by Rich Allen
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
“Un vaso de chardonnay. Medio,” said Jack.
“Ok.”
“Can you recommend any dishes?” Jack asked. He’d gone by a waiter’s recommendation on his first visit.
The young man smiled and opened up Jack’s menu. “Yes of course. Do you like fish?”
“I love it,” Jack replied.
Jack agreed to the waiter’s suggestions, and the young man hastily scribbled down the orders. He returned a few moments later with Jack’s chilled chardonnay, which really hit the spot. The men at the bar had ceased staring at him. Thank goodness. Still, he couldn’t blame them. He looked like a stereotypical tourist. He checked his phone. No messages. There never seemed to be any messages - or calls come to think of it.
The dishes arrived one by one: a bruschetta style toast smeared in rich tomato sauce, a raw cod dish with a tangy salsa, then a local specialty of battered spring onions followed by a tuna Carpaccio. Jack wasn’t a regular eater of raw fish, but he enjoyed every morsel. To finish, he ordered the Catalan custard; a local take on crème brulee. Duly sated, he downed an espresso then paid the very reasonable twenty five euro bill.
The sunshine had returned as he left the restaurant. He checked his watch. Two forty five. He still had plenty of time left on planet Earth. Tomorrow teatime might be the right moment to bring things to an end. Buy some paracetamols from a chemist. Three boxes should be plenty. He’d probably down a bottle of brandy beforehand. But all that seemed ages away yet. He still had around thirty hours of life to fit in. What to do? Well, he needed to finish off the email to Rose. He wanted to get back to the apartment to check his emails anyway. Maybe there’d be another message from Quint waiting for him. The whole business intrigued him. What with that and the Michael Stipe episode.
Jack got to the end of the road and took a right down Roma, heading towards the train station. The twenty minute stroll back to the apartment had left him sweaty, so he took a cold shower as soon as he got there. With two white towels wrapped around him, he sat down on the sofa and switched on his netbook. After several minutes spent cursing the slow connection, he finally made it into cyberspace and logged into his email account. One new message. Oh! He clicked to open it.
Sender: Natasha Lloyd
Subject: The Stone of Destiny
Dear Mr. Holden
Thank you for your submission which we have read with interest. Unfortunately we did not feel enthusiastic enough about it to want to take this further. We are sorry to give you a disappointing response, but thank you for thinking of us in connection with your work.
We regret the necessity of a form letter, but we are unable to respond personally because of the large number of unsolicited submissions we receive.
Natasha Lloyd
Children’s Submissions Department
Ness & Lloyd Publishing.
Jack smiled. He’d heard it all before. Thanks but no thanks. And he’d thought that the radio industry was tough. Getting a book published seemed nigh on impossible. He closed the email and stared at his inbox. Still no news from Quint. He checked to make sure that the email from yesterday was still there. Yeah, there it was. “Don’t do it, chief.” It just didn’t add up. He reopened the draft email to his sister:
Dear Rose,
Please don’t be alarmed, but I suppose you will be anyway. I’m afraid life got the better of me and I decided to exit stage left. I really didn’t see a future worth living, and, though you may see this as a coward’s way out, I ask that you please don’t judge me too harshly. I ask that you will always remember me fondly and that you will not let my selfish act have a negative impact on your own life. You have a bright future ahead of you, Rose. If there is an afterlife, I hope that I will see you there, many years from now.
Love always
Jack x
P.S. he added. “I would like if possible for you to play She’s a Mystery to Me by Roy Orbison at my funeral. A simple service will suffice. I feel bad that you’ll probably have to pick up the tab. As a small gesture, I’m posting you my Tag watch, which will help cover some of the costs. I’m really sorry to be a burden. Even in death.”
Jack re-read the email several times. Not exactly a work of art, but it would have to do. Hovering the cursor over the Send button, he re-read the words until he literally couldn’t see them anymore. As a distraction, he went over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. He took a sip before heading back to the open netbook. Sending that email felt so final. Instead, he picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Another cookery programme.
He flicked between various foreign news and sports channels. But what was this? There, staring back at him was the actor who played Quint. This time, Robert Shaw was in the guise of a mercenary about to hijack a subway train. A movie Jack was familiar with: The Taking of Pelham One Two Three. Jack stared, transfixed, listening to Shaw’s badly dubbed dialogue.
“Ping.”
A new email. Jack grabbed the netbook and placed it on his knee. Sender: Quint. Nothing in the Subject line. He felt his body stiffen as he paused for a few seconds and then opened the contents. What the…
“Go to Rome, chief.”
This had to be a windup. Jack re-read the email, trying to make sense of it, but it made no sense at all. He hit the Reply tab and typed: “Who the hell is this? I don’t have the money to fly to Rome, even if I wanted to. Suppose you tell me what the hell this is all about!” He felt the adrenalin rising up his body. He clicked Send and then turned his attention back to the movie, where Walter Matthau enjoyed screen time.
Several seconds passed by.
“Ping.”
Quint again. Jack clicked open the email. “Sell your watch.”
