Wrong Place Wrong Time

by David P Perlmutter

  You've missed something, Dave. You must have. Start again…and calm down.

  I walked from room to room, methodically studying each surface, each piece of furniture, each shelf and every drawer. I felt like a policeman looking for fingerprints. Nothing. The only room I hadn't checked was Robert's and I stood in the hallway outside his door and contemplated it.

  Why the hell would Paul's passport be in Robert's room, you idiot?

  Even though I knew it was a long shot, I still had my hand on the door knob, ready to go in. I turned it, but hesitated, looking down the hallway to the main apartment door. The last thing I wanted was for Robert to find me in his room and although I knew he'd already left for work, I had an image of him waltzing back into the apartment and catching me knee deep in his belongings. I ran to the end of the hallway, checked the door was firmly closed and fastened the latch. As I turned to go back, I knocked my thigh against Paul's stupid, three legged table.

  "Fucking hell," I said out loud, glaring at it and rubbing my leg.

  And that's when I noticed the small brass knob — a knob that was attached to a very slim drawer.

  For a moment I was stunned: I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. I'd walked past it at least five times and had looked at it many more times than that. Christ, I'd even had a five minute discussion with Paul about where he'd got it from.

  I slowly slid open the drawer with my heart almost skipping a beat and looked down at the only four items that were in there: a residence card, a health insurance certificate, a pair of sunglasses and a passport.

  Snatching it up in my hand, I laughed out loud, the excitement and relief bubbling up inside of me. I closed the drawer with a smile firmly etched on my face and headed straight back to Paul's room. Stuffing my own passport into the back pocket of my jeans, I filled the empty space on the table with his. Squaring it up, I stood back and studied it.

  It looked fucking perfect.

  Before I left, I gave everything a once over — checking for creases in the duvet, straightening the pillows, pulling the door to the en-suite to just a couple of inches of being closed. I backed out of the room giving it all a final glance and shut the door behind me.

  Back in the lounge, I pulled out the book Misery from the bookcase and opened it up. The map fell onto the floor and I bent down to pick it up before squeezing the book back into its slot. In the kitchen, I swilled out an empty orange juice carton and filled it to the brim with cold water from the half-gallon plastic container on the floor. Doubting myself, I checked my back pocket again for my passport and then reached into my front one, pulling out the crumpled receipt with the travel agent's address on it. Carefully unfolding it, I checked to make sure the words hadn't miraculously vanished overnight and then I folded it back up and slid it back into my pocket.

  That was it. I had everything I needed and I was ready — or at least as ready as I'd ever be. There was a long journey ahead of me and with no money I knew, unless I was lucky, that it would be all on foot.

  I went to the bathroom with the intention of taking a pee, but as much as I tried, I couldn't go. My body was in a state of panic, unwilling to co-operate with me. I tried to force myself but zipped myself up, taking a final look at myself in the mirror. With a map in one hand and a carton of water in the other, the person that stared back at me looked like a fucking convict. I pictured myself strolling into the airport without a single possession to my name other than the ticket I'd hopefully be holding in my hand.

  A bag, Dave. You need a bag.

  For the second time in just a few minutes, I found myself at Robert's door but this time there was no hesitation — I turned the handle and walked in. My jaw dropped immediately, nearly hitting the dusty marble tiles below. The smell of body odour was disgusting. Clothes were strewn across the floor, scattered amongst piles and piles of shoes, and the wardrobe opposite me was open, with the door hanging precariously from just the top hinge. Inside were a couple of lonely shirts, hanging from the rail.

  Looking around the room, something caught my eye, and it wasn't just the unmade single bed with its soiled brown and cream striped duvet cover: it was the black and white newspaper clippings neatly placed in three rows on his two white pillows. Stepping over piles of dirty clothing, I walked over to the bed and standing next to a filthy, black laminate bedside table, my eyes were immediately drawn to the headlines of the clippings. I leant over to take a closer look and flinched, the shock of seeing my name in print shaking my entire body.

