A Cup O'Kindness Yet

Published on Friday 25 April 2008 11:12

By Fran Watt

He was drinking Irish whiskey only out of contrariness, it being just on the turn of the year: He could see no good reason why the Scots should hold copyright on New Year celebrations in the Canaries. But he'd chosen to go the long way round to the bar with some purpose - to keep well away from the black-browed husband.

That worked almost as well as most of his devices and detours of the year past. He was waiting at the bar when there was a solid presence behind him suddenly, closer than there was any reason for, and a reek of sweat.

'It would be better if you looked to your own business,' the husband's voice said in his ear. 'And kept your bastard eyes off my wife.'

Before John could move or even think of speaking the man was gone again. John lifted his refilled glass then hesitated. He hadn't sensed the man coming up behind him. Reflexes, what reflexes? It would be sensible to stop, but then wasn't he drinking out of contrariness in the first place? Up yours mate, and a Happy New Year to you too.

He was back out on the terrace in time to be gathered up in the usual befuddled version of Auld Lang Syne. Interesting how impossible it was now to avoid catching the eye of one or other of them, either the silk-haired Philippino wife or her troglodyte husband, as they advanced towards him and retreated again, holding hands, laughing at the jostling ring. At least she laughed. John never saw the husband with any expression but a scowl.

As the dancers were thinning out the band launched into a Latin American number. She cocked her head at the first notes, turned and came towards John, light-footed and with that gloss a smile gives, and she held out her hand. She was decades younger than him, and out of his league entirely. It seemed like provocation, and he was just drunk enough, just contrary enough, to wish to provoke.

And she could dance, oh she could dance. That was what had caught his eye in the first place; she was undoubtedly a trained dancer and she stood out in this shuffling middle-aged company like a diamond in dross. He would not have been a fit partner even sober. He had all the grace of a prop forward and it was a good fifteen years since he last danced even with a rugby ball. But he did not fall over, he did not trip her up, and he was honoured to be no more than an adequate foil, swept up beyond himself by some momentary magic.

When he looked back, afterwards, they seemed paired briefly as if flung together in a set piece within a larger, more complicated dance. It all seemed so innocent. It was so innocent. He was concentrating so hard on counting beats he almost forgot to watch the way she moved. Almost. Perhaps it was just whiskey and starlight, the new year's loneliness and the old year's regrets. Perhaps there was magic. Perhaps not. For a full ten minutes he entirely forgot to give the gibbon husband any thought at all.

At last the band stopped, put down their instruments and adjourned en masse to the bar. Someone else's wife and he separated and looked at each other dazedly. Or at least he looked at her dazedly. Later, he didn't feel inclined to guess at her feelings and he didn't believe he had much idea about what she was thinking. When her husband's elbow caught him hard in the stomach he took an unplanned step backwards. 'My dance, he I think,' the man said tightly, levered his shoulder into John's chest for good measure and he took hold of her wrist. John was very briefly tempted to seize the back of his neck and shake him. Instead he bowed to the dancer. 'Thank you,' she said, the first time he heard her speak. Her voice was an accented, nasal Minnie Mouse parody. He wished she had stayed silent.

New Year Resolutions. The last four fingers of whiskey had kicked off an ache somewhere inside the midriff bulge, and as a result the old perennial, giving up alcohol, was more attractive than usual. John leaned his elbows on the low wall above the pool and considered the tip of his cigarette. Giving up smoking, on top of the rest, might be setting the bar too high.

'The rest' consisted of many familiars. He was, recurrently, clear-eyed about the person he would prefer to be. John Galloway, how come you're watching another year dawn alone, already more hungover than drunk, with so many apologies outstanding you will never even whisper the first. Someone else is sleeping with your wife; someone else raising your son; you owe more than you own and the second ulcer's grumbling. So far, not so good, and what the hell do you suppose you can do about it?

He flicked the end of his cigarette towards the bin and it fell short. A litter lout, as well. Just shoot him now. The silence was immense. Despite the rows of chalets stacked up the hillside behind where he stood, one layer from the sheer drop to the sea, there was no sound near at hand. It was 3.00 am and he seemed alone in a deserted world. Above him the new year was dawning; the stars were distinctly growing indistinct. Time for bed. Then directly below, muffled against the retaining wall of the terrace, he heard a woman's voice – unmistakeably his dancing Minnie Mouse.

