by Rich Allen
Jack was down the road that he must travel. He arrived at the café, out of breath. Jeremy, where was Jeremy? He’d seen him just a minute ago from across the street. Don’t say he’d lost him again. Just then, he felt a tap on the shoulder. He unplugged his earphones and turned around. Thank God!
“Hey. I thought you’d changed your mind,” Jeremy said as he reached inside his jacket and extracted his wallet.
Jack stood there for a second, open mouthed. “I thought that you’d…”
“Changed my mind,” said Jeremy. “No…I just had some difficulty with the ATM so I had to go inside the bank to get my money. Do you still want to sell the watch?”
“Do you have the money?”
Jeremy nodded and extracted five fifty euro notes which he handed to Jack. After slipping off the watch, Jack passed it to its new owner and watched him fasten it around his wrist. Both men then stared at each other for an awkward moment before Jeremy held out his hand. Jack shook it and then watched his benefactor disappear into the crowd.
Now that the deed had been done, Jack felt a pang of guilt. The watch had been a gift, after all. It felt wrong to sell gifts, even if they were fake. Then it suddenly dawned on him. What if the Tag hadn’t been a fake? Maybe he’d just been scammed. Fake or not, Jack was heading for Rome.
Chapter Six:
It was after five by the time Jack made it back to the apartment. The cool interior that greeted him felt pleasant against his moist skin. God, it was warm out there. Predictably, he made for the fridge and reached for an Estrella. It slipped down like velvet. He needed to check how much an air ticket to Rome would cost so he grabbed the netbook and placed it on the dining table.
The WI-FI seemed to be on a go slow, and he’d downed his beer by the time the homepage popped up. First things first, he’d check his email account for any new messages from movie characters.
Jack typed in his password and, with an air of excitement, waited for the tiny circle on the screen to complete its data digestion. No doubt about it; logging into your email account could be exciting. Especially when you’d received mysterious messages. Here we go…oh. No new messages. He’d probably have to wait until Rome before he heard from Quint again, but a frisson of hope always teased him when he logged in: maybe, just possibly… a radio job offer had streamed through the ether and landed in his inbox, or perhaps a publisher desperate to offer him an advance on his book.
Jack clicked onto the search engine and typed in: “Flights from Barcelona to Rome.” A link offered twenty seven euro flights to the Eternal City. Yeah, you probably had to fly the damn plane yourself. He typed in the web address for Sky-seeker and completed the necessary details for a flight out the next day. Again the circle on the screen churned around for an eternity. Bingo! Some airline he’d never heard of came in at ninety nine euros. Not too much of an early start either; nine thirty, with the flight getting into Rome at quarter past eleven.
Jack didn’t have the money in the bank to cover a debit card transaction, and he’d cut up all his credit cards months ago. He reckoned that taxes would take the cost of the flight up to about a hundred and thirty euros. The only thing he could do would be to get to the airport early and try and buy a ticket over the counter. Did people still do that? Turn up at the airport and buy a ticket?
He closed down the netbook and packed it away inside his duffel bag. He suddenly felt tired. That, he could deal with, but not the confusion. What was happening to him? Why had someone interfered in his life? He’d not asked anybody to. All he’d wanted was to go to Barcelona and kill himself. He’d accepted the status quo. He’d not made a big deal out of it. No cry for help from Jack Holden.
It was possible, he conceded, that he’d lost touch with reality and imagined the emails. Imagined the Michael Stipe episode in the park. If he was mad, then surely he’d be better off out of the picture anyway. Perhaps he’d always been unhinged. There’d be those who concurred with that. After he killed himself, they’d all come crawling out of the woodwork. “Yeah, Jack Holden, such a shame. Still, I’m not entirely surprised,” they’d say. “I mean he was always a bit…you know…unbalanced.”
No, Jack couldn’t be crazy. A true crackpot would never entertain the thought that he or she might be mad. Crazy people considered themselves to be the most normal folk on the planet. It was everyone else who was crazy.
Jack went out onto the balcony and sat down. He heard dogs bark and people bicker. Just like being back in Gateshead. He slumped forward in the chair and felt like Michael Corleone at the end of The Godfather Part Three. He could die right now. Give up his spirit and go. The final part of the Godfather trilogy had actually been Jack’s favourite. The critics had slated it, but what did they know. What was the point in one person’s subjective view? A solitary voice counted for nothing in this life.
Jack woke up and felt a shiver. It was dark outside as he sat there on the balcony chair with his head slumped to one side and drool slipping down his chin. An attractive site, for sure. He wandered back indoors, switched on the light and checked the time on his phone. Twenty past nine. He’d been asleep for hours. He went to the fridge and helped himself to a beer.
Shuffling into the bedroom with his drink, he bent down and unzipped the duffel bag. He grabbed the three pictures he’d packed and then walked back into the living room. Placing the picture frames on the coffee table, he collapsed onto the sofa, spilling beer over himself as he did. He stared at the photographs. His mum and dad looked so young and happy as they stood there on the beach, their arms wrapped around each other. His eyes then moved along to Rose, who was sandwiched between the other two picture frames. The shot had been taken on her graduation day. She’d been the only Holden to get a degree. Jack had actually been jealous for a while. A tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away with the beer can and focused on the final picture on the coffee table: Fiona. That cheeky, impish smile and her crowning glory of curly flaxen locks. They’d shared many happy times together, especially here, in Barcelona.
