Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  Zoe craned her neck to look at the screen. ‘“Trust me, chief,”’ she read. ‘“P.S. Love the Roy Orbison song by the way.”’

  “It’s an earlier email from Quint,” Jack said. He’d got carried away with the moment. He suddenly remembered that he’d mentioned “She’s a Mystery to Me” by Roy Orbison in his draft email to Rose. He’d wanted it played at his funeral. But he couldn’t mention that to Zoe. Think Jack.

  “What does he mean about the Roy Orbison song?” she asked.

  Jack stared at the screen. Maybe he should tell her the whole story.

  “Jack?”

  No, he didn’t want her feeling sorry for him. “I’d been listening to a Roy Orbison track on my iPod when I received that email,” he said.

  Zoe stood up. “Jack, there’s something weird going on here and I’m not sure what it is. Look I’m heading off to bed. Thanks for showing me the emails.”

  Jack glanced forlornly into her eyes. “I know it’s all weird, and I don’t blame you for being freaked out,” he said. “I’m pretty freaked out myself to tell you the truth. Are you still on for the Mouth of Truth tomorrow?”

  Zoe yawned. “Yeah, sure, meet me in the lobby at ten and we’ll go grab some breakfast if you like.”

  Jack stood up. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Goodnight, Jack.”

  Not even a peck on the cheek then. “Goodnight, Zoe. See you in the morning.” He opened the door for her and watched her walk along the landing. What a mess. He closed the door, sat on the bed and curled himself up into a ball. He’d told Zoe half-truths and now she thought he was a total whack job. Then again, would she have thought any different if he’d told her the whole picture? Probably not.

  He had eighteen euros to his name. What was he supposed to do about accommodation for Saturday? Ask Zoe for some money? No, she already thought that he was mentally deranged. He wouldn’t be surprised if she never showed up for their breakfast date. He opened up the netbook and stared at the screen. Now that he was on his own, it would be fine for Quint to email. In fact, Jack was desperate for him to communicate. “C’mon Quint! I’m here. I’m in Rome. What are you waiting for?” he said.

  After several minutes of vacant staring, Jack closed the screen and powered down the machine. He put it on charge, along with his phone; remembering to set his alarm for nine. He then turned off the light and stripped off.

  “Clank.” The noise reverberated for a few seconds. Something had fallen out of his trouser pocket. He fumbled on the floor and felt the silky smooth inside of the scallop shell. He’d forgotten about that. He placed it back inside the trouser pocket then dived between the sheets. As his head hit the hard pillow, he focused on the faint sounds of snoring coming from down the corridor and he felt grateful to be in a room of his own.

  As Jack closed his eyes and lost control of his thoughts, a familiar movie began to play in the theatre of his mind: The Thin Red Line. Not a piece of entertainment - more like a journey inside inhumanity. In his mind’s eye, Jack saw Sean Penn’s war weary Sergeant, speaking to Private Witt, played by James Caviezel. ‘I might be your best friend and you don’t even know it…In this world, a man, himself, is nothing,’ Penn had told the indifferent private.

  As Jack felt his breathing become laboured, the last lines of the film, spoken by Private Edward P. Train echoed around his mind: ‘Darkness, light. Strife and love. Are they the workings of one mind? The features of the same face? Oh, my soul. Let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made. All things shining.’

  Chapter Twelve:

  Jack’s phone alarm gradually increased its decibels, assaulting his ears with a cruelty equal to somebody scraping their fingernails down a blackboard. His mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie’s cage, so he reached for a glass of water that wasn’t there. Mornings could be so cruel.

  Not wishing to waste any more cash, he decided against a shower; instead using the tiny sink to administer his ablutions. A heavy burst of deodorant would suffice. After shaving, he felt human again and ready to face the day. He got dressed and checked the time. Nine thirty. Time enough to check his email account. As he powered up the machine his mind raced with thoughts about his financial predicament. Eighteen euros wouldn’t get him far would it? He’d delayed the inevitable by not telling Zoe about his fiscal situation, but he couldn’t keep the truth from her much longer. The last thing he wanted was her charity, though. She might think that he’d befriended her purely for money. His stomach churned at the thought of coming clean. It would be best to do it over breakfast. No, best to do it before breakfast, because he couldn’t afford breakfast!

