Before I Go: A dark and tense psychological crime thriller. Page 2

  The rest of the game was a blur until Michael drew the last king. The waterfall card. He looked at the large glass in the center covered in smudged fingerprints, filled with warm beer, tequila, and wine. He tentatively picked it up and screwed up his face as he brought the glass to his lips, trying to ignore the sickly smell of the liquid inside.

  ***

  The first thing that hit him was the pain. An unholy trinity of shooting, throbbing and stabbing pain attacked his head from all angles. Heat radiated from his forehead as if it were on fire. Bright light felt like it was searing through his eyelids and despite his best efforts, he could not will himself back to sleep. It hurt to swallow as his throat was so dry and he sunk his head into the pillow. It was so hot, yet he was covered in a blanket. Fragments of his dream came back to him. He had been lost in the desert, dying of thirst, and an oasis appeared in the distance—lush green plants, and rippling water. As he hurried towards it, his feet sank into the sand. It seemed to get further and further away as he waded through the burning sand. It didn’t take a genius to work out why he’d had that dream.

  As he shifted in the bed, he felt the solid heat of another body next to his. He forced his eyes open a crack to see he was in a dorm room, not his own private room. It was only then that he also realized he had no clothes on. He could see his T-shirt strewn over one of the steps of the bunk bed ladder and groaned as he leaned to pick it up. The body next to him stirred.

  “Hi,” said a squeaky, timid voice. A face he did not recognize.

  “Morning,” he replied, trying to play it cool. “So… last night.”

  “It was fun. Everyone loved your song.” She giggled.

  “My song?” he asked. Hoping the fog would lift, and he could recollect anything after drinking the glass of assorted alcohol. He had that sinking feeling that he had done something awful, or humiliating, but had no idea what it was.

  “Michael. There you are.” Aleksander appeared in the doorway. His voice was annoyingly chirpy. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You’re going to miss the bus.” He moved around with the energy of a toddler after a sugar binge, and Michael was the exhausted parent begging for just 10 more minutes sleep.

  Even though he felt like he was seconds from death, Michael would rather get some fresh air then deal with awkward goodbyes with the stranger he had woken up with. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself as he felt around the bed for his boxer shorts.

  Aleksander was milling outside the dorm room on the upstairs landing with the others, when Michael emerged.

  “We thought you’d abandoned us,” said Freja. “How are you feeling this morning?” Freja wore a bohemian flowery dress, flip-flops and various bangles, and hair neatly braided to the side. All of them looked dewy and fresh faced.

  “I think you know the answer to that,” he croaked.

  “Here. I have another one in my bag.” Anna passed him a bottle of water. It must have been poured straight from the water cooler because it had beads of condensation dripping down the side.

  “You are literally an angel. I don’t know how to thank you.” Michael grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the lid and downed half of the water in a second. It was possibly the best drink he had ever had in his entire life.

  “We seriously need to go now.” Freja headed down the stairs, her flip-flops slapping against the hard floor and echoing in the stairwell. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, several people were congregated in the reception area, and Michael tiptoed around the obstacle course of backpacks that littered the floor, trying not to move too suddenly. Even the slightest movement made it feel like his brain was rattling around in his skull.

  “Nice of you to join us.” The tour guide greeted them. “Okay guys. Time to go.” He ushered the group outside.

  Chapter Four

  After three days in Puebla, Michael moved on to the equally beautiful city of Oaxaca. By that time, he had met many Aleksanders, Annas, and Frejas. In the few days he had spent in Mexico so far, many people had come and gone. It didn’t take long for them to become interchangeable, for their faces to all blend into one. The first goodbye was emotional, and each subsequent goodbye was less heartfelt, and more a formality. He spent his days in Oaxaca eating and drinking, sometimes with company, sometimes solo. At home, he would never have entertained the idea of eating alone. It was unheard of. He didn’t know of anyone else that did either. Considering how much he enjoyed people watching, it didn’t sit right with him that he would let strangers’ opinions of him stop him from doing something he wanted to do. Was he that weak?

  He watched them pass by, completely absorbed in their lives as if no one else existed except them and the other people in their little bubbles. They were the main characters of their own stories, yet had no idea how inconsequential their stories were in the grand scheme of things.

