The Best British Short Stories 2014

by Nicholas Royle

  He wondered about Isla, about how she was. Wondered what the doctor meant by an ulcer. How serious it was. He had heard of ulcers bursting, but that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. He was fantasising. Worse than that, he was catastrophising.

  From where he was standing, it was possible to look down, at an angle, on the hexagonal junction of Valencia and one of the cross streets. Periodically, a little clump of taxis streamed past, the odd car, a motorcycle swerving at pace down the road. A gaggle of people stood on the street, smoking, fanned out around the doorway to a bar. Not far from them, Daniel’s attention was caught by an old woman and an old man walking up the cross street and round onto Valencia. They were beneath him, but on the opposite side of the road. The woman was bent nearly double and carrying plastic bags with what Daniel presumed to be food inside. Certainly, he thought he could see a baguette sticking up, perhaps the outline of a bottle of wine. The old man was pulling what appeared to be a trolley behind him. It was only by looking closely that Daniel could see that it was an oxygen tank; from there he was able to follow the tubes that led from the cylinder to the man’s nose. Every few paces the couple stopped, the woman putting down her bags, the man, drawing level with her, putting out a shaking arm and grasping her by the hand. After a time, a young woman broke away from the group outside the bar and came over to the couple. Although Daniel was high up, he could hear the sound of her voice. She took the bags from the old lady, who touched her arm. Then they walked across the road and disappeared from view.

  As he looked at the empty space that they had left, Daniel felt like the world was a very remarkable place indeed. It wasn’t specifically because of the good act he had just witnessed, although it certainly helped. Even the couple by themselves would have been enough: the great sense of life that they hauled in their wake seemed to verge on the miraculous. Was it easier, he wondered, in a city like Barcelona – in a country like Spain, for that matter – to romanticise the lives of the old? Their history seemed more transparent, the lines more clear: you were either on this side or you were on the other side, or so it appeared. Did he even think like this at home, or was it only here, or abroad in general, that he came upon thoughts of such a character?

  He went through into the bedroom and got undressed in the dark. After brushing his teeth, he got into bed. Isla turned towards him in her sleep and mumbled something that he couldn’t make out. He put his arm around her and pulled her to him. Whether it was the sight of the old couple, or Barcelona itself, or what, Daniel renewed the vow that he would do whatever he could to protect her, even to the extent of sacrificing himself. The reasons didn’t matter, but such things were easy to forget, with all the ins and outs of normal life. They had a chance of being different, however. Nothing was yet set in stone. He lay there for a little while in the dark, feeling both optimistic for the future and completely terrified by it. Just as he was on the point of falling asleep, an image drifted into his mind: Cooper, in the near-silence of his room, unpacking the overnight bag, his mother in the kitchen, dealing with the shepherd’s pie.

  The following morning, Daniel woke to find the bed next to him empty. He could smell the familiar scent of Isla’s shampoo. The bedroom door was open and through it he could see all the way to the front of the apartment. The shutters were open and the sun streamed in. He called Isla’s name, but there was no reply. He got up and pulled on a pair of shorts and walked through. He could see her on the other side of the window, sitting on the balcony in the sun.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, darling. You slept well.’

  He kissed her head. Her hair was wet. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost ten.’

  ‘Ten! How did that happen?’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you, not after all the palaver last night.’

  ‘How about you. How did you sleep?’

  ‘Not so well. I’ve been up for hours, just sitting here. The sun’s lovely,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head.

  ‘What do you think you can cope with today?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not too much, perhaps, but maybe we could go out and get breakfast somewhere. I’m starving. Did you have any ideas?’

  ‘I did, but we don’t have to do any of them.’

