Just Two Weeks

Part 1. The Holiday

Chapter 1

A drop of cold water landed on Jo’s shoulder. She turned on her side in the unfamiliar bed to avoid the slow torturous drip. Force-cooled air was blowing on her face and she looked around at the white cell-like room, at the rust coloured smear on the ceiling, seeing the sun cut through the slats of the balcony door. Where was she? Then she remembered. In Sri Lanka. On holiday. It suddenly hit her. Mark wasn’t here. She was alone.

She reached up and switched the air conditioning off, saw a lotus flower drooping beside her, smelt the musty tropical air taking her back to her childhood in cheap hotels where mould spread across the walls and the bed linen stank of other people’s stale sweat. Flinging the sheet off, she went across the room to the balcony, felt the blast of heat. Below were lines of sunbeds, browning bodies. Along the shoreline beach boys prowled, looking out for punters.

The phone rang, making her start.

‘Hello?’

No answer.

‘Hello.’

Someone was there, she was sure, someone breathing softly, someone who couldn’t muffle the sound of their swallowing. A click and the phone went dead, leaving only a hiss like wind rushing through trees. Could it have been Mark on a bad line?

Leaning forward on the bed, elbows on thighs, she dialled home, listening to the ring, picturing the phone in the slate cottage. It rang and rang. She dialled again, tried his mobile. But it was switched off. Mark must be at work. She imagined him running around wards, ministering to patients while she sunned herself, spending his money when she had no idea how long it would be before she was earning again. But when they booked the holiday how could they have possibly known how much would change? And what was the use in going over that now? Wasn’t it time to get on with her first day here?

Through the open door, she could see a terrace with palm trees and a sparkling swimming pool. She made her way down the steps from her room into that haven of peace and tranquillity. A man was leaning over the swimming pool trailing a net across the ripples as if he were catching fish. Two children were chasing each other round the edge of the pool and the man looked up at Jo, revealing a deep ragged scar right along the inside of his arm gleaming white against his dark skin.

‘Good morning, ma’am.’

She smiled at him and tried walking faster, hoping he wouldn’t notice her limp, trying to hide the pain in her leg made worse by the long flight.

Feeling the man’s eyes on her, she walked across the terrace into the bleak, white dining room, passed red plastic chairs and tables, and headed for the buffet bar. There a straggle of guests queued impatiently, batting empty plates on their thighs like angry children. From the window was a view of the swimming pool – ‘I don’t want to be a tourist in a huge hotel. I want to travel, go free and easy’ Mark had said when they'd been looking at the website. Ahead of her, a woman was spooning a small portion of scrambled egg onto a plate. She grinned at Jo. She had a glittery blue nose stud, a tanned, small face. Her hands moved rapidly, scooping up a tomato, a quarter slice of fried bread.

‘Hi. You just arrived?’

‘Last night. Well, this morning.’

'Yeah? It’s great here. You on your own?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Me? I always travel alone.’ The woman moved along the buffet bar, putting little more on her plate. Western pop drifted from the speakers while Jo, not that hungry either, selected a single roll and butter then followed a waiter to a table laid for two. She asked for coffee, glancing up at the woman with the nose stud who was staring at her. Jo smiled, drank her coffee, revelling in the sensation of caffeine hitting her brain and looked out towards the swimming pool, conscious of a strange knotting sensation in her stomach. What was that about? But she shrugged it off as nerves. It was a while since she had been away on her own.

‘Shall I join you?’ The woman with the stud was standing over her.

‘Sure. I’m Jo. How long you been here?’ She wanted another coffee and tried to re-engage the waiter’s attention.

‘Shall I get you some more coffee? I noticed –’ she nodded towards Jo’s leg.

‘Thanks,’ she said, glad that Nose-stud hadn’t asked how she'd acquired her limp.

The woman returned, slid the cup and saucer across the table, started on her eggs. She suddenly jerked round to face Jo. ‘Hey! Do you fancy going to another beach this morning? This one’s OK, but I found a brilliant one the other day. I’m Zara, by the way.’ Jo brightened. Already she’d found someone to hang out with. Never mind that Zara might not be her type. Everything was different on holiday, and if it didn’t work out she could always make excuses on other days. Or would she find they really got on?

