by Rich Allen
“Don’t do it, chief.”
Jack took a deep breath and tried to rationalize. “Don’t do it, chief.” It’s what Quint the shark hunter had called Chief Brody, played by Roy Scheider in the movie. Who the hell had sent him that message? Who knew about his mission? Nobody. Oh, wait a minute. Might it be a cryptic message from Fiona? He liked the idea of that. She wanted to save him because she still loved him. But she didn’t know about his intended deed. And why would she go by the name Quint? He’d be surprised if she knew the names of any of the characters from Jaws.
Only one thing for it. Jack hit Reply and typed “Who are you?” and then clicked Send. He waited patiently for about five minutes but got no response. Finishing his beer, he closed the screen and then nipped across the road to the pizza parlour. He felt excited but also confused by the email.
As he waited for his ten inch pepperoni, he looked ahead to his final meal on Friday. The condemned man always got to eat a hearty meal didn’t he? A 10oz New York Strip steak, cooked medium rare with vine tomatoes and fries. That sounded good. A large glass of Rioja would be the perfect accompaniment. But, could anyone really enjoy their last meal – knowing it would be their final treat before the big sleep? And then what? An afterlife? Somehow, Jack doubted it. Still, if he was wrong, he’d find out soon enough.
Jack got back to the apartment, pizza in hand. He felt desperate to see if Quint had replied to his email. It had to be some kind of joke, albeit in poor taste, or perhaps a genuine mistake. Maybe someone had emailed the wrong Jack Holden. There had to be a plausible explanation. He plated up the pizza, grabbed another beer from the fridge and opened up the screen on the netbook. Damn. Still no reply. He checked that his last message had been sent. It had. Weird though, that Quint’s email address didn’t appear anywhere. He’d never seen an address cloaked before. He clicked back to the inbox and began tucking into the pizza, his eyes fixed on the screen. C’mon, email me back, whoever you are.
After demolishing the pizza, Jack licked the residual tomato sauce off his fingers. One of life’s true pleasures: beer and pizza. ‘Best friends’, as Jamie Oliver might describe them. Still no reply from Quint. Jack waited a few more minutes without response then turned off the netbook.
He felt a bit sleepy now. That was probably an age thing. In his twenties he ate and drank like a trooper and hardly ever felt tired. Since his mid-thirties, a hearty meal and a glass of wine had turned him into a narcoleptic. Well, until the stresses of life started to interfere with his sleeping. Over the past twelve months he’d suffered more sleepless nights than in the previous thirty nine years of his existence. Tonight though, Jack would slumber like a saint.
He turned on the TV with the remote. It was always fun to flick through the foreign channels. Columbo came on, dubbed badly; the episode where Ricardo Montalban played the murderous matador. A game show which looked like the Spanish version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and then a cookery programme with a potty looking old bloke caressing an artichoke. Ah that was better - football. Deportivo la Caruna versus Real Sociedad. Thirty minutes played and goalless. Jack nestled himself inside the welcoming bosom of the sofa and watched the game. For the next hour, he forgot about suicide. He even forgot about Quint.
Chapter Four:
Thursday: 10:18 am. Jack realized the time when he checked his phone. He’d been asleep for hours. He got out of bed and looked at himself in the full length mirror. Colin Firth’s suicidal character in A Single Man, spoke to him: ‘…Staring back at me isn't so much a face, as the expression of a predicament.’
He left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. Coffee and toast for breakfast. Slide rule lines of light filtered into the apartment from the half open vertical blinds in the lounge. Jack gathered his thoughts as he filled a mug with coffee granules. What was the itinerary today? Oh yeah, the Green Route. Maybe he’d get off the bus this time and do some exploring.