  When Daniel had showered, they left the apartment and rode the elevator down to the lobby, before stepping out into the sunlight of a Barcelona Saturday. It was fiercely hot – hotter than he had expected; it was only May. As they walked, Daniel’s anxieties of the night before seemed to slip away. Everything was going to be fine; nothing was going to happen. They wandered for quite a time, eyeing up possible places to stop, feeling the heat on their backs and the pleasant sensation of being far from home. When they found that they were nearing the Sagrada Familia, they turned back. In the end, having almost done a complete loop, they sat down at a table on the pavement, a place just a couple of blocks away from where they were staying. They garbled their order apologetically in half-Spanish, half-English, but the waitress was sympathetic and brought them coffees and a selection of pastries. There were a handful of people sitting at other tables, reading newspapers, consulting travel guides.

  ‘How’s the pastry?’ Daniel said.

  ‘Not sure yet. It’s a bit sweet. There’s apricot in it or something.’

  ‘I hate that,’ he said. His own pastry was very dry, more of a cake.

  When they had finished, Daniel lit a cigarette and offered one to Isla.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, once it was alight, puffing the smoke out with real satisfaction.

  ‘What shall we do tonight, do you think? It is our actual anniversary after all. Do you think you’ll be up to something? A meal, maybe? We could go back to that restaurant from last time.’

  ‘Let me see how this goes down,’ Isla said.

  At that moment, her phone went. She answered it. It was Josep. Once Daniel knew that, he allowed their conversation to fade into the background. He watched the traffic, the play of the light through the trees.

  When Isla finished the call, she related its contents. Josep had suggested that he take Daniel for lunch, allowing Isla to rest a little more, giving her the opportunity to be fully restored for the rest of their weekend.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a little more rest,’ she said. ‘What about you? Would you mind?’

  ‘If you’d like me to go, I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I never say no to lunch.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Isla said and smiled. ‘And it will be okay with Josep? He won’t get on your nerves.’

  ‘Not at all. We had a nice chat last night.’

  She phoned Josep back and it was all arranged. Daniel had another coffee, they both had another cigarette. It was pleasant out there on the street and he was able to bat away all negative thoughts.

  When they were done, they strolled back to the apartment. For the next couple of hours, they lazed on the balcony. Isla read some essays she had to mark and Daniel attempted a crossword in a newspaper he found in the bottom of his bag. Not long before two, Josep texted. He was outside. Daniel kissed Isla and went down.

  Josep was parked by the kerb, in a convertible BMW. He had sunglasses on, shorts, his legs enviably brown and hairy. Daniel jumped in and they roared off into the traffic.

  ‘How is Isla?’ he asked.

  ‘All right, I think. It’s good of you to take me for lunch.’

  ‘It’s nothing. There’s a little place I think you’ll like. It’s not special. In any case, you must save your energy for tonight.’ He turned and looked at Daniel, a smile on his lips and, Daniel imagined, in his eyes behind his sunglasses.

  Daniel smiled back. ‘Now, now.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s the night, no?’

  ‘You mean our actual anniversary?’
/>   ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Daniel said.

  They drove down a wide avenue, a grand arch ahead of them, set back in a park that Daniel remembered visiting before. There had been buskers underneath and he and Isla had danced, a little drunkenly, and had their photograph taken by a procession of strangers. Josep had his eyes on the road. They were driving towards the sea and soon it came into view, glinting, the sails of boats peaking the horizon. Daniel thought of Isla back at the apartment, the cool tiles beneath her feet. He hoped she was reading, or sleeping, or doing whatever it was that made her comfortable.

  ‘She’ll be okay, won’t she?’ he said, leaning over to make himself heard above the traffic. ‘I don’t have to worry.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Josep said. ‘Relax. We’re nearly there.’ He swung the car to the left and they drove down a road lined with restaurants, their tables spilling out onto the wide pavement. The vista seemed familiar. Away to the right was a large, low, sandy-coloured building. Daniel had seen it before. It was the maritime museum. ‘We’re not going here,’ Josep said, nodding to the restaurants over to the left. ‘This is for the tourists.’