‘Twenty minutes. In reception. OK?’

‘Sounds great.’

Zara began to walk to the door, stopped, swung and returned to the table. ‘You know to carry ID with you, don’t you? The police are funny about that sort of thing here.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Jo said. ‘I carry my passport everywhere when I travel.’

Zara moved her chair nearer, leaned towards Jo. ‘And I don’t really like saying this –it’s an Ok hotel and everything, but –’

‘But?’

‘Things sometimes go missing from the rooms. Money mostly. Thought I’d warn you.’

‘Thanks for the hint. Don’t the hotel management know?’

Zara laughed and Jo thought how friendly she was. Not everyone would have bothered to warn a new guest about light-fingered staff. ‘They say they’ll look into it - meaning mañana – you know how things are out here.’

She pushed her chair back again. 'See you in reception. We’ll have a great time.’

Sweat trickled down Jo’s back. The ceiling fan whirred eccentrically, clicking on each rotation. Zara was late. Fifteen minutes late. There was no one else in reception. Outside, the swimming pool shimmered in the sun and Jo decided she’d give Zara five minutes, no more.

Then at last she saw her strolling across the terrace. She looked stunning in a multi-coloured sarong with a sequined peacock embellished on the front and a pink wide-brimmed hat. Jo immediately felt frumpy with her winter-white limbs.

‘Come on then,’ Zara said. ‘Dying for a beer. I’m taking you to a great private beach.’ She sauntered out of reception without waiting.

Jo caught up with her at the swimming pool edge. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Can’t walk too fast today. Old war wound.’ She laughed and remonstrated herself for saying “war wound”. Sounded so hackneyed, but the truth was too complicated to bother with now.

Zara slowed and linked Jo’s arm. ‘We can take a taxi. It’s much better there. You know, more restaurants, more going on. Am I walking too fast?’

‘No,’ said Jo. ‘This is fine.’ Her bag felt heavy bumping against her hip.

Zara was wearing flip-flops that made a slapping sound as she walked. A woven beach bag was slung over her shoulders and she said, ‘Hi,’ to the Sri Lankan attendant Jo had seen before at the pool. Yet again Jo sensed his eyes following her as she walked towards the hotel exit.

There was a line of green auto rickshaws outside the hotel and Zara told a driver the name of the place they were going but Jo didn’t catch what she said. They wound through heavy traffic, belching buses, trucks, bikes and other mini-taxis. Dust kicked up from the road as they jerked along. Goats and scrawny dogs shared the side of the road with women, some in saris, some in frilled skirts and blouses, and men mostly in jeans and white T-shirts. Smells of vanilla and cinnamon drifted momentarily from a spice shop. The driver beeped his horn and Jo felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, same as she’d felt at breakfast. But hey, what could possibly happen on a beach?

The rickshaw was travelling at high speed and she clung to the side as they veered in and out of traffic.

Next to her, Zara was leaning forward. She wasn’t holding on and Jo felt the inexperienced traveller, the scaredy-cat, unable to sink into the excitement of the holiday. Even as a child, travelling round Asia with her mother, she'd never got used to it, had always hankered after the stability of a normal life.

‘Where’s this beach?’ she yelled above the sound of the engine. Dust blew into her mouth. It was at least half an hour since they’d left. Zara was saying something to the driver. Abruptly he veered right, following close behind another dirty bus. They bounced over a rock-strewn road. Stalls of fruit and vegetables lined the street and shoppers zigzagged across the road carrying their plastic baskets.

The driver suddenly swerved left and they were bumping down a narrow road where yellow beach balls, batik sarongs and painted wooden beads dangled from stalls. The driver stopped behind a line of other auto rickshaws, and said, ‘Here. OK?’

‘I’ll get this,’ Jo said.

‘You’re a star. Thanks for that. I’ll get the beers in,’ Zara said.

Jo paid the driver, heaved her bag across her shoulder, wondering why she’d brought her heavy book, and followed Zara who was walking fast down the street.

‘Hey, Zara,’ she called. ‘Hang on.’

Her new companion waited while Jo caught up. ‘Oh sorry, I forgot. Come on then,’ She linked Jo’s arm in hers. She was hurrying her, dragging Jo along, her...