Sell my watch? Jack thought for a few seconds then typed back: “You want me to sell my watch, so I can go to Rome on your say so. And I’m going to comply why? Dream on. Whoever you are. This joke isn’t funny.” Jack clicked Send then took several quick swigs of beer.
“Ping.”
Jack clicked it open. “Trust me, chief,” the message read, and then a P.S. at the bottom: “Love the Roy Orbison song by the way.”
Jack’s heart rate quickened. What the! How the hell did he know about his email to Rose? Then a light bulb lit up in his brain. My God! Someone had hacked into his netbook.
Jack switched his attention back to the movie. He couldn’t understand any of the dubbed Spanish; they spoke too fast for his brain to keep up. The scene switched from Walter Matthau in the Control Centre to Robert Shaw on board a hijacked subway carriage.
“Ping.”
Sender: Quint. A cocktail of fear and adrenalin coursed through Jack as he clicked open the email.
“I’ll be in touch when you get to Rome,” it said.
Jack stared at the screen and re-read it. He thought about replying, but felt unable to. What could he say? The whole episode seemed to be getting weirder by the minute. He shut down the netbook, then walked over to the fridge and grabbed another beer. He’d never been to Rome before. Oh, what was he thinking? Was he seriously considering following a wild goose chase? Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the money for an airfare, never mind accommodation.
Quint had mentioned selling his watch, but to whom? Anyway, he’d already planned on posting it to Rose. Jack didn’t even know how much the Tag was worth. In all honesty, he’d been too scared to find out. Deep down, he suspected it might be a fake.
Putting the beer down, he slipped the timepiece off his wrist and admired it. A shame about the scratch across the face; he shouldn’t have worn it for that charity cricket match. The Monaco 24 held him in its handsome gaze. A square black titanium case housed the chronograph which had a vertical blue and orange Le Mans motif down the face. It was the modern equivalent of the watch that Steve McQueen had worn in Le Mans. Jack had mentioned it once in passing, and on his following birthday, he’d unwrapped Fiona’s present to see the Monaco staring back at him. He remember
ed feeling both surprised and delighted.
Oh come on, It had to be Fiona behind all this Quint nonsense. After all, she knew about the watch because she’d bought the damn thing. He grabbed his phone, but suddenly remembered that in a fit of pique he’d deleted her number. Arse. What the hell was she playing at? He felt tempted to reply to the last email. A “Hello Fiona” might break the ice. The more he thought about it though, the less likely it felt like the sort of thing that she’d do.
Jack hooked the black leather strap back onto his wrist. Half past three on the nose. He finished his beer, went to the loo then headed out of the apartment. A walk and a proper cup of coffee might clear his head. After a few minutes, he reached Placa Espana and grabbed an outside table at a street cafe. As he sat down a young waiter approached. “English?”
Jack nodded. Was it that obvious? “Café con leche, per favor.”
The dark haired young man smiled and then disappeared inside.
Jack looked around. The others tables were filled with Spaniards; some reading newspapers, others, animated in their group conversations. On the table opposite, a tall forty something man sat alone, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t look Spanish, in fact, with his light features and blue eyes, more Scandinavian. Maybe Jack was being overly paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man kept staring at him.
As the young waiter arrived with the coffee, Jack took out his wallet and totted up his finances. Three ten euro notes to his name and about four more euros in coins. Certainly not enough for a one way ticket to Rome. God, he was serious about going there! He took a sip of coffee and peered over his shades. As he did, he caught Smokin’ Joe staring back at him.
“I’m sorry,” said the man in a smooth European accent. “I was just admiring your watch. It’s a Le Mans, isn’t it?”
Jack smiled, and inside, felt a huge sense of relief. He slipped the timepiece off his wrist and held it up. “Yeah, take a look if you like,” he said.
The man looked a little surprised, but got up, stubbed out his cigarette then headed over to Jack’s table. He held out a hand, “My name is Jeremy.”
Jack shook it. “Please, sit down. I’m Jack.” You’d better not run off with this, pal, he thought as he handed over the watch.
Jeremy sat down and examined the timepiece. “May I enquire how much you paid for it?”
Jack got the feeling that the guy might be some kind of aficionado. “Well, actually it was a gift,” he said.
Jeremy smiled and put the watch down on the table. “So, you definitely wouldn’t be interested in selling it?”
Get in, Jack thought. “Well, I’m no longer with the person that bought me it. In fact, she cheated on me,” he said, “so…actually, yes; I may be interested, for the right price.” She cheated on him! Why had he said that?
“I see,” Jeremy said as he reached for a packet of Lucky Strike. “I’m glad to hear that it has no sentimental value because, I’m afraid that it’s a fake. A good quality fake, but a fake nonetheless. It’s also got a scratch across the face. What if I made you an offer of say two hundred euros…?”
Jeremy pointed the pack of cigarettes towards Jack, who shook his head. It seemed that Jack’s suspicions about the watch had just been corroborated and two hundred euros seemed like a lot of money. But the watch might be worth more. Jack was tempted to take the two hundred. But how much would a ticket to Rome cost? “I’ll need three fifty,” he said confidently.
