A Prison in the Sun

by Isobel Blackthorn

  'I'm not writing a book about that. No. Thank. You.'

  'Why ever not?'

  Did she really have to ask me that? We both knew how I felt about Jackie's betrayal. It was a sensitive area and Angela really should have known better.

  'Because, I'm not gay,' I said sourly.

  'Why would that even matter?'

  'You know what the critics are like. As a straight, white man, my options are constrained.'

  'Rubbish! Take no notice of all that crap about cultural appropriation. Spanish people are white in any case and you are a man with certain ambiguities.'

  'Angela, leave it.'

  'I don't think I will. This is a literary treasure you have stumbled on.'

  'You think so? To be honest, the topic doesn't inspire me.'

  'Stop being precious.'

  'Stop being blunt.'

  Angela threw up her hands.

  'Have it your way. With that attitude, good luck finding inspiration. What was that place called? A hostel, did you say…?'

  The line cut out, or she ended the call. Either way, I didn't much care. I closed the laptop and readied for the gym.

  Luis

  It was markedly warmer on the east coast of the island, and the buildings huddled on the narrow streets of Puerto del Rosario trapped that heat. As I stepped out of my air-conditioned car, the hot air hit me as though I had flung open the door of a kiln. I hurried to the gym thinking there must be something wrong with me as most Brits hanker for that kind of weather. As I pushed open the door, another worry gripped me, and I paused, self-conscious. Feeling the heat rush in and the cool rush out, I made a decisive move, hoping the muted lighting would obscure the redness of my thighs.

  A quick scan around and I saw the room was almost empty, and no one seemed to have taken any notice of my entry.

  I went to the counter and paid the single session rate to an older, wizened-looking guy who eyed me with cool indifference. Refusing to be fazed by his attitude, I made my way steadfastly to the treadmills, steppers and bikes. Luis, standing next to one of the weight machines, looked over and gave me his pumped up and ridiculously radiant smile. I held up his fitness plan in acknowledgement.

  The exercise bike was harder going, my muscles complaining they were tired from yesterday. The larger part of me wanted to dismount and change the settings, but my pride wouldn't let me, and I pressed on, using the ordeal to purge my mind of thoughts of Angela and that hostel, panting and sweating until I had reached Luis' target of exactly twelve kilometres. Satisfied I was able to push through the pain barrier, I dismounted and took a slug from my water bottle. With my blood pumping through my veins, and sweat trickling down my back, I strode over to the military press.

  My workout took a sharp downward turn, thanks to whoever had used the press before me. Must have been a hulk. It was as much as I could do to change the weights on the barbell. I had to grit my teeth and squeeze in my flaccid belly as I heaved the metal plates, one by one, off each end of the bar and stagger over to where the others were stacked. I could feel the eyes of the guys on me as I struggled. I couldn't recall the last time I had felt so humiliated. From the moment I'd arrived in Fuerteventura, my masculinity had been bound up in my physical strength, my appearance, matters I had not given much credence ever before in my life. It had become important, too important to me maybe, to feel fit and strong and able to withstand the harsh environment I found myself in. It was as though my life depended on it, yet really, it was just my pride, my battered sense of self.

  I struggled my way through the prescribed four sets of ten reps, at the modest weight Luis had advised, until the muscles in my shoulders and upper arms burned. Luis had mentioned something about the deltoids, and I presumed they were inflamed. When I lowered the barbell for the last time and reached for my towel, my elbow whacked my thigh and my sunburn flared in reaction, adding to the woes.

  Still, I soldiered on.

  Next was the lateral raise machine. Luis told me to drop-set from the highest weight I could manage, which I knew wouldn't be much. Whoever had been here before me was made of steel, the pin thrust between the two lowest weight bars. I extracted the pin and inserted it about halfway up the stack. Then I sat on the seat, felt some damp cool meet my thighs and got up and placed my towel down to serve as a barrier to my predecessor's sweat. Then I held my arms at right angles, clenched my fists and attempted to raise my elbows to the height of my shoulders. The pads pressing against my upper arms didn't budge even a fraction. My old friend humiliation sparked up as I leaned over to reset the weight load.

