by John Marrs
CHAPTER 4
The cardboard sign manager Ron had stuck above the six-feet by three-feet cubbyhole with the words ‘Internet Suite & Café’ was wishful thinking, Tommy decided.
One desk with two green back-to-back iMac G3s and an ancient modem that required six minutes before a connection was made did not constitute a suite. Likewise, a vending machine that reluctantly dispensed lukewarm coffee all year round failed to make it a café. But with a poor cell phone reception in the hostel, it was the quickest and cheapest way to surf the Web and catch up on emails.
Tommy inserted his quarter into the vending machine, pressed number nine, counted five seconds like always and kicked the base, before it angrily spat brown powder and water into a plastic cup.
He sat down, logged into his iCloud account and scanned his messages. The only new ones his contained were those offering Nectar points, his online credit card bill – which he deleted without opening – and a weekly mail-out from online clothing retailer Mr Porter.
Tommy scanned his Facebook timeline updates and clicked on an image in his Friends section so a profile slowly loaded. He checked when it had last been updated; some nine weeks earlier when they were still together. Irked, he addressed a new email to [email protected] and put three question marks in the subject line. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he wrote and then jabbed the send button.
As he leant back in his chair, his wallet fell from the pocket of his shorts. The corner of a small photograph poked out. Tommy picked it up, opened it and stared at a picture of his parents.
TWO YEARS EARLIER – NORTHAMPTON, ENGLAND
From his seat at the kitchen table, Tommy watched his mother through the window, standing alone on the decking in the rear garden.
She stared blankly across the lawn, through the wire fencing and into the recently ploughed wheat fields; her body only moving to take long drags from a menthol cigarette.
Tommy had observed her rapid decline from a vibrant, enthusiastic mother-of-three to an empty shell in the space of hours. He recalled how, when he was a child, he had nagged her to quit her ‘stinky sticks’ as he loathed the smell, and for well over a decade, she’d gone without. But since that day, everything changed and she had travelled from nought to sixty a day in a less than a week.
She remained with her back to the house Tommy had grown up in; a place he now avoided when possible. What was once a home crammed with spirit and comfort was now just a shell inhabited by three vacant bodies.
Tommy turned his eyes towards the goldfish swimming in circles around the glass bowl on the worktop. The bowl contained no ornamental garnishes, only sandy coloured pebbles where one lonely fish swam day in day out, round and round, going nowhere. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Tommy.
Suddenly the door to the hallway opened and his father entered. Once a tall, imposing figure, he too had noticeably withered, Tommy thought. Then, on spotting Tommy, he stopped in his tracks. Father and son made eye contact, neither saying a word, before he turned to leave.
‘Dad, please,’ began Tommy, and he rose from the table and grabbed the crutches propped up against it. His father paused, but without looking back, exited the kitchen and quietly closed the door.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Tommy called out, as the fish swam another aimless lap.
CHAPTER 5
TODAY
‘Pretty comfy,’ nodded Nicole as she tested the bottom mattress of a dormitory bunk bed nearest the window.
‘Probably because it has extra layers of skin shed by the last hundred people to have slept on it,’ replied Eric, choosing the one above her.
‘For God’s sake, Eric, you’ve spent all day bitching and moaning. Believe me, I’m as frustrated as you are that we haven’t found anything yet but at least I’m trying to make the best of it. Please, can you just stop complaining for five minutes and meet me halfway?’
Eric dropped from the bed to the floor below and looked at his friend sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Nic, I’m just tired, hot and bothered. And this place isn’t exactly what I was expecting.’
‘I know. I think the pictures they used online were taken a few years ago, but we’re here now, so let’s have a look around, take some time out to rethink and make the best of it before we continue, shall we?’
Eric nodded as Nicole looked around the room. Each dormitory had four curtainless double-length windows, and with no air conditioning, they were the only way to let out the stuffy air of eight bunk beds and sixteen sweaty bodies. Above them, damp clothes were pegged to washing lines running the length of the room, and in the corner was a shared bathroom next to a small area housing grey lockers.
