by Gus Ross
I smacked him hard with my briefcase and rammed the tip of my trusty brolly at his ridiculously handsome face. It all went mushy after that; his face, the cab, everything, but the soundtrack hadn’t changed. It was now a high pitched, “La..., la la, la la, la...”, but almost as if it were mocking me, as if the singing voices were laughing and singing ha, instead of la. But it was that same Elton tune from before and in the background I could still see those bloody socks.
I woke with a start and for a moment I had no idea quite where I was; the women seated to my left, turned her head and offered a warm smile, as if to say it’s ok you were only dreaming. I smiled back. It would take a while to get all those characters out of my head but I had a pretty good idea how to make it a bit easier.
My wife would take a good deal longer.
It was late when I got to my hotel room and I didn’t feel much like eating, so instead I went for a shower. I had taken in what I could of the view from my veranda given how perfectly dark it was outside, as well as a hearty lungful of the most delightful sea air, all mixed with the exotic aromas of flowers I would never know the names of but would not hesitate to wrap around my neck in the days to come. If I could have bottled the moment I would have become a very rich man.
I stood there for as long as I could, listening to cicadas and the gentle distant sound of acoustic guitar from one of the poolside bars that was wafting in on the sea breeze. Way in the distance I could just make out the flickering orange glow of torches that I imagined must mark the pathway down towards the beach, but my eyesight was not what it used to be and my imagination was completing the picture for me. I would check that out tomorrow, but for now the image was just right.
This truly was the most beautiful place I had ever been, and I hadn’t even got out of my hotel room yet.
Before long I was neatly tucked up in a rather comfy oversized bed (presumably designed to take even the largest of Americans. ‘Burger Bums’ I think they are called, and boy were some of those large), and in the land of nod.
I slept well that night.
No more silly nightmares.
But I knew they would not be far away; your baggage has a nasty habit of catching up with you even if you manage to lose track of it somewhere, or deliberately put it on a plane going in the opposite direction. Yes, my metaphorical baggage would arrive at my door before long, but I was thankful for at least one night’s peaceful rest.
I woke without the slightest hint of jetlag; something I had never really experienced before but that some people say only happens when you are travelling east. Of course that is not strictly true, and desynchronosis can occur going east- west as well, although the recovery is apparently easier if you are flying west. What did I care, I had come west and I had no intention of going back, so two fingers up to jetlag.
The sun was hot but not too hot, mid eighties going by the thermometer at the bar and it was still only 9.30 am. Seemed that this was pretty much the year long climate out here and a man could get used to that (especially one from England; well one who lived in England, I was born a Scot).
I was wearing my delightful Hawaiian shirt (predominantly blue and white patterned and which I had noticed at least three hot young girls admire as I made my way through the grounds, or at least I convinced myself that the glances were in admiration), and a pair of khaki green knee length shorts. Apart from my pale white foreign complexion I felt that I had made a pretty good effort to blend in.
I had a basket of fresh prawns on ice in front of me and an ice cool beer to help wash them down. If you are ever lucky enough to get yourself down to Hawaii you must eat the seafood. In fact, you must eat everything, the food is delicious.
I sat looking at the brownish yellow Jiffy bag in front of me (I was never certain whether I liked or hated the colour of those things but they did the job and somewhere Mr Jiffy was probably a very rich boy indeed).
Soon I would post it to an address in Switzerland, but not yet.
I was where I was supposed to be.
Whether I would remain on my own was something I had no way of knowing; I had played that one over in my mind many times and the answer was not always the same.
And sometimes I thought that perhaps it would be easier if indeed I was.
But I was here, in Hawaii, and in my heart I knew what the answer was.
I flipped the lid of the small, red notebook in front of me, hit the power button, and after adjusting my sitting position slightly to avoid the sun, I started to type...
Chapter 1. The Hit....
The End
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Hit.
Chapter 2: Autopilot.
Chapter 3: Curiosity Kills Cats.
Chapter 4: White Van Man.
Chapter 5: King Kong, Elton and Old Shark Eyes.
Chapter 6: Who really understands Quantum Mechanics anyway?
Chapter 7: Hats off to Mrs Edgerton
Chapter 8: Big Oil equals Big Power.
Chapter 9: Mr Snoodles.
Chapter 10: Don’t you just love GPS.
Chapter 11: Ulyana Lyalyushkin.
Chapter 12: Tell me Lies. Tell me sweet little lies.
Chapter 13: The Set Up.
Chapter 14: Cleaning up the Loose Ends.
Chapter 15: Chess.
Chapter 16: Stern Anderson.
Chapter 17: Alexander Boardman.
Chapter 18: Charles Hanson.
Chapter 19: Time to show your hand.
Chapter 20: What goes around comes around.
Chapter 21: Mac Howison.
Chapter 22: Dear old mum.
Chapter 23: Sun, Sea and stories about Spies.
