WORST
HOLIDAY EVER (Part 4 & Last)
By Richard Banks
Some things
are too good to miss and, why should I? Fidelia’s getting a sound grounding on
the women’s game and in the company of the two gals is safe from unwanted male
company. I leave in a hurry pleading a family bereavement and promising to be
back by five, which is never going to happen, so it’s not until six that I
return to find the beach almost deserted. They are still sunbathing, and to my
surprise Fidelia is wearing rather less than she had on before. They’re getting
on like a house on fire, and I’m wondering why Fidelia can’t do the same with
Honora. Needless to say, I’m not the most popular guy in
Montura, but all is forgiven when I pay for a pony trap ride back to the hotel and
Bacardi breezers at the bar. At 7.30 Fidelia and me are back in the conference
room for a session on the Premier League, its star players, managers and
owners. At ten we’re doing so well I move on to the intercity rivalry between
Villa and
It’s been a long day so I return to the bar for a nightcap to find, to my
surprise, Irina there looking through her messages. “Thought I'd see you here,”
she says. “How’s you’re little protégé shaping up?” This is not something I
mentioned to her earlier in the day so I’m wondering how she’s found out, but
found out she has.
“There’s something you should know if you haven’t already sussed it.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Come upstairs, there’s something I need to tell you, and if you’re not too
tired from your day’s work I might stay all night.”
“Is this like a proper date?”
“No, but it will be a very expensive one so just be glad you’re not picking-up
the bill.” She laughs and gives my knee a playful tweak.
“OK, but let’s get the talking done now. What is it you want to tell me?”
She pretends not to remember and then decides she does. She leans towards me
and lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “I hear that wifely rivalry may
not be Fidelia’s only problem. It is rumoured that not everything has been
going well in the bedroom. Indeed, it has been observed that Fidelia is more at
ease in the company of women, especially those as young and attractive as
herself.”
“You mean she’s a ..”
“I mean that whilst she will never master the violin, she can still be taught
to play a lively tune on the fiddle.”
“And you’re prepared to give her a few pointers?”
“Of course, a sisterly tete-a-tete. After all, it would be a shame if all your
hard work was in vain. Who knows, between us we might produce the perfect
wife.”
This is too good an offer to refuse and I’m thinking that in addition to what
Asad’s paying me, there may be more to come from a grateful Faisal.
In the morning Irina departs, and after breakfast at eight I take charge of
Fidelia. We begin with a revision session, in which Fidelia gets nine out of
ten, and move on to the laws of football, tactical formations and the black
arts of the game including ‘over the top’ tackles and simulation. In the
afternoon I knock-up a side, including ourselves, Rita, Gemma and some of the
waiters, and we take on a team from the hotel next door. All goes well. Fidelia
rushes around like a good un and as well as scoring a goal stamps on the foot
of their centre forward causing him to limp off the pitch. She’s taking to
football like a duck to water and joins in all the goal celebrations,
particularly those involving Rita and Gemma. We win 6-3 and do a lap of honour
in front of the dozen or so people cheering us on. Then it’s back to the
Presidente where I bring my masterclass to an end with some DVDs of Villa matches.
We have dinner, and at eight Irina arrives and I let them into my room where
Irina can impart her womanly advice without fear of being overheard. I go down
to the bar and after a couple of hours they meet me there and we wile away the
time until Asad arrives. Irina departs to who knows where and I opt for an
early night.
When I awake it’s with the sense of a job well done and the expectation of
rewards to come that will set me up for life. The day is mine to do as I please
and with Faisal and Honora not long off the plane, I’m guessing that feedback
on my stirring efforts is not likely to surface until the following day. So,
after a leisurely breakfast I’m down to the beach again and after the usual
lazing try my hand at waterskiing and paragliding. I do well and the guys
running the rides tell me I’m a natural. Is there anything I can’t do?
It’s not until the afternoon that I get a text from Faisal saying they’re going
to the casino and that I’m invited. See you at nine, he says, and, at five
minutes to, I’m walking through the front door in my best suit and lucky tie.
