Chapter Two
Marty
I don’t know how late it is, but I know it’s time for a drink.
I lift my hand and feel the sand sticking to the side of my face.
Rough grains line my tongue too and I try to wipe it all off on my sleeve but there’s just more sand there.
Fuck. Napping on the beach used to be my favourite way to pass the time before a shift or a meet up with new friends.
Now there isn’t a job to go to, nor are there many friends, old or new.
And these days it’s the only way I get any kind of sleep.
Sleep, I find my body needs more and more.
Pushing up to sit, I brush off as much of the sand as I can and try to spit out what’s left in my mouth.
A quick look around helps me get my bearings.
I’m at the most northern end of San Antonio beach, one hundred or so metres away from the hotel where I worked until they found me passed out in the storeroom mid-shift.
Was that today? Yesterday? Or the day before?
I have no clue and no interest in finding out.
I can tell it’s evening because of the sun’s position in the sky; dangerously close to sunset.
Sometimes I feel brave enough to sit and watch it go down, but I already know today isn’t one of those days, so I look away.
It’s become easier and easier to turn my back on the sunset, but it still hurts like hell.
As I push my body up to stand, the pain in my head intensifies and my mouth still feels dry. A nice cold beer will sort me out. I do a quick check of my pockets and I am relieved my phone, wallet and passport are all there. I haven’t always been so lucky.
There are two messages on my phone. Both are from Maeve.
“Yes, Maeve! You fucken legend!” I shout, trying to drown out the guilt I simultaneously feel.
Knowing I have cash motivates me to start walking down the beach towards El Ocaso, one of the all-year beach clubs still open.
I haven’t been there in weeks but at this time of year, down season, I know I’ll see a few familiar faces of other workers, even if they’re not friendly ones.
I’ll likely find someone to drink with and if not, I’ll drink alone. I’m not proud.
Stumbling across the beach to where a small crowd is gathered around the tables facing the water, I straighten up as much as possible and do a quick scan of faces.
I don’t recognise anyone. So far so good.
There’s nobody here who wants to kill me.
Nobody here I owe money to. Nobody here I fucked then ghosted.
Nobody here I pissed off in any other number of ways. Today really is my lucky day.
I’m also relieved when there’s some generic house music playing rather than familiar melodies or lyrics that make me think of somewhere or someone I don’t want to think about.
For a long time, any song could be twisted to be about us, about places we had been.
I knew so many things in my future would be ruined by what happened – sunsets, board games, beautiful bright eyes framed in kohl eyeliner – but crappy pop songs I don’t even like?
How did listening to bands I had only lukewarm feelings for suddenly make me feel like I could crumble into a million pieces?
But no danger of that in this bar. This rhythmic thumping and unrecognisable, unimaginative tune is safe, and maybe after a beer, I could even nod my head to it.
I make my way to the bar and am grateful for the heat from the overhead lamps.
Ibiza in mid-November is nowhere near as cold as Dublin, but there’s a definite chill in the air at night.
I really don’t want to sleep on the streets or beach again tonight, but I also don’t want to waste my money on a last-minute hotel room.
I don’t have it in me to be social enough to brave a hostel dorm.
I should go to the bathroom and freshen up, see what I actually look like for the first time in.
.. oh, I don’t know how long. And I don’t really care. First, I need that drink.
I order a beer and a shot of tequila to chase it down with and hold my breath as I hold my card to the pin machine. It goes through.
Thank fuck for that. I really do owe you, Maeve.
I know I should call her, but not now. If she hears the music and chatter in the background she’ll go apeshit on me, and rightly so. I’ll text her later when I have somewhere to stay... or rather, someone to stay with.
“Did you have a good nap?” a voice says beside me. I didn’t even see them approach. My eyes were fixed on the shot glass I’d just emptied, waiting for the hum of the alcohol to melt some of the aching in my chest.
“Oh, you saw that?” I force a smile as I turn towards them. They’re not bad looking and seem clean enough.
“Practically tripped over you,” they reply, and I detect an accent, but I don’t have the energy to ask about it.
“Had a late night,” I explain, although I couldn’t honestly tell them where I was or what I was doing.
“You’ve still got sand in your hair.” A hand comes up and fingers rake their way against my scalp. I close my eyes to see if I feel something, anything. When I don’t, it’s a struggle to open my eyelids again.
“You don’t remember, do you?” they ask.
I shake my head. “Have we met before?”
“I’ll buy you another drink to see if that helps your memory.” They wave at the barman.
My smile comes easily then, as do my short replies to their longer questions as we stand at the bar and sink another three beers each.
I never do find out what it is I’m supposed to remember, but as we shuffle to the toilet and hide in a cubicle together and a small pill is placed on my tongue, I have such an overwhelming and heavy sense of foreboding déjà vu I almost spit it out and run away.
Instead, I quickly swallow it and follow them back out to the bar, where the music seems louder and there are more people on the small dance floor. Another beer is shoved into one of my hands while the other is pulled towards the dancing bodies that seem to move too quickly for me to focus on.
Thank God, it’s still this crappy dance music.
It’s actually helping. The louder the better.
The heavier the bass, the lighter my load starts to feel.
Or maybe that’s just whatever I took starting to work.
That and the alcohol and the thumping of the music, it’s all waking me up and making me want to move, to do what I came here to do; party, have fun, chase any and every high, forget what happened. Escape.
I start to move, tapping my feet and rocking my shoulders. I can’t dance for shit, but I’m really good at not giving a flying fuck about that fact. I have a good smile, a great arse and I know how to flirt. I won’t be dancing alone for long.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the pinks and purples the sunset has left in the sky, and it almost makes me stop moving.
There’s something magnetic in those colours and they’re extra vivid and bold tonight, thanks to a near cloudless horizon.
But then I feel hands come to sit on my hips and the back of my thighs brush against warm flesh.
I step back into it, leaning into a body, and I reach behind me to see if I can hold a piece of it in my own hands.
Then I close my eyes to the sunset, to the world, and to whatever happens next.