But as soon as we rounded the corner we could see another cordon in the distance.
‘Looks like they’ve got the town covered,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go as far as we can.’
I can’t say I was all that keen on facing the Turkish police. They seemed a fierce-looking breed and they carried guns. After my experience with the gun-toting soldier on the bus, I didn’t have a good feeling about approaching another official with a gun. However, the American seemed fearless so I stayed in his slipstream. If I wanted to see Simon again, I had to act a lot braver than I felt.
‘Merhaba,’ Chuck said. ‘We need to get to our hotel along the waterfront. Can we come through, lütfen?’
The policeman shook his head. ‘Kapalt,’ he said.
‘It’s closed,’ Chuck said to us, then turned back to the policeman. ‘How long do we have to wait?’
The policeman shook his head again. ‘Kapalt.’ This time he held out his gun, as if he might use it if we kept asking questions.
‘I guess we’ll have to find a café that’s open and fill in the time,’ Chuck said. We nodded. I was relieved he had taken charge. I felt incapable of doing anything more than following a leader.
I pressed redial on my mobile, hoping to catch Simon, but it went straight to voicemail again.
‘My partner is somewhere in central Marmaris,’ I explained as I put the phone back in my bag. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but no luck.’
‘Maybe all the channels are blocked,’ Chuck said comfortingly. ‘It happens sometimes when there’s an emergency. Everyone tries to make calls and the network gets clogged up. And sometimes the phone company does it deliberately, if the police intervene.’
I felt a bit better hearing that. There was a good chance his phone wasn’t working because the network was overloaded.
We backtracked and found a small café where a group of casually dressed local men was gathered, drinking mint tea and Turkish coffee and talking excitedly. Some were sucking on bubble pipes, emitting a whiff of aromatic apple.
Chuck led the way into the dimly lit interior. We manoeuvred our bags through the tightly packed tables, left them in a nearby corner — well within view — and sat at the only free table. Within seconds, a small Turkish boy appeared. ‘Coffee? Tea?’ he said, flashing beautiful white teeth. ‘Or nargile?’
‘I’ll pass on the bubble pipe for now, thanks,’ Chuck said. ‘Any of you want to try one? They’re quite an experience. Very calming. Maybe it’s just what we could do with in a situation like this!’
‘No thanks,’ I said, giggling nervously. The last time I’d seen one of these things was at a pot party some years ago. I knew these weren’t hash pipes, but any new experience like this had to wait until I could share it with Simon. ‘Maybe later.’
We all ordered tea and pide.
‘What’s happening?’ Chuck asked the boy. ‘Have they told you?’
‘A car bomb went off,’ the boy said in perfect English. ‘Somebody drove a car filled with explosives into the side of a tourist bus. Kurds probably. They want the world to know about their problems.’ He spat sideways.
‘Any casualties?’ I asked.
‘For sure,’ the boy said. ‘But nobody knows how many or where they are from. Probably English tourists. They are the most likely target.’
I could feel the knot in my stomach unwind itself a little. I couldn’t imagine Simon on a tourist bus. But I could imagine him walking along the street nearby or sitting in a café having a leisurely coffee somewhere in the vicinity. Simon was more of a traveller than a tourist. He didn’t do the tour buses, the tourist hot spots, the souvenir shops. But just the same, he was likely to be in places that had good coffee, and those places were likely to be popular with foreigners.
There was nothing for it but to sit and wait. We ate our pide and drank our tea then Chuck went back down to the roadblock, returning to report that the police didn’t look like moving any time soon. So we ordered more tea, and I tried to make more calls to Simon. Still no reply.
The café became our base for several unwelcome hours. We made the best of it by talking to some of the locals, men who obviously had a lot of time to kill, because some of them also sat there for hours. But they knew no more than we did about the situation. Every half hour or so one of us went out to check the road but the police were still there, stopping anyone from passing through.
At last, a local man came in with the news that the roadblocks were being removed and we would be able to get further into town.
‘How far, I do not know,’ he said.
I looked at my watch: just after five o’clock. We’d been holed up in the poky little café for just over four hours. I wondered if Simon was back at the hotel by now worrying about me as much as I was worrying about him.
Hastily we gathered our bags, paid the bill and left the café, thanking the owner for giving us a safe haven for so long.
Outside, the street was filled with people all seemingly in a hurry to get somewhere. The women were heavily clad, despite the warm day, wearing jeans or trousers and long-sleeved tops, and a few had headscarves. The men all had thick black hair and sometimes beards. Even the older men had jet black hair; there wasn’t a grey hair in sight, no doubt thanks to the ubiquitous barbers.
Shutters had quickly been pulled up and the shops were open again, their wares on display — colourful fruit and vegetables piled high on sloping counters, spices, leather goods, woodwork, beautiful painted ceramic and pottery bowls, carpets and more carpets. Under any other circumstances I would have been fascinated and keen to stop and browse. But I scarcely took any notice: all I wanted to do was get to the hotel and find Simon.
We must have made a comic sight, speed-walking along the footpath, pulling our bags behind us. At last, Chuck managed to flag down a taxi. We piled in and the driver said yes, he could take us to the hotel. ‘No problem now.’
