Any good? It was brilliant.
"Fuck yes, thanks!" I said, with a smile stretching across my face.
He opened the door from the inside — surprisingly there was no handle on the outside — and I tossed my rucksack onto the floor. Throwing some oily rags from the passenger seat into the back of the car, I spotted some newspapers scattered on the back seat. For a moment I froze, wondering if he'd read the reports about me, but pulling myself together I climbed in, closed the door and unzipped the pocket of my rucksack for my water.
"Sorry 'bout the car," he said. "It needs a service but cash is a bit tight."
"I know the feeling," I told him.
"So where ya from man?" he asked, drawing on the joint that was hanging from his mouth.
Fucking questions I thought, but I felt obliged to answer. "London," I said without thinking, but then realised my mistake. Shit Dave, don't give too much away. "I've been here for a month, travelling, you know. Camping, sleeping on the beach. I'm just off to visit a friend in Fuengirola." As much as I wanted to tell him I'd been on a two week package holiday in a four star hotel, I was more than aware that I looked like I'd just finished a month long stint in Beirut.
"Cool. So what's your name?" he asked, passing me the last remains of the spliff.
Just make up a name…any name I thought.
"Steve," I said, and took a drag, feeling the sensation hit me almost immediately. "You?"
"Charlie. Been here for a couple of months. I'm on my way to see my girl…that's where I'll be dropping you off."
"That's great. Thanks for stopping, mate. I've been at it all morning."
"No worries Steve, no worries. I know what it's like." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Reelin' in the Years that was crackling away on the radio, and I sat back wondering if I really did look like a Steve.
I adjusted my cap and sunglasses again and stared out of the passenger window for the rest of the journey. Hearing Charlie sing along to the music, he reminded me a little of the Son of Elvis; I guess it was the way he was so laid back. He had a great, chilled-out attitude. Actually, they both did.
Even in his old Nissan the journey flew past, and within about fifteen minutes we came to the junction where Charlie had to turn off for Ana Maria.
"This is it man, just carry on that way," he said, pointing to the right.
"Great, thanks." I said, reaching out to shake his hand.
"You'll get a lift easy man, but watch out. The cops don't like hikers round here, so keep an eye out."
Great, I thought. I opened the car door, grabbed the rucksack and got out, slinging it across my shoulder. "Are they that bad?"
"Yeah…they can be a fucking pain in the arse,"he said.
I nodded, knowing all too well.
"Hey, Charlie," I said before closing the door. "What time is it?"
He glanced down at his watch. "Quarter past one." His right eyebrow lifted. "Shit, I'm late," he said, revving the engine.
I smiled, slamming the door, and waved him off, watching as he sped down the side road with smoke pouring from the exhaust and Hotel California blaring from his speakers.
I strapped the rucksack firmly onto my back and checked that the receipt with the travel agent's address was still deep in my pocket before heading off along the road. Having walked just a few feet, a car sped past me, missing me by inches.
"Wanker!" I yelled, stepping over the curved face of the barrier and back onto the narrow strip of pavement.
With only my cap for shade and the blisters on my feet starting to sting, walking became difficult, but I kept going. I had no other choice.
After a mile or so the traffic became heavier and with every car, van and lorry that passed me, a gust of wind blew across the whole of my back before showering me with road grit. The wind was more than welcome; the grit not so much. I ambled along, counting my steps, my arm limp at my side but my thumb standing proud beneath the intolerable sun. Each time I sensed a vehicle approaching me I prayed that it wouldn't be a police car. You've come this far… don't fuck it up now, Dave, I told myself, plodding on with my head down.
My thoughts soon turned to home. I'd been so wrapped up in my own journey that it hadn't even occurred to me how my family might have been suffering. I gathered pace, thinking of Mum and Dad and all I'd put them through. With each step I took I thought of their anguish, of how they must have been feeling right at that moment, not knowing what the hell was happening to me and whether or not I'd make it back. Regardless of their disappointment in me, I knew that more than anything they'd want me safe at home and under the same roof. I walked on, wishing for the same, with my heart heavy in my chest.