It’s the same old faces, and those belonging to Asad and Fidelia seem very
happy with life. Things are looking good and it’s not long before Faisal
singles me out and takes me over to the roulette table where he scatters chips
in all directions while expressing his delight that Fidelia is now a fanatical
supporter, of the team that will always be his first love. His eyes mist over
and he looks almost overcome with emotion. As he loses yet another spin, he
pulls himself together and hugs me about the shoulders.
“Thank you, my friend. I know it was Asad’s idea, and I will forever be in his
debt, but how could he have done it without you, my friend, thank you, thank
you a thousand times! I am now the most favoured of men, with one wife for the
night and another to speak football to throughout the day. Could any man ask
for more?”
It seems that Irina’s extra tuition was not needed after all, but if Fidelia ups
her game in the bedroom a good result can only get better. After three straight
wins on the red I’m definitely on a winning streak, but not so Faisal who’s the
worst gambler I have ever seen. By the end of the evening, he has lost 100K.
But no matter, says he, tomorrow he will buy the casino. It’s been a great
evening, everyone’s happy and for the first time, Asad acknowledges the success
of my efforts with a discreet thumbs up.
So, it’s all worked out well, and the next morning the manager of the hotel
confirmed that my stay there had been extended by another week. Irina’s due
back in the evening and with my new job in London
***
I’m on the beach, happily contemplating my future prosperity, when my phone
rings and instead of it being Faisal or Irina, like I’m expecting, it’s Asad
and he’s shouting abuse at me so loud I’m having to turn down the volume.
“Treachery!” he screams. “Betrayal! Defiler of womanhood!”
“Calm down,” I say. “What’s the problem?” But he’s too worked up to calm down.
Instead, he’s now on to his revenge, how he’s going to have me dismembered and
thrown into a cesspit. He’s so angry now I can hardly make out what he’s
saying. There’s a loud thud followed by a blast of static that sounds like he’s
trashing his phone; then silence - call over.
None of this is making sense, and if there’s any chance of sorting things out
there’s only one person who makes it happen. I phoned Faisal. His voice is
composed, but his effusive good humour has given way to an icy formality that
tells me I am no longer his friend.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Asad’s just phoned, wants to kill me. What the heck
have I
done?”
Faisal takes an audible intake of breath. “Have you no honour, Englishman? You
take the gold of one man and betray him for the gold of his enemy. Did you
think we would not find out? You really are a very stupid man. The photographs
were taken in your hotel room, your jacket over the back of a chair, the
bedside clock showing 9pm when Fidelia was in your charge. Don’t pretend it was
not so, my wife cavorting with that whore on top of the bed, not even a sheet
to hide them. Did you not think of me, who gave you my friendship and trust,
and of her who must now be cruelly punished. Truly, Englishman the world will
be a better place without you.”
I start to tell him that I know nothing about any photographs but he ends the call, and when I ring back I get no further than a recorded message saying he’s no longer taking my calls. My head’s in a spin. Only Irina can help me now, but, when I call her, the message on my phone says, ‘Number not recognised’. I try again, hoping against hope that I have misdialled, but the same words reappear.
She’s gone, disappeared, and I’ve been left to take the blame, double-crossed and played for a fool. No one could have cared for me less. By now she will be in some far off place, lying low, waiting for the heat to die down, before resuming business under another name and possibly from behind another face. She will certainly be able to afford one; whoever paid for those photographs paid well, extremely well. Who they are I have no idea, maybe someone connected to Honora or one of her backers, maybe someone else, someone with a grudge, who knows. For the moment it matters not. There are two guys on the prom in dark suits who look like off-duty bouncers, but when one of them starts scanning the beach through binoculars it’s more than obvious who they’re looking for. They won’t be the only ones after me. Can I trust the police? Not if Assad’s paying out backhanders. I need to get back to the hotel. Without my passport and some serious dosh, there’s no way I’m getting out of here alive.
