Suicide Vacation

by Rich Allen

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he stared at the ornate gilt ceiling. This place was special. Mosaics, marble statues, paintings. It had the lot. Stopping in the nave, he stared for a moment at Michelangelo’s sculpture of Peter. Further along, devout pilgrims kissed the feet of a bronze statue. Eventually Jack came to the stairs which led down to the Vatican Grottoes. A sign over the stairway informed visitors that they were closed until further notice. This was the stairway which led down to the tomb of Saint Peter, himself. Marble and bronze lined the area and candles added a touch of solemnity.

  Jack overheard an American couple talking about the climb up to Michelangelo’s Dome. Something about four hundred and ninety one steps. No thanks, Jack thought. Although, what a way to top yourself; jumping off the ceiling balcony. If it hadn’t been for his appointment on Monday, he may have given it more serious consideration, because right now, Jack felt as low as he’d ever felt.

  After walking around for a further twenty minutes, Jack exited the Basilica and walked outside into piercing sunshine. He took a last look at the Swiss guards as he wandered through the gate and back into Saint Peter’s Square, where he rehydrated at the fountain. Food, he needed food. He formed a plan for the rest of the day; find a supermarket and buy snacks. Much cheaper than paying café prices, and then he’d head back to the hostel to see if Zoe had left a message for him. After that, he’d just play it by ear.

  He set off, walking against the tide of pilgrims heading for Vatican City, slowing down as he came to Café Santiago. With an air of excitement, he peered in through the window, but still no sign of anyone Jack knew. After walking over the bridge, he entered the more sedate boulevard at Corso Vittorio Emanuelle. Shops lined the streets, some of them selling food. He peeked inside a takeout place. The sight of a pastrami focaccia in the fridge left him practically salivating. Sod it. I gotta eat.

  “Quanta costa?” He asked the guy behind the counter as he held the cellophane wrapped focaccia aloft.

  “Cinque euros.”

  Oh what the hell. I’m starving. Jack grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and paid the man the seven euros he asked for.

  He stood out on the street, un-wrapping his prize; each mouthful a taste of heaven. He washed the focaccia down with several gulps of water. He could re-fill the plastic bottle with water from a street fountain. He’d seen a few dotted around.

  Jack still felt hungry, but he considered it manageable now. Maybe he’d be able to last the rest of the day without a further feed. Eleven euros left. Better than nothing. He felt guilty for spending so much on a sandwich and a drink, and it made him realize how much he’d always taken eating and drinking for granted.

  The refreshment stop had put a spring back in his step, and perhaps the Zoe situation wasn’t as bleak as it seemed. She had probably called to leave a message for him at the hostel. There’d been some sort of emergency perhaps? Yeah, she’d definitely have left him a message. All Jack had to do was charm Nina, and then she’d pass on Zoe’s message.

  Jack threw the cellophane wrapping into a street bin. As he did, something on the pavement caught his eye. It looked like a bank card. He bent down and picked it up. Weird. There was no bank name on the white coloured plastic card and no Visa or MasterCard symbol, just the hologram of a dove. The usual black strip lined the back, but the white strip hadn’t been signed. On the front, there wasn’t even a card number. All that was written on the card, in the place reserved for the cardholder’s name was: ‘J. M. H. Book.’

  Jack had never seen a bank card like it. Who the hell was J. M. H. Book? Maybe he should hand it in at a police station. Not that he knew where a police station was. For now though, he decided to pocket it. It slipped down inside his trouser pocket, next to the scallop shell.

  In the stifling afternoon heat, the journey towards the Roman Forum took a good twenty minutes. Jack checked the time on his phone: two fifteen. By the time he’d trawled through the crowds at the Coliseum, it was getting on for three. The familiar sight of San Giovanni in Laterano came into view. Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he imagined Zoe waiting for him inside the hostel. He pictured her apologizing for the mix up. She’d come over and hug him. He’d feel her hair brush against his cheek. Pull yourself together, Jack.

  He pressed the hostel buzzer and waited. He pressed again and waited, but still nothing. He glanced up at the security camera and waved. Was Nina looking at him on her screen and sneering? He pressed and this time held down the buzzer. C’mon answer. Still nothing. Next, he waved his hands in front of the overhead camera as though directing a taxying aeroplane. Damn you, Nina. That frosty cow was deliberately ignoring him.

  After running out of patience, Jack walked to the other side of the street; well out of the security camera’s range. All he had to do was wait for somebody to enter or leave the building. He sat down on a wall and drank down the last of his water; remembering to save the empty plastic bottle. Minutes past by but nobody entered or left. He guessed that most of the inmates had gone out for the day. They’d probably be back before dusk.

  All that walking in the heat had worn him out. He needed a siesta – but where? That spot near the Circus Maximus sprang to mind. The bench at the top of the bank would be a good place to take a snooze. He walked across the street and tried the buzzer at the hostel again, but still no response. He’d come back later.