  Jack logged into his email account more with hope than expectation. But – hello! There it was! The message he’d been waiting for. He felt a sudden rush of adrenalin blast away his early morning cobwebs. His hand trembled a fraction as he clicked the touchpad, and then focused on the words on the screen:

  “Glad you made it to Rome, chief. This will be my final communication via email. Meet me in Café Santiago, near the Vatican on Monday morning at ten.”

  As with all of Quint’s correspondence, Jack read the words over and over again. He took a deep breath and tried to slow down his heart beat which felt like a piston pumping inside his chest. So…all would be revealed on Monday. He just needed to subsist in Rome until then. He probably had no further need for the netbook, so why not sell it? Even if he only got fifty euros, it would pay for tonight and Sunday night in the snorers’ dorm down the corridor. Yes, this was good news. Two days away from his date with destiny. He couldn’t wait to tell Zoe. He closed the screen then set about packing his belongings.

  It was nine forty five by the time he walked into the lounge. Several scruffy looking blokes hung around the area like junkies waiting for their dealer. No sign of Zoe, but that was good. He didn’t want her to witness this.

  “Good Morning,” Nina said as Jack walked up to the reception desk. “You come to check out?”

  “Yeah, here’s the key.”

  Nina snaffled it up as soon as Jack placed it on the counter.

  “Listen,” said Jack. He felt a bit awkward, but it had to be done. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in buying a netbook would you?” He placed the device in front of Nina and flipped up the lid.

  Nina shot him a vacant expression. “No,” she said. “I have laptop. I not need this.”

  Jack frowned. “It’s worth three hundred euros but I’d let you have it for fifty,” he told her.

  Nina shook her head. “Like I say: I not need it.”

  Jack closed the screen and placed it under his arm. “Ok, I’ll just wait in the lounge for my friend if that’s alright?”

  Nina took the plastic wrapper off a pack of cigarettes. “Who your friend?”

  “An American girl: Zoe.”

  “What her surname?”

  Jack gave Nina a serious look. He didn’t like the way she’d asked the question. What’s her surname? What was she insinuating? That he didn’t know his friend’s surname? As it happened, he didn’t know it. “Look, we only met for the first time yesterday. She arranged to meet me here in the lounge at ten this morning. Check out isn’t until eleven, so I’ll just wait for her if you don’t mind.” Jack’s words had sounded more pointed than he’d intended.

  Nina lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Jack’s direction. “American girl check out at eight thirty,” she said.

  Jack’s head recoiled, serpent like. “What? That’s not possible,” he said.

  “Maybe she not want to be friends after all.”

  Nina’s words pierced Jack’s heart like a dagger. Zoe had gone? No, there had to be some mistake.

  “You must be thinking of a different girl,” Jack said.

  “Blonde, blue eyes, pretty. First name: Zoe. She check out. She already pay for tomorrow. I tell her I not able to give her refund, but she ok with that. She seem in real hurry to get away. Maybe there something here she n
ot like.” Nina seemed to be getting some satisfaction out of toying with Jack. And to think, he’d spilled his seed over thoughts of her.

  “Listen,” said Nina as she exhaled a lungful of smoke, “if you not believe me, you wait. See if she show up.”

  Jack didn’t know what to think. Better play it safe. “No, it’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said, “It’s just that I think there’s been some kind of mix up, that’s all. She didn’t leave a message for me when she checked out?”

  Nina sighed, as though tired of the conversation. “No messages for anybody. She check out and go. That’s it. Now please, you can stay in lounge and wait or you can leave. I don’t mind either way. I have work to do.”

  Jack smiled and backed away from the desk. A few of the other guests shot him furtive glances as he loitered around by the drinks machine. Perhaps they’d overheard his conversation with Nina. He checked his phone. Five to ten.

