It took me a few minutes to find the toilets. The ladies’ was just one long room with sinks laid out in front of five or six toilet cubicles. That wouldn’t really do for me stripping off and cleaning myself up. I left and went off in search of a disabled one. I figured I’d committed worse crimes that week than misusing a disabled toilet. There was one across the hall. I slipped in and snibbed the door.
Peace – thank fuck.
Everything else could wait a bit longer. I needed a wash, I needed to look at my wounds properly. What I really needed was a shower, but that would have to come later. Despite the pain, I gleefully pulled off my dirty, bloodied, fucking stinking clothes. I emptied one of my new shopping bags out, stuffed the wretched lot into it and shoved it all into the waste bin.
I never cared for looking at myself in full length mirrors. This was certainly the worst ever.
What a mess.
I decided to start with the priorities. Namely, cleaning again the worst of my injuries and the major sweat areas. Soon this mission was completed, requiring a big whack of public toilet hand-soap and a lot of Savlon and plasters. Then I started to mop up the lesser injuries. My body took on a wave of stinging warmth. Next I pulled out the packet of painkillers and a can of coke I had bought. I necked a few down with a couple of swigs. My body was stinging everywhere, but at least if felt like it was beginning to mend perhaps. When I started to throw on my pretty new clothes, humanity was close again. Once my face was filled with slap, I was rearing to go.
40
I practically burst out of the door. I was carrying two bags with the rest of my new clothes and the equivalent of half of a Boots’ makeup counter inside them. I had on a comfortable pink T-shirt, new Converses and a denim skirt. It was a bit hot for the long skirt and the pink cardigan I had had covering my arms, but they were very necessary. They literally covered a multitude of sins. I had done the kind of job with the makeup that might have won me an Oscar nomination. It was on pretty thick, so as you could hardly see any of the bruises or cuts, though I might have been suspected of being on the game too. Walking on down the corridor, an element of confidence had been restored. I felt better just knowing that everyone wouldn’t be staring at me. I realised I recognised the song playing over the speaker system. It was a nineties song from a Belfast one-hit-wonder band called Sidewinder. It was strange hearing it playing somewhere far away like this – a song from a band barely known at home in Belfast, never mind anywhere else. I always thought it was a bit shit anyhow.
Then, strolling along the end of the corridor, leading to the main glass domed mall, I almost crashed straight into a cop. I’m sure my face must have fallen for a second, but I grabbed it up again and slapped a smile onto my face.
“Excuse me, sorry,” I said and tried for my most coquettish and flirtatious smile.
He was young, certainly younger than me. He’d an army cut and strong features.
“Madam,” he said warmly and gave me a sweet little bow.
“Thank you,” I said, walking past him briskly.
It felt like he held my gaze for too long, but it could have only been my imagination.
Keep it together.
Once I made it to the corner of the mall, I chanced a look back. He was already walking out of sight, oblivious to me. I pressed on. I had a list of what I needed to still do in my head. This was the only way I was getting through it all; sticking to the list. I had successfully ticked off the shopping, nursing, cleaning and changing. Now I needed to get a coffee somewhere with Wi-Fi.
The waiter brought my coffee over to me, with a little ginger biscuit on the side. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen, but he definitely made eyes at me as he set them down. Did the young men in this part of Lanzarote go in for the hooker look? As he walked away I allowed myself an amused smile.
I pulled out my phone from my new leather handbag that I had bought from a stall in the shopping centre. I typed in my password, then connected up to their Wi-Fi. Six emails, seventeen Facebook notifications, thirty-six on Instagram and twelve on Twitter. That all could definitely wait. A few minutes on Safari later and I had discovered there was room on a flight
