The Holiday (21 page)

Bones’s pathetic attempt at irony had provoked a smile from Mark. But not an answer. Which was a mistake. Up until then, and in the manner of a predatory cat chasing a frightened mouse, Bones had been playing with him. Now, in the silence that had fallen between them, he went in for the kill.

‘So, tell me more about the boating accident,’ he said. ‘Yesterday you told me about your friend dying, but now I want you to go further. When you knew your friend was drowning and you couldn’t reach him, what did you feel?’

‘I was a twelve-year-old boy. What the hell do you think I felt?’

‘I don’t know, Mark, I wasn’t there.’

‘Then use your imagination.’

‘Mark, listen to me, you will only discover your true worth when you are brave enough to let someone help you confront the repressed memories of that tragic day.’

‘They’re not repressed. They’re there all the time. Every day. Every night.’

‘I’m sure they are, but you’re not facing them. You’re just cramming the lid down on them, keeping them at bay. And how much more strength will it take, do you think, to keep that lid down?’

But Bones was asking too much of him. In response, his body betrayed him: his skin crawled, and then his scalp pricked painfully. And, though the room was cool — Bones always insisted on having the window open — he felt sickeningly hot. His nerves were raw. He clenched his fists, knowing that if he didn’t, the trembling would kick in. Then came the final betrayal. The reassuring voice that told him a drink would help him through it. A comforting glass of whisky. Or vodka. Or anything. The whispering grew louder. And louder still until it was a roaring, insistent demand inside his head.
Get me a drink!

He tried to think of what Bones had told him to do when this happened: to think of his own strength overcoming the power of the fear that made him want to drink. ‘Always remember,’ Bones had said, ‘it’s not the drink you have to resist, but the giving in to the fear of the past.’

Bones must have known what was going on in his mind, for he said, ‘Come and stand at the window with me, Mark. There’s something I want to show you.’

Surprised by his own obedience, he struggled to his feet. He knew it was a diverting technique, but he was beyond caring. He leaned against the window-ledge for support, briefly closed his eyes, and breathed in the fresh morning air, taking great gulps of it as though trying to cheat his body with a fix of oxygen rather than alcohol. Beside him Bones rattled on about the amazing view, about the prettiness of the steeple on the nearby church and how it had been saved in the early eighties from toppling over. ‘Nobody believed it could be saved,’ he said, going back to his desk. ‘Everyone said it would have to be pulled down, but there it is, as beautiful, as perfect as the day it was built. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’

Thumping his fists on the window-ledge, Mark shouted, ‘Enough! I get the analogy.’

‘Good. So let’s recap. Niall was your best friend and you were on holiday together.’

He sighed, knowing there was no escape. If he was ever going to be truly exorcised and free of the constant shadow-boxing with the memory of Niall’s death, he would have to put himself through this. Very slowly, still fighting the need in his body for a drink, he took up the story. He and Niall had been on a school camping holiday. They should have been joining in with a table-tennis tournament with another school party also staying at the outward-bound centre, but neither had fancied it. At Mark’s suggestion they sneaked down to the small marina with something more exciting in mind. It was usually Mark’s idea that they do something they weren’t supposed to do, which had repeatedly brought his parents into conflict with Niall’s. Mr and Mrs Percival didn’t approve of Mark: they claimed he was a bad influence on their only son, leading him astray and encouraging him to do things he wouldn’t otherwise have dreamed of doing. But the disapproval went deeper than that: not to put too fine a point on it, the St James family was loaded, and Niall’s was not. It didn’t help either that Mr Percival worked for Mark’s father. At that age, the two boys could see no problem with this, but Niall’s parents saw the disparity in their lifestyles as divisive and a blatant reminder of everything they couldn’t offer their son.

But this supposed disparity between Mark and Niall was the last thing on their minds that day as they knelt on the wooden pontoon untying one of the dinghies. They were both foolish enough to think that, after three lessons, they could handle a boat, especially one as small as this.