  Twenty five minutes passed with excruciating inertia. Jack observed all the comings and goings from his vantage point at the vending machine, but Nina was right; Zoe had gone. She’d checked out without telling him. Just when he’d started to feel a sense of hope.

  Jack trundled sheepishly out of the lounge area and down the stairs. He sat on the bottom step in the hallway, head in his hands. The darkness fitted his mood perfectly. Had he really freaked her out that much? She’d obviously been disturbed by his weird stories. And he was about to show her the email he’d received this morning. What a mess.

  Negative energy pumped through Jack’s veins. All he had to do was find a tall building. Rome was full of them. The scene of Fiona kissing the guy in the pub played out once more in his mind, engulfing him in its maelstrom.

  And he’d sensed a real connection with Zoe. He’d even envisioned them sharing their lives together. How pathetic did that sound? As usual he’d misread the signs. The only thing stopping him from finding a tall building right this minute was his appointment with Quint on Monday. But how the hell would he survive until then with no accommodation and just eighteen euros to his name?

  Jack sat wallowing for a good ten minutes. Over and over, Fiona kissed the guy in the pub, and Jack ran out and punched the wall. An inescapable nightmare that compelled him. It took the arrival of two backpackers, coming in through the front door to temporarily break the spell. Jack stood up, grabbed his duffel bag and made for the street.

  Outside, the warm air swamped him. His lungs sank and tiny beads of sweat formed over his brow. What to do? Where to go? Suddenly an idea popped into his head. He’d arranged to go and visit the Mouth of Truth with Zoe. It was a real long shot, but maybe she’d be waiting for him there. Jack’s mood lifted at the prospect. He was clutching at straws, but straws seemed better than nothing. He extracted the street map and unfolded it. Head for the Circus Maximus and then towards the river.

  Huge groups of tourists gathered around the Coliseum as Jack kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Zoe. Various blonde haired girls caught his eye, but, alas they weren’t her. He kept on walking, past Constantine’s Arch and the Palatine Hill.

  After twenty minutes, the former chariot racing arena came into view: Circus Maximus. Thoughts of Ben-Hur automatically entered Jack’s head. Filmed at Rome’s Cinecitta Studio; the only Hollywood movie to make it onto the Vatican’s approved list of religious films. Chuck Heston played the title role, though it had been offered to Rock Hudson and Burt Lancaster before him. That famous chariot race. Fifteen thousand extras on the payroll for those scenes. What the director would’ve given for C.G.I. back then, Jack thought.

  Guided by the map, Jack walked down Circus Maximus and towards the river. On his right he caught sight of the circular footprint of what remained of the Temple of Vesta. Across the road from it, a winding queue of tourists. That had to be it. Sure enough, after crossing the road, he saw The Church of Santa Maria and a small sign advertising La Bocca della Verita. He looked up and down the line of tourists, but no sign of her. He managed to squeeze a glimpse inside the portico, but still no Zoe. Instead, the carved marble face of the Mouth of Truth stared back at him. Tourists posed with one hand in its mouth, their faces contorted; pretending it had devoured their shaker.

  Jack had no desire to queue up to get a closer look. It looked a bit of a disappointment when compared to how he’d remembered the scene from Roman Holiday. As he stood outside the church, he felt raindrops on his head. Just what he needed. The chances of ever finding Zoe seemed lost now. He didn’t even have a photograph of her. Managing to shelter under the eaves of the church, he extracted his map and looked for somewhere to go. Tiny droplets of rain spattered onto the map as he examined it. Where could he go that was free? Of course. It would be a bit of a trek though; the Vatican.

  Jack folded his map and dug inside his bag for the waterproof cagoule. Heading away from the queuing tourists, he then followed the river west. The rain beat down against the plastic, amplifying the sound in Jack’s covered ears; the decibels greater than the road traffic. Though the rain lashed down, the air felt moist and Jack could feel his body begin to sweat under the plastic. On he walked through the downpour, his thoughts consumed by Zoe. Another woman who had walked out on him. He felt cursed.