  Four sets of twenty raises were the instructions. My arms did not want to know after half a set. I pressed on, gritting my teeth, refusing to give in to the burn. By the fourth set, I only managed four raises, and I again hoped no one was watching as I left the machine, six reps short, a dismal failure in my own eyes.

  The front raises were even worse. A five-kilo dumbbell in each hand, I raised my arms straight out to the horizontal and back down to my sides. Up, down, up, down, and I could feel the strain in my wrists, forearms and elbows up to my shoulders. By the third set, the muscles in my arms, such as they were, flipped out in a chorus of pain. I had never experienced agony like it. Luis was cruel, I decided. There had to be malice in his soul to create a fitness plan clearly designed to kill me.

  The seated dumbbell shoulder press was no better. The only positive was I got to sit. The exercise was much the same as the military press, and by now, every muscle in my upper arms and shoulders was angry and sore and complaining.

  And I still had another five kilometres to pedal on the exercise bike! I noted on his fitness plan, Luis euphemistically called my final ordeal a “cool-down”. I all but slumped over the handlebars, sweat-soaked and beaten. It wasn't until I was two kilometres in and the endorphin charge that came with hard exercise sped through my veins, that I was able to feel a small sense of achievement and well-being. I pedalled as hard as I was able, right to the finish, dismounting panting and soaking wet, bang on the five-kilometre mark.

  With my heart rate still elevated, I approached Luis – who had replaced the old guy at the counter – and thanked him between short bursts of breath for his fitness plan.

  'De nada,' he said warmly, grinning his sparkling grin into my face.

  'See you tomorrow, then,' I said, making to walk away.

  'Wait.'

  I turned back.

  'If you are coming every day, you should buy a membership.'

  'I won't be needing one,' I said rather quickly, reacting to the hard sell.

  He looked crestfallen. Ignoring his reaction, I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and was about to walk away again when he said, 'There's a weekly discount.' He paused. 'Or you can sign up for a month if you want.'

  Why the persistence? Was he on a commission? Or was the gym that desperate for my money?

  'Alright then,' I said, suddenly seeing sense in his suggestions. 'I'll take a month.'

  Then a leaflet advertising a special offer on a three-month membership caught my eye.

  'Make that three.'

  He seemed delighted. As I extracted my wallet, and he organised my membership card, I wondered again if business was bad, but judging by the number of patrons that were here the day before and the central location, I doubted it. Maybe he was a genuinely nice guy who was pleased to see a decidedly white and podgy Englishman make a commitment to get himself in shape. Then I decided Luis was one of those gym-fit men who took fitness a little bit too seriously. I observed his physique, the taut muscles, the flat belly and, of course, the natural Latin tan. He was undeniably attractive. I was not in the habit of noticing other men, but I noticed him, right then and there, and in a way that surprised me.

  As he handed me my card, he gestured at my legs, which I had thought were hidden behind the counter, and said, 'You have been too much in the sun, no?'

  I cringed inwardly as I emitted a flippant laugh. 'I forgot the time.'

&
nbsp; He didn't laugh with me. Instead, he looked serious. 'Be careful,' he said. His eyes bored into mine as though he was trying to see into my core. I was disconcerted by it.

  I walked away before he could engage me in further conversation. As I headed out the door, my mind flitted back again to Vince.

  A Trip to the Beach

  The following morning, I woke up in a tangle of damp sheets. As I extricated my thighs, I felt a smear of cool stickiness, and a slow realisation came over me. A wet dream. I hadn't had a wet dream since I was eighteen. Wet dreams ended for me once I was happily having it away with Jackie.

  A wet dream.

  The horror of the occurrence permeated my being. Had my loneliness and frustration sunk to these depths?

  Filled with self-disgust, I yanked the sheets off the bed and put them in the wash. In the shower, I soaped the sticky mess off me. The stiffness of my shoulders and thighs and calves became apparent as I dried off. It occurred to me I should have stretched those muscles after my workout. Luis hadn't mentioned stretching, probably because he considered the need self-evident. I made a mental note to do so next time.

