Indifference Chapter 13 'Claustrophobia' Now finished

Chapter 13 ‘Claustrophobia’

Saturday morning:

I can see the island; it doesn’t look that far away at all. I cross the beach, picking a way through the tourists lapping up the sun. The sky is blue, azure, just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, not a cloud in sight. As I reach the water’s edge I kick off my flip-flops and then stop. Bloody hell, I’m wearing my favourite T-shirt, the ‘I love you‘ one. But no matter, it’s too late now. So I take it off and throw it down on the sand. And I’m left wearing only my best white, three-quarter length bottoms. My skin, I check, is brown; no need of suntan lotion today, I’m acclimatised to this place. I run and dive straight into the exquisitely seductive arms of the Aegean Sea and she takes my breath away. And the beach falls away fast beneath the water, no need for worry. I surface and brush the water from my eyes and slick back my hair. Already, I can’t touch the bottom, but then I’ve never been able to touch the bottom of anything. Bollocks, I should have brought sunglasses; the sun’s catching the wave crests and dazzling me. By the time I get there my eyes will be redder than they were this morning when it took me half an hour to put in my contact lenses with shaking hands, not a good look for wedding photographs. But never mind, ‘Far too late in the day for vanity, Jeff.’ The water is warm and crystal clear which immediately makes me think of sharks. They caught a monster here last winter, but that was dead and buried in the mud and almost capsized the boat when they tried to drag it ashore. I push on anyway. My left hand has been consistently disobedient since that first night in hell and so I have to concentrate hard on not drifting to the left. How long have I been swimming now? The island doesn’t look any closer. I look back to the shore and I’ve come so far. The sun worshipers are so small now, insignificant. I move to sidestroke to conserve some energy. Something brushes my foot. I’m not alone out here, a thought that offers up little comfort. Again, I push on. The water’s choppier now and yet it looked like a millpond when I set off; so much for prophecy. The waves are slapping my face and the salty water is stinging my eyes, I stop for a moment and turn away from the tide; too far to go back now, like all relationships. I slip under the waves for a rest; surrender to the situation. There are so many fish and I decide to chase one but there is so much salt in this water that it takes more energy to swim down than stay afloat. This is encouraging, so I plough on again. And then I’m there, slipping over the rocks and the seaweed. The sun burns as I brush the sea from my back and the pebbles hurt my bare feet. I’ve always had soft, delicate skin on my feet but they look good and dark with only traces of white between my toes. I crest the hill and see the small, white chapel just in front. But the island is deserted; how did that happen? Where is everyone? And more importantly, where are you? And why do this swim anyway? What am I trying to prove? And who am I trying to prove it to? After all, it had just been a bit of fun, ‘I’m going to swim, no I insist, and if I don’t make it then obviously we were never meant to be.’ It was just a laugh born out of a drunken evening. And I’ve made it but for some reason you haven’t? What’s happened? I turn back to look at the shore, which by now is a million miles away.

My arms are really sore now and my eyes are streaming with the salt and the heat. I take out a contact lens to clean it but it bounces off the ring on my left hand and hits the floor. It’s dark down here under the bar and I can’t find it. The world looks strange with one stinging eye that’s perfectly in focus and the other, which feels nothing but relief but can see nothing. Then I find it but the edge has chipped, one of my worst nightmares. Should I risk putting it back in? I rinse it and reinsert it. It doesn’t feel too bad but what am I doing to my eyes? How much more punishment can they take?

And now my mouth is dry. I run my tongue across my teeth and they feel furry; when was the last time I brushed them? I must take better care of myself. And hold on a minute - is that front one loose? I think it is. Oh fucking hell, I’m falling apart. And who’s that calling now? Oh, I remember, it must be my turn to play pool; I’ve reached the semi finals. I seven ball him, easy. Maybe things are not so bad. I go back to the bar in search of a drink, but oh no, that’s Ares in again, my heart sinks. He’s after a rematch, now, when I ache all over. And he’s so strong and I’m in so much pain. And he crashes my one good arm into the bar, so hard that I can see blood. There’s blood everywhere. And what’s this? It’s my arm down on the bar; he’s snapped it off. And then someone is demanding a pint. I turn and scream at him, ‘Are you taking the piss; my arms just come off!’ And he says what am I complaining about? ‘You’ve still got two arms only one of them isn’t attached.’ I feel like picking it up and twatting him hard over the head with it. And then I’m in the pool final. But how can I play with just my left arm? Can’t they all see how unfair that is? So I pick up my arm and try and stick it back on and it sort of works but it’s at a weird angle so I stagger to the toilet and sit down. And how long am I here? I don’t know. But my insides are churning and every time I get up to leave I have to go again. And what’s that on the toilet paper, is it blood? I can’t tell because my colour vision is so bad. And I go so much that now there’s only water coming out. And I’m getting weaker and weaker and then I just want to die, to die here alone in this disgusting toilet. And this time no one comes to help. But I can’t stay here so I drag myself up and go to wash my face. And who’s that in the mirror? Is that me? I’m so thin that I have to hold on to my trousers to stop them falling down. And I have to lie down. And then I let go. And then I turn over and you are so warm. And your hair is tousled and you smell like heaven and I snuggle up to your back. And you groan and take hold of me and ease me inside. I move my hand around your back and grab your belly and we begin to move slowly, gently at first until you become engorged and now a little faster and a little deeper. And you hold me firmer and firmer, just in the right place. Your hand moves above your head to the wall in order to push back against me, to offer a little resistance. And in that moment you softly moan these words, ‘There’s nothing like making love in a relationship,’ and I wonder what that means exactly? Who am I being compared to now? Where have you been and who have you been there with? But then I move my hand to your right hip and hold on for dear life as I slip under the water. And then you turn towards me and I’m on top and the bed head begins to bang against the wall, recording our rhythm. And I brush the hair from your face but it isn’t you, it’s Dawn and I’m confused but she has me and won’t let go and we become more frantic and the headboard goes ‘Bang, bang, BANG, BANG!!’ And now I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all as we stick and slide together in the sweat of this hideous hedonism. And I stop, but the banging gets louder and louder and LOUDER! And finally, I surface to a newer, and far more real, claustrophobia.