  He turned the car left again and drove slowly down a side street, white and terracotta buildings on either side. It was less grand than the area in which Josep lived and the smaller balconies in this part of the city were draped in flags, pledging allegiance to a bewildering array of what Daniel presumed to be football clubs. Again, it all seemed familiar. Then, as Josep pulled into a space on the left, it became apparent why. It was the very place that he and Isla had been to on their honeymoon, the one he had been talking about the preceding night as he and Josep stood on the balcony.

  ‘But this is the place I was talking about last night,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Josep said. ‘I had no idea. This is a place I always visit.’

  ‘And you had no idea?’

  ‘None.’

  He had no way of telling if Josep was in earnest or not. Perhaps Daniel had told him, or Isla had, long ago, after their honeymoon, and subsequently forgotten. Whatever the reason, as he walked along the pavement, Daniel telephoned Isla. He wanted to tell her about the extraordinary coincidence. You won’t believe this, he was going to say, but the phone rang and rang, the unfamiliar ring tone of a foreign exchange, then it went to voicemail. Assuming she was sleeping, Daniel left a message, telling her not only about the restaurant, but also that she needn’t feel any pressure about going out that evening; he would, he told her, be more than happy just to stay in and curl up with a book.

  The restaurant was much as Daniel remembered it, only busier. The previous time, with Isla, had been a weekday and they had had a pick of tables. With Josep, however, they had to share a table with an older couple, a man and a woman, their faces worn from exposure to the sun. It was clear that Josep was a familiar presence, as he nodded to the waiting staff – all men, wearing dirty white T-shirts and blue jeans. A counter separated the tables from the kitchen, which stretched to the back of the building, maybe five chefs working away on various types of grill or surface. The counter itself was covered in open dishes, already prepared and ready to be picked up by the waiters and carried to the tables.

  ‘Everything is good,’ Josep said, raising one of two cold beer bottles, which had appeared in front of them. Around him, the room was alive with voices.

  ‘I know,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ve been here before.’

  ‘Of course,’ Josep said, smiling and chinking Daniel’s bottle once again.

  The beer went down smoothly. It was precisely what Daniel wanted, cold, sharp. Josep shouted out an order to a passing waiter, who returned with more beer. Daniel had a thirst on, it was clear. He found himself wanting to convey to Josep the strength of his feeling for Isla, how fortunate he was. Josep seemed to understand, both what he was saying and why he was saying it.

  With the heat and the beer, things became distinctly heady as they tore at the little plates of food that were brought out in rapid succession, the waiter dropping the rattling dishes on the table as he rushed by carrying any number of other dishes for other tables: grilled prawns, aubergines, some kind of fried mashed potato.

  Josep knew about the food, how it was prepared, why it was good, what its origin was, and Daniel – two, three, then four beers down – was happy to hear him talk about it. His knowledge was impressive, as was the speed with which he spoke English, his fluency; it was as if, Daniel imagined, with just the two of them in freely flowing conversation, the language which Josep had learned all those years ago, when, as a young student in London, he had first known Isla, was properly coming back to him.

  The dishes of food came and went. There were desserts: burnt custard, raspberries, an almond rice, all in little terracotta ramekins, each containing no more than three or four spoonfuls’ worth. Josep did all the ordering. Daniel didn’t have to do anything, other than eat and drink. In the bathroom, he looked at himself in a cracked mirror. His face was flushed with the heat and his clothes were damp. When he returned, a fresh glass of beer was on the table. He looked at Josep and smiled.

  ‘Last one,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ Josep said. ‘Let her rest.’

  ‘I know. You’re right,’ Daniel said. ‘But I can’t help worrying.’

  ‘It does you great credit,’ Josep said, nodding and at the same moment raising his beer. ‘To you and Isla.’

  For the first time, it dawned on Daniel, that Josep had been drinking as much as he had, and that he was similarly affected. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To me and Isla. I’m sorry she’s not here. She would have loved it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. Although, if she was here, I suppose I would be somewhere else.’