  While I waited for the wash cycle to do its job, I gave the kitchen a once-over with cloth, broom and mop, and then I took a mug of coffee and a bowl of cereal out to the patio. Positioning a chair in the shade, I jumped on my laptop to catch up with the day's affairs.

  The first thing I checked was the weather. It was going to be another stinker. That put paid to a morning walk. Eager to get out of the farmhouse and continue on my quest for ideas for a novel which I thought had to be lurking on the island somewhere, I studied a map of the island and found the nearest beach. It was at a village called Puertito de Los Molinos, which according to an online translator literally meant tiny port of mills. The village was situated on the coast due west of Tefía, accessed, if I took a short cut, via the track that went past the windmill. From there, the road coursed its way across the plain, past a cluster of farms and on to the coast. The journey was about five kilometres. I would be there in about ten minutes.

  Before I closed my laptop, I had a quick glance at my emails. Nothing more from Jackie, and nothing from the kids. After deleting all the usual promotions and social media notifications, I found there was little left other than a short note from Angela asking if I had heard the news. What news? I clicked on the accompanying link and, as my eyes fell on the headline, my chest tightened; the word “shortlist” was all I needed to know, and I was transported back to three months before, when one of my clients, a wealthy heiress who fancied herself a novelist and went by the name of Ms Sandra Flint, had been longlisted for a major literary prize. I had nearly choked on my Wheaties. This time, I swallowed what was left of the cereal in my cheek pouches and rinsed my mouth with a slurp of coffee. Certain I had averted a repetition of a near-death experience, I scrolled down. There were five titles and one of them belonged to Sandra Flint. I told myself I should be happy for her, but I was anything but. All I could feel was a toxic mix of outrage and contempt, stirred with a wand of self-pity.

  Two years ago, Flint had commissioned my help with a novel she was struggling to complete. That was the brief she had given. All I was required to do, she'd said, was finish the last chapter and polish the rest. We agreed on my fee and I took on the job despite my misgivings after getting caught before, when one of my assignments won the author a prize. I should have known better than to take on a whole novel, but I needed the cash.

  Turned out the final chapter was the least of the author's problems. I ended up doing a complete re-write, tweaking the plot, developing themes, inserting crucial backstory and peppering up the antagonist. In all, I felt as though I had composed the whole damn novel by the end of it, and then, to my chagrin, Ms Flint refused to credit me with having contributed so much as a comma.

  Resentment coiled up in me as I deleted Angela's email. Now, Flint stood to win a major prize while I languished in the land of the unacknowledged. I closed the laptop, downed my coffee – revoltingly tepid – in three large gulps and went and snatched my phone and car keys off the kitchen bench. A quick rummage in the bedroom for swimmers and a towel, and I was out the door and heading to the beach.

  I took it slow on the dirt road past the windmill, not wanting to kick up too much dust, not that there was anyone around to breathe it in. There was something stark and lonely about that windmill with its shutter sails and its stonework all restored, standing in the middle of nowhere beside a military base-cum-prison, now turned youth hostel. It seemed to me a forgotten place, private almost, not anywhere the authorities were keen visitors would bother with. The dirt track carried on a stretch and at the next intersection, I was pleased to get back on the tarmac.

  Driving past a cluster of farms I had seen on the map, I had to strain to imagine the island after rain, when plants grew fast, soaking up the warmth and the sun, producing enough to warrant tilling the soil here, when for the rest of the time there was little to do other than watch all the green wither to a crisp, and the ground return to its barren state. Judging by the small number of farms I had seen on the island, most of the land was not worth the effort.

  The road swept down beside a dry and narrow river bed, then made a beeline for the ocean. In a matter of moments, I had arrived at the tiny port, nothing more than a cluster of cuboid fishing huts strung along in a haphazard arrangement at the head of the beach.

