Wish You Were Here

by Mike Gayle

  ‘How long is the flight?’ asked Andy looking up from his newspaper as I sat down next to him.

  ‘Four and a half hours,’ I replied. ‘You’re trying to work out if we’ll have time to get to our hotel and then go and get slaughtered aren’t you?’

  ‘A wise man always knows how much drinking time is available to him.’

  ‘Have you never heard of pacing yourself? I’m still feeling a bit rough from last night.’

  ‘I would’ve been better off going on holiday with that lot,’ chided Andy pointing to a group of girls featuring more peroxide highlights, spandex, gold rings, tattoos and naked flesh than any group of people had any right to. ‘Do you think they’re planning to go to bed as soon they reach Crete?’

  ‘They’re young,’ I replied. ‘They’ll learn.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Andy. ‘They might be young but I guarantee you they won’t learn anything at all. Look, at me, I’m thirty-six next birthday and I’m proud to say that I haven’t learned a single thing in my entire life.’

  People to say goodbye to

  We’d been discussing the phenomenon of how, when you’ve been away on holiday, someone famous always dies, when Andy was cut short by the announcement over the Tannoy of the departure gate for the flight to Heraklion. There was an instant flurry of activity in our corner of the departure lounge as people began to troop towards the gate.

  ‘This is it then,’ said Tom folding up his newspaper. ‘Better give Anne a quick ring.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better try Lisa too,’ said Andy, pulling out his phone.

  ‘Okay,’ I said standing up. ‘I’ll see you guys at the gate.’

  Tom and Andy both had people to say goodbye to but I had nobody and for a brief moment I felt as if the one thing I wanted most in the world was to have someone who wanted to hear from me. Someone who would miss the fact that I was no longer there. I considered calling Sarah and as I reached the queue for the gate I even pulled out my phone and scrolled through the address book for her number. But then I imagined her answering the call. And I imagined hearing the disappointment in her voice. And I imagined my reaction. And I knew I didn’t want that feeling to be the last thing in my head as I got on the plane. So I turned off the phone before I could do any damage and slipped it into the carrier bag in my hand, next to my books and bottled water.

  Even with the phone off, Sarah remained in my thoughts. She was there as we handed in our boarding cards and as we trooped aboard the shuttle-bus. She was there as we crossed the tarmac and climbed the stairs to the plane. She was there as we listened to instructions to turn off all mobile phones and electrical devices. And she was there as the emergency manoeuvres were drilled into us and the nearest emergency exits pointed out. She was even there as we prepared for take-off and taxied along the runway. But as the cabin began to shake and the roar of the jets filled our ears, her presence finally began to fade, so that by the time we had lifted up into the air and broken through the clouds above she was gone altogether.

  Because when you go on holiday stuff like this happens

  According to our pilot we would land at Heraklion airport at a quarter past eleven in the evening, local time. The flight had been fairly uneventful. With an initial burst of energy after take-off the three of us became quite talkative, taking great pleasure in unearthing a flurry of embarrassing anecdotes and memories from our student years, but as the journey progressed an oddly uniform lull spread across the plane and, with the exception of the odd screaming child, few passengers did anything other than eat, sleep, read or watch the in-flight entertainment: Miss Congeniality 2, an ancient episode of Only Fools and Horses and a documentary about clocks. I had entertained myself with the first of my three books: Touching The Void by Joe Simpson. A completely absorbing account of two friends who climbed the 21,000 ft Siula Grande Peake in the Andes only to get themselves in trouble on the way down. I’d seen the documentary they had made of the book a few years earlier at the cinema with Sarah. After the film Sarah had said to me that if it had been me and Andy on that mountain, Andy wouldn’t have thought twice about cutting the rope and seemingly sending me to my doom. I’d told her she was wrong. Andy would never have cut the rope in a million years. It wasn’t his style at all. But as I read the first few chapters of the book it dawned on me that I’d never really considered the situation the other way round. With Andy’s life in my hand would I have cut the rope? I couldn’t come to any kind of conclusion even after hours of internal debate. In the end I abandoned the book and distracted myself by watching Miss Congeniality 2 without the aid of headphones.

  With the sound of the electronic ‘ding’ the seat-belt safety sign switched off, plunging the entire plane into a flurry of frenzied activity. Passengers were frantically unbuckling, unloading the overhead storage lockers and squeezing into the aisles in a bid to be the first off the plane.

  ‘What’s the big rush?’ said Andy a little too loudly. ‘It’s not like they’re going to get to their hotels any quicker. They’re still going to have to wait for everyone else.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I replied but the truth was, I was as eager to get off the plane as they were; like them I wanted to get my holiday started right away. Now I was on holiday my time was my own. I could go wherever I wanted to go and, more importantly, I could be whoever I wanted to be. I couldn’t wait. And as our turn arrived to file into the narrow aisle and head towards the exit, it was all I could do not to run. As the cabin crew said goodbye I was too excited to reply, distracted by the exotic thrill of walking out of the air-conditioned cool of the plane straight into a thick fug of Mediterranean night air. The warmth was real. Almost palpable. Good things were going to happen to me in this country. I could feel it in my blood.

