The more he considered it, the worse his situation appeared.
He couldn’t gather the connections, couldn’t see what had given him away. Alongside this he had insulted the boy, although he didn’t know how. Ford understood that his freedom depended on righting this insult, on correcting and persuading him that this idea was fanciful at best, something Martin would create.
Ford waited for Eric to return but the road from the fort remained clear. With three hours to pass he decided to find Eric and see exactly what he knew. He folded Eric’s sweater into the top of his backpack, then, with no idea how he would explain himself, he began to walk slowly to the fort.
He did not find Eric at the fort. He stood at the fence at the rough cliff and looked down upon the road, the heat pulsed about him. Crows scattered as he clambered over the fallen barrier. Standing at the edge he traced the track past the workshops and into the market. The thin clatter of a workman’s hammer rose in the wind enriched with a faint dry scent of sage. He was certain that Eric had taken the track to the promontory. This was his only exit, but he had not seen him return. He could not have passed without his knowing. Ford looked back over his shoulder at the bald, slick rock and found no one at the fort.
3.13
Eric stumbled as he walked up the path, sore with Tom, sore at himself, knocked back, burning with humiliation.
Even at this moment a part of him remained detached, aware that while he felt low (had he ever felt so miserable?) this whole business was utterly predictable and completely avoidable. Tom was typical of the men he was attracted to (unavailable, remote, almost completely unknowable); he should have seen this coming. Even so, wasn’t there something about this that was just plain unfair?
At the top of the promontory he realized that he’d walked himself into a dead end. He’d have to stay and wait until Tom got on his coach as he wasn’t about to walk back through the market and face him again. Seriously, why had he gone back in the first place? What for? And what was that utter horse-crap he’d come out with, sounding just like Martin? Christ, had he seriously said those things? All that shit about his name? And what was he thinking going up to the man and touching him like that, right out in public? Seriously? Exactly what did he expect to happen? Wasn’t he, come on, seriously, wasn’t he the very definition of an idiot?
He switched his satchel from his left to his right shoulder. He’d have to wait for the coach to go, though he wasn’t sure of the time, it could be hours, Tom had a choice of coaches, an utter agony to wait up, but at least he would be able to see the coach as it came into the square. He’d probably also see Tom.
Eric turned his back to the town. He didn’t want to see him. In fact, if he’d known that Tom was leaving, had a little prior warning, he could have prepared himself. He wouldn’t have made such an ass of himself.
* * *
He saw the man come up the track, and saw with a donkey-kick of recognition that the approaching figure was Tom. No doubt about it.
As Tom clambered over the fence, inching round, Eric sought cover. He followed the edge of the promontory and looked into the cracks to find one in which to lower himself, one with some kind of foothold, one the right width so he could squat at a straddle, brace against the sides and wait it out.
Eric slung his bag behind him and lowered himself into the crevice as Tom rounded the corner, pushed his feet flat to the rock on one side and his shoulders on the other.
* * *
His memory of the fall was not of falling or sliding, or of rolling sideways into the cleft, but of being struck by a series of blows so rapid, and of such startling force that the pain came in one obliterating shock, white and sheer, and overwhelming. He’d struck his head, struck it hard, and found himself pinched between the stone walls by his hips and by his chest. While he knew himself to be suspended between two acute planes, he guessed, from the difference in pressure, that he was suspended slightly out of vertical. While he could move his arms, sweep them either side up and down, the cleft proved too narrow for him to bend his elbows and exact enough force to push himself upright. The range of motion for his head was similarly limited, so he could only face left, or look up. His bag, where was his bag with his passport and tickets?
He couldn’t guess how far he’d fallen. Thirty feet? Thirty-five? How high was the promontory? One hundred and twenty? A possible further ninety feet below him.
Suspended by pressure on his chest and hips, pinched between the rock, breathing became hard, a conscious effort, and he found it difficult to draw a deep enough breath to shout.
Eric pressed his fingers one by one to the rock, a thought to each digit.
1. prioritize to save energy
2. assess damage
3. relieve weight and pressure on chest
4. do not panic
5. in ten days you will be in Malta — OK, depending on new tickets, a new passport
6. use the force exerted by the rock as a lever — or, maybe not
7. don’t think of large gestures, big motions, but incremental improvements
He could see daylight, sky, a wide stripe of gorgeous blue, almost mauve, intense and unspoiled.
8. get laid as soon as you get out of this. Stop sabotaging every opportunity.
His first seizure came as specks fizzing in a bright sky, and the realization that this didn’t look too good. In the strangeness of what followed, as his head hammered from side to side, hard and distinct images came to him: him locked, lying on a floor with Tom on top of him, the pressure of another body, and while he shook between the walls he felt the real heat of being held, of strong arms, and a conviction informed by smell, heat, touch that this was Tom.
And 9. What was it? Some question he had to answer yes or no.
3.14
Ford returned through the market. Outside the barber shop he slowed to a walk and patted his pockets. No cigarettes. He bought a pack and returned to the terminal admitting to himself that he hadn’t liked Eric. It wasn’t indifference he felt now but active dislike. The boy bothered him, watched him all the time; examined and tested him with all of his questions, and it was good to admit to this dislike. He considered for a moment leaving things as they were. He would be long gone before they could slot anything comprehensible together. But he couldn’t be sure. One word might be enough. One accident. One connection.
After handing over his backpack to the kiosk ready for departure, he sat and faced the square. A single track led up to the fort — he couldn’t see anywhere for Eric to hide. The market stalls opened out one to another. However busy, it would be impossible for Eric to pass unnoticed, unless, somehow, he’d doubled back immediately, heading for the hotel and not the fort — although this didn’t seem likely.
With no other open option Ford decided to return to the Maison du Rève. If he found Eric he would reason with him, draw these ideas out of his head and persuade him that he was wrong. I’m not who you think I am. How ridiculous do you think this sounds? If Eric had figured out his identity it could not have come from anything he had said. His silence might have spiked the boy’s curiosity, this was true, but he had given none of them any detail about himself or his life to fuel this realization. He could fix this.
Ford returned to the pension. He turned gingerly into the street. To his relief both the car and the man were gone.