Slipping away unseen, they congratulated themselves on their smartness. The wind was strong and it wasn’t long before they had skittered out to sea, far away from the sailing centre. What they didn’t know was that they were heading straight towards a squall, a brief localised storm. The first they knew about it was a mass of low-lying clouds, black and threatening, rolling towards them. Then the rain started, heavy drops that splattered against their faces. They began to wonder if they had been so smart after all. But as quickly as the clouds had appeared, they passed over and the sky brightened. Their earlier mood of cocksure confidence returned. Had they known better, they would have realised that worse was to come. The rain fell again harder this time, the wind gathered and the temperature dropped. Huge waves buffeted the boat and they tried to remember what the sailing instructor had taught them. But it was no use: fear had blotted out everything they had been told. The rain was coming down so hard that Mark couldn’t even see the shore. Everything was an endless roll of turbulent, impenetrable grey. The sea was grey and the sky was leaden. The sail was straining in the fierce wind and there didn’t seem to be anything they could do to control the dinghy. Pulling on the rudder or sail did nothing. They were helpless, at the mercy of the sea and weather.

It was then that Mark began to get a sense of the danger they were in. With no lifejackets on board, what would happen if they capsized? And just as he had thought this, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. It made them both jump and, hanging on to each other, panic set in. With growing horror, they watched mountainous waves grow and swell. Tossed from one to the next, they were powerless. But when the final violent gust of wind hit they never saw it coming. The boat went over and, knowing that Niall wasn’t as strong a swimmer as he was, Mark had screamed, ‘Hold on to me,’ as the billowing sea swallowed them up.

But the strength of the water pushed them clean away from the boat, and when eventually Mark surfaced there was no sign of Niall.

He dived back under the water, kicking his legs, pulling at the ice-cold water with his arms. But still he couldn’t see his friend. Out of breath, he rose to the surface again, filled his lungs with air and dived once more. Again and again, he dived, surfaced and dived, desperate to reach Niall in time. The salt water was stinging his eyes, his chest was aching as though it would burst and his fingers were numb with cold.

Suddenly he saw Niall. He was trapped under the hull of the boat. He swam over and pulled frantically at his arms to free him. But even as he was doing this, he knew it was too late. Hooking a hand under his chin, he dragged him to the surface and tried to hold him against the overturned boat. Choking for breath, he screamed at Niall to wake up. He tried to give him mouth-to-mouth, but it was no good, he couldn’t hold him still for long enough. With tears running down his cheeks he knew that Niall was dead. And knew, too, that it was his fault. He prayed then that the waves would take him and that he, too, would die.

But he didn’t die. His sense of self-preservation wouldn’t allow it to happen, and with the worst of the storm now over he managed to extend the centreboard on the boat and right it. Just as he was clambering in, a lifeboat alerted by the local coastguard came speeding into view. He was wrapped in a blanket and told he had had a lucky escape.

‘Well done, Mark,’ Bones had said, when he had finished. ‘That was good. Very good. Now, in tomorrow’s session we’ll explore why you’ve persisted in acting out this old conflict. And if there’s time, we’ll look at why you’re still behaving like an angry teenager masquerading as an intellectualising adult opposing anyone in authority, or those you think lucky enough to have their lives neatly sewn up. We might even touch base with your parents. The hinterland of bad parenting is always a rich vein to tap into. My spies tell me that chilli con
carne
is on the menu for lunch. Do you think I ought to risk it? Or should I steer clear?’

That was the extraordinary thing about being in a rehab clinic: one minute you could be dissecting the carnage of your most intimate experiences, and the next you could be mulling over something as mundane as what to have for lunch.

Wanting to order another cup of coffee, Mark looked about him to catch the eye of a passing waiter. The bar was busier than when he had arrived. Darkness had brought with it dazzling Vegas-style neon lights advertising Woodpecker Cider, Heineken, Becks and Amstel beer. And to complement the bright lights, the music had been turned up — Will Smith was getting jiggy with it and doing another of his rap-meets-Stevie-Wonder numbers on a large-screen TV hung from the ceiling in a corner of the bar — and a vibrant party atmosphere was in the air.