Whatever makes a good witness, he had to concede he might not have it. He tried and tried, later, to be certain what she said or called out. The more he struggled to bring the memory into focus, the more other options multipied; the less he could tell if he was fabricating alternatives because he simply had not heard clearly. Did she say 'No, don't do that, Jason. Jason, listen to me. No, no, no, no!'? Or - 'No, I can't do that, Jason. Jason, you're not listening to me. No, no, no, no!' Or - 'No, it can't be, Jason. Jason, listen to me…' Enough. The 'no's were distinct, because she sobbed them on a rising note, at a rising volume. He could be sure of the 'no's. He could be sure the husband was Jason. The rest was as unclear as everything else.

The rush of adrenaline was shocking in itself. Obviously, he had run down the curved stairs to the next level, but he had no memory of it, though the steps were rough stone on which it was easy to turn an ankle even sober in daylight. He was simply there, beside her, beside them, wondering why the light was so poor but not thinking to notice if a wall lamp was out; hearing himself say, 'What's wrong, what's the matter?' He sounded like someone with half a failed life some distance behind them; someone parachuted out of a discomfort zone into something much worse. 'What's wrong?' he said again, but he knew it all already, from how they were.

The husband was lying on his back with his head propped up against one of the wooden columns of the barbecue shelter. One knee was bent casually, almost jauntily, at an angle, so that in daylight he could have been dozing quietly if a little uncomfortably in the sun. She was crouching beside him, shaking his shoulders desperately. John reached past her to check for a pulse at the side of the man's neck. 'I have killed him' Minnie Mouse said, and began to repeat over and over again with increasing emphasis, 'I killed him. I killed him…' John stared down at his hand. He had touched the back of the man's head in easing his position, and his fingers were sticky. 'I killed him…' He began to be afraid she would be unable to stop.

'It was an accident,' he said sharply. 'Move out of the way.' He bundled her aside, trying frantically to remember a half-day first aid course of almost a decade before, muttering instructions to himself. 'A, B, C – Airways? Breathing, extend the chin upwards – C? What's C? Cardiac - heart?' And all the while she kept sobbing, 'I killed him. I killed him. I killed …'

'How many times on the heart?' John asked aloud. 'Three breaths?' To the wife he said '- Get help! The phone - over there! Ring for an ambulance.' As he thumped gingerly at her husband's strangely spongy chest, Minnie Mouse began to run towards the phone at the side of the poolside bar, all the while saying 'I killed him, I killed him, I…'

It seemed, at that point, as if the loop had got stuck for some time. John alternately compressed and blew, tried to superimpose helpful images from hospital soaps on top of an unhelpful image of someone inflating and deflating a rubber dummy. He had no idea how long the nightmare lasted. Though it seemed hours, it couldn't have been. As the certainty of failure began to creep up his back, he became aware Minnie Mouse was still running uselessly between the phone and the barbecue shelter. Now she was saying, 'I killed him. Phone not work. I killed him. Phone not work.' Was he certain those were her words? – no. Alternatives later suggested themselves.

He himself said nothing. He might have said, 'There is no retrieving this situation. This is the first day of the New Year on one of the smallest of the Canary Islands. I doubt if there is a single ambulance on the whole island; the nearest doctor may be several hours away. The skeleton on-site staff are sleeping the sleep of the comprehensively refreshed, where I do not know. He is dead and no cure for it.' Instead he sat back on his heels and in silence stared up at her in the grey half-light.

On the flight home he had a window seat, and so had to work at catching the hostesses' eyes. He was prepared to do that. He had been having to work quite hard at balancing a practical level of functioning with a necessary level of intoxication for two days now; his alcohol tolerance was observably rising. There could be cashflow problems fairly soon after hitting British tax rates.

He did see it as essential he should remain not entirely sober. Sober, as he'd discovered, he appeared to have total recall of every smell, taste and touch he had experienced since the turn of the old year; along with a continuing absolute uncertainty about what had actually happened, by the pool on the cliff.

From the trolley he ordered another double, without mixer, and this time the air hostess demurred. 'I think that might not be a good idea, sir.' The two adjacent passengers looked sideways and he stopped arguing at once, turned his face to the window and shut his eyes.

Worst of all was the soft give of the man's chest under his braced hands.

She might have been saying, 'No phone. I killed him. No phone. I killed him.'

No, sounds had been worst. The sounds of something soft but heavy falling, not cleanly, away down the cliff towards the invisible sea.

She might have said, 'Do not phone because I killed him.' She might have said that.

Worst of all was the taste of the dead man's lips.

John opened his eyes and looked out at cloud tundra.

No, worst of all was how cold the body had been, how cold the man's coarse skin where a pulse should have been. John could feel the skin texture still on his own fingers, the sensation could not be washed off. Colder than his own fingers. Much colder than the soft night air.

She might have said, 'Don't phone or I will say you killed him.' He was fairly sure she'd never said that. Fairly sure.