But while the rooms were shabby, Nicole liked that the walls were plastered with photographs of past guests framing a map of the world. Coloured cotton threads linked faces to countries and, despite Eric’s vocal reservations, there was an aura about the hostel that Nicole admired.
Suddenly, she noticed a woman sitting with her legs outstretched appearing to place newspaper cuttings into a book. Her skin was pale, her frame dumpy and Nicole noted that despite the heat, she wore jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Nicole smiled at her and the woman smiled shyly back.
‘Shall we see if our stowaway has made it intact?’ asked Eric, pointing to a cardboard box in the centre of Nicole’s suitcase.
But before Nicole could reply, there came a thumping sound followed by the sudden appearance of a pair of skinny legs appearing through a ceiling tile. It was quickly followed by a man falling to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and dust. An astonished Nicole and Eric hurried towards him, urging him not to move, then to wriggle his hands and feet one at a time. Small fragments of plasterboard were caught in his wiry, Afro-style hair, and under the dust, his face was tanned and freckled. A roll-up cigarette remained between his lips despite his plunge.
‘I’m fine guys, I’m fine,’ Peyk reassured them in his Anglo-Dutch accent, and smiled as the door burst open and Tommy appeared.
‘What the . . .’ he began, his eyes darting around the room between Peyk and the hole in the ceiling the hostel’s handyman had created.
‘It’s all good, Tommy-boy, it’s all good,’ smiled Peyk, before picking up an electrical cable from the floor and leaving. Nicole and Eric looked at each other and then Tommy, awaiting an explanation.
‘Probably best not to ask,’ said Tommy, knowing that like God, Peyk moved in mysterious ways. ‘I was coming to find you guys anyway – I was heading out for my break and wondered if you wanted a quick tour of Venice?’
‘We’ve got some unpacking to do,’ Eric replied dismissively, and went back towards his bunk.
‘Well, do you mind if I go?’ asked Nicole.
‘Do what you like,’ said Eric, his attitude resembling that of a sulky teenager.
He glanced over his shoulder as Nicole and Tommy made their way out of the door and vowed to nip their burgeoning friendship in the bud. There was too much at stake for him to stand idly by.
CHAPTER 6
‘Your boyfriend doesn’t like slumming it, does he?’ began Tommy as he walked through the hostel and towards the reception with Nicole.
‘Oh, Eric’s not my boyfriend,’ she replied, ‘We’re friends, that’s all, and ignore him when he moans because if he’s not complaining about something, he’s not being Eric. Once he gets used to the place, he’ll be fine.’
As they made their way out of the building, Tommy smiled when he spotted Savannah coming towards them, slurping a thick milkshake through a straw. She pushed her black Jackie O-style glasses up into her platinum blonde bob and grinned.
‘Hey you,’ began Tommy.
‘Hi, honey, where are you guys off to?’
‘Nicole’s just checked in so I’m showing her the local sights and sounds.’
‘And you’ve pounced on her already?’ teased Savannah. ‘You could at least give the girl time to unpack.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ joked Nicole while Tommy’s face re
ddened.
‘Nice to meet you,’ continued Savannah as the girls introduced themselves and shook hands. ‘I’m only kidding, Tommy’s a sweetheart really.’
‘Are you working tonight?’ asked Tommy.
‘Yeah, I’m picking up a few shifts later but I’m getting some sleep first. Have a good day, guys.’
‘That’s the first American accent I’ve heard since we checked in,’ Nicole continued as she and Tommy headed for the beach.
‘Yeah, we’re more geared towards Europeans than Americans. Euros are quite happy to stay in a hovel in a foreign country, and the Yanks are more up for experiencing this type of place when they’re abroad rather than on their own doorstep.’
‘Does Savannah live at the hostel?’
‘Pretty much – she’s friends with Peyk, that fella who crashed through your ceiling. She gets a room to herself and I only put people in there if we’re busy.’