He sat down at the table and sipped at the coffee. He felt as though he’d actually slept quite well. Probably a combination of travelling, sun and beer. He suddenly remembered the email from Quint. Had he dreamt all that? He had to check, just in case. Within a few minutes, he’d accessed his email. No new messages. But, there it was, from yesterday. Sender: Quint. He opened the message: “Don’t do it, chief.” He scratched his head and felt glad that he hadn’t dreamt it. Why hadn’t this Quint character emailed him back?
Jack turned off the netbook and got himself showered and changed, then applied sunscreen. Using the mirror in the bedroom, he noticed that the top of his forehead and the back of his neck had turned bright red. He decided to put on a green, tight fitting t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. White trainer socks and a pair of blue Adidas Sambas finished the look. He admired himself in the mirror. Not bad for a forty year old depressive. He left the apartment and made his way past Tarragona and on towards Placa Espanya.
Another busy day in the Catalan capital. Hundreds of tourists milled about, their obligatory maps held at eye level. The locals seemed to have the best idea; sat outside cafes, smoking cigarettes and sipping espresso. Couples laughed together; lost in a world of bubblegum hope.
Jack took a left and motored down the Gran Via. He’d always been a brisk walker and hated dawdlers getting in his way. Being elderly was an acceptable excuse, but young and middle aged street stragglers seemed to be out in force today. Arriving at Placa Catalunya, he spotted a column of overweight sunburned people lining up. He fell in at the back of the queue.
When the Green Line bus rolled up, Jack followed the throng onboard. He flashed his pass at the ticket lady and headed up top, grabbing a seat near the front this time. He examined the tour map. There it was: Sagrada Familia. Last time, the queues to go inside had been prohibitive and Fiona and he had decided against it. But, when he’d returned home, several people that had been inside the church told him that the wait would’ve been well worth it. So, this time, Jack would stay in line for however long it took.
The bus got moving and headed down past the Gothic Cathedral then on to the aquarium by the shoreline. Jack liked aquariums, but they were a bit like castles and churches: once you’d seen one…
After the bus stopped to pick up a few more tourists, it headed east across the marina. Jack glanced down and noticed a pedestrian almost walk out in front of it. The driver honked his horn just in time for the earphone wearing teenager to step back onto the pavement.
The incident brought to mind something that had happened to Jack when he was about fourteen years old. He’d crossed a busy road without due care. He’d expected the car to brake, but it hadn’t. He’d stood, rooted to the spot, expecting oblivion. No screech of brakes. Eyeball to eyeball with the driver. Then, Jack had felt some kind of force around him. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the pavement at the other side of the road - like a chess piece that had been moved from one side of the board to the other by an invisible hand. The car had driven off without damage or incident and Jack had stood there, wondering how the hell he hadn’t been killed. He’d never told anyone about it. There had to be a logical explanation.
The bus drove past the beach at Barceloneta and Jack soaked up the view. The sun appeared to be at its most brilliant today. Implacable in all its glory. Some days it felt as though the sun had the power to conquer all of the world’s injustices.
Up the east side of the Avenue Diagonal and the bus passed the gherkin shaped building known as Torre Agbar. Sounds like Akbar, Jack thought. His mind wandered to Admiral Akbar from Return of The Jedi: ‘It’s a trap.’ He smiled, having associated a spectacular edifice in Barcelona with an anthropomorphic, intergalactic prawn.
Finally, the tour bus arrived at Gaudi’s masterpiece. Everyone up top pointed and sighed in amazement as the colourful gothic spires came into view. Typical, Jack thought. Why was it that every spectacular, historic building in the world seemed to be surrounded by scaffolding and giant cranes? It had been the same at Il Duomo in Milan and at several of
the key sites in Florence. When he’d visited Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland, the building had been covered from tip to toe in a steel cage.
Jack and it seemed everyone else on board, alighted at Stop Eleven. Following the crowds towards the queue for the church, he stopped off at a mobile kiosk and purchased a four euro bottle of tepid water. After several gulps, he joined the back of the line for La Sagrada Familia. The queue snaked around the corner, hindering his view of Gaudi’s unfinished church. He craned his neck to look at the spires. Fancy pen tops.