  Scanning the words of one of the articles, I perched myself on the edge of Robert's bed. Bob had told me about this one and had even read it to me over the phone — the one that said I'd stolen a fifty eight thousand pound ring and that I'd been arrested for theft, arson and manslaughter. But seeing it in there in black and white completely threw me.

  I started to tremble and took a deep breath in an attempt to control my breathing. I didn't want to see this stuff and I felt sick, the rancid smell of the room adding to my nausea, but my eyes flitted across the remaining cuttings on the bed and there, in bold, black letters was the headline:

  I STEPPED OVER DEAD BODIES TO LOOT.

  My stomach churned. Bob didn't mention this one to me. I sat there and read the story from beginning to end: about how I was in the hotel…how I saw dead bodies and stepped over them to steal cash and credit cards. There was nothing about saving lives, NOTHING. I read the article twice, maybe three times, trying to take it all in. And then I noticed the name of the journalist, printed just to the right of the story.

  It was Paul.

  "You fucking bastard," I said, emphasizing every syllable though gritted teeth.

  "You sad, fucking bastard."

  But why would he do that? Why? Yet another question I asked myself for which I had no answer.

  Confused and emotional, the realization hit me: there wasn't anyone here who'd ever been on my side and as much as he'd tried to convince me, Paul had only been out for himself. The last remaining guilty thoughts I'd had about leaving — about leaving Paul to face that courtroom and the police without me — just disappeared. I had to get out of there and for the first time since I'd considered running I finally knew, right or wrong, that it was the only thing to do.

  I stood up, left the paper clippings as I'd found them, made my way out of the room and closed the door. At the end of the hallway I reached up, took the baseball cap off the hook, looked into the mirror and put it on, tilting it forwards to partially cover my eyes. My heart was beating fast and I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and spoke to the face reflecting back at me.

  "Dave, you can do this."

  I tossed the apartment keys onto the three legged table, released the latch on the door and walked out.

  I was inches away from closing the door, inches away from leaving the apartment for the very last time, when two things suddenly hit me. I pushed open the door and ran back inside.

  Heading back to Robert's room, I grabbed a rucksack from the floor, emptying out a few of his belongings onto an already substantial pile. Then I walked back to the three legged table and picked up the keys I'd left there just a few seconds before. I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid — if Paul had seen them it would have been a pretty convincing clue that I had no intention of returning.

  I threw the map and water into the rucksack along with the keys and fastened it up. On a final whim, I took the sunglasses from the drawer and put them on. Without a second look back, I slammed shut the door and ran down the steps to the street outside.

  The heat hit me with a vengeance. With the rucksack firmly strapped to my back, I took my first steps out of Marbella and along the street to Fuengirola. There were thirty five miles and eight and a half hours to go until the plane would leave the runway. I did the maths, turned the corner and quickened my step. I couldn't afford to get this wrong; there would be no second chance.

  Striding along the main road and heading east along the seafront, I tightened the st
raps around my waist.

  You can do this, Dave…you can…

  I adjusted my sunglasses, tilted my cap and carried on walking, counting each and every paving slab beneath my feet. People passed me but I ignored them, keeping my eyes firmly fixed to the ground.

  The rucksack was light, but the weight on my shoulders felt immense. If I'd stopped to think about it — really think about it — I don't think I'd have been able to do it. But my only thoughts were of Mum and Dad, my brothers and sister, and of stepping off that plane at Gatwick and feeling my home beneath my feet.

  THE RUSTY NISSAN

  Sweat dripped slowly from under my cap and down onto my forehead as every step, every stride in the ever growing heat took it out of me. I marched along the street at a steady rate, eyes down, only occasionally glancing to my side to have a last lingering look at the ocean. Wanting to pace myself, I wondered how many miles I could walk in an hour but I had no idea. It occurred to me how much of a lazy bastard I'd been back in London, using the car at every available opportunity. For a moment I despised myself and made a promise to change things when I got home…if I ever got home.