  ‘Where would that somewhere else be?’

  ‘At Katya’s.’ He smiled.

  ‘And who is this Katya?’

  ‘Oh, a friend. More than a friend. I don’t know. We have known each other for a long time and the situation remains the same.’

  ‘And you’d like it to change?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I think so.’ Josep leaned forward and drained the last of his beer. ‘We go?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel said. ‘What about the bill?’

  ‘There is no bill.’

  ‘I can’t allow it,’ Daniel said. He was drunk.

  ‘Okay,’ Josep said. ‘You leave the tip. However much you think.’ He shrugged his shoulders and gestured to the table in front of them, covered in debris, prawn shells, bits of bread.

  Daniel took out his wallet and counted out three ten euro bills and threw them onto the table. Josep gestured with his eyes to one of the passing waiters. ‘You are a very generous man,’ he said, patting him on the back as they stepped out onto the street. ‘Too generous.’

  As they sat in the car, waiting for the roof to come down, Daniel said: ‘You’re all right to drive, aren’t you?’

  ‘By the law, no, but by me, yes.’ Josep smiled, released the handbrake and sped away from the kerb.

  He drove quickly, weaving dextrously in and out of the traffic. On instinct, Daniel put his hand against the doorframe.

  ‘Too fast?’ Josep said.

  ‘No, no. It’s fine.’ Daniel watched the city speed past, people waiting at crossings, hauling luggage down the street in the light of the sun. He looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s half past five,’ he said, holding it up.

  ‘I know,’ Josep said. ‘Isla will have had a good rest.’

  Daniel thought of Isla, wondering whether he should text her and warn her of his return. He decided not to. They would, he reasoned, be there in no more than ten minutes. It was impossible to think of his life without her in it. This was the lesson of ten years of marriage: to be without her would be unbearable, like falling of a cliff and finding himself at the bottom looking up at an emp
ty space. He would be back soon, would be able to hold her in his arms, for the rest of the day and night if necessary; she wouldn’t have to worry about Barcelona, or the things they had planned.

  Josep pulled the car up to the kerb. Daniel thanked him and dashed into the apartment building. He couldn’t wait for the lift and ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. As he burst through the door, he was panting, hot.

  ‘Darling,’ he shouted. ‘Isla!’ but there was no reply. He passed through the bedroom on his way to the bathroom. The sheets were crumpled, but beyond that there was no sign of Isla. He didn’t yet feel a twinge of panic. She would be out the front, perhaps asleep on the balcony, he thought, as he urinated, while at the same time calling out behind him: ‘Isla! Darling! I’m back.’

  When he finally went through to the front of the apartment, she wasn’t there. The doors to both balconies hung open and a faint breeze was coming in. He went out onto the balcony, just to be sure. It was at this point that Daniel began, not to panic exactly, but to feel alert, as if his body or his gut were telling him that he needed to have his wits about him, that something was taking place that needed his attention. He went back through to the bedroom. Nothing. He went through to the second bedroom. Nothing. He went back to the first bedroom. He stood by the bed and called her phone. There was no answer. As it rang, he looked at her bags, which had been neatly placed against the back wall of the room. Alongside them, a small pile of clothes. It was the clothes she had been wearing earlier, neatly folded. It went to voicemail. Daniel dialled the number again; still no answer.

  All at once, he felt as if the ground had become unsteady beneath his feet, that it was in fact disappearing, crumbling and falling away and that he was tumbling through the air. But even as he felt that he was tumbling he felt also that he had seen this coming, almost precisely this, that he had, in fact, subconsciously predicted its coming, to himself, as he and Isla had sat at the coffee shop having breakfast that morning, when Isla put the telephone down and told him of Josep’s suggestion. He had known then – with a cold, iron certainty – that Isla would not be at the apartment when he returned. Despite this sense of having known what was going to happen, he still felt an equal sense of disbelief: this could not be happening; it was impossible.