In front of the crowds, invisible to the sweating tourists queuing in line, sat a dark haired, wrinkly old woman. She crouched in front of a small empty plastic beaker, muttering something. She didn’t look a day under eighty years old. Jack stared at her but she never stared back. She just sat there in the baking heat, repeating her mantra.
He felt inconspicuous in the queue, but that would change any moment now. He slipped his hand into his pocket and extracted a two euro coin. Fighting his inner coward, Jack walked out of line before bending down and dropping the coin into the woman’s beaker. She looked up at him and muttered some words of gratitude and Jack said “It’s ok, it’s ok.” He slipped back in line to the looks of disdain from his fellow travellers. The beggar lady looked hopeful that Jack might have started a chain reaction of impulsive giving, but it wasn’t to be.
He felt his back starting to sweat as he nudged forward in the line, every few inches feeling like a little victory. In reality it took him half an hour to get to the ticket booth. By that time he’d gotten a much better view of the church, and what a view, he thought as he looked up at the rock carved Passion scene above the entrance. He paid twelve euros fifty to the man in the booth who informed him that the lifts to the top were out of order. Bummer.
As Jack walked inside he took off his shades and looked skyward. Wow. He’d never seen anything like it. The whole ceiling had been lined with what looked like an intricate array of plaster flowers of different shapes and sizes. Some of them had tall marble pillars for stems, which punctuated the floor of the huge church. Hues of multi coloured lights filtered in through the huge stained glass windows. Jack had been wrong about churches; they weren’t all the same.
He wandered around, awestruck at this heady cocktail. He learned that the Sagrada was still a work in progress. Gaudi had completed only a quarter of the work on the place by the time of his death and the expensive job of completing his vision had been ongoing.
Jack wandered out through the back of the church, all the while craning his neck. The intricacy and attention to detail on the reliefs outside reminded him of the work of the master stonemasons that had so beautifully decorated Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh. He walked down towards the museum and took out his iPod. The Joy of Shuffle didn’t let him down: Stevie Winwood’s keyboard intro to While You See a Chance tickled his ears. Maybe one to play at the funeral service. He suddenly felt guilty; Rose would have to pick up the tab for his funeral. Even in death he was being a selfish bastard. It would be cheaper to bury him in Barcelona than have his body repatriated. Oh, here was an idea - he’d post Rose his Tag watch. That might help cover some of the costs.
Scale models of Gaudi’s masterpiece sat behind museum glass. Jack looked at the artefacts but never really saw them. Museums often had that effect on him. Maybe you just had to be in the right frame of mind. He put his shades on and walked outside as Stevie Winwood’s song ceased and R.E.M.’s Drive began. After a twenty second acoustic guitar intro, Michael Stipe’s moody vocals hit his ears.
The crowds outside seemed to have doubled in size. Too many people for Jack. He’d never liked crowds. That’s why he’d never enjoyed music festivals. He squeezed past the tourists who stood fixed to the spot and then exited through the gate towards the park.
He found a bench in the shade and sat down. Maybe it was the Brit in him, but he fancied a cup of tea. He hadn’t paid any attention to the person sat alone reading a broadsheet newspaper on the bench opposite. But now – they’d put their newspaper down. The man had heavy stubble and wore sunglasses and a Sinatra style hat.
My God! Jack sat there, open mouthed; his eyes fixed on the man sat four metres opposite him. It couldn’t be! The guy glanced Jack’s way and shot him a half smile. Jack stared like a rubbernecker at Michael Stipe, the lead singer of R.E.M. who got up and walked off towards the church.
“Yeah, maybe I’m crazy in the head, baby…” Jack paraphrased Mr Stipe’s words which fed into his ears from the iPod.
Jack needed something stronger than tea. He’d just seen Michael Stipe. Maybe he ought to follow him. No, he might be mad, but he wasn’t a stalker.
