“Sorry miss, I almost finish,” said the maid in my room, as I breezed through the door.
“No problem, no rush,” I said, taken aback waving a hand. I realised I was a wee bit drunk.
“Gracias,” she said, finishing replenishing the milks and sugars beside the coffee machine. I smiled as I passed by her, then sat down on the couch and began rolling up a smoke.
“You are here for long time?” she asked, turning to me with a cheerful expression. She was probably a few years younger than me, brown hair, really gorgeous looking. Her hair was tied back and she was perspiring slightly, but she looked better than I do when dolled up for a night out.
“I’m just here for the week – it’s a beautiful place here – the whole Island is – I love it,” I said gesturing out the window, licking the gum on the skin, then rolling it shut.
“Yes it very beautiful,” she agreed, lifting out a small pile of towels from her trolley, “Your accent,” she said, smiling shyly, “where is it from?”
“Oh,” I said, “Yeah, we speak English a little different where I’m from: Northern Ireland.”
“Ahh, you Irish.”
“Yeah, sort of,” I said flashing a smile.
I didn’t want to get into the complexities of identities in Northern Ireland. We’d be there all fucking day. Where do you start to try and explain about ‘our wee country?’ Some say they’re Irish, some say British. Some say Northern Irish. Some want a hard border, some want it soft, and others want no border at all. I think it’s all mostly bullshit anyway. I just like the place for the most part – whatever it’s called.
Anyway, we chatted for a good few minutes about other things as she finished off with my room. She seemed a lovely girl – Maria, I think her name was. She’d be the kind of girl it would be nice to go for a glass of wine with – to hear about her culture. When she left I felt a bit lonely.
In the evening I watched a flamenco guitarist in the bar and I even let a couple guys in their early twenties chat me up. I turned down their offers of leaving with them. By the end of the night I was curled up on a corner sofa, the bar very quiet. I had a Baileys coffee in one hand and my phone in the other. I sat and flicked through Facebook and replied to a few friends on WhatsApp. I also texted Mike, Amy and my cousin to check in, and just to tell them that I was having a good time. And for the most part I was. I even wrote my Auntie a postcard, with a pretty cool photo of the volcanoes on the front, because she had continued to resist mobile phones.
As events transpired, I would never get to post it.
After midnight a DJ began his set. I was finished with all of my ‘secretarial’ tasks and up for a little music before bed. But it was simply diabolical. It was just the worst cheesy, dancey, nothing music. It was like a collection of all of the most dreadful ‘music’ from the eighties right up to the present. They weren’t even the bad songs that had been hits, it was just all really shit and really random. It made my covers set seem highly sophisticated. The guy looked in his forties, wore a Hawaiian shirt and sported long bleached hair. He was quite a big, stocky guy, but his voice made David Beckham sound like John Wayne.
Really bizarre.
I’d loved to have walked up and smashed his records to smithereens and give him a case of my own to spin. I yearned for something good to listen to. Maybe some Morphine or something? Yes, something dark and suitably sleazy like The Night would have been just what I was in the mood for. Heavy piano chords, haunting saxophone and Mark Sandman’s effortlessly cool baritone voice. I decided I’d head back before I did assault the DJ’s records or indeed the DJ himself for playing such shite. I’d go back and plug in my headphones and let the rest of the day slip peacefully away.
But that didn’t happen.
***
I hadn’t been back even five minutes when the knock on the door came. It was about one in the morning when the thunderous hammering started. I was just pouring myself a glass of water, reasoning that it would help to stave off any hangover.
A hangover would prove to be the least of my worries. It’s funny how things change – as funny as a stroke.
I opened the door, more inquisitive than worried – I thought that someone had probably got the wrong room. When I saw Ivan standing there, and more so the way that he stood there, I felt my blood drain. There was a wildness in his eyes, and an uncharacteristic dishevelled look too, and he was steaming. He barged past me straight into the room, mute, but breathing hard. His striped shirt hung untidily outside his trousers, the tails flapping about. He panted, hands on hips, eyes down, but said nothing. I was stunned.
“Ivan, are you okay?” I asked, trying not to sound too
