The Count of Eleven (45 page)

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I think you can do anything you want to if you want to hard enough.”

That was true of the Count, not him, since it seemed he couldn’t even keep the suitcase away from her long enough to open it unobserved. Then she said to Laura “Well, let’s have a look at your room.” As she followed her into 15, Jack grabbed the larger suitcase and ran next door.

There wasn’t much in the room: whitewashed walls, a curtained recess of which contained hangers on a rail above a chest of drawers; twin beds with a single sheet on each; two bedside tables, each draped with a cloth on which stood a mosquito repellent; two low chairs, vaguely related to a round table which was the only other furniture. Floor-length windows on the seaward side gave onto a stone balcony. Jack dumped the suitcase on the nearer bed and unzipped it, thinking how lucky he was that it no longer locked. Strewing the towels across the bed, he dragged out the briefcase and was at the windows in two strides and sliding the panes back.

The balcony was bare except for a frail table and two plastic chairs. It offered even less concealment than the room did, though it was hidden from its neighbours by walls as wide as itself and as high as the stone ceiling. A couple were playing Trivial Pursuit on the balcony to his left “How many ghosts were there in a film by William Castle?” a girl with a Birmingham accent said but when he craned out, searching for a hiding-place, the wall concealed the players. Fifteen feet or so beneath him, at the foot of a featureless wall, was the cracked stone path alongside the lowest terrace; above him, about two feet higher than the ceiling, was the roof. He was leaning backwards over the edge of the balcony and gazing up, wishing he could think of a better idea, when Laura poked her head around the dividing wall. “Dad?”

Her sudden appearance made him dizzy. “Yes,” he snapped.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

He’d almost started the holiday by spoiling it for her. “So it is.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to see.”

“Mummy says she’ll be with you in a minute.”

“No hurry,” Jack said for Julia to hear, and dodged behind the wall to open the briefcase. He’d left it on the table, and Laura hadn’t seen it. He crumpled the last letter, the one addressed to Janys Day, and stuffed it into his trousers pocket before seizing the blow lamp Placing the briefcase on top of the wall at the edge of the balcony, he pushed a plastic chair against the wall, put one foot on the seat, grasped his knee and levered himself up.

He ducked just in time. The ceiling would have knocked him silly. A man from Birmingham said “Which film comedian brought his friend hard-boiled eggs and nuts in hospital?” and Jack heard Julia murmuring in Laura’s room. Reaching up with his left hand, he took hold of the edge of the underside of the roof, which felt cumbersomely large, and placed his left foot on top of the wall, which was as broad as his heel. “Here goes,” he said in a voice which wasn’t quite the Count’s. Gripping the overhead edge as firmly as he could, he heaved himself up onto the wall, his right foot wavering in the air.

He had to lean out; he couldn’t duck his head any lower. The heat and the path below seemed to sway at him. He pressed the thumb of his left hand under the stone edge to steady himself, then he raised his right hand until the tip of the nozzle of the blow lamp was touching his left thumb. Take it,” he muttered in a voice which felt as if it might leap out of control, ‘take it now,” but his thumb wouldn’t budge not until he leaned on the blow lamp His thumb faltered away from the ceiling as the rest of his hand struggled to keep hold, and then his thumb was holding the nozzle against the stone. His right hand slapped the ceiling, wedging him between it and the wall. He closed his left hand around the nozzle and lifted the blow lamp which rang dully against the stone. He couldn’t see the roof above him, and he poked the blow lamp towards it for some seconds before discovering that it was inches out of reach.

He couldn’t just throw the blow lamp He would need to recover it once he decided where to dispose of it for good. He had to plant both feet on the wall and lean out far enough to stretch his arm above thx roof. “You can do it,” he told himself. “Luck’s on your side.”

He inched his palm along the ceiling, which was warm and painfully rough, and leaned out a fraction. A scent of flowers mixed with the stony smell of sunbaked dust surged into his throat. The roof of the building below him shuddered up towards him as though it was being inflated, and he saw what he’d missed seeing: if that roof was visible to him, the blow lamp would be visible from all the higher balconies. “Clown,” he said through his teeth, and stepped down with his right foot onto the chair.