He decided to move on. His coffee already paid for, he left a tip on the table, stepped into the road and strolled down towards the harbour. Not that it was much of a stroll: the streets were packed and he had to run the gauntlet of numerous knick-knack stalls. There was something for everyone, or so they claimed. You could have your portrait done, buy yourself some cheap silver jewellery, have your name written on a grain of rice — for some strange reason — have your hair braided or a temporary tattoo applied. He was certainly spoiled for choice! And if none of that appealed, he could always go for the Albanian woman selling cheap, unromantic polyester roses and those silly light-up wristbands.

Beneath a sky of midnight blue, the still water in the harbour was ablaze with the reflection of coloured lights from all the bars, shops and restaurants around the quay. It was just as busy down here as at the top of the town, but seeing that one of the benches at the harbour’s edge was free, Mark headed over to it. He had just settled himself, pulled out his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, when he heard a voice from behind him.

‘Hello there. Mind if we join you?’

It was Dolly-Babe with Silent Bob in tow.

Oh, joy! Now, why the hell hadn’t he done the sensible thing and gone along with Theo’s plans for the evening? It served him right for lying, he supposed.

 

Theo had gone for the honest option when he had arrived at Villa Petros. He hadn’t thought it fair to keep fobbing his friends off with lame excuses about Mark’s work so he told them the truth.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, when Laura had offered him a chair on the veranda and Max had poured him a glass of wine, ‘but not only is Mark a very private man, he used to be an alcoholic. The invitation to spend the evening with a reprobate boozer like you, Max, is not good for him.’

‘Oh, Theo,’ said Laura, ‘why didn’t you say something sooner?’

‘Because I am a man of discretion. Mark’s affairs are his own.’

‘Now you come to mention it,’ said Max, ‘I recall something about him in the papers. Can’t think why I hadn’t thought of it before. If my memory serves me right, he went through a hell of a time of it, didn’t he?’

Theo nodded. ‘He did.’ And then, more cheerfully, ‘Now where are you hiding your parents Max? And what about Francesca and the nymphomaniac Sally, are they not here?’

‘The girls have gone into Kassiópi. And Mum and Dad are doing sterling stuff in the kitchen with Izzy; they’re stacking the dishwasher and tidying up.’

‘Aha, you have been cracking the whip over them, have you?’

‘Let’s just say that they have an abundance of energy, and Laura thought it a good idea to put it to use. And it looks as if they’ve done their chores for the day — here they come. Let me introduce you.’

Rising to his feet, Theo shook hands first with Olivia then Corky. ‘What a beautiful mother you have Max,’ Theo said.

Max smiled. ‘Now you can understand why I had to marry someone equally beautiful.’

Laura went to him and gave him a kiss. ‘You old smoothie, you.’

Seeing Izzy standing on the edge of the group and sensing her awkwardness, Theo moved towards her. ‘One big happy family, eh? You have parents like these?’

‘Um ... no. My father died last year. What about you?’

‘I’m fortunate to have both my parents still alive. I’m sorry about your father. Were you very close?’ As soon as the question was out, Theo regretted it. He saw her eyes fill and her lips tauten until they were white. She looked intensely unhappy. He mentally kicked himself. What was it with him, that he always managed to say the wrong thing? He had come here this evening determined to make amends for upsetting her on the beach that day, and now look what he had done. ‘Come,’ he said brightly, ‘while Max is busy schmoozing his wife, let me get you a drink. You must be thirsty after all that work in the kitchen.’

‘No, really,’ she said, resisting his hand as it touched her elbow to steer her across the terrace, ‘I don’t need one.’ Her voice was as stiff as the look she gave him.

He let go of her, realising that his spontaneous gesture had been to her a gross act of intrusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, perplexed, and racking his brains for some way to put her at ease. In the end all he could think of was to repeat his apology, and quickly, before she moved away from him. ‘Izzy, please, I am sorry. Will you give me a chance?’

‘What for?’

Even he was surprised by what he had just said. Used to thinking fast on his feet, he now found himself completely deficient. Automatically he reached out to her arm again, thinking his touch would instil in her a sense of reassurance. Just in time, he stopped himself. More physical contact and she might slap his face. ‘I’m not really sure myself,’ he said at last. ‘All I know is that I would like the opportunity to apologise to you properly. The last time we spoke I upset you, and tonight I have done it again. Please, won’t you — ’ But he was interrupted as Max joined them.