I crawl out of bed and cross the room to the window and, in this moment, the sunlight of a newer reality cuts through to my core. And still the banging intensifies. I throw open the window and look down on the street where Mark, Shaun and little Kev are staring up at me with nothing more than a playful innocence.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Well a drink would be a start,’ laughs Mark

‘What time is it?’

‘Half nine.’

‘Fuck off! Are you just taking the piss!’ I say, slamming the window closed.

But then, naturally, the banging resumes and I realise it’s Saturday morning and match day. I re-open the window and throw down the bar keys, ‘Let yourselves in, get a drink and leave the money on the bar, I’ll be down in a minute.’

And, knowing the dream would haunt his entire day; he crossed the room as his empty double bed shamelessly mocked him. And that morning the bed was left unmade; he’d had enough of lies for one lifetime.

The bus coughed and spluttered its way up the mountain, billowing a fug of blue smoke and spewing diesel and melted shreds of tyre onto the tarmac in its wake. It groaned around the last corner and stuttered to a dead stop with the aching heart of a whipped, scurvy beast, just in sight of the bar. Luxury Travel Inc. had arrived. If the bus had been a dog they would have shot it. The day was unbearably hot; a hangover in the making. Mark slung three crates of beer in the back, lit a fag and settled down to two hours of excruciating sufferance. Odysseus squeezed in beside him as the bus was unleashed from its torment and bump started on the third try just short of the escape lane; business as usual.

‘So, go on then, you twat, what is going on with you and Mandy?’

‘I had to let her go. She was already getting possessive,’ said Mark

‘And there’s no chance of her taking you back?

‘No, I don’t think so’

And so they settled into the journey, well, as much as anyone can relax in over 100 degrees of heat with no air conditioning and the sun flaying skin and balding scalps through unopening windows. For a few minutes they were almost happy as talk moved to that afternoon’s home game against Panathinaikos, the hated enemy of Olympiakos. It would be Shane’s first game and he wasn’t sure what to expect; whereas the more seasoned campaigners knew from bitter experience that all expectations were left in the bus.

Gears screeched at every hairpin and the battered condition of the road beneath them was faithfully reported to jarring spines and hangovers through the shattered suspension. And then the road straightened and they bumped cheerily along at increasing speeds ignoring any thoughts of the possible state of the brakes; after all, the three fates were in the back seat, although no one dared consider whether this was, in fact, a good thing or a bad thing.

The bus slid to a halt outside the Demi-God in a cloud of dust kicked up from the ancient road; Vasilley the Shepard had stayed here overnight and had asked to cadge a lift back to Athens to pick up his next flock. The door snapped open and a blurred figure arced through the air in front of Odysseus and Mark, crashed into the window on their right and collapsed in a heap at their feet. The bus moaned and swayed unsteadily to the left under the unbearable weight of Poseidon and Polyphemus as they clambered on board. The heart of Odysseus sank still further and then further still as Ares followed barging and scowling his way past them towards the back of the bus which was even worse; not really the three you want behind your back, out of sight.

And then a stranger followed, obviously one of their party. And he was just outright scary. Small, with a shaved head apart from an outrageously high quiff on his low slung brow. But it was the eyes that held the malevolence, the thousand yard stare of a psychotic killer born of a sociopath. He made his way directly to the vacant seat beside little Kevin who immediately shrank to half his size again.

The blur came around and, propping himself up on an elbow and with dishevelled hair and unruly beard and still with a giant spliff in his mouth and charm in his smile, said to Odysseus, ‘Hey, Odysseus, Rasta man, buzz, buzz, quake, quack. How’s it hanging?’

‘Hello, Andrew,’ replied Odysseus with soft disillusion.’ Andrew coughed and threw up spectacularly all over Mark’s feet. And, as the door closed around his world, Odysseus, The King of Ithaca, turned to his friend, his only friend, and said simply,

‘Mark, wake me up when this is all over.’

And so to the putrid stench of vomit and bellicose flatulence, the bus descended down the mountainside into unbridled anarchy.