Chapter Twelve: The Fine Line
“It is easy to get carried away with the exuberance of a tropical island festival.”
• • •
It was Stefan that came off worse from the incident. In the long term, much, much worse, but no one could have foreseen future - even such near-future - events then.
Stefan was mortified by what he had done. He kept on apologising to Jenny long after Jenny herself had seen the funny side of the mishap. He was angry with Mike for his joke. He was annoyed that the others had joined in the laughter. He couldn’t accept Jenny’s easy dismissal of the incident. He would have felt better if she had slapped him, or thrown a drink over him in revenge. Unconditional forgiveness was a new experience for him and not something he accepted easily. In the end he imposed his own form of self-chastisement and banished himself from the group for the rest of the evening. Everyone protested, but Stefan would not be persuaded. He wanted to be punished. Only then could his crime be forgotten.
“I am sor-ry,” he said for the umpteenth time to Jenny. “I will walk back to the dorm. Enjoy the rest of your night. I am sor-ry.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Mike, “It’s miles to walk in the dark. Come and sit down and we’ll all have another drink.”
There was no stopping Stefan, though, and with a final “I am sor-ry” he turned his back on the group and was quickly lost among the crowds that continued to fill the main street and square.
“Let him go,” said Jenny. “He knows what he wants. What about that beer you mentioned,” she continued, turning to Mike and holding out an empty bottle. “No, hang on, what am I talking about,” she corrected herself, “It’s my round.”
Stuart was just returning from his visit to the bar’s toilet. He had slipped away in the mêlée that had followed Stefan’s clumsy bungle and had been hoping to return to the group, unnoticed. Jenny caught his arm as he went to sit down, “Come along,” she said, “You can give me a hand carrying.” She also added, sotto voce, so that only Stuart could hear, “Could you lend me a few thousand francs? I seem to have run out.”
• • •
It was late when the party broke up. Very late. Licensing restrictions appeared to be unheard of in this little South Pacific paradise, or at least were not enforced, particularly on a festival day.
Stuart was still feeling less than one hundred percent fit. He had had to excuse himself on two further occasions as the evening had progressed and was once again experiencing painful cramps and the imminent necessity for a further visit to the bar’s small toilet. Jenny and Mike had become quite pally since the drink-spilling incident and were laughing together; Norbert and Corrie were still talking to each other, at the exclusion of the rest of the group; only Ian had noticed Stuart’s discomfort.
“Are you all right?”
“Not great,” Stuart admitted, rubbing his stomach, “I think it was sitting for too long on those hard benches at the show. Cramps, you know.” He flexed his hand in imitation of his stomach contracting.
“Bad luck,” said Ian. “I’m not feeling brilliant myself. I don’t normally drink so much. Some of these guys drink like fish, don’t they? I wonder if the others are ready to go yet?”
Norbert overhearing the last question, leaned across, “We are, if you are.” He stood up, addressing Mike and Jenny, “Ready to go?”
“Yes, wagons roll,” said Mike, putting an arm around Jenny’s shoulder. She made no attempt to remove it.
The whole group was standing and making ready to leave. Stuart made an indication towards the door of the bar, “I’ll just ... you know. I’ll catch up with you.”
“You’re too late, mate,” said Mike. “It’s shut. Why do you think we’re going? No more beer.” His words were slightly slurred, and the motive behind the offending arm, still draped around Jenny’s torso, looked like one of support rather than affection. Wouldn’t put any trick past him, though.
The little saloon was indeed in darkness now, and although Stuart gave the door an experimental push, it was evident that it was locked and that the bar had closed up without him noticing. More importantly, it had placed an impregnable barrier between him and the small and private facility that he had come to regard as a close friend.
Panic would have been too strong a word for the sensation. Consternation, horror, dismay: any of those would have done. Thankfully, the moment of alarm was quickly replaced by a train of cold, clear logical thought. He needed a toilet. The only toilet was closed. There was a toilet at Chez Pauline. The car drive to Chez Pauline took fifteen minutes. He would need a toilet in at most ten minutes. Therefore he would not be able to reach the toilet at Chez Pauline in time. Therefore he would not get in the car.
The group had already made steps towards where Norbert’s rented hatchback was parked. “Do you know,” said Stuart to their retreating backs, “I think I might walk back.” He hijacked Ian’s ailment as his excuse, “Head’s feeling a bit muzzy.” He shook his head from side to side, at the same time making a silly face and twirling his finger at the side of his temple, “Bit too much to drink. A walk will sober me up.”
No one put up the resistance that he had expected. Corrie said, “If you’re sure?” and Norbert said, “See you back at the camp” but the general feeling was summed up by Mike’s “Whatever” as they continued to walk away. Jenny did not even turn her head. Stuart didn’t care, he had more impending matters to deal with.