The R.E.M. frontman had disappeared from view by the time Drive segued into Motorcycle Emptiness by The Manic Street Preachers. Jack turned off the iPod and took out the plugs. The sounds of teenagers larking about in the park replaced the wall of sound in his ears. Had he just imagined all that? No, it seemed so real.
He got up and walked over to a nearby café where he sat under a parasol and ordered a large brandy. The strong flavour of the local brew reminded him that he wasn’t a regular daytime drinker. He had an excuse though: shock. They always advised brandy for that didn’t they? A few more sips and Jack had convinced himself that he really had seen Michael Stipe whilst listening to an R.E.M. song on his iPod. But was that really such a big deal? Maybe just coincidence. R.E.M. had probably played in Barcelona the previous night. No, that couldn’t be right – the band had split. Something else was going on. But what?
It might be an idea to play his iPod all the time. Who knew what other singers he might see in the flesh: Tom Jones, Bono, maybe even Elvis. No, if he bumped into Elvis then he definitely would have lost the plot.
Jack finished off his brandy, paid the waiter then headed back to the bus stop at the corner of the park. He looked back at La Sagrada Familia. Beautiful. So beautiful. He felt a bit woozy.
A middle aged oriental couple also waited at Stop Eleven. Jack said hello to them and they replied pleasantly in broken English. After waiting around for ten minutes in the unforgiving heat, the Green Line bus arrived. The gaggle of tourists got off and Jack let the oriental couple board first. He flashed his ticket at the ticket inspector then headed upstairs, sat down and nodded off.
Chapter Five:
Jack awoke to see the bus heading into the square at Placa Catalunya. He checked his watch. One thirty five. The bus had been almost empty when he’d boarded at La Sagrada Familia, but it seemed full now. Lucky for him that he’d woken up when he had, otherwise he might have been stuck on the thing all afternoon. He joined the throngs of tourists waiting to get down the stairs. One thing Jack noticed about German, Japanese and American male tourists: they liked their cameras big. What was wrong with smaller cameras? Twelve million pixels clearly weren’t enough for some people.
It felt cooler as Jack set foot on terra firma at Placa Catalunya. Hunger suddenly gripped him, but he didn’t want to eat at any of the rip off restaurants near the square. Remembering the fabulous tapas place off the Avenida, he opened up the street map. It was up Muntaner somewhere. He could get the Metro but the hospitable cool air persuaded him to take a walk. Making his way passed the snail paced tourists and the street vendors with euro signs in their eyes, Jack headed towards the university. He checked to make sure he still had his wallet. Pick pockets made a healthy living in Barcelona.
Clouds now filled the sky. Typical. Jack increased his pace and took a right up Muntaner; a pleasant residential area typical of the real Barcelona. Light rain drizzled down as the sun attempted to peak through the clouds. He walked past shops and houses, past old women beating their carpets over tiny balconies and glimpsed the huge hospital off a side street. Almost there. It had stopped spitting by the time he spotted Paco Meralgo. He peered in through the window and noticed several locals sitting around the bar. As Jack walked in, everyone turned around and stared at him. For a moment, he felt like he’d walked into The Slaught
ered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London.
“Hola. Tienes abierto?” Jack said to the dark haired young man behind the bar.
“You is English?”
Thank goodness. “Yes. English. I came here once before and really enjoyed it,” Jack said.
“My English not great, but I have English menu here somewhere. Please sit and I serve you.”
Jack smiled as the men at the bar continued to stare at him. They’d get bored soon enough - he hoped! He remembered when he’d been before with Fiona. Again, there’d been only one waiter that spoke any English. Jack had always tried to use the little Spanish he’d picked up from night school, but the Catalan dialect was very different to Castilian.
Jack sat down on a very high stool at a tiny table opposite the bar. The young man, who looked to be in his twenties came over with a menu and handed it to Jack.