  ***

  He collapsed in his bed after a long day of aimless walking along the streets—no longer delighted by the colorful buildings, vibrant energy, and ruins. Everything got old in the end. He lay on his back and stared up at a brown water stain on the ceiling as he tried to get comfortable. He wondered if the mark on the ceiling was from a leak, and whether he could expect to have water drip down on him in his sleep. As he looked up at the stain, he could start to make out shapes in it, like when he used to find shapes in the clouds as a kid as he laid on the grass. Where the water crept across the ceiling in fingers, it looked like two rabbit ears, and once he saw that, he could make out the feet. Why did humans have to try to find meaning in every little thing? Meaning where there isn’t any. It was probably something to do with survival. Some innate thing you are born with. It was the reason people would find the image of the Virgin Mary burned onto slices of toast. We couldn’t cope with the notion that everything was just chaos. He shifted on the thin mattress and faced the bare wall. He needed to rest up for his trip to the Hierve-el-Agua in the morning.

  ***

  After sleeping for most of the journey, the shared taxi lurched on the bumpy mountain road, jolting Michael awake as his head banged against the window.

  “Good afternoon sleepy head.” A British voice greeted him. He wanted to say her name was Amanda but couldn’t quite remember. The last couple of days had been a blur.

  “Where are we?” he asked. He would catch a glimpse of mountains in the distance, only for the van to weave the other way, blocking the view as it wound up the steep incline.

  “We’re almost there.”

  The van struggled upwards, rocking from side to side as its tires traversed the rough ground below, and Michael looked out as the mini-bus kicked up clouds of dust that drifted in through the crack in the window. The hollow feeling of hunger gripped his stomach, and he leaned forward as a wave of nausea peaked. The terrain started to level out, and they reached the parking lot. It was a relief to finally be still, and Michael hurried to get off the bus. He squeezed past the other passengers as they took their time gathering their things. He needed to be out in the non-recycled air.

  It was only a short uphill walk from the van. The early afternoon sun caressed one side of his face and a breeze, the other.

  The satisfying crunch of loose rocks under his boots accompanied him all the way up the hill. As they reached the crest of the peak, Michael looked down to see shimmering pools below. Natural springs encased in ripples of white, salty rock. The shallower pools looked white where you could see the salt below the water, with one large central pool that was a brilliant pale blue. Light reflected off the perfectly still mirror of water and the glass-like surface seemed to just drop off the edge like an infinity pool, as if he was stood at the end of the world. Above the water, the panorama of dark green, tree-covered mountains in the distance rose and fell like waves. The thing that caught his eye was a lone tree sticking out from behind the turquoise pool, protruding from the rock as if it had broken through. The dark brown, almost black branches stuck up into the air like parched claws reaching for the sky. He drank it
in, trying to capture the moment in his head so he could hold on to it for as long as he had left. It didn’t take long before the pool was overrun with people taking selfies. They strategically positioned themselves and gazed into the horizon while getting someone to take that perfect ‘candid’ shot. Michael watched people in the water, dancing and posing. He just lay on the rock like a cold-blooded reptile sunning themselves. The heat radiating from the stone warmed him from below, and the sun toasted him from above.

  None of it looked real. It was as if he existed in a postcard, yet at the same time, everything felt heightened. He was finally present in the moment.

  Life often tried to trick him like this. Every now and then it would show him something beautiful. It would try to convince him that there was a point to all suffering—a reason that could make working a job you hate, for most of your waking hours, worthwhile. It was a liar, a very good one—well, it fooled most of the population. The moments like this, the moments where life seemed worth living, they were the minority. The majority was work, housework, more work, commuting, coming home to watch the latest tragedy on the news, consuming. Repetition, repetition, repetition all culminating in an inevitable, and probably painful death.

  The British girl tapped him on the shoulder. “Michael, are you not going in?”

  “Yeah. Soon.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mountains. There was something about mountains. Even though they were just enormous pieces of rock, they somehow signified adventure. They made him feel small, but in a good way for once.

