During the weekend Ian absconded away from the life he lives, in pubic, to an island, in private. A mysterious island somewhere off the Irish coast but found on no map, an island with as many telephone lines as polar bears. So, to stay in communication with the real world, Ian bravely stowed his mobile phone deep within his person, so that regular updates could take place here, on this blog. And despite the tight security, he was successful. A feat, he reminds me, that no other human has ever accomplished.
Then Ian was never just human.
But this morning, while my head lay still on my pillow, my phone vibrated on the lamp stand. I shot awake immediately; something deep inside realising this was important. My phone doesn’t just vibrate for anyone. So I swiped the phone into my hand, pressing the right sequence of buttons in a flash, so that when I finally focus on the screen, the relevant text message will have been selected.
“On island. Crazy bastards are hunting me.”
That’s all that’s said. But, although it would have been natural for me to be worried, I was, in fact, relieved. I knew Ian would be safe, no matter what situation he was placed in. However, I did have doubt as to whether he would make it onto the island in the first place. Legends had spread as to how notoriously difficult it is to even get details of the place, let alone board the only ship that sails there. But he had done it. The bastard had done it.
“Who’s chasing you? Will you be okay?”
The ‘sending’ message seems to be on display for longer than usual as if it were afraid to travel to that unholy place, even as electrical signals through the air. But it disappeared.
And now I wait and think. The suns first light giving distant hills halos of orange. I realise, sitting on my bed waiting, despite my weeks helping Ian prepare for his journey, despite endless hours discussing the island in detail, pouring over old withered maps, that I never found out his reasons for travelling there. For risking his life to grace it’s sandy beaches with his greatness. Beep Beep. My phone beckons me.
“Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha...” Even in mortal danger, Ian the Incredible remains jovial to the last.
“Those cunts”, the message continues, “have an army of midgets.”
I laugh heartedly. Ian, through an absurd coincidence, has developed the habit of eating midgets for breakfast. Irish fighting midgets, who kick and punch all the down his gullet.
I reply with “How many have you finished with, you lucky son of a bitch?”
And the phone sends the message quickly, feeding off the courage Ian is no doubt displaying. I giggle and shift about with excited energy until Ian’s next message comes.
“Eight, tasty little motherfuckers. I’m collecting their miniature weapons for a magnificent trophy.”
I bound from the bed, slapping my knee against the lamp stand. And in a ball on the cold wooden floor, tears streaming, I manage to smirk. Ian will tear that island apart, piece by fucking piece, and reveal every little secret that it hides. Once and for all.