Ten minutes. The clock was ticking. Ten minutes at the outside. He needed to think - and act - fast. Viatape had closed. One minute it had been the non-stop party that seemed like it would never end, the next it was snuffed out like a moth striking a candle. There was not one bar or restaurant that still showed a light or a sign of life. There were still plenty of people milling around in the streets, but most in that futile, ‘closing time at the pub, got no home to go to’, sort of a way. It might be dark, but the town was still far too public to hope to find a discrete corner to perform the business in hand. He felt his guts give a further lurch, and he automatically squeezed his buttocks tighter together in the vain hope that an act of self-control might hold back the inevitable tide. Eight minutes and counting.
The road back to Chez Pauline was a single carriage highway, mainly following the twists and turns of the coastline. On the car journey here, Stuart remembered it as being largely unlit, except for the odd glow from private dwellings, or the weak illumination from the moon. There would be very few cars passing at this time of night. Admittedly, he couldn’t recall seeing any particularly secluded spots - no convenient clumps of trees, or dense undergrowth - but since it was the way home, in any case, it seemed to offer as much opportunity for privacy as any other direction he might branch off in. Five minutes.
The turn off to the road was quickly reached and Stuart was soon able to put several hundred metres between himself and the town centre. He was relieved to find that there were no other nocturnal ambulators around that night. It would have been just his luck to be joined by a fellow traveller, too drunk to drive, too poor to catch the bus, or too friendless to cadge a lift. All three of which could equally apply to him, he realised with a rush of self-pity. Six miles of dark road ahead of him, even once he had sorted out the most pressing matter. And then Jenny. What was her game? Flirting with Mike, what was that all about? She had thought that he was an idiot at the start of the evening. Plus she’s got two thousand francs of his money. There was little chance of seeing that again, particularly if she was going to go off with Mike. Two minutes.
There was just no shelter. One straight, level road, nothing else. There was no one around, but what if a car came along? It would be too embarrassing. But what was the alternative? The drainage ditch. Alongside the length of the right-hand carriageway, the ground dipped steeply away, forming a thin, muddy trench. It was very narrow. The bottom was filled with water and it was clogged with weeds and God knows
what else? Did they have snakes here? Stuart didn’t think so, but the land crabs he had seen on other parts of the island looked pretty vicious, and he didn’t fancy a nip on some rarely exposed part from one of their pincers in the dark. There was no choice. Time was up.
Happy is the heart that has no cares, so it is with the stomach that has no contents. Neither statement is true, as the loveless and the hungry will testify, but at that moment truth was not so much important to Stuart as was relief. The six mile journey suddenly held a new appeal: it was a lovely night; warm; quiet; this would be just the sort of adventure that he would look back upon - ‘The Night I Walked Home’ - Oh, what crazy things we did. Jenny’s infidelity suddenly didn’t seem so black-and-white: these things happen, there would be plenty more fish in the sea; plenty more pretty travellers in the night, there might even be another one out there that took a fancy to him. The money still niggled a bit. Two thousand francs is two thousand francs whichever way you look at it.
The road looped and turned, the gradient rose and fell, the sea came and went: Stuart walked on. He had no fear of getting lost. There was only one road. Just once, a motorbike tore past him, lights switched off, going in the same direction as himself, heading away from Viatape. The bike slowed and came to a halt some distance ahead of him and the rider, without removing his helmet, made gestures querying if Stuart wanted a lift. Stuart called his reply in the negative and waved his hands to indicate for the bike to carry on and not to worry, he was all right, thank you. It was a powerful machine and was quickly lost to the night.
He was not sure how far he had walked, but estimated that he had covered probably half the distance between Viatape and Matira Point and the promise of a warm bed. The ocean was once again his companion on his right-hand side, and he was separated from the waves by just a thin line of palm trees and a narrow expanse of white, sandy beach. He considered walking along the beach for a stretch but thought, correctly, that it would be more tiring and also that he might not be able to regain the road later on if the two chose to go their separate ways, as had happened on several other occasions during his journey. He was hopeful that a few familiar landmarks might soon emerge. He would not be able to spot the radio mast high on the hill, it was just too dark, but he should soon pass Bloody Mary’s Bar, who knows, it might even still be open, perhaps the surfer - what was his name? - and his mates would be there? And then after Bloody Mary’s was the wooden archway entrance and grand drive up to the Bora Bora Hotel, and very shortly after that Chez Pauline’s, and bed. It had been a nice walk. His stomach was feeling a lot better now. But bed: that was something else. Strange how comforting bed always is. Even after a good day, it is nice to go to bed. Perhaps that holds out a bit of promise for what it will be like approaching death. Old age and death: just like getting ready for bed? It didn’t seem so likely, somehow. And such faith was involved in going to bed. Why does one take it for granted that they will wake up next morning? And what happens on the night that you don’t? At what point is that fine line crossed between life and death?
Life and death. “It was all over in a second,” that was what Jenny told him later on, “One second nothing, we’re driving along, nothing, the next, bang! He’s there right in front of the car. Smack! Right up the windscreen and over the top. We just didn’t see him. There was nothing we could do. One second nothing. Then ...” She slapped her hands together.
The fine line had not only been crossed, it now had to be walked.