Jack drank down the remaining contents of his can then crushed it in his hand. He smiled as he compared himself to Luke Skywalker at the end of Return of the Jedi. Instead of the spirits of Obi-Wan, Yoda and Anakin, Jack had the company of his parents, his sister and his lost love. He lay there on the sofa for some time, occasionally opening his eyes to stare at the photographs. Eventually, he extracted himself from the comfort of the sofa and made his way into the bedroom. The nostalgia trip had left him exhausted. Grabbing his phone, he put it on charge then set the alarm for six.
Chapter Seven:
Jack sat at the coffee shop inside the airport. He’d purchased his ticket and made it through security about an hour earlier. The plane ticket to Rome had set him back a hundred and thirty three euros including taxes, leaving him with just over a hundred and forty in the kitty. He sipped on an Americano as he browsed the web for information about Rome. He typed “cheap accommodation in Rome” into the search engine. A long list of budget hotels and hostels appeared.
Hostel San Giovanni sounded promising at only twenty five euros a night for a shared dorm and fifty for a single room. Jack didn’t think he could stomach a shared dorm, though. Not after his experience in Amsterdam. The one and only time he’d had to endure a hostel, and he’d vowed never again. It had been several years back, when he’d travelled there with a friend who was on a tight budget. Jack didn’t mind sharing a room with a friend, but not with half a dozen noisy blokes on a stag weekend. The experience was not one he cared to repeat, but… if this place had single rooms and possibly WI-FI…
Jack caught something on the public address system about a flight to Rome. He stood up and checked the screen. Yep, his flight now had a gate number. He quickly looked at the online map location for the hostel and noted down its address. It appeared to be close to the Coliseum.
He turned off the netbook and positioned it under his arm as he followed the signs towards the departure gates. He found Gate Seven
teen then joined the long line of travellers waiting for someone to attend the desk.
Eventually a glamorous lady in a sky blue uniform arrived. She was slim with soft features and dark hair, and reminded Jack of Catherine Zeta Jones in The Terminal. Alongside Tom Hanks as the man who lived at JFK Airport, Mrs Douglas had played a flight attendant called Amelia who’d become disillusioned with her shallow love life. Jack filtered through his movie memory bank for a couple of Amelia’s lines: ‘I've been waiting my whole life, I just don't know what the hell for,’ was one of them, and another went something along the lines of: ‘I like to read history books. They're long and cheap and usually about men killing each other.’
A few minutes passed then Catherine Zeta called over the intercom in broken English that the flight would now be boarding. Something about elderly folk and children first. Another sky blue goddess joined Cathy at the desk and the queue began to move along.
The bus ride to the plane seemed wholly unnecessary to Jack. They could have walked the distance in under thirty seconds. On board, he located his seat which was half way down the aisle on the left hand side. There always seemed to be at least one moron who tried to force their luggage into the overhead locker when it was already full. Did it really take a genius to work out that you could use the next one along? An elderly Italian couple had bagged the seats next to Jack. They seemed to be no bother. Unlike the families near the front with their screaming bambinos.
Eventually, the flight took off. Only an hour and forty minutes between Jack and Rome. It still seemed unreal to be heading there. More pressing matters such as food and drink entered his mind though. It felt weird to have his appetite back considering he’d lost a stone in weight during the last few months. He could have bought something at the airport but the excessive prices had put him off. After fifteen minutes, a lady came around offering beverages, but by this time, Jack had drifted into a light slumber.
The plane touched down onto the tarmac at Rome Fiumincino with a heavy thud that arrested Jack from his catnap. He arched his head past the elderly couple and glanced out of the window. It looked slightly dull and overcast outside. No sooner had the plane taxied to a stop than a hundred electronic beeps and fanfares filled the cabin. People couldn’t bear to be without the comfort of their mobile phones, even if turning them on happened to endanger the lives of everyone on board. Morons.
Jack drank in the cool Roman air as he made the short walk from the plane to the arrivals building. He turned on his phone which serenaded him with its irksome fanfare. TIM seemed to be supplying the network. That was a new one. He always liked to make a note of the foreign suppliers: Zapp in Portugal, Movistar in Spain, A1 in Austria, VIP in Croatia, E-Plus in Germany and now TIM in Italy. Maybe he should add autism to his list of problems.
The journey through passport control seemed painless enough. The security people greeted everyone with bored indifference. In no time Jack made it through to the carousel area, where he waited patiently with his fellow passengers for the siren to sound. People crowded around the conveyor, like eager Catholics waiting to get a glimpse of the Pope on the balcony in St Peter’s Square.
As he waited, Jack tried to plan ahead. Earlier, he’d taken a brief look at the Rome forums on the Tripvacation website. The best way to get into the city from the airport was apparently on board a train called the Leonardo Express. The train journey took about half an hour into the central train station and cost fourteen euros. The shrill sound of the siren alerted the passengers that their baggage would be with them momentarily. Jack stood on his tip toes above the front rowers.