Jeremy sat back and lit his cigarette. He took a deep drag, exhaling the fumes slowly through his nostrils as he picked up the Tag and held it up close to his eyes.
Bugger. Jack had probably just priced himself out of a deal. Still, he knew he could come down if necessary. He’d look a right Charlie if he let it go for two hundred now though. Bare minimum, two twenty.
“I tell you what,” said Jeremy, who placed the timepiece down next to the ashtray, “I’ll make you one more offer…”
Jack sat back in his chair and toyed with his empty cup. “Go on,” he said.
“Two fifty. Take it or leave it! Is that the correct expression?”
Jack smiled. “Yes, it’s the correct expression, and I’ll take it.”
Jeremy smiled back and placed his cigarette in the ashtray so he could shake hands with Jack across the table. “Please excuse me for five minutes while I go and get some cash,” he said.
“Oh.” Jack felt disappointed that he wasn’t going to get his hands on the money straight away.
“Don’t worry,” said Jeremy as he extracted the cigarette from the ashtray and hung it in the corner of his mouth. “I just need to go to the ATM around the corner.”
Jack took the watch off the table and put it back on his wrist. “Ok, I’ll wait here.” But you’d better come back buster! he thought.
Jeremy gestured a wave then disappeared into the pavement traffic, leaving Jack feeling more than a little nervous about the deal. It would be just his luck if the guy changed his mind and never came back. The secret of being a great salesman was to seal the deal. If you let the client get away, they might change their mind. Maybe he should have offered to walk to the cash machine with him. No, that was way too pushy.
Jack checked his watch. Jeremy had been gone two minutes. So…the Tag had been a fake after all. Typical Fiona. Although she may well have bought it in good faith, he conceded. It still didn’t rule her out of being the author of those emails and she’d clearly paid a lot of money for the watch; fake or not. C’mon Jeremy, ‘Show me the money.’ The only line worth remembering from Jerry Maguire rattled around his head. He checked the time again. Jeremy had been gone four minutes.
It dawned on Jack that he hadn’t thought about his original mission for a while. The whole point of being in Barcelona. The watch and the emails had been a distraction, but would they really change anything? If Jack travelled to Rome, would it be anything more than an eleventh hour postponement of the inevitable? It worried Jack that his survival instincts had kicked in. He didn’t need any complications. After all, he’d made up his mind. One final vacation in Barcelona and then curtains. Instead, he now found himself contemplating some kind of wild goose chase in Rome. Where would that lead him? He checked his watch again. Eight minutes. He’d give Jeremy seven more.
The waiter cleared away the coffee cup and asked Jack if he’d like another. He shook his head and left three euros on the table. Jeremy definitely wasn’t coming back. Jack scanned the street, but couldn’t see him. He’d been gone at least ten minutes now. How long did it take to get money out of a cash machine? Two hundred and fifty euros: could that buy a life? It could probably buy a plane ticket to the Eternal City.
Twelve minutes. Where the hell was Jeremy? Punctuality had always been a bugbear with Jack. Fiona had driven him potty with her tardiness. Constant complaints had gotten him nowhere. To say that she hadn’t taken criticism well would be a gross understatement.
Jack looked around, but still no sign of Jeremy. He opened his wallet and double checked the money inside. More than enough to buy paracetamols and a bottle of brandy. He passed a few more minutes examining the various business cards which he kept inside his wallet. Tradesmen for every eventuality. Then, he pulled out the white piece of card that had been posted through his letterbox in Gateshead. The ‘Jesus Loves You’ card. Did Jesus love him enough to shell out two hundred and fifty euros so that he could buy a plane ticket to Rome?
Fifteen minutes. Jack got up and looked around. No Jeremy. He slowly moved towards the pavement, where a convoy of bicycles whistled past at speed. The bloody timewaster. Walking along the crowded street, Jack made his way to the traffic lights opposite the arena. The junction was snarled up with sightseeing buses, loading and offloading their human cargo. He needed some tunes so he hooked up the iPod. Mr Mister’s soaring intro began: ‘Kyrie eleison…’
Yeah, Jack thought. Lord have mercy. Greek apparently. Another song fact from an ex radio jock. He made his way inside the shopping arcade
and sat down on a bench, passively watching the dozens of shoppers that streamed by, their minds awash with consumerism.
From his vantage point, Jack glanced wistfully across the road at the café and spotted a young couple kissing. It triggered his recurring bad memory. The day after Fiona had dumped him; Jack walked into a pub and witnessed something that would set his Suicide Vacation in motion – Fiona, with another man’s tongue down her throat. She never even noticed Jack. He’d stood there, paralyzed… not knowing what to do. Then, in an almighty rage, he’d bolted outside and rammed his fist into a wall.
Jack shot up. The dark spell broken. Jeremy! He ran towards the door and shot out into the oncoming shoppers. “Lo siento! Sorry!” The traffic lights were on red for pedestrians but Jack barely glanced at the oncoming scooter as he shot across the road. Over Mr Mister, he heard some cursing and several beeps of a horn, but he never looked back.