  As I made my way down the main road and out of Marbella, I tried my luck at hitching by the roadside, stopping every so often to face the cars coming towards me. But it was pointless. Drivers passed me by without even a look, their eyes staring straight ahead, unflinching. I carried on determinedly for a mile or so, only stopping when I reached a signpost on the pavement telling me there was a petrol station just fifty metres away, down a narrow side road to my right. I practically ran down it, hopeful that I'd find someone going my way, but the place was deserted. The station — if one could call it that — wasn't just closed but boarded up, and there wasn't a car or a person in sight. I stared at the old graffiti covered walls, the smashed in windows, and headed back up the hill.

  Back on the main road I continued my journey with my arm outstretched and my thumb upright, praying for somebody to stop, but I may as well have been invisible. Eventually I became bored of counting my footsteps, tired of watching the creases on the top of my trainers fold and stretch, and so I raised my head to watch the traffic go by. There was a steady stream of common cars — Polos, Nissans, nothing out of the ordinary: cars I'd see every day on the streets of London — but they were interspersed at an absurd ratio with BMWs, Mercedes and Porsches, the sheen of their metal gleaming flawlessly beneath the blistering sun. That's when it hit me that Marbella really was a city for the rich and the corrupt…and that was the moment I told myself that I couldn't wait to leave the place. For the first time since I'd set off, I wondered about people's reactions to hitchhikers in Marbella and whether I'd be lucky enough to get a lift at all. Everyone seemed to be going about their business without a thought of what was going on around them. They were people on a mission — as I was — people who obviously had no intention of allowing a solitary figure on the side of the road to intervene with their plans, whatever they were. It certainly knocked my optimism as I thought of the miles ahead of me, but it didn't knock my spirit: I knew that if I had to travel the entire way on foot then I would, even if it fucking killed me.

  With every onward step, I thought about the time I'd spent there — meeting the brothers Kelvin and Anthony, the lovely night I'd spent with Emma, my time on the beach with the crazy son of Elvis and his silly dog and, of course, the moments I'd spent with the beautiful Rosa, but those thoughts were soon overshadowed by images of the hotel fire. Horrific pictures of the three dead bodies filled my head, haunting me… their rigid, burnt faces staring vacantly into space, their features grotesquely distorted. When I tried to shake them off they were replaced with less disturbing images of my days in the police cell, but it did little to calm me.

  "Fuck" I said out loud, shaking, as I pounded the streets. I felt unable to make sense of everything I'd been through and how the hell it had all happened. I knew it wasn't over, not by any means — I still had to get my ticket and get on that plane. Although I was confident I'd get to Fuengirola and that my feet wouldn't give up on me, I was absolutely terrified of getting caught. As I trudged on, blisters forming on the soles of my feet, I knew there was a very real possibility that things could go horribly wrong and that I wouldn't even get to see the tarmac on the runway.

  All it'll take is one person to recognize your name, Dave…just one single person…

  The cars sped past me in a monotonous trail as I marched the pavements like a copper on the beat on a London inner street. Thumbing my way, praying for a lift, and doing all I could to prevent the images from re-entering my mind, I played snooker with the cars; a game I used to play years before. I awarded myself one point for spotting a red car, two for a yellow and three for a green. At one point I had a score of twenty-four, but then there was a sudden break in the traffic and I was left staring disappointingly at an empty road. Twenty four; it was a total I'd never even achieved on a snooker table when playing with my mates back home in the pubs and clubs I used to frequent. Snooker wasn't my game. If anything, I was a pool player, although I wasn't particularly successful at that either. I had my lucky days when I'd clear the table, but there were many more when I'd make a complete ass off myself.

  "You need to think ahead, Dave," my mates would laugh as I'd pot an easy ball and suddenly realise I had nowhere left to go.

  The irony of it sat in my stomach.

