I shouldn’t have ended up a thief.
That’s what I am – I might as well admit it.
And, what’s worse than one who befriends families at times of celebration, is welcomed into their homes and then betrays them by stealing from them?
I kicked the table leg in frustration, knocking my beer over. It spurted out a fizzing splash across the table, before whizzing across the glass top and landing on the floor with a thud.
Fuck!
I kicked the table again.
It hadn’t actually smashed, though I didn’t care all that much if it had. I sobbed harder and my chest heaved with the motion. I began to feel breathless and really very panicked; close to utterly losing control. I felt genuine terror about what might become of me and terror at what we had done. I seemed to feel pain from everywhere. It was as if all of my old wounds were open all at once. The cutting loss of my father throbbed raw, as bitterly as I had ever felt it.
I felt alone. I looked down at my phone. I could call someone. Who would I call? What could I say?
I was alone.
I was alone in a foreign country in the middle of this complete disaster, but I was alone back home as well.
I’d be as well dead.
‘I’d be as well dead’; it only popped through my head for a second, but it was enough. It felt in a weird way comforting and I knew I needed to get myself back under control, and quickly. It was sink or swim, I could just give in – but what would that achieve for anyone? I stood up and wiped the back of a hand across my face. I had little make up on, but the bit I had left smudged my knuckles and stung my eyes. I moved back into the main room and took in a long breath. I strode into the bathroom, flicked the light on and stared back at my bedraggled state.
Then I went straight to work. I tied back my hair, then lathered up my hands with soap and washed my face, workmanlike.
I can get through this.
I lifted my cotton pads and dabbed at my eyes.
I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t hurt him. He tried to hurt me.
I pushed my foot down on the pedal bin and threw the pads inside. I lifted up my foundation and unscrewed the top.
I’ll never do another robbery again.
I dabbed at my face, then made a start making up my eyes.
I can be a good person.
***
Half an hour later and I was seated near to the pool, cup of coffee in hand. I had a Baileys on the table too. I was doing okay, I was composed. Or at least I was making a good show of it. I hid behind my shades and a long blue cardigan, but I was alright, hanging in. I probably looked to be watching swimmers complete their lengths, waiters bringing others drinks and children complaining of this and that. But really, I was simply looking through them. It was all I could do to remain there. I tried flicking through my book, but I couldn’t concentrate and I didn’t much feel like reading crime anyway. I flicked through my phone, scrolled through Facebook, but it didn’t make me feel any more settled. I set my phone down, a few messages un-replied to. I couldn’t face it. I plugged in my headphones and turned on a recent album by Wayne Shorter. Jazz usually soothed me, but the dissident squeals and improvised runs made me more anxious and troubled. I turned it off, irritated and lay back and closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep.
23
Cold meats, some salad and a few chips. I had shuffled through the buffet and seated myself in a small table by the far window. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I also hadn’t eaten all day. It was fiveish and I figured I had made a good enough show. Plenty of people – staff anyway, should hopefully remember they saw me down by the pool, or having tea in the restaurant. Just an ordinary holiday-maker. That would be enough time out and about and I could hide away in my room for the rest of the night. My plan was to rest up and do much the same the next day.
Was anyone looking at my face? Could they see the marks?
I flicked open my compact mirror. No – it looked fine, I’d done a decent job covering it. There were several salmon coated ‘Brits on hols’ in the restaurant that were more conspicuous.
“A drink madam?”
“Oh… yes… Sangria please,” I said to the attractive young waitress. I envied her youth and looks. But mostly I was envious because she wasn’t in my shoes right now.
“See, yes madam.”
It came a minute or two later and I washed my dinner down with it. It was very cold and fruity and tasted great. It had a decent kick too. I picked at my food, I just didn’t feel like eating much of it. I knew I should eat something, if only to line my stomach and forced in a little of everything. I recognised it was tasty, but I couldn’t enjoy it, it was just fuel for energy. As I was chasing a chip around my plate, I became conscious of a particular smell. I couldn’t place it. It’s funny how that happens sometimes. It seemed to be from a long time ago. Then it clicked that it was the sauce I had put on my chips.