“Stan Laurel,” the Birmingham girl answered at last, and Jack felt the chair slide from beneath him. He was falling. He couldn’t hold onto the edge of the ceiling without letting go of the blow lamp The world tilted as though some organ of balance had come loose behind his eyes, and his left foot kicked the briefcase off the balcony. His backward plunge lasted long enough for him to think what he could do to save himself, which was nothing. At least his chin was still tucked into his chest, so that only his shoulders thumped the dividing wall, scraping on the rough stone as he sprawled on his back. “What was that?” said the Birmingham girl.

Jack’s skull had started to ache rhythmically, his back felt as though it had been stripped like wallpaper, but he had no time to recuperate. He rolled over, and the balcony rolled with him. He closed his eyes and made himself lie still while he counted eleven, slowing down over the last few numbers, then he swayed to his feet and grasped the sliding frame of the right-hand window before wobbling into the room.

When his knees collided with the end of his bed he bowed forwards almost helplessly and began to ransack the suitcase. As soon as he found his swimming trunks he lowered himself onto the bed, which was further beneath him than he’d thought, and found himself toppling backwards. He kicked off his sandals and dragged off his trousers and underpants -the easy part then he attempted to thread his legs through the trunks. At the third try he managed to locate both leg-holes, but the trunks were the wrong way round. He heard Julia saying “See you in a few minutes’ and tottered to his feet.

He hauled the trunks up and grabbing the nearest towel, wrapped the blow lamp in it just as Julia came in.

She halted as she saw him, and he willed her to be letting her eyes adjust to the relative dimness of the room, but she was gazing at him. “So much for your unpacking,” she said. “More like a dog after a bone.”

“Woof,” he said, and repeated it so that it didn’t sound at all like “Whoomph.”

“You’re worse than Laura ever was.”

“I must take after myself.”

“Never mind, I said I’d do it.” Then she stared harder at him. “You’re back to front.”

“New fashion.”

“Don’t go out like that, Jack. You’ll have Laura imagining everyone’s looking.”

“If she even notices,” he said, but arguing would waste time. He shoved the towel and its contents more firmly beneath his armpit and yanked the trunks down past his scrotum, then he wriggled until they slid to his ankles. His movements were rubbing his shirt over his raw shoulders, and he was afraid there might be blood for Julia to notice. He turned around carefully, his headache beating like a drum machine, once he was free of the trunks, and sat on one of the chairs near the beds, the thin-skinned upholstery pricking his buttocks. He was hooking the trunks to him with one foot when someone rapped on the door. “Is that Laura?” Julia called.

“Yes.”

“Come in then, and stop putting on that funny voice.”

“Hang on, I don’t think Jack said, reeling to his feet and clutching at the towel with one hand while attempting to drag his trunks up with the other. They had only reached his knees when the Birmingham girl, who proved to be in her twenties but who had sounded younger, stepped into the room. “Well, excuse me,” she said, backing out fast. “I was only going to ask if you’d lost this.”

Julia ran after her and did her best to appear solemn. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. Our daughter’s called Laura too.1

“Really,” the other Laura said as if that made the situation even more suspect.

“What did you say you were wanting to ask?”

The length of the question gave Jack time to stumble to the door. “If you’d dropped this,” the Birmingham Laura said, holding up the briefcase.

“I don’t think so,” Julia said. “I’m sure it can’t be ours. Though now you mention it, it does look a bit ‘

“It looks like an old briefcase,” Jack interrupted. “It isn’t ours.”

Their neighbour kept her gaze fixed on his chest as though she was determined not to look higher or lower. “Sorry to have bothered you, I’m sure,” she said, and retreated into the next apartment.

Julia contained her giggles until Jack shut the door. “I should have let you keep your trunks on after all.”

He wished he could stay and share the joke. “I’ll see you both on the beach.”

“I should think our Laura’s just about ready if you want to wait for her. You’ve got her towel, by the way. Here’s yours.”

Jack took it from her and ventured into the sunlight, which collided with his head, reviving the ache. “Are you ready, Laura Orchard?” he called.

“Almost. Why are you calling me that?”

