A Weekend Break

They were on holiday. It was a short break in a central European city where the buildings had escaped the bomb and the bulldozer. They crossed squares of old world charm that were fed by narrow, claustrophobic lanes, their heads up and camera poised. They took digital, baroque frames, careless of the post-war high-rise backdrop. They had a program for eradication.
They both wore the standard Western European tourist uniform: sensible boots, blue jeans lightly labelled, T-shirts and jumpers for the early autumn weather, cagoules and backpacks. They stood at the entrance to another cobbled square, its centre dominated by non-functioning fountain. She leafed through the guidebook while he narrowed his focus on a seventeenth century merchant's house. The few local people in the square paid them no attention.
"Let's sit down for a minute."
He pulled his eye away from the viewfinder and glanced over to her. She was pushing her hair back behind an ear, revealing a single diamond stud and the faint imprint of a crow's foot beside the eye. He said nothing, slipping easily into her wake, following her to the low wall that surrounded the inactive fountain.
She dropped her backpack between her feet and sat, hands flat, back arched, offering her face and neck to the setting sun. He sat next to her, curled in the opposite direction, his backpack making a dark hump on his back. Her eyes were closed and her legs outstretched.
"I'm really glad we decided to come."
She seemed to be speaking directly into the air, which was turning from a luminous honey to darker treacle. He made no reply, pulled a plastic mineral water bottle from a zipped pocket and began to unscrew the cap. She opened her eyes and tilted her head towards him.
"Aren't you glad we came?"
"O, yes."
His reply was stilted, flat, the sound of a voice out of use.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all."
As if to confirm this, he reached down with his free hand and rubbed the back of his left calf.
"Yeah, we've done a lot of walking the last two days. Pass the water."
He gave her the bottle, still rubbing his leg as if he needed to be told when to stop. She drank and he watched the taut skin on her neck undulate as the liquid passed down. He stopped rubbing and straightened up. She passed the bottle back and he resealed the top.
She rummaged in the front pocket of her cagoule and pulled out a cigarette packet and a cheap, yellow plastic lighter.
"I thought you were giving up."
"Yeah, well, they're cheap over here, and we are on holiday. Back on the wagon as soon as we get home, promise."
"Fine, whatever."
They stayed immobile while she smoked, not talking. At last she ground the butt out between the cobbles and they stood up.
"Which way now?"
"You're the one with the map."
He looked at her blankly.
"O.K.", she said, "This way."

The sauce that had held the large beef chunks had been suitably rich. The red wine was earthy and full-bodied. Both the wine and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight and he felt pleasantly full. They were sat in an arched cellar restaurant, with smoke aged white bricks, red and white checked tablecloths, and a three-piece band playing traditional sounding music. He was unsure how far they had fallen into the tourist trap, but he had enjoyed the meal enough not to ask. She held a full glass in both hands, high enough to partially obscure her face, a silver ring on her right hand tapping the glass in time to the music.
He turned away from her, following her line of sight towards the band. The two guitars and one single violin had raised and lowered their tempo throughout the evening, seeming instinctively to gauge the soundtrack for their meal. He raised his arm to attract a waiter's attention, indicating the almost empty bottle on their table.
What the hell, it was their last night.
He felt a touch on his arm. He turned, expecting to see her near to him, but instead another woman's face, heavy with stagy night time make-up, loomed in. She was pulling at his sleeve, laughing at his resistance. Shaking his head in confusion, he looked across the table, where she sat making upward motions with her hands and mouthing go on to him. He realised the woman was the restaurant dancer and he was to be her first victim. He shook his head more vigorously, pulling his arm back. All around he could hear encouraging shouts and laughter from the other tables.

He was sat on the bed. She was in the bathroom. He stood up and surveyed the room. Over towards the door, their cases were packed, labelled and ready. Once they had left, and the cleaner had changed the sheets and emptied the wastebasket, nothing would remain of them, no mark or scent. He stepped over to the French windows that opened out onto the small balcony. The cool morning air carried the sounds of the city stumbling awake, together with the softness of approaching rain. The light hurt his eyes a little, causing them to narrow. Perhaps that second bottle of wine had been a mistake. He looked down at his watch. It was almost time for the bus to the airport.
She came out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel. Finished, she folded it neatly over the back of a chair. She went out onto the balcony and leant with crossed arms on the narrow ledge. She looked down into the street below and saw him with his head split open on the cobbles, and a crowd beginning to form.