  As soon as we passed through passport control Andy, Tom and I turned on our mobile phones and stared at them expectantly. But while Tom and Andy, despite their lack of messages, took great delight in comparing names and logos of the Greek mobile phone operators they had been assigned, I simply stared at my phone in disbelief. Unbeknownst to me, while we’d been in the air I’d received a text message from Sarah:

  Message Sarah: Charlie, I need to talk to you about something important. Please ring me when you’ve got a moment. S x

  ‘What’s up mate?’ asked Tom, obviously reading the concern on my face.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shook my head as if waking from a dream. I quickly switched off. ‘I’m fine. Just a missed call.’

  Andy walked over to me and ruffled my hair as if I was a five-year-old. ‘We’re on holiday now, mate. Cheer up. Once we reach baggage claims me and Tom will get the luggage and you can go and get a trolley.’

  Though I was already pretty sick of being organised by Andy, I didn’t have the energy to protest. There were at least two flights that needed to be unloaded ahead of us and so it took quite a while for our luggage carousel to get started. And when it finally did get going, much to Andy’s annoyance a good few of the passengers on our flight managed to get their luggage without a single sighting of our own. I however had my own problems to contend with. Sarah’s text had sent my world into a spin. While I was curious about her message I was fearful of it too. I stared at my phone and silently cursed the progress of technology. A decade ago she wouldn’t have been able to send me a guided missile via the airwaves. A decade ago I would have been blissfully ignorant of her desire to make contact. But it was now, not then. And despite my best intentions the message had been received. Loud and clear.

  As I reached across with my thumb to switch off my phone I felt a tap on my arm. Standing in front of me was a girl wearing a straw cowboy hat. She had curly black hair, flawless mahogany skin and looked altogether amazing.

  ‘You were on the flight from Gatwick weren’t you?’ said the girl-in-the-cowboy-hat in a bold south-London accent.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied cautiously as I looked over her shoulder at a gang of girls in their mid-twenties who were trying their best to give the impr
ession that they weren’t watching us.

  ‘I thought so,’ said the girl-in-the-cowboy-hat. ‘Which resort are you staying at?’

  ‘Malia.’

  ‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Me and my friends are too. Have you been before?’

  ‘Once, a while ago. How about yourself?’

  ‘This is the third year in a row for me and the girls,’ she replied.

  ‘You must like it.’

  ‘It’s great. I guarantee you’ll have the best time ever here.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  She paused. ‘Do you like clubbing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, mainly because I suspected that at least in her eyes this was the correct answer.

  ‘Where do you go out in London?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I replied. ‘I’m from Brighton.’

  ‘I know Brighton,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been clubbing there loads of times. I bet you’re a regular at places like Purple Paradise and Computer Love.’

  ‘Yeah, I know those,’ I bluffed.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the girl-in-the-cowboy-hat. ‘I don’t suppose you know a bar in Malia called Pandemonium do you? It’s on the main strip. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the neon rabbit sign.’

  ‘I could probably find it,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I just thought you might like to know me and my friends will be in there around midnight tomorrow night if you want to join us.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ I said coolly. ‘Midnight, tomorrow, Pandemonium.’

  ‘Right then,’ she smiled, ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘It was nice to meet you,’ I said trying my best to hide my confusion.

  ‘It was nice to meet you too,’ she replied. She paused and then added: ‘Oh, and bring your mates too. My friend Liz quite likes the one with the shaven head . . .’ Tom. ‘. . . and my friend Luce quite likes the guy in the red top.’ Andy. ‘So, I might see you tomorrow night then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow night it is.’

  Watching her walk away I was barely able to breathe as I considered what had just happened. It appeared as if an amazingly attractive young girl had just asked me out. I turned round to search out Andy and Tom to tell them my good news but they were standing right behind me wearing looks of pure bewilderment.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Andy immediately.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘She didn’t tell me her name.’

  ‘She was spectacular,’ continued Andy. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘I think she wanted to ask me out . . .’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, she invited me to join her and her friends in some bar in Malia around midnight tomorrow.’

  ‘Now that is pretty amazing,’ said Tom. He patted me on the back. ‘Well done, fella.’

  ‘You see?’ said Andy. ‘No offence, Charlie mate, but back in Brighton girls who look like that don’t normally come up to blokes who look like you and say meet me in a bar around midnight, do they? The only place that things like that happen is right where we are now – on holiday.’

  ‘This is too weird for words,’ I said, still somewhat stunned. ‘She even said that one of her mates fancied Tom.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ laughed Tom. ‘It’s always nice to know that you can still turn a few heads when you want to.’

  ‘Just wait until they find out you’re a married born-again Christian though,’ teased Andy. ‘So,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘which one of the girls fancied me?’

  I opened my mouth to reply but stopped as I recalled my promise to Lisa. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I replied, ‘she didn’t mention anything about you at all.’

  ‘Not a single word?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘That’s just because they’ve yet to feel the full force of my personality,’ said Andy philosophically. ‘You wait until tomorrow night when they finally meet me in the flesh. I guarantee you, my friend, the girls of Malia will be all over me like a rash.’