Half a mile or so later and hearing a deep rumble behind me, I glanced over my shoulder to see a large truck approaching me. I turned my whole body around to face it and walking backwards, stretched out my arm and thumb, waving it frantically. Not for the first time, I began to talk to myself.
"Please stop, please God… let it stop."
I was mouthing the words over and over and to my relief it started to slow down.
"Come on…yes… just stop… please stop, for fuck's sake."
Honking his horn, the driver flashed his high beams and indicated right as I clenched my fist in triumph.
"Yes!" I shouted, turning around and stumbling over my own feet. I ran after the truck which had come to a halt a little way down the road. My heart was racing as I reached it, lifted myself onto the first step and opened the door.
With his beard and moustache covering most of his face and his black hair parted in the middle and touching his shoulders, the driver looked more Mexican than Spanish, but he certainly wasn't English.
"Fuengirola, por favor?" I asked, looking at him, my eyes wide in expectation.
"Si," he replied, nodding at me.
"Gracias."
I pulled off my rucksack, heaved my body up two further steps and grabbing the rail I flopped into the seat. As we set off, the first thing I did was search the dashboard for a clock. The time stared back at me in splendor: it was two twenty. I blew a heavy sigh of relief, let my head fall back onto the headrest and closed my eyes, mentally thanking Charlie for helping me. I had a couple of hours to get to the travel agents to collect my ticket and knowing I'd make it with plenty of time to spare, I allowed the elation — just for a moment — to take over.
MANICURED HANDS
Senor, senor."
Feeling a hand on my shoulder nudging me awake, I forced open my eyes and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding through the windscreen.
"Fuengirola, Senor."
"Sorry…yes, gracias."
Grabbing my belongings I opened the door, grasped the rail and jumped down onto the pavement, my mind still foggy with sleep. "Gracias," I mumbled again as I slammed shut the door and watched as the lorry weaved its way through the traffic, turned a corner and disappeared.
I let out a loud yawn, stretched my arms and searched through blurry eyes for a street name, pulling the receipt from my pocket to check the travel agent's address. Locating both points on the map, I saw that I didn't have far to go — just across the main square, past the church and down a few narrow streets. I put on my cap and glasses, pulled the rucksack onto my back and started to walk.
The people opposite me were forming an orderly queue at the station, waiting for the drivers of the yellow buses to slide open their doors and take them on their journeys. I passed them, curious as to where they were going, and then turned left, crossing a couple of small cobble-stoned streets. I envied them — these people — going about their day with nothing better to do than window shop, laze around in the sun and take fun trips to better places.
When the church bells chimed three times in the distance, a grin spread across my face; there were just four hours until my flight — four fucking hours until I'd be on my way home. "You can do this Dave," I told myself again. "You can do this."
The main square
was heaving with people. Many were wandering around in the afternoon heat whilst others shaded themselves, drinking coffee and beer in the cafes and bars. I passed them with my head down, knowing that the remaining fifteen miles on foot without a drink was going to be tough. I thought perhaps I could ask for some water to fill my carton when I reached the travel agent but thought better of it, terrified I'd be drawing attention to myself. As I walked, the distance I still had to travel played heavily on my mind. Fifteen miles; I didn't need a mathematician to tell me that to stand any chance of getting my flight, I needed another lift. The elation I'd felt in the lorry vanished, and doubt that I'd make it there on time started to creep in. With every step I took I prayed — to God, to whoever was up there and listening to me — to get me to that airport.
When I came to the church, I glanced up at the clock on the stone-faced wall. It was three fifteen. My heart was thumping in my chest knowing I only had a few streets to go but time was running out. I quickly came to the second street, then the third and continued till I took a left at the fourth. The road was a cul-de-sac, most of it in shadow and obscured from the sun. Welcoming the shade, I propped myself against the wall and looked up to check the road sign, again taking the paper from my pocket just to make sure. "Yes!" I said, clenching my fist, so grateful that Dad had got it right. You're a fucking star, I told him in my head.
