The Art of Lying

Part I - Chapter 1: Not Quite Routine

Another day in paradise, I thought, as I woke fresh from a few hours of sleep, staring out of my window at the mountain that our resort faced. Already, I could hear babbling children and scathing parents below. The heat was already bothersome, and I was drowsy from the lack of sleep, having just gotten off the plane. My brother was still asleep, and my father and his partner were in the opposite room. I frowned softly at the thought, but shook my head of the though, succeeding only in causing my bed-mussed hair to fall in front of my face, momentarily blinding me. Emitting a growl, I brushed my hair and ventured to the shower.

When I was finally ready, I found my brother, Liam, alert and waiting for the shower to be free. I let him in the bathroom, and began to get dressed in a vest and swimming shorts. We had only gotten to the hotel at 5:00 am, and it was only 8 at this point. Thankfully, as we left for breakfast, I found a coffee maker in the buffet, which I took to immediately. Within minutes of the caffeine hitting my system, I could feel my eyelids become lighter, and my whole body shivered in that annoying way it did. I clenched my fist, annoyed at the attack by my subconscious. A tight scowl darkened my plain features (even he was aware of this fact) and I sighed softly. Sitting at the table, allowing the others to leave for the buffet table first. Happily, this gave me time to think. Studying the features of strangers, I felt oddly calm in this place. Liam had his plate piled high with meat, veg and other assortments, though not one thing compiled of wheat, an unfortunate consequence of the naturally-occurring coeliac disease. He sat down, and I left for my own breakfast.

When I finally found something I was comfortable with eating, I sat down and began slowly eating. An annoyance to many of the people who knew me, I never ate quickly. By the time I'd finished, the others were impatient, and so I finished before I was ready, not willing to hold them up anymore. When we were settled on the deck-chairs, I took my book out, the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a literary hero of mine, and began to read. I was enthralled in the plots, the atmosphere and the romance of Victorian England. I had my sunglasses, a flimsy, cheap pair at that, on, so as to hide my eyes. They had always been remarked to be singular to me. Many people stared at my eyes, which made me uncomfortable, as I was not apt at keeping eye contact. Thankfully, I now had an excuse to hide them. Soon, I finished one of the stories, and decided to get a drink. Thanking whatever god there may be for the idea of all-inclusive, I stepped up to the bar, which was made of a marble-like stone, and was rather cool to the touch. I spoke to the barman, a Turkish fellow, tall and stocky, with a pudgy face, though it was jovial in manner. I ordered my drink, and waited while he prepared it. Looking around the bar, I saw and heard people of all accents, colours and manners. Turkish, Russian, English and even two or three French. I listened into the French conversation, only picking up certain snippets. "Bien... J'aime..." From what I could pick up, they were enjoying it so far. I smiled softly, and picked up my drink, heading back.

Sitting back on my deck-chair, I observed the hotel. The pool in front of us was large and bustling with activity. Children, toddlers, middle-aged people and even one or two pensioners were there, swimming, playing or just generally lolling about. I sat there for hours, occasionally venturing into the pool, and getting drinks. All in all, the day was good. And, when night fell, we all played cards and talked.

The rest of the holiday followed suit, and was much the same. However, the last day, something was different. As usual, I had left early at dinner, to secure a table for all six of us. There was my dad, Peter, my brother, Liam, my dad's partner, Kerry, and her two children, one a teenage, bookish girl named Paula and a toddler named Oliver. As such, I'd left the other five in the buffet, and wandered out to the poolside bar. It was a wonderful place, and it was beautiful at dusk. The staff were friendly, and I talked to the chief entertainer there for a while, a tall, muscular 28 year-old. The waiters smiled as they passed me, and I exchanged pleasantries with them. There was a man in a crisp, white suit sat across the bar. He looked English, and he was reading his e-reader. My gaze lingered on him, before it swept to the other patrons. One of them, I noted, was wearing jet-black sunglasses, allowing no glimpse of his eyes. Perhaps he's like me, I mused, Perhaps he doesn't like his eyes seen. I glanced at his clothing, similar to the waiters, though his shirt was a grey, instead of powder blue. I looked back at the man's face, only to find it was turned to me.

The man's sunglasses were still fixed firmly on his nose, but I caught a glimmer of the eyes behind them. They looked... Dead. I shivered softly, and looked back at the buffet, looking for my companions. They were getting ready to come back. I turned back to the man, only to find an empty seat. I frowned, and noted everything down I could remember on a notepad, as was common for me. This is what I detailed:

- Jet-black sunglasses

-Thin, reedy face

- Scarred cheek

- Pale skin, possibly English

- Sharp, straight nose

- Long, reedy fingers

- Grey shirt, black trousers, black dress shoes

- Black, greying hair

- Long, seemingly thin legs

I could detail no more, before my 'family' rejoined me. And, for the final time that holiday, we played cards, waiting for the transfer to take us to the airport. Little did I know I would be seeing that same pale face and those jet-black sunglasses again, though this time, it would be much closer to home.