  Immigrants shot out onto the streets offering overpriced umbrellas to tourists. Only a few minutes earlier, they’d no doubt been peddling sun hats. People ran for cover as the rain increased its ferocity. To Jack, it felt refreshing. He was one of those people who enjoyed walking in the rain. It washed away his worries, renewing him. Mind you, it would take more than rain to wash away his thoughts of Zoe. Not even a monsoon would do the trick.

  Jack’s feet began to feel damp, but on he walked, past the synagogue, the theatre and several impressive Baroque buildings. The rain caused ripples to form on the surface of the Tiber, from where he could smell a sweet aroma. The kind of honeyed smell you only ever noticed on really humid days. The suede tip of his trainers soaked up the rain water like a sponge and he now felt it sloshing around his socks. By the time the sun appeared through the clouds and the rain eased up, he’d walked all the way to the bridge at Vittorio Emanuelle. Jack took off the cagoule and allowed his body to breathe again. He held it in his hand, allowing it to dry off as he crossed the bridge and followed the pilgrims.

  His thoughts turned to Monday. What was the name of that place? Café Santiago, that was it. He would keep an eye out for it. He took a left and headed down the long, wide road which led to Vatican City. Cafes lined the street, along with shops selling tourist tat. Immigrants once again tried to offload their sun hats. Some of the street sellers wore skyscraper stacks of hats, neatly balanced on top of their heads.

  There it was! He’d almost missed it because of the buses on the other side of the street. An unassuming little café by the look of it. Fear gripped him as he walked across the road and past the blockade of tourist buses which had obscured his view. Why was he shaking? He peered through the café window. Only a few people sat inside, but no sign of a middle aged shark hunter from a Spielberg movie. A shiver ran down Jack’s spine. What had started out as intrigue and mystery had evolved into feelings of fear and foreboding. Still, Monday seemed like a long way off. It was only Saturday lunchtime.

  Yeah lunch. Eighteen euros wasn’t going to get him far. He’d tried to fight it, but hunger was winning the battle with his stomach. He’d try and hold out a bit longer, though.

  The early afternoon heat soon dried out Jack’s cagoule. He rehoused it in his bag and continued walking towards St Peter’s Square. He’d only ever seen it on TV before, but in the flesh, the sense of architectural wonder seemed palpable. The sounds of camera shutters clicking filled the air as Jack walked past the obelisk at St Peter’s Basilica and headed for the oasis which had caught his eye. He waited patiently in line for his turn at the trough. Craning his neck underneath the fountain, his mouth devoured its cool liquid. He drank whilst simultaneously splashing the water over his sweaty face. More tourists waited beh
ind him, so Jack eventually made way for them.

  Feeling refreshed, he smiled to himself as he wondered whether it might be Holy Water. He spent some time admiring the architecture; especially the saints lining the top of the basilica. Saint Peter overlooked his square: in his hand the golden key to The Gates of Heaven. Two Swiss guards stood proudly outside their sentry posts. Their orange and blue striped uniforms lending them the look of court jesters rather than soldiers, Jack thought.

  After admiring the square for some time, Jack joined the snake like queue for Saint Peter’s Basilica. As he’d imagined, it was free to enter. There might be a donations box, but that would be voluntary. Hey, it wasn’t as though the Pope was short of a few bob. As he queued in the unrelenting mid-day sun, various touts approached him, offering him tickets for tours which would get him straight inside without the queuing. Always somebody trying to make a buck. He ushered them away, one by one.

  Jack’s tummy now made awkward rumbling noises, as though pining for food. He’d be able to get something to fill it soon. Pizza would be filling - and cheap too, if he bought it away from the touristy areas. He stood in line for about half an hour as the queue moved towards the welcoming shade of the Basilica. Jack placed his bag on the conveyor belt and walked through the security gate unhindered. Out the other end, he followed the tourists down the cloister and past two more Swiss guards who stood, weapons at the ready, by a closed metal gate. Walking up the marble stairs, Jack suddenly found himself inside Saint Peter’s Basilica.