The left side of the street held nothing but a cafe, a bakery and a clothes shop, but right there, opposite the cafe, was a travel agent. Once more, I looked at the piece of paper, doubting myself, but deciding it was definitely the right place, I braced myself. Walking the few yards to the door, I grabbed my passport from my rucksack and took a deep breath.
This was it.
I pulled on the door handle but it didn't open. Perplexed, I pushed it. When it still didn't open I started to panic, rattling it back and forth in its hinges.
"Shit."
I hammered on the glass, but nothing. I checked the opening hours on the timetable that was hanging by a sucker on the door: nine am till six pm, Monday to Saturday. It was definitely Wednesday and it was the middle of the bloody afternoon.
"You should be fucking open!" I swore, pressing my face against the door. Shielding my eyes with my hands, I peered through the glass and saw nothing but darkness. The lights were off and there wasn't a person in sight.
"Shit, shit, shit," I shouted, kicking the concrete post next to me.
I glanced up and down the street looking for any sign of life, but it was deserted. Then, seeing two old women sitting inside the cafe next to the window, I ran across the road. Dashing through the door and ignoring them, I stopped at the counter. An elderly man, standing behind the till, was handing change to a young woman and talking to her in Spanish.
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "The travel agent…." I said, pointing towards the shop with my left hand, "…when will it be open?"
He looked at me, his lined face revealing nothing but a blank expression, and shaking his head he shrugged his shoulders. My heart was racing. I felt my shirt clinging to my already sweaty body and a single thought embedded itself in my mind: you're fucked.
But then the woman — the young, well-dressed, dark haired customer standing next to me — turned around. Eyeing me up and down distrustfully with her nose in the air, she said in near perfect English: "I work there, can I help you?"
I almost hugged her. Trembling with nervous excitement, I said, "My father booked a flight for me to Gatwick for tonight. He gave me your name and address to pick up the ticket."
She looked me up and down again, her face cold, and then shoved her change into her brown leather purse. "Okay, follow me, please," she finally muttered.
She seemed to be acting strange and I became more and more paranoid as I followed her out of the cafe, wondering if she knew something. The smell of smoke still lingered on my shirt and I looked a complete mess, so I could hardly blame her for being blunt. Even still, her caginess unnerved me.
We crossed the road and when she pulled out a selection of keys from her jacket pocket, jangling them around, I flinched. She picked a gold one, twisted it in the keyhole and opened the door, then flicking on the lights and the air conditioning, motioned me to sit down. The scenario reminded me of when I'd met Carmela, the lawyer from the Spanish Consulate — the smart, attractive woman who had my fate and my future in her well-manicured hands.
There were three desks in total, two of them unoccupied. It was just the two of us in there. I looked around at the wall- to- wall posters, all of them advertising holiday destinations in Spain. In some, smiling Mums and Dads with their blissfully happy children played on white sandy beaches, while in others, couples held hands, strolling into their make-believe paradise. The headline of one poster caught my eye: 'Marbella, the holiday of a lifetime.' They couldn't have been more wrong. I sat there, lost in thought, trying to make sense of my time there.
The woman coughed to get my attention and I turned to face her.
"Can you confirm your name please?" she asked, her elbows propped up on her walnut desk and her hands clasped under her chin.
Taking off my sunglasses but with my cap firmly tilted downwards, I obliged, giving her my full name. Even though a cool breeze circulated around the room from the air conditioning purring away in the background, my heart was beating fast and sweat began to drip from my armpits and down my sides. She checked her paperwork while I sat there in turmoil.
"Yes, here it is; a single ticket to Gatwick. Is that correct?"
"Yes." I answered, both verbally and with a nod of the head.