I could have wept, I was so relieved.
He took a series of back streets to get there, explaining in broken English that part of the main waterfront road was still blocked off as that was where the bomb had gone off, right by the harbour. A ripple of fear went through me at the mention of the harbour, as I once again realised Simon could easily have been in the area at the time.
My fear was heightened when we finally made it to the hotel reception desk. It was to one side of a large foyer that was a sort of eastern Mediterranean take on American opulence, with Turkish rugs covering the terracotta tiled floor and highly polished wooden furniture and brass ornaments everywhere. At each side of the foyer, vast circular staircases swept up to a palm-fronded balcony.
Reception was in turmoil. There was a huge queue in front of check-in and another long line in front of the concierge’s desk. Staff and guests alike were rushing around, talking loudly. As the four of us stood in the check-in queue waiting our turn, it quickly became apparent that most people were trying to check out, cancel their holiday plans and change their bookings to get the first available flight out. But by now, I overheard one of them saying, all flights were full for the next two days. Some of the obviously wealthier and more vocal guests weren’t too impressed at this and complained long and loud. A few shrugged and returned to their hotel rooms.
I overheard one couple say they’d booked themselves on a five-day gulet cruise to Fethiye, along the coast, to keep away from any further bombs, which seemed a good escape route in the absence of flights out. Simon and I were due to sail out of here soon too, far away from this terrorist hellhole, I thought — if Simon was still alive, I realised with a jolt.
‘Yes, please?’
The receptionist was asking for my booking details. I handed her the voucher and she checked her file.
‘I’m sharing a room with Mr Simon Wakefield,’ I said nervously. ‘Is he in his room?’
She checked the row of boxes behind her and pulled out two key cards.
‘No, madam, he is out. He left his key with us this
morning and has not yet returned.’ She handed me one of the cards and put the other back in the slot.
My heart sank. All the way to the hotel I’d been hoping, praying, that Simon would somehow be at the hotel, waiting in our room for me to arrive. Now I’d have to rethink my game plan. My dream of walking into our room and being enfolded by his big, strong arms, bringing this whole nightmare to an end, was nothing but a dream. I was still on my own.
‘Oh, okay, thank you.’ I took the key card and pulled my bag over to where Chuck and Sandra were standing, talking to another group of Americans.
‘Any further news?’
‘Not much,’ Chuck said. ‘They’re pretty sure it was Kurds. One of them was killed when he rammed the bus. A terrorist group has phoned a local radio station taking responsibility. They wanted to make a point internationally about their claims for a homeland in the Kurdish southeast. They say the tourists bring the money into the country that pays for the Turkish army to fight them. And so they chose a bus full of mostly English and American tourists.’
‘Were any bystanders hurt?’
‘We don’t know that yet. I guess it’ll be a while before it all becomes clear.’
‘Oh. Well, I’d better be getting up to my room.’
‘Any sign of your man yet?’
‘No,’ I said, willing my voice not to wobble and my tears not to start falling. ‘He’s not in our room. He went out this morning.’
‘Don’t you worry, honey,’ Sandra said. ‘He’ll be on his way back. There are still a lot of roads closed.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And if you need anything, you come see us. We’re in room 402.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind. I don’t know what I would have done if you and Chuck hadn’t taken me under your wing.’
‘No trouble at all,’ Chuck said. ‘Glad to have been of some use.’
‘You’re great in a crisis, honey,’ his wife said, squeezing his arm and smiling up at him.
I thanked them again and headed off to the lift. My room was also on the fourth floor, but at the opposite end of the corridor to Chuck and Sandra’s. I noticed as I made my way to my room that the hotel seemed to have settled back into its daily routine: the bars were open and bustling — probably even more than usual — and the room-service waiters were kept busy carrying drinks and food. If it weren’t for the inordinate queues in the lobby, the security guards at the door and the air of ordered chaos, you wouldn’t know anything untoward had happened.
The room was an oasis of calm, but my nerves continued to jangle. Any hopes I’d had that Simon might have spirited himself in there without his key, or that he might not have left the room at all, were dashed the minute I walked in. There was no sign of him in the room. The bed was made, smooth and flat as a billiard table. His bag was sitting unopened on the rack. The only other visible signs of his occupation were some research papers spread on the desk in front of the window.
Simon and I had deliberately chosen a Western-style hotel for our stay in Marmaris, thinking it would provide a familiar haven from our planned daily excursions into the town and its hinterland so, apart from a nod to Turkish-style décor and a scattering of Turkish rugs, this room could have been anywhere in the world. Unexpectedly, I found this comforting. At this moment, I didn’t think I could have coped with having to lug my bag up several flights of stairs or spending the night tossing and turning in a hard, narrow Turkish bed, let alone deal with a plumbing system that was temperamental or a ceiling fan that made no difference to the sticky heat.
