Was the ferry late? She checked her watch. It should be coming around the head by now. That sense of foreboding again, as if her body were being gripped by a huge fist.
She’d been calmer across at the Tesco mini-store, looking for cars with Irish number plates, reading which county each was from. One or two accents floated over: your man was from Cork, your other, might that be Kerry? What’d brought them to Wales? Had any of them had to flee like her?
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What a great place for a mini break Madrid is, especially the wonderful galleries. I went with a group of friends and we spent hours in the Prado. One thing that continues to bother us is the painting of Sisyphus. We talk about it a lot. I now realise it has bothered people far and wide across time and place. Why, in Greek mythology, did Hades condemn Sisyphus to roll a ridiculously heavy rock up a steep hill, only to have it roll back down and for the process to begin again – for eternity: a curse of mind numbing, excruciating boredom, to say nothing of huge physical effort?
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I was delivered there like a package, now I was expected to go in. I was being watched carefully in case I tried to escape.
My hands felt clammy, and I was rigid with fear.
“Do I have to come in there with you?” I was asked.
I shook my head, this was something I had to do on my own. I straightened my back and took one step forward before twisting the doorknob and entering the room. My eyes darted about frantically, searching for a corner in which I could hide. I squatted down in a chair and tried to make myself invisible. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the ends of the armrests, but there was no controlling my trembling legs. My feet danced across from side to side, much to the annoyance of the other people trapped in the same room.
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