‘And what does Peyk get in return for his generosity?’
‘Nah, I don’t think it’s like that. He’s an odd guy but he’s harmless, and Savannah doesn’t put up with any crap from anyone. She may seem sweet but I reckon she has her secrets.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Nicole smiled wryly.
CHAPTER 7
Savannah closed her bedroom door behind her and locked it, pulling down the handle to reassure herself it was secure.
She slid her imitation Hermès handbag off her shoulder and placed it on the single unoccupied bed opposite her own. She unclasped the hook and removed a tightly wound roll of $20 bills, then moved towards two lockers and pushed one aside to reveal a jagged hole in the brickwork. She placed the money next to seven more bundles of notes before moving the locker back in place.
Then she put her fingertips under her hairline, removed her blonde wig and dropped it on a stool. She ruffled her mousey brown hair, and then from her bag removed a revolver and placed it under her pillow.
TWO MONTHS EARLIER – VENICE BEACH
Savannah clasped her hand over her mouth and ran towards the motionless body on the sidewalk as fast as her heels would allow, while Ron appeared from the entrance of a building several feet ahead.
‘What the hell?’ he began, as both reached the body at the same time.
‘I didn’t see him there, Ron,’ she cried, ‘they were trying to kidnap me. He knows where I am!’
Ron glanced around the street checking if anyone had witnessed the chaos, before grabbing the body under his arms, struggling to hoist it back to its feet.
‘Savannah, help me,’ he snapped.
Savannah involuntarily trembled as they dragged the person through an open doorway and into a brightly lit reception area, laying him on the floor. Ron turned the lock on the door and pulled down a roller blind.
The first words to come from the boy’s bloodied lips were followed by a desperate intake of breath, taking Ron and Savannah by surprise. ‘Am I dead?’ he asked.
‘Thank Christ,’ whispered Ron as he rolled the boy onto his chest. He removed the large canvas rucksack strapped to the boy’s back, as light from a fluorescent bulb above bounced off an object inside a small hole in the lining.
Ron stood the boy up and steadied him, watching as he struggled to focus his green eyes. The last thing the boy remembered with clarity was listening to a Coldplay track on his iPhone before something propelled him forward, so swiftly that his forehead smashed against the pavement before he had time to stretch his arms out and minimise the impact.
Meanwhile, Ron fished out the contents from the front pouch of the backpack, including a book he’d vaguely heard of from the 1990s called The Beach. Wedged into its spine was the bullet Savannah had fired moments earlier. The boy was still too dazed to question why a stranger he couldn’t see properly was hoisting his T-shirt up towards his shoulders and rubbing his cold, thin fingers across his back.
‘Lucky bastard,’ muttered Ron, and sat him down on a plastic chair.
The boy touched his forehead and felt the swelling. There was a graze to his cheek and grit embedded in his bottom lip. He rolled his tongue around his mouth to check his teeth were still in place. He looked at Ron standing before him, but everything was clouded by a shadow, like he’d overused a filter on an Instagram photo. He only realised there was a third person present in the room when the man spoke again.
‘Stay in your room while I clean him up, and hide that thing. Peyk didn’t give it to you so you could fire at anyone.’
Savannah didn’t question Ron’s orders and sprinted up the stairs and out of sight before the boy had a chance to remember her. His blurred vision was slowly dissipating and he scanned his new surroundings, unsure if it was the place he was searching for when fate threw him a curveball.
‘What’s your name, kid?’ Ron asked.
‘Tommy,’ he replied in a British accent, and pointed to a poster, peeling away from the wall opposite him. ‘What does “Welcome to Wherever You Are” mean?’
‘It means it doesn’t matter where you are, just as long as you’re somewhere.’
TODAY
Savannah rested her hands on her hips and looked critically at her reflection in a full-length mirror attached to the bathroom wall.
