The fact is, my son saved my life. Whether through guilt or concern, he had been unable to relax on the beach and so had followed on a few minutes behind, entering the room to find my feet protruding from between the two single beds. The pain had spread through my chest, into my arms, neck and jaw, and I was breathing with some difficulty, panicking too because, until Egg arrived, I saw no possibility of rescue and was obliged simply to lie there on the hardwood floor, pinned down as if by some immense old wardrobe, contemplating the ball of fluff beneath the bed, my son’s discarded socks and trainers and towels just beyond and then, miraculously, my son’s blessed filthy feet in the doorway.
‘Dad? What are you playing at?’
‘Come here, please, Albie.’
He clambered over the bed, looking down at me crammed unhappily against the bedside table, and I explained what I thought had happened. He did not Google ‘heart attack’. Instead he picked up the phone and called reception, adopting a sensible and clear tone that I had not heard before; admirably calm, just how I’d have done things. When he was sure that help was on its way, he stood astride me, wriggling his hands into my armpits and attempting to bring me into a sitting position. But I was wedged securely, too weak to assist, and so instead he squeezed in beside me on the floor between the beds and held my hand while we waited.
‘You see?’ he said, after a while. ‘I told you those trunks were too tight.’
I winced. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Albie.’
‘Are you in pain?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aspirin would help.’
‘Do we have any?’
‘We have paracetamol.’
‘Will that help, Dad?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Okay. Let’s just lie still, then.’
Some time passed, perhaps three, four minutes, and though I tried to remain calm I could not help considering that my own father had probably found himself in this position too, alone in that flat without anyone to lie there or make silly jokes. Without anyone? Without me. ‘His heart basically exploded,’ the doctor had said with inappropriate relish. I felt another spasm in my chest and winced.
‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Keep breathing, Dad.’
‘I intend to.’
Time passed, but barely.
‘What happens if you lose consciousness?’
‘Perhaps we should talk about something else, Egg.’
‘Sorry.’
‘If I lose consciousness, that will be cardiac arrest. You’ll have to do CPR.’
‘The kiss-of-life thing?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh, Christ. Don’t lose consciousness, will you?’
‘I’m trying hard not to.’
‘Good.’
‘Do you know how to do CPR, Egg?’
‘No. I’ll Google it. Perhaps I should do that now.’
I laughed again. If anything was going to kill me, it would be the sight of Albie desperately reading up on CPR. ‘No. Just lie here with me. I’m going to be fine. This is all going to be fine.’ Albie exhaled slowly, squeezed my hand and rubbed my knuckles with his thumb. A shame, I thought, to regain this intimacy at such a cost.
‘Albie—’
‘Dad, you shouldn’t really talk, you know.’
‘I know—’
‘It’s all going to be fine.’
‘I know, but if I’m not fine. If I’m not …’
Some people, I imagine, would have welcomed this opportunity to make some definitive, final statement to the world, and various formulations ran through my head. But they all seemed rather fraught and melodramatic, and so instead we lay there, still and silent, wedged between the beds, holding hands and waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
I can’t speak highly enough of the Spanish health system. The paramedics were no-nonsense and rather ‘macho’ in a reassuring way, and I was scooped up in their hairy arms and taken a short distance to the local hospital where, after tests and X-rays and the administering of blood-thinning medication, it was explained by a Dr Yolanda Jimenez, in good, clear English, that I would be subject to an operation. Immediately I imagined the buzzing of surgical saws and my rib-cage being cracked open like a lobster shell, but the doctor explained that the procedure would be much more localised than that. A tube would be inserted into my thigh under local anaesthetic, passing, somewhat improbably, all the way up into my heart, allowing the artery to be widened and a stent to be left in its place. I pictured pipe-cleaners, dental floss, an unravelled wire coat hanger. The operation would take place the next morning.
‘Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,’ I said cheerily after the doctor had left. In truth, I did not relish the prospect of a catheter being inserted into my thigh and probing its way past my internal organs, but I did not want Albie to worry. ‘If they go too far, presumably it comes out of my ear!’ I said and he forced a smile.