  When the traffic picked up I reached out my arm again, half-heartedly now as it was aching from having it horizontal for so long. A shiny black Porsche roared on by, followed by a couple of Volvos and a Citroen. "Stop, you bastards", I said out loud, as I watched them disappear. And then there was a siren in the distance. It was faint at first, creeping up on me, and I pulled my arm to my side, lowering my head. I tilted my cap, adjusted my glasses and did all I could to shrink myself, wanting more than anything to be as invisible as I had been for the last couple of hours. I held my breath as the noise of the siren cut through the air like a knife and I stuffed my hands in my pockets as the sound grew louder and louder behind me. I panicked, feeling my heart beating wildly in my chest.

  Please God… no… don't stop.

  The whirl of the siren magnified. I could feel the sound of the engine against my back, closing in on me. I screwed my eyes up tight but carried on walking and then, in an instant, felt the heat of the car pass me. Without stopping, it slowly faded away and disappeared.

  For the first time in miles, I stopped, reached round to the rucksack on my back, unzipped a pocket and grabbed the carton of water. Grasping it tightly in my hands, I swallowed two huge, luke-warm mouthfuls, one after the other. Sweat dripped from my face and my shirt clung to my back. It must have been approaching eighty degrees and I was struggling, but I replaced the carton knowing I still had a long way to go. Unzipping another pocket, I grabbed the map and opened it up, looking at the places I'd already passed. Glancing up, I saw a signpost for Santa Clara Golf Club and located it on the map. Measuring the distance with my thumb and finger, and with a determined boost of confidence, I carried on walking.

  Not long after, I noticed a good looking and well- dressed couple walking towards me — the only people I'd seen on foot since I'd left Marbella town. I quickly adjusted my cap, pushed the sunglasses firmly onto my nose, and when we were side by side I casually asked them if they had the time, trying my best to not appear as nervous as I felt.

  "Sure!" the man said, unclasping his hand from his girlfriends and easing up his shirt cuff. He looked down at his Rolex. "It's almost midday."

  "Thanks," I said, hurrying on, calculating that I'd walked about five miles in ninety minutes. If I continued at the same speed, I'd reach the travel agents by half past four and that wasn't even accounting for me inevitably slowing down in the unbearable, afternoon heat that I knew I'd have to face.

  "Come on Dave," you can do this," I said out loud, marching ahead on what seemed to be a never-ending road. I had to move — and move fast — to stand any chance of
reaching the airport and getting on that plane.

  Keeping the map firmly in my hand I continued to walk along the A-7 with my left arm stretched out and my thumb pointing upwards, but it became increasingly difficult. The pavement narrowed and disappeared, giving way to a thin strip of wasteland. A barrier emerged, separating me from the roadside, and even though I continued to hold out my arm, I knew in my heart there was little chance of somebody stopping. Cars sped past me without even a hint of slowing down and my enthusiasm diminished fast as the ground became more uneven beneath my feet. As it was the coast road, I'd naively expected an ocean view for my journey, but it was not to be: it was an endless tree lined road with a backdrop of numerous hotels and businesses stretching on forever.

  I passed through Alicate and then Costabella, Marbella's neighbouring villages, desperate to stop and rest. But there was no time. I needed a lift badly and for someone — anyone — to stop, but it seemed as though God was succeeding in inflicting his wrath on me.

  I was miles away — in mind and in distance — when an old rusty Nissan van slowed down and pulled into a layby just ahead of me with thick black smoke billowing from its exhaust. Assuming the driver was in trouble, I expected him to get out of the car to check his engine, but he didn't move. It was only when I came up alongside him that he reached over the passenger seat, rolled down the window and spoke.

  "Hey. Need a lift? Where ya goin'?"

  At last!

  "Fuengirola," I said, catching the distinct whiff of weed from the car. I looked into his eyes, bloodshot from the joint he held in his hand. He took a drag, held his breath for a few seconds and blew the smoke towards my face.

  "Nope. Not goin' that far, man. Going to Ana Maria, a few miles up. Any good?"