  “We are booking a cabana for the night. They are quite cheap, and apparently a great way to avoid the crowds. Imagine this at sunset.” She stretched her arm out like a weather girl, presenting him with the stunning panorama as if she thought he was too blind to notice it before now.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I’d like that.” He gave her a smile, that for once, he didn’t have to force.

  ***

  Now their accommodation was booked for the evening, Michael could relax. He took off his boots that he had brought in one of Puebla’s many shoe stores to replace his battered canvas sneakers. The new-unbroken material had taken its toll on his ankles and as he took off his socks, he let the open air sooth his feet. The cool water of the spring did the rest, and he let out an unadulterated moan as the refreshing ripples danced around his legs.

  “This is the life right?” The Australian from his mini-van said, as he sat down beside him.

  “Hell yeah.” Michael didn’t have to fake enthusiasm. “Sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jerry.” The burly, bearded Aussie opened up a paper bag and directed the contents at Michael. “Chapulines?”

  “Come again?” Michael foolishly hadn’t learned a lick of Spanish and had to get by only on what he had gleaned from television shows.

  “Grasshoppers.”

  “Nah I’m okay. You knock yourself out though.”

  “Ah come on mate. Live a little.” He dragged his small backpack from behind him. “We can wash ‘em down with this.” He unzipped his pack and pulled out a thin bottle of mezcal.

  “Okay, fine, you convinced me.” He leaned forward to closer inspect the contents of the bag. Brown, unappetizing, their stick like limbs still sticking out, Michael plucked one up and shoved it straight in his mouth whole. If he was doing this, he wanted it over and done with. The texture alone made him gag. He held his nose so he could avoid the taste.

  “No, that’s cheating,” said Jerry right before popping one in his mouth with a casualness as if he was eating a potato chip. He exaggerated the crunches and opened his mouth to show Michael the half chewed gooeyness inside.

  “Oh god, stop.” Michael retched.

  “Here you go mate.” Jerry took pity on him and passed him the mezcal.

  After a good quarter of the bottle, Michael walked across the pool and climbed up the other side. Although it looked like the water just dropped off the edge, there was more beyond the pool. Massive platforms of pale bulbous rock jutted out overlooking the mountain vista and seemed to flow down the side of the mountain, like the water that had formed them. Michael assumed it was created by a long, slow buildup of mineral deposits left by the waterfall that had once been there, but he couldn’t be bothered to ask a guide.

  By the time most of the day tourists had left, they had the sunset to themselves. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, dusky orange tinged with purple reflected in the perfectly still pools to the point where you couldn’t differentiate the water from the sky. All he could liken it to was one of those screen-saver pictures that had been adjusted until it no longer looked real, but instead, a fantastical, idealized version of what it really was. No filter could create what he was seeing now. Day-drinking in the heat had given him a mild headache, but he didn’t care.

  There was something inexplicably magical about a sunset, until his brain felt the need to remind him that the sunset he was seeing was just where the light had further to travel in the evening, and the blue light waves couldn’t make it through the atmosphere, leaving the longer, red wavelengths visible, at least, that was how he understood it. Nothing magical about it.

  Chapter Five

  After a whirlwind few days in Chiapas and Campeche, Michael arrived in Tulum. It was nice to look at, but lacked the authentic charm of other places he had visited. It was dark by the time his taxi pulled up at the hotel. He had booked the plushest hotel he could find for his budget, and the only thing he was looking forward to in that moment, was his head hitting the pillow. He was so tired he didn’t even check what denomination the note was that he gave the driver as a tip. The driver looked surprised and said nothing, so he assumed it was a lot. He grimaced as his bag straps rubbed against his sun-burnt shoulders and he lumbered up the marble steps, his legs stiff, yet rubbery as jelly at the same time. It was jarring to go from the darkness to the bright hotel reception. The lobby was all dazzling shiny surfaces, from the polished floor, to the mirrored walls. Without saying a word, he put the piece of paper he had printed with his reservation details on the front desk and the young male receptionist picked it up and started inputting details into their computer system, their head bobbing with the rhythmic clacking of keys.

  “Fourth floor. If you need anything, let me know. Enjoy your stay at Casa Sands.” He kept his spiel brief, probably picking up on Michael’s exhaustion. He slid the key card across the desk. It was tucked in a paper sleeve with the Wi-Fi password printed on it.