  In the roasting afternoon sun, the trip to the Circus Maximus took around twenty minutes. Fortunately, Jack managed to re-fill his water bottle from a fountain. Several tourist coaches were parked up near the bench, but the bench itself was empty. On his side of the road, a few people walked along the basin of the former chariot racing arena. Apart from a young couple lying on the grass bank, Jack appeared to have reasonable privacy. He placed his bag next to him on the bench and felt the sweat dripping down his back. He could only guess what he might smell like. A tramp probably.

  The noise of passing cars might be a problem, so he took out his iPod. He put his sunglasses inside his bag then placed his passport in his back pocket and made himself comfortable. With his iPod on three quarter volume, Jack arched his neck and let his face soak up the afternoon rays. Ah yes… the perfect tune. The opening twenty six second instrumental of ‘Old and Wise’ by the Alan Parson’s Project led into Colin Blunstone’s soft, haunting vocal. Why didn’t they ever play songs this good on the radio? Jack lost himself in the music, and, as his breathing got heavier, he felt the grip on his duffel bag weaken.

  In dreamland, Jack saw Jeremy, the man who had bought his watch. Jeremy sat at a desk holding two birthday cards, then wrote the name Joel Coen on an envelope and placed the first birthday card inside it before sealing it up. On another envelope he wrote the name Don Cheadle, before putting the second birthday card inside and sealing it. The dream seemed to play on a continuous loop.

  Jack felt his shoulder flinch. Bono’s chorus to ‘Mysterious Ways’ accompanied this disturbance as his eyes shot open. What the hell was going on? He yanked out the earphones and focused on a man in a navy blue uniform, shaking him. Shit…He attempted to stand up, but the policeman pushed him back down. Jack used his arm to feel for his bag, but it wasn’t there.

  “My bag! Where’s my bag?” He saw a second policeman coming over from the grass bank with one hand hovering close to a holstered Beretta. As Jack glanced down at the spot where he’d left his bag, he noticed what looked like a crack pipe. He’d only ever seen them on TV, but what the hell was it doing next to him on the bench? He’d certainly not been using it.

  The first policeman shot Jack a disdainful look and then, wearing his black leather gloves – placed the pipe inside a clear plastic evidence bag.

  “Hey, that’s not mine!” Jack remonstrated. “Where’s my bag? Someone’s stolen my bag.”

  The second policeman spoke Italian into a tiny radio and a few seconds later a pale blue van pulled up.

  Oh Shit! “I’m not going in there!” Jack shouted. “There�
��s been some mistake. I’m a British tourist! Get off me!”

  Jack struggled with the two officers as they cuffed him then dragged him towards the rear of the van. The driver opened up the back while the other two pushed Jack inside. He heard the door lock behind him as he took in his new surroundings; a dark cage. He checked his back pocket. Phew. Embossed cardboard. The passport was still there. He quickly checked the deep pockets running down both sides of his trousers. Damn! His wallet and phone had both gone.

  As the van sped away, Jack gathered up his remaining possessions: his passport, a scallop shell, a weird white bank card, his house key, his iPod and eleven euros in change. What a world! You couldn’t even take an afternoon nap on a park bench without getting mugged these days.

  He had no idea what time it was, but Jack remembered seeing daylight when the boys in blue had hauled his ass inside the meat truck. Surely, he’d be able to explain the situation when he got to the police station. After all, he didn’t look like your regular crack-head. Although…he must’ve looked dirty and unkempt after his day walking the streets. After smelling his armpits, he wished he hadn’t. Maybe it wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination to mistake him for a junkie.

  Jack guessed that he’d been in the van for approximately ten minutes before it came to a halt. The two police officers opened up the back and prompted him to come forward. Against two armed officers, he thought it wise to acquiesce. It looked like he was at Police Headquarters. Pale blue vehicles filled the courtyard through which the two officers escorted him.

  “I’m a British citizen,” Jack shouted to anyone who’d listen. Nobody seemed interested: least of all his escorts. “There’s been a terrible mistake,” he pleaded in vain.

  Before he knew it, Jack’s remaining belongings had been taken from him and he’d been parked inside a cramped cell. This was a first, he thought. He found himself staring at the whitewashed walls of an Italian nick. Through the letter box opening in the steel door, Jack watched the guards share a joke together in Italian before closing the grille.

  Alone in his cell, Jack took in his new surroundings. Not as bad as he’d probably imagined during the journey in the van. At least he had the place to himself. A bench at the rear of the room no doubt doubled as a bed. There was a blue folded blanket at one end of it. No natural light found its way inside, but at least the toilet seemed reasonably clean and there was a tiny basin.

  Still wearing his handcuffs, Jack paced around. The whole episode felt like a bad dream. Yeah, a dream. His mind cast back to the vivid images he’d seen whilst asleep on the bench. He didn’t normally remember his dreams, but this one seemed to be etched into his memory. Jeremy, the tall guy who’d bought his watch, had two birthday cards. He’d written the name of movie director Joel Coen on one envelope and placed a birthday card inside it and sealed it up. Then he’d written the name of the actor Don Cheadle on another envelope before placing a birthday card inside and sealing it. As he recalled, the dream had played on a constant loop. Very strange. Did it mean anything? Possibly not, but then nothing seemed normal anymore.