"May I see you passport please?"
I reached across the desk and without a word handed it to her, aware that it was slightly damp due to holding it in my sweaty palm for too long.
How the fuck am I going to make it through passport control? I thought. I couldn't even deal with picking up my bloody ticket. My nerves were on a knife's edge and I swear I could feel my heart vibrating under my shirt.
"That's fine," she said, closing my passport and handing it to me.
I held my breath as she slid my ticket into a company envelope and passed it over.
"Thank you for your help," I said. I stood up shakily, replaced my sunglasses and made my way towards the door.
"Excuse me?"
With my hand on the door handle, I turned around and stared at her through the darkness of my sunglasses.
"Yes?"
There was a pause. She fucking knows something, I swear she does. My paranoia took its hold and my stomach flipped.
"Have a good flight home," she said with a wry smile.
"Thank you very much." I opened the door, stepped outside and closed it behind me. A few feet up the road, and with a grin on my face, I raised the ticket to my lips and kissed it.
With everything but the map packed safely into my rucksack, I made my way out of the cul-de-sac and back through the narrow streets towards the town centre. The clock on the church wall told me it was eight minutes to four — just three hours to go. The market was still bustling with tourists and the queue at the bus station had dwindled down to just a handful of people waiting patiently in line. I only wished that I had some money, a few spare coins to catch a ride to the airport. Not for the first time I had an image of being in that hotel room, reaching out my hand and scooping the cash into my pocket. My mind flooded with thoughts of the fire, of the dead bodies in the hallway and for a moment I was lost, caught up in the nightmare and unable to think straight. I wandered over to a wooden bench and sat down with my breath shallow and the panic pulsating under my skin. Closing my eyes, the noise of the busy town evaporated into silence.
It was only when the church bells chimed four times that I found myself suddenly back in the bustle of the town with the images of the fire slipping away into the recesses of my mind. I unfolded the map and stared at it, my eyes following the wavy line of the route I had to take. The N-340 — the coastal road — was the quickest way.
"Fifteen fucking miles, Dave," I muttered to myself, the enormity of what was ahead of me registering as I calculated how long it would take me on foot. There was no way I could do it; no way anybody could do it. I had to get a lift; there was no choice. Without one, I was just hours away from a prison sentence.
I stood up, flung the rucksack over my shoulder, ran towards the road and adopted the position — arm outstretched, thumb in the air. The blisters on my feet began to sting, rubbing against the inside of my well-worn trainers as I marched the pavements, all the while the afternoon sun hammering down on me as the sweat poured out of my body. My shirt stuck to my skin and my jeans felt heavy, dragging against my legs. I looked behind me with each and every sound of an engine, pleading with over-exaggerated facial expressions and mouthing the word 'please' to every driver that passed. I stared at them through their windscreens, begging them to stop. But not one car did; there wasn't even a glance from a fellow human being.
I passed through the town of Carvajal with the roof of my mouth almost stuck to my tongue. I'd have done anything for a drink, anything to feel some moisture on my lips and liquid in my stomach. With shaky hands I scanned the map, tracing the three miles I'd walked. There were still twelve to go and it occurred to me that even if time had been on my side, it was highly unlikely that I'd physically be able to make it. I'd been dehydrated before, many times, after heavy nights on the town, but this was different. With each step I took, my body was crying out for me to stop and rest, to get the fuel I knew it needed. But I persevered, praying like I'd never prayed in my life.
It must have been a mile or so later when the sudden sound of a horn stopped me in my tracks. As I turned, dizzy with exhaustion, a white scooter sparkling under the sun came into focus, slowing down as it approached me. The driver pulled over next to the grass verge and, with the engine still running and balancing the scooter with his feet on the road, he asked where I was going.
"Malaga airport," I told him, with the hope in me building to such an extent I thought I was going to burst. "My flight to Gatwick leaves at seven."
Wrong Place Wrong Time Page 15