Instead, I revelled in the air conditioning. Tossing my handbag and jacket on the bed, I made straight for the minibar and poured a large vodka and tonic, took it over to the window and pulled aside the net curtains. The view over the street and across to the harbour was stunning. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, just to the side of a distant island. To my left, in the middle distance, was the port and busy marina, and in front of that a precinct of bars and restaurants. My hopes of going there with him tonight had been well and truly dashed.
I tried his mobile again. Still no answer.
I unpacked some of my things, had a shower and washed the day away, towelled my hair dry, changed into clean clothes and reapplied my make-up — I wanted to look my best when Simon arrived. I poured another vodka, the first having disappeared with unseemly haste. I noticed I had used the last mini-bottle of vodka; next I’d have to start on the gin or brandy. If Simon didn’t appear soon, I could see myself draining the minibar and resorting to refrigerator coolant.
Out of the blue, the phone beside the bed rang. I leapt to answer it.
‘Hello?’ I said breathlessly, hoping against hope it was Simon.
It was Stephanie. I felt like crying.
‘Hey sis, you’re alive! You might have told me.’
‘Sorry, Steph, I’ve been kinda caught up in things. I’ve only just got to my hotel.’
‘I’ve been at my wits’ end worrying about you. You should see the pictures in the evening papers. I told you you were mad going to a place like that, full of Muslims and terrorists.’
‘Well, I’m okay. No need to worry about me. Now if you …’
‘What about your fella? Is he okay too?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said shakily.
‘You mean he’s …’
‘I don’t know. Look Steph, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I’ll call you when I know more.’
‘But Penny, you’ve got to get out of there right away. There’ll be more bombs for sure.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found Simon. And besides, you can’t get a flight out of here for at least two days.’
‘Well, get a boat or a train or something. Isn’t Turkey where the Orient Express goes to? You could get out of there in style!’
Trust her to think of the luxury option, I thought.
‘It runs to Istanbul, miles away. Look, I’ve got to go. Simon might be trying to get through.’
‘Okay, okay, I get the picture. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
And, miraculously, she was gone. I put the phone down and realised that for the first time in years, we had had a conversation in which she hadn’t talked about herself. My God — she must have been genuinely worried!
I looked at the phone’s message light hopefully. It wasn’t flashing. No call from Simon while Stephanie was on the line. I sighed and went back to the desk in front of the window and took another sip of vodka.
It dawned on me I should probably phone the office and make sure the girls knew I was okay. When I finally got through to Tracey on her mobile she informed me groggily that it was early in the morning. I’d forgotten the ten-hour time difference.
‘Whassa madda?’ she inquired sleepily.
I should have realised that news of a car bomb in an unknown place like Marmaris was unlikely to have made the evening news back home. I told her what had happened.
‘A bomb?’ Tracey squealed, now wide awake. ‘You’re in a town that’s been hit by a bomb? My God, Penny, you’d better get on the next plane home.’
‘I’ll try, as soon as I’ve found Simon. Listen, can you make sure the Philly girls know? And anyone else who might be worried.’
‘Sure, no problem. Now you go and find Simon. And call me when you do, okay?’
‘I will.’
I ended the call and took another sip — well, swig would be more accurate — of my drink.
What was I going to do now? Just sit here and hope that Simon would turn up or go out and look for him, like Tracey suggested?
I knew the most sensible thing to do was to sit tight and wait. After all, this was where he knew to come to meet up with me. But I was desperate to find him, desperate to know he was alive. I picked up my handbag and room key, put my passport and most of my cash into the room safe and locked it, then headed for the lobby and the street beyond.
The temperature
was still warm, with a gentle sea breeze blowing in and making it particularly pleasant. The gathering dusk gave a romantic air to the streetscape and the sea beyond. But there was nobody to share it with. I held back the tears that seemed to be permanently welling behind my eyes and thrust myself out into the throng of people intent upon their business, each of them with somewhere to go, something to do.
But not me. I realised I didn’t know where to go to begin my search. Instinctively, I started off in the direction of the restaurants and the marina. I knew it was in this area that the bomb had gone off, but I had a feeling that was where I would find Simon. I was becoming increasingly convinced that he must have become caught up in it somehow. I had persuaded myself that he was alive but that something was preventing him reaching me.
Around a corner a couple of hundred metres along the road, the police had erected barriers and were standing in front of them with guns drawn. Not far beyond them I could see a few wisps of smoke hanging in the air, and I could detect the stench of charred rubber. There was also a pervading smell of petrol. But I couldn’t see anything of the bomb scene save for a fire truck in the middle of the road, with firemen gathered around it. Police and army personnel were also milling around.
I didn’t try to approach the guards. I knew it wouldn’t achieve anything. With a heavy heart, I turned and trudged back to the hotel and up to my room.
I opened the door hoping he might miraculously have returned. Bu there was still no sign of him. I looked at my watch: it was after seven. I sat down on the bed and let go the tears that had been threatening for some time. I felt incredibly alone and frightened. There was no one I could turn to except Chuck and Sandra, and they wouldn’t be able to help me find Simon either. I cried into the pillow, smearing the mascara I’d put on a few hours ago in the hope of soon seeing Simon. The sight of its smears made my cry all the more.
Head Over Heels Page 15