“I’ll leave your towel next to mine on the beach,” he told her, and stumbled down the nearest flight of steps. At the bottom he glanced both ways before shoving the blow lamp down the front of his trunks. They hid it, and he felt comfortable enough with it until he tried to walk; then it began to nudge his penis with a gentleness which he suspected would soon become unbearable. He stuck Laura’s towel under his arm and reached into his trunks to adjust his penis as he moved towards the lowest set of steps, and glanced up in case either Julia or Laura was watching him. Neither of them was, but the Birmingham couple were, and looking decidedly dubious. “Just dealing with my equipment,” he mumbled wildly, and fled down the steps.

Below the road in front of the hotel a concrete slipway led down to the narrow pebbly beach. Most of the bare-breasted young women were lying face down on recliners, except for one who was bouncing a baby in the waves. Several Greek children were skimming stones across the water while their grandmother, a large swarthy woman in a bathing suit and cap and with varicose veins so pronounced they looked like rubber tubes inserted beneath the skin of her legs, plodded through the shallows. Jack spread the towels on the slipway and unbuttoned his shirt, wincing at the prospect of peeling it off his shoulders. When he removed it, however, he found there was no blood on it. He dropped it on his towel and wriggled his feet out of his sandals the blow lamp wouldn’t let him stoop then, hoping that the bare young women wouldn’t take his posture as a response, he waddled down to the sea.

He expected it to be warmer than it proved to be. When he trod in it he had to restrain himself from jumping back. In a couple of seconds it felt more welcoming, and he waded forwards until he was knee-deep. Waves tugged gently at his legs, pebbles appeared to sway back and forth underwater, and he felt in danger of losing his balance. He couldn’t loiter in case Julia or Laura saw him. He floundered into the leisurely waves, and the water closed around his trunks.

It felt as though the blow lamp at his groin had extended a cold grasp around his hips. The largest wave he’d met so far broke at his waist, splashing his chest, and he thought the impact had knocked him over. He pulled the blow lamp out of his trunks and held it underwater. Now he could stoop, but there was no hiding-place in sight. Pebbles dug into the soles of his feet, a swarm of tiny fish nipped at his ankles. Though the water seemed capable of floating his legs from under him and carrying him helplessly away, he would have to go deeper if he wanted to be certain that the waves wouldn’t return the blow lamp to him.

He shouldn’t have come into the sea, he thought; he should have gone up the hill. Perhaps he still could. Then he heard Laura calling “Look at Dad,” and he wallowed forwards, having glimpsed a large underwater rock that appeared to be almost within his reach. It seemed to raise itself and inch towards him, but that was an illusion produced by the water, as was its closeness to him. The sea was halfway up his chest when he gained the rock and fell to his knees on top of it, water filling his nostrils and stinging his shoulders. He snorted his nostrils clear and shook his throbbing dizzy head and sucked in a lungful of air, then he plunged his face into the sea and reached beneath the rock.

It was lying on sand. Something squirmed away from his fingers and burrowed deeper. He dug as deep a trench in the heavy sodden sand as he could without raising his head out of the water. His vision was blurring, his lungs were beginning to struggle to keep the air down; he felt as though the sea which was thundering dully in his ears was penetrating his skull. When it seemed that all the air in his lungs was about to burst out of him through whatever exit it could make he thrust the blow lamp into the trench, nozzle first. The nozzle dug its own hole, and the body was well under the rock. He shoved himself away from it and reared up out of the water, spitting and blinking and gasping, so desperate for air that his impetus threw him backwards. The sea replaced the sky, and a wave held him under.

It could only happen to Jack Awkward. He’d come all this way solely in order to drown himself. He flailed at the water with his arms and legs, but he could neither regain his footing nor find the surface with his face. Everything around him seemed to be infected by his dizziness. Another wave carried him for some distance, and he realised he was floating, out of control. Then pebbles scraped the knuckles of his right hand and he bruised his toes on a stone, and managed to crouch on all fours and shove his face above the water. For a few seconds he could only splutter and try to blink his salty eyes into focus, then he saw that the wave had carried him in the direction of the beach. Laura was swimming towards him. “Dad,” she called without breaking her stroke, ‘you nearly swam.”