I retreat into the shadow of my umbrella and watch my pursuers pass, then I’m
up, shirt and shoes on, and walking back along the beach towards a flight of
steps that surface on the prom opposite the Presidente. My plan, such as it is,
is to slip in unnoticed through the staff door at the side but there’s no
chance of that; the pavement outside the hotel is heaving with people. I push
through to the front to find three policemen manning a Don’t Cross line. Beyond
them, I see what everyone else has come to see, the lifeless body of Miguel,
the hotel porter who carried my bags on that first day. It lies on the hotel
patio in a pool of blood, amidst the wreckage of a table and umbrella.
“He fell from a balcony,” someone says. “Feet first,” says another. “He was screaming, even before he fell he was screaming.”
Was it him who took the photographs? Someone did. I’m cold with fear, but as
another police car arrives I realise that for now the hotel is probably the
safest place in town. There’s a service road at the back where deliveries are
made. It won’t be long, I’m thinking, before that too is taped off but when I
find a way round to it, there’s no one to be seen. The gate in the back wall is
locked but I’m over it and up a fire escape that gets me into a corridor on the
first floor. From there I take the stairs to the sixth floor before gently
easing open the swing door that’s only a few yards from my room. I stop and
listen, but hear only the commotion from outside. Is it safe? There’s only one
way to find out. I push through and along to my room, key card at the ready,
but there’s no need, the door’s wide open. Something within moves. I recoil,
nearly take flight, but it’s only the balcony curtain swaying in the breeze.
I’m on my own, but someone’s not long been here, that’s for sure. The room’s a
wreck, like the aftermath of a burglary, but the blood stains on the wall and
floor tell a different story. Miguel took one hell of a beating before he was
thrown to his death.
I change into my travelling clothes, open the safe and take out my passport,
cards and all the cash inside. Everything else I abandon. I leave the same way
I came in, but instead of turning back to the prom keep walking along the
service road until I come to a main road and wave down the first cab I see.
“Take me to the airport,” I say and then think better of it. Almost certainly
Asad’s men will be there waiting for me. I have to find another way out of the
country, and then I remember the railway station I saw in the countryside
whilst hunting pigs. The driver speaks little or no English but eventually gets
my drift, and sensing that I’m a man in a hurry wastes no time in getting me
there. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the station I saw, it’s still a station,
and from there I chop and change trains until I cross the border into France Boulogne
Will I be safe back home? Not if they find out where I live, but maybe they
won’t. To Asad and Faisal I’m Ollie from Birmingham
Do I shut my eyes as we pass the derelict mills? There seems little point;
what’s to come is almost as bad. I get off the bus in the High Street outside
the bank which, as Ross foretold, is now closed; one of its windows broken,
another scratched. A few doors along, on the boarded-up window of what was a
grocer’s shop, some freshly sprayed graffiti proclaims that ‘Bassa is a
wanker’. Me too, I’m thinking and everyone else who chooses to live in this
God-forsaken place. Only a few days ago I was having the best holiday ever in
an upmarket resort, rubbing elbows with a Prince and his entourage, head over
heels in love. I should still be there and looking forward to a life of luxury
in London
Can things get worse? Indeed they can. I turn the corner into my street to find
an unfamiliar car parked a few doors away from my bedsit. It may not be a
Mercedes, but it’s too new and shiny to belong to anyone around here. I should
be legging it back the way I’ve come, but I’m still walking and too down and
out to stop.
The driver’s door opens and a guy I saw at Roscoe's steps out and saunters towards me as a second man exits from the other side. If they have guns they could be shooting me now, but maybe they want to talk first, find out what I know about Irina. Maybe that’s how it started with Miguel, threats followed by a beating, and when he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know bloody execution. What can I say that will convince them that it wasn’t me, that I’ve been duped, set up - that it’s Irina they should be looking for. Only she can save me now, and she’s not here.
It’s done, all but over. Bring it on!
The
End
Copyright
Richard Banks
Couldn't get any worse Ricardo...
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