  Steve-the-barman

  With our luggage piled precariously high on a single trolley we made our way through customs and out the other side. It was easy to spot where we had to go next as waiting expectantly underneath an awning set up at the main exit were dozens of brightly jacketed holiday reps, clipboards and pens at the ready. Ours was a diminutive Glaswegian called Debbie who didn’t bat an eyelid when we gave her our names and she pointed us in the direction of the coach that would transfer us to the hotel.

  ‘Who’d have thought it would be this easy to shave five or six years off your age?’ said Andy once we were out of earshot. ‘There’ll be no stopping us now.’

  It took a good half hour for everyone assigned to our coach to arrive. Once we had our full contingent of passengers, however, our driver seemed determined to make up for lost time at all cost and drove with a recklessness that showed scant regard for his own or anyone else’s safety. Despite the threat of impending doom, a combination of the constant growl of the diesel engine, the darkness outside and simple exhaustion sent me to sleep and I only woke up on hearing the driver bark in heavily accented English: ‘Apollo Apartments! Quick! Quick!’ from the front of the coach.

  The three of us hurriedly gathered our things together and launched ourselves off the coach. Leaving its air-conditioned cool we were once again plunged into the Cretan heat and within seconds were dripping with sweat.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said Tom looking up at the lilac building in front of us; it had two floors and an outdoor terrace café that faced on to the road.

  I was just about to ask Tom whether it was obligatory for all hotels to have some sort of reference to Greek mythology in their name when a male voice with a strong Welsh accent came from behind me.

  ‘I see you’ve brought the weather with you then?’

  I turned round to see a short, crumpled-looking middle-aged man with an overly red face. He was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat tied underneath his chin to keep it in place, a bright pink T-shirt and Union Jack shorts.

  ‘What an idiot,’ he said taking into consideration our natural English sense of reserve as we stared at him blankly. ‘It’s all right, guys, I’m not just some random nutter. I’m Steve the bar man . . . but you lads can just call me Mr Barman if you like.’

  Out of politeness we laughed and then watched as he introduced himself to our fellow residents (a group of six lads in their late teens and a couple of girls in their twenties). Along with the other new arrivals we followed Steve-the-Barman into the hotel lobby. Inside there was a small unmanned reception desk and standing next to it a large bright orange board with our tour operator’s logo at the top. A cavalcade of leaflets was pinned to it, advertising a host of parties, barbecues and bar crawls. While Steve-the-barman took the group of lads and the two girls to their rooms the three of us remained in the lobby with our luggage momentarily lost in our own thoughts.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ said Tom eventually. ‘It’s two o’clock Monday morning back home. Normally I’d be in bed next to my Anne right now.’

  ‘I’d probably be alone in bed right now,’ I replied, ‘which bizarrely doesn’t seem like such a bad prospect at all.’

  Andy sighed. ‘What’s wrong with you two? You’re like a couple of old women. We’re on holiday. There’s no work tomorrow. If you want to sleep late you can. If you want to get up early and just stare out of the window you can do that too. This is what being on holiday is all about – getting the chance to do what you want when you want.’

  ‘But it’s two o’clock in the—’ Tom stopped as Steve-the-barman returned.

  ‘Right then, lads,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ll give you the guided tour shall I?’ We all nodded. ‘That over there,’ he said, pointing to the gigantic wide screen TV which was showing an old Robert Wagner film, ‘is fifty inches of top-class satellite televisual entertainment. It’s got the lot. All the films. All the music. All the channels . . . all the sport.’

  W
e all looked at the TV. He was right. It was stupidly large. Ridiculously so. It was probably visible from space. But the picture seemed wrong. The colours seemed too bright and the picture had a soft sheen about it that was distracting.

  ‘Which teams do you follow?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Arsenal,’ said Tom. ‘But I don’t go to the matches.’

  ‘Man City,’ said Andy. ‘Although I haven’t been to a game in a few years.’

  Steve looked at me expectantly. ‘No one,’ I replied feebly.

  ‘I’m a Spurs man myself,’ continued Steve quickly glossing over my lack of footballing allegiances. ‘Although they haven’t exactly had their best season have they?’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, there’ll be plenty of European friendlies on during the week so you won’t miss any of the action.’ He paused and for a moment looked like an overgrown cherub. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, boys, but what made you choose Malia for your holiday?’

  Tom pointed to Andy. ‘It was his idea.’

  ‘I only ask because . . . well, because we don’t tend to get many people your age here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ replied Andy shiftily. ‘I’m twenty-eight.’

  Steve-the-barman chuckled heartily. ‘If you say so, mate.’

  ‘Give it up, Andy,’ said Tom. ‘He knows we’re over thirty because we stick out like a sore thumb – a thumb that’s been battered senseless by a sledgehammer. Didn’t you notice on the coach on the way over here that there wasn’t a single person on it over twenty-five? They might call it an eighteen-thirty holiday but no one goes on these things past the age of twenty-five.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Steve-the-barman. ‘Compared to ninety-nine per cent of the lads and lasses in Malia you are ancient.’