Bags of all shapes and sizes slid down the shoot and onto the conveyor. The excitement of spotting your bag on the conveyor was, Jack thought, partly a sense of relief (that the damn thing hadn’t been lost) and, also a sense of completion; your holiday had finished and your regular routine would now resume. Jack always enjoyed the relief of heading home after a break. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy holidays; he just couldn’t seem to relax or feel comfortable on them. Maybe he just didn’t like being away from his routine and from his safe home environment. God, he really was autistic.
The front rowers grabbed their cases, leaving a few spaces for the less pushy folk to move forward. Jack caught sight of his bag and hauled it to safety. After placing his netbook inside, he slung the bag over his shoulder and followed the overhead signs towards the train station.
Unlike some foreign airports, Fiumincino had lots of English language signs. Jack could hear his tummy making unusual noises as he walked along. The signs led him down some escalators and then up several sets of stairs until the railway station finally came into view. People queued in front of a desk which had signage for the Leonardo Express. The line seemed to be moving quickly, so Jack joined it. When he reached the front, he asked the lady for a ticket to the Termini for which she wanted fourteen euros. Jack handed over a fifty, and waited for his change.
“Platform Two,” the lady said as she placed his ticket and change on the counter.
“Grazie.”
“Prego,” she replied.
The pizza parlour at the station lured Jack towards its tempting smells. He was about to step inside when he heard a whistle. The Leonardo Express. Travellers congregated around the platform like nightclub sharks around pretty dancing girls.
Once on board, Jack secured his duffel bag on one of the overhead rails and sat down next to the window. A polite Chinese couple joined him in the cluster of four seats. The lady sat opposite Jack, with her partner; most likely her husband, sitting next to her. They communicated something to each other in their native language, and then the lady started giggling. Jack hated that situation where two people spoke in a foreign language in your presence, then one or both of them began laughing. It did tend to make you feel a tad paranoid.
Another check of his phone. No new messages. He shut his eyes and thought about Fiona. Happy memories for a change.
The power nap did Jack the world of good. Amazing how fifteen or twenty minutes of quality sleep could give you such a lift. The train drew into Rome Termini. Termini… like terminal, Jack thought. Not a good sign. He grabbed his bag and smiled at the Chinese girl who flashed him an embarrassed one back. He’d always found Oriental women attractive. It wasn’t a sexual preference or anything weird; he just found them pretty in the same way that he often noticed that fat women had lovely faces.
Leaving the train, Jack followed signs for the Metro. He’d need to get a map from somewhere. The signs directed him through the main station, which appeared much larger than any other he’d seen. The red Metro signs seemed ambiguous in their directions. An arrow pointed North West but there were passages leading to the left and also straight on. Construction work meant that much of the terminal appeared to be cordoned off. The overhead signs gave way to makeshift cardboard ones.
People jostled about as the passageways narrowed and concrete stairs lead forever downwards. From the musty smell, it felt like Jack was headed into the city’s catacombs. Eventually he saw a map of the underground system on a wall. Two lines, red and blue; or: ‘A’ and ‘B’ according to the map legend. San Giovanni was only three stops away on Line A; the red line.
Over by the wall, Jack noticed a stack of what looked like tiny booklets. He picked one up and opened it out to reveal a map of the Eternal City. People bustled past him as he tried to locate the street where he’d seen the hostel advertised. It took him a while as the font for the street names was tiny and awkward to read, but there it was - Via San Giovanni in Laterano. It would be best to get off at Manzoni; only two stops away. He half folded the map and re-joined the army of commuters heading down into the depths of the city. He followed signs for Anagnina which was the final stop on the Red Line heading south. Finally, he came to a bank of ticket machines.
One euro would buy him a one way journey anywhere in the city. That certainly put the overpriced Tyne and Wear Metro in the shade. Jack grabbed his ticket from the machi
ne and made his way to the platform, where hordes of travellers jostled for prime position. All Jack could think about was food. Well, food and money. He had enough cash to buy himself a decent meal and one night in some crummy dive, but after that, he was screwed.
The train pulled up and Jack fought his way into the carriage, which was standing room only. He’d decided to carry his duffel bag in front of him to create more room for his fellow passengers. He was also mindful of Rome’s reputation for pick pocketing. He clung on to the metal overhead rail, aware that his armpits weren’t at their most fragrant.
Getting off at Manzoni, he followed the exit signs then referred to his free map. He’d head for San Giovanni Piazza if possible. Walking up the stairs towards daylight, he looked for a street sign but couldn’t see one. After again referring to the map, he walked straight down the road which he assumed to be Via Labicana Viale. A succession of delightful looking delicatessens tempted him with their delights, but, despite his ravenous hunger, he walked on, wanting to make sure that he was treading the correct path.
Jack thought he could see a piazza in the distance. As he wandered closer, a giant obelisk covered with hieroglyphics came into view. Yes, he was definitely in the right place: Piazza San Giovanni. The palatial buildings surrounding the Egyptian obelisk gave the square a timeless, majestic air. This was how Jack imagined Rome: imposing and magnificent. That and bloody warm.