  Eventually, Jack sat himself down on the cushioned vinyl bench. He stared at a large spider as it crawled over the cracks on the whitewashed wall. Thoughts of Zoe rushed into his mind. He’d planned on heading back to the hostel tonight to see if she’d left him a message. He felt tears sliding down his cheeks. He’d never see her again. She was probably sipping a champagne cocktail in Milan while he was stuck inside a Roman prison cell.

  As the tears dried, Jack thought about his meeting with Quint on Monday. It would be just his luck if he was still incarcerated. He’d probably never hear from his mystery emailer ever again; never to discover who was behind it all.

  The claustrophobia started to get to Jack. He walked over to the door and banged his fists against it. “Let me out!” he shouted. “I demand to speak to the British Embassy. I’m a British citizen, do you hear?” He waited for some kind of response from outside, but all he heard was what sounded like drunken shouting from the adjacent cells.

  Jack moved back to the bench and sat down. He closed his eyes and tried to think of better times but the only thoughts that came into his head were of his weird dream involving Jeremy and the birthday cards. He couldn’t make any sense of it. His movie mad mind eventually took over and he tried to compile the Top Ten Prison Movies. Not easy. He spent some time mulling it over before placing Scum starring a young Ray Winstone at ten, A Prophet at nine, The Green Mile at number eight, Escape from New York starring Kurt Russell and Lee Van Cleef at seven, The Great Escape at six and Escape from Alcatraz starring Clint Eastwood at five. Sleepers, Mcvicar and Papillon counted down to the big reveal. Yeah, it had to be The Shawshank Redemption.

  “Get busy living or get busy dying’” Jack said out loud. Stephen King had done well. Two of his books, subsequently made into films; The Green Mile and The Shawshank Redemption, had now made it into Jack’s Top Ten Prison Movies. The best-selling novelist would surely be stoked by this news.

  Jack heard the top partition on the door retract, followed a second later, by the sound of a key turning in the lock. At last. They were going to release him. He sat upright as a police officer entered. The middle aged officer beckoned Jack towards him.

  “Are you releasing me?” Jack asked.

  No reply.

  At least he could get out of this damn cell, Jack thought as the officer led him handcuffed down a narrow corridor and through an open door which led into what looked like a clichéd interrogation room. He’d been overly optimistic about release. A table stood sandwiched between three chairs; one facing the door and the other two facing the opposite way. Jack had seen enough cop shows to realize where he’d be sat.

  “Sit,” said the officer.

  Jack sat down as instructed and placed his cuffed hands on the table. The cuffs felt uncomfortable after a while; the metal digging into the folds of flesh above his wrists. He watched the taciturn officer leave the windowless room and then waited for two more to arrive. Good cop – bad cop. One of them would be all pally, offering cigarettes and a drink, while the other would try to bully Jack into a confession. Did they really do that? Or was it just on TV and the movies? No doubt they’d keep him waiting. Yeah, they’d want him to sweat it out a bit more.

  After about five minutes Jack heard four beeps sound from somewhere outside, and then the door swung open. In walked a casually dressed middle aged bearded man. He was joined by an attractive looking policewoman in her twenties. Her uniform looked neatly pressed, and she wore her dark hair short.

  “Mr Jack Kenneth Holden?” said the man in a gravelly voice. He reminded Jack of Inspector Pazzi in Ridley Scott’s Hannibal. A man who came to a nasty end after trying to capture Doctor Lecter.

  “Yes, that’s me” Jack replied. “What’s all this about?”

  “I am Inspector Pio, and this is Officer Neri.” They seated themselves opposite Jack.

  From his jacket pocket, inspector Pio produced the sealed plastic bag containing the crack pipe. He placed it down on the table and looked at Jack for a reaction. When none came, he said: “What do you have to say about this? You were found in possession of this item. According to the arresting officers, you were high on drugs at the Circus Maximus. Not exactly good for tourism Mr Holden, if that’s your real name?”

  Jack was impressed by the man’s English. He was about to protest his innocence about the crack pipe but decided to follow up on the inspector’s last remark. “What do you mean: if that’s my real name? Of course it’s my real name.”

  “You have some interesting articles in your possession,” said Officer Neri. Her voice had a sultry edge to it. Jack imagined that it sounded even sexier when speaking her native language. He glanced at her. Way too beautiful to be a copper.

  Officer Neri continued: “A shell, eleven euros in change, a passport with your photo in the name of Jack Kenneth Holden, an iPod and a white bank card in the name of…” Officer Neri produced
the card from her trouser pocket and read off its front, “in the name of J.M.H. Book.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Jack protested.

  Inspector Pio lit up an unfiltered cigarette and blew some smoke Jack’s way. It went straight into his eyes, causing them to itch.

  “So…” said Pio as his eyes bored into Jack’s, “which one are you? Jack Holden or J.M.H. Book?”

  “I’m Jack Holden. I found that card earlier today. It was on the pavement, not far from Vatican City.”

  Officer Neri placed the white plastic card in front of Jack on the table.

  “Oh, you found the card did you?” Pio said before taking a deep drag then flicking ash onto the lino flooring. “And you never thought to hand it in?”