She was disappointed to see the dark circles under her eyes were still showing despite regular applications of foundation, and her cheeks were red and blotchy. She’d felt under the weather for much of the day and hoped the soya milkshake might give her the sugar rush she needed to wake her up. Instead, she yawned and headed back into her bedroom, setting the alarm on her phone for three hours’ time when her day would begin again.
She was unaware of the hand behind the two-way mirror that traced the outline of Savannah’s body, or the narrowed eyes that watched as she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 8
From behind the blue metal fence, Nicole stared at a dozen or so men and women, bulging veins close to bursting point, as they went about their daily workout routines on Muscle Beach.
She’d read about the fitness fanatics’ Mecca in her guidebook, and was a little disappointed to find it was no more than a large concrete cage crammed with human gorillas vying for the attention of strangers to further boost their already swollen egos.
As she and Tommy continued to walk along Venice Beach’s boardwalk, Nicole realised the creative and artistic beatnik generation who founded the area back in the 1950s and 1960s had long since departed. They’d been replaced by a hotchpotch of tacky tourist retail units interspersed with independent boutiques running parallel to the sandy beach. The other side contained an assortment of craftsmen and chancers sheltered under a canopy of 40-foot high palm trees. Their wares included toy planes and cars made from empty soda cans; Tarot card readers predicting customers’ fates; self-proclaimed experts in Chinese medicine offering acupuncture and neck massages; and fold-up tables littered with pamphlets promoting anything from political causes to the health benefits of hemp.
Tommy pointed out the handball and paddle tennis courts, the skate dancing plaza, the numerous beach volleyball courts and a bike trail that went past lavish beachfront properties on Ocean Front Walk where the wealthy and a sprinkling of celebrities had made their homes.
To describe Venice Beach as diverse was an understatement, Nicole realised, and she knew one afternoon wouldn’t be long enough to explore all the nooks and crannies that piqued her interest. Muscle Beach aside, she felt the area’s appeal.
After an hour of sightseeing in the 80-degree heat, Nicole and Tommy took a break and sat on benches under the shady arches of a café, eating over-generous portions of pistachio ice cream from plastic tubs. Not for the first time that afternoon, hostellers waved at Tommy as they passed by.
‘You’re a popular guy,’ began Nicole.
‘It’s a combination of my movie-star looks and manly physique,’ replied Tommy with a smile. ‘Or it’s that I’m the first face people see when they check in, so they remember me.’
‘I’d say it’s probabl
y the latter.’
‘Yeah, thanks. So is this your first time backpacking?’
‘Is it that obvious? I’m more of a book it on lastminute.com, two-star hotel in Ibiza kind of girl. To be honest, I’m not even sure what the life of backpacker entails.’
‘The general consensus is you live out of what you can carry, you travel at your own pace and you sleep where you can.’
‘Like tortoises.’
‘That makes you “Me Shell”.’
‘Oh, you’re funny,’ groaned Nicole and rolled her eyes, despite being quietly amused by Tommy’s banter. ‘And what do people “do” at hostels?’
‘Meet other travellers, shag other travellers, smoke a lot of dope, drink a lot of beer, tell strangers their life stories, and then continue travelling knowing they’ll probably never see them again.’
‘That sounds fun . . . but kind of sad.’
‘I’m not going to lie, it can be both. I’ve been with some of the most incredible people one minute, and the next I’ve been at my loneliest. But I wouldn’t change the last seven months for anything, as it’s been the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m sure I’ve discovered parts of America most Americans haven’t even seen and the hostel, well it’s not the Hotel Bel-Air, but it’s become a rite of passage for backpackers.’
‘That’s what I told Eric, but I don’t think he believed me.’
‘Out of interest, how did you and your non-boyfriend end up on a road trip?’
‘That’s a conversation for another time,’ Nicole replied, looking at her watch. ‘I should be heading back.’
Tommy and Nicole took their ice creams with them and retraced their steps along the boardwalk back towards the hostel. She could tell Tommy had tried to mask his nervousness with cockiness, which she found endearing.
‘Are you coming to the party?’ he asked hopefully.
