Comfort Room - Or The Seven Dreams of Frank Diggory

The Fifth Day

The sun had not yet risen over Paraiso. The whole Subdivision was a riot of pitch black and silhouette. It was still warm, but not more than ten degrees cooler than the previous heat at midday. The cockerels and dogs that stirred people into their daily routine had not yet greeted the dawn.

Emet Manalo stood at the side of her house beside an old motorcycle which, to be honest, had seen better days, but still worked and could still outrun many of its more efficient, more modern equivalents, especially over rough terrain. It might lack in environmental credentials, but it was what they needed to make a quick getaway.

She fiddled with her backpack, which contained essentials for their trip.

All she needed now was Frank.

And he was the one thing she was beginning to doubt would be there.

After all, she had confessed the sins of the Subdivision – and her sins. She really wasn’t sure how he'd react. She had planned this day to perfection. Set everything up. And it had taken time and effort.

But in all that, Frank Diggory was the one thing she could not count on.

She checked her watch. She was five minutes early.

That was unusual.

So she waited.

Each minute seemed to take an eternity. Each second changing on her watch seemed to take an age.

Was he coming? Would he come? Or had he blown her off out of revenge for spying on him for money?

Her insides were knotted and twisted with stress.

Where was he?

The five minutes passed. If she’d been told anything about British people, it’s that they value time-keeping. And fair play.

At least, on the surface.

So why wasn’t he there?

She also knew a little of their etiquette. Fifteen minutes. That’s as long as she should wait. Fifteen minutes. If he was not there by then, she was on her own.

She sighed.

She had already arranged for leave from work. If he wasn’t coming, she would go by herself. Have a good time. Forget all about him. Move on with her life.

Or she would try. But deep down inside, right to her bones, something told her that would be impossible.

She kicked the motorcycle tyres – half to check them, half out of frustration.

Where was he?

Five minutes late.

She wanted to run to the bathroom and scream. But he’d probably hear her and think she’d had a bad dream.

Had he forgotten?

Why wasn’t he here?

Just then, a red-faced, flustered, way too neatly dressed, white British man burst around the corner in a fit of sweat and stress. ‘I’m so sorry I'm late. I just realised that we’re going on a day out to a beach, and I don’t actually have a swimming costume. I guess it didn’t enter their imagination that a Scottish fella might want to go to the beach one day. Or a hat. Or sunblock. I mean, I sort of need sunblock. You might like me now, but will you still like me when my skin resembles a cross between an over-done lobster and a sun-dried tomato? So, what I mean is: I'm prepared for a day at the office. No problem. I can do that. But a day at the beach? Not really. Can you help me?’ Frank pleaded.

Emet chuckled with delight. ‘We’ll stop off at Isabel on the way. Something might be open. If not, then Palompon. We’ll find something. Come on, we’d better go before they realise you’re missing.’ She got on to the motorcycle and gestured to him to get on behind her.