  “Thanks.” Michael slipped the card in his shorts pocket and shuffled towards the elevator as a gaggle of high-pitched girls ran in front of him. He pushed the button for the fourth floor and tapped his foot as he waited for the elevator to come down. The light seemed to hover on the third floor for ages. Come on. He was like a race-horse champing at the bit, when the door pinged for the ground floor. A large group of twenty-some-things flooded out of the elevator when it opened, no doubt on their way out for a night of heavy drinking. Their energy was tiring just to watch. After the last person emerged, Michael slipped in and leaned against the metal railing at the back. The mirrored surfaces made the small space feel less claustrophobic, and he caught a glimpse of himself. His hair was all over the place, shoulders slumped and dark circles under his eyes. He had looked better. Why wasn’t the elevator moving? It would help if he pressed the button. He reached over to the panel and the doors started opening again.

  A girl in a coral blouse rushed into the elevator, breathing heavily, and pressed the third floor button. She glanced over at him and granted him a small smile, barely perceptible—such a serious face for someone at a party-resort—as if she was here on a business trip. Her poker straight long brown hair shined in the harsh artificial lighting. Michael straightened up. There was always something awkwardly intimate about being in such an enclosed space with a stranger. He considered small talk to break the silence, but decided against it as the muffled sound of the hydraulics whirred in the background.

  She
looked so deep in thought, that he couldn’t glean anything by looking at her—a closed book. He looked down, not wanting her to think he was checking her out or anything like that. Suddenly he started humming. It wasn’t a conscious action—it just came out. Obviously his brain had tried to remedy the awkward silence—by doing something even more awkward. Not sure what he was humming, he started improvising. Maybe sewing together melodies from random songs he had heard in the taxi. His voice sounded far too loud in the small space and he started trailing off.

  Once she got out on her floor Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he was alone again, and he resumed his slouch until the fourth floor. 418.

  His floor didn’t seem to resemble the rest of the hotel. It smelled faintly like stale alcohol and cigarettes as he walked towards his room, and he could hear other rowdy guests from behind their doors.

  He looked at the door numbers as he walked along the corridor. His room was at the end and through a heavy set of doors. He slotted the key card in the mechanism and waited for the light to turn green. It was pitch black until he turned the main light on. He followed his hotel routine of putting his bag on the bed and opening the curtains to check out the view, to find out he had got lucky this time. His room overlooked the main swimming pool framed by palm trees, and the surrounding lights made the water glow a fluorescent turquoise. White plastic chairs were laid out in rows on each side of the pool, and he watched as a boy plucked a girl from her chair, throwing her over his shoulder and swinging her into the pool. Her screams of protest went ignored, and she flailed around in the water as her friends laughed, before jumping into the pool to join her. He felt odd spying on them so closed the curtains and inspected the room. So, this would be the place where he would take his last breath, and he couldn’t think of anywhere better. There was nothing left to worry about. The future was a burden he didn’t have to pull him down. All that was left, was the here and now. He walked back to his bag and unzipped it, pulling out clothes and toiletries until he got to the bag buried in the bottom. The box inside looked so innocent, like it could be cough syrup, or something equally innocuous. It didn’t look like something that could kill a man in minutes. He opened the lid and pulled out the bottle, examining the contents. Just a clear liquid—nothing to see here. Also in his bag, next to the pentobarbital, was some mescaline he had acquired from a man in Chiapas. He offered the mescaline in its pill form, which would have been a lot easier to take, but Michael wanted to prepare his gag reflex, so that by the time he had to take his pentobarbital, he would be used to swallowing bitter things. Although he was so tired he was tempted to take some mescaline there and then. It’s not like he had anything else to do. The room looked clinical and sparse, with none of the personality of the hostels he had stayed in before. He took advantage of the closet and started hanging up his clothes. This was his final destination; might as well make it his own. He laid out his toiletries in the bathroom. Shower gel, razor, tooth paste, tooth brush. In the hostels he had to lug his stuff back and forth between his room and the shared bathrooms. He made the mistake of leaving his stuff in there before and the next time he came to brush his teeth and shower some skint backpacker must have stolen it.