed the creases on the duvet. Clocking the time on the other bedside table — nine forty five — I dashed out of Paul's room and headed for the lounge.
I stood in front of the bookcase — the bookcase I'd stood at just the day before where I'd found the map. Five wide shelves were crammed from left to right with paperbacks and hardbacks, with only the occasional ornament breaking up the monotony. I crouched down to the bottom shelf, placing my hands around a carved, wooden box on the left. Paul had slid it out a just few days earlier on our return from court, placing a bunch of stuff inside it. I hadn't taken much notice at the time — it was the farthest thing from my mind as I'd sat on his sofa, my mind reeling from the day's events. But now it was glaringly obvious — he'd pulled it out to store away some documents.
Sliding out the box and crouching to my knees, I placed it on the floor. There was a solid lid, held down by two hefty hinges, and I eased it open. The first thing I saw was his driving license, its corners squashed into every corner of the box. I dug it out and put it face down on the floor in front of me, turning my attention to what else lay inside. There were some folded pieces of paper, a building society logbook, a birth certificate, a cheque book and a set of keys.
No passport.
I shoved everything back in the order that I'd found it, squashing the driving license on top and into the corners of the box. I closed the lid and placed it back onto the shelf.
Bastard. Where the fuck is it?
I glanced around the room, my eyes flitting from floor to ceiling. It was sparsely decorated, most of the storage being in the kitchen — wall to wall cupboards that stored nothing but cutlery and crockery. There were two drawers on either side of the TV cabinet and I delved through them, finding nothing but a few video tapes, a sheet of stickers and an old TV remote. I'd already ploughed through his bedroom and bathroom and there was nothing else to check. I paced aimlessly around the room, my heart beating faster with every step I took.
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