  The huts were painted white, the edges of their walls trimmed with thin bands of colour. The village, cradled by a low cliff rising up behind, looked out at the expanse of sapphire ocean, dazzling beneath a blue sky. The land beyond the village reached further west a short distance before heading north, sheltering the little bay from the ocean current that drove against that coast. Taking in the scene, Fuerteventura suddenly made a whole lot more sense as a place to escape to. Even sitting in my car looking for somewhere to park, I could tell that here in this sheltered bay, it was as though the rest of the world did not exist. Although it did, and the presence of other cars parked at the head of the beach underscored that fact.

  Before the road crossed the dry stream bed, I pulled up in a small parking area. Alongside the causeway was an arched footbridge. I grabbed my things and crossed the bridge, pausing at the crest like a proper tourist to gaze at the smooth, weathered rocks below. It did rain here, that was clear and, judging by the erosion when the rain came, it rushed out to sea in a great torrent.

  The village was sheltered from the prevailing wind that charged across the inland plains, and, on a day like this when the air was still, the little rocky bay baked. I left the bridge in favour of the beach.

  It was still early and there were few people about. I skirted the restaurant strategically situated at the head of the beach, passed by the warning sign cautioning visitors against swimming due to the strong currents, and made for the water, disappointed I had to scramble across a wide band of large pebbles to get to the sand. Still, an inconvenience for me probably meant coastal protection, and who was I to start re-arranging the landscape in my mind to attain some kind of contrived perfection. All that mattered was that the water was calm, the waves not too high.

  It looked like the tide was on its way out, revealing creamy-white sand slowly drying in the sunshine. I pulled my t-shirt over my head, dumped my things on a large pebble and made for the water, suppressing a gasp as my toes registered the cool, then my ankles, my calves, my knees, my thighs, almost to my belly.

  The gradient was slight. I was past the break-line before I stood at waist height. The waves were only about a foot high but they pushed me forward, and I could feel the suck of the tide as the water pulled back after each break.

  All too soon, the sun felt hot on my skin. I turned to face the incoming waves and wondered if the water was safe enough. I ventured some breaststroke for a short stretch then made my way back and stood more or less where I had before. Even in the short time I had been in the water, people had arrived, and I kept one eye on
my things as I studied the village and the cliff, trying to picture the lives of those who lived here, or stayed here. No sign of any mill.

  The cliff comprised a few layers of ancient lava coating the sandstone beneath. With all of its crevasses and nooks and crannies, it held numerous secrets, and my imagination wandered, searching for possible stories. I knew that whatever I came up with would have to surpass my best work so far, my shortlisted book, owned to its last full stop by Sandra bloody Flint.

  I spotted a string of ruins on the crest of the cliff to the north, and instantly I saw that Puertito was a perfect smugglers' cove. I began to conjure a scenario, my muse aroused as I watched ramblers wander the cliff edge to either side of the village.

  The next thing I knew I was being thrust forward by a wave breaking against my back, and I lost my balance and fell into the wash. The adrenalin rush was instant, and I scrambled to my feet and waded back to dry land before another wave caught me unawares.

  My concentration was broken and by the time I got to my towel, I decided I wasn't about to write a novel about drug smugglers in Fuerteventura. If that theme hadn't already been done here, it had been amply elsewhere. Besides, just because I was staying here didn't mean I had to write something set here. I would leave that sort of project to the likes of Richard H. Parry who Angela mentioned, had a house on Lanzarote, and steer my imagination away from this desert island and its unpredictable ocean.

  I found a reasonably dry spot to lie down on the sand and let the sun do its work drying and tanning my skin, other than my sunburnt thighs which I covered with my t-shirt. It wasn't long before I had had enough sun and went for a wander.

  Close up, the village was quaint if scruffy. The main attraction seemed to be a shrine that had been positioned on a raised bed of stone and gravel. The shrine consisted of a rounded arch, some two metres deep, decorated at the back by a frieze of scallop shells and topped by a wooden crucifix, its windowed front watching over the ocean as though to bless the fishermen and keep them safe.