by Liam Livings
“Boom! Boom!” Slinky Simon hugged Paul and me.
Rob stood back, playing with the handle on the sports bag slung over his shoulder. “All right?” He winked.
Paul said, “Sure you don’t want to stay at ours? Plenty of room. Well, there’s room, I’m not sure about plenty of it.”
Slinky Simon strode off towards the exit. “Hotel’s only round the corner from you. I think we’ll leave you two, renowned DJ couple of Ibiza, to yourselves.”
That was the first time I’d heard someone say it out loud to me. I sort of knew we were well-known, since we were getting top billing on the club promotion and regularly pulling in crowds of ten to fifteen thousand to our nights, but somehow when he said it, it made it real, more real than turning up night after night, playing song after song, as we’d done. It didn’t feel that amazing because experiencing it day to day, as we were, it didn’t seem much. It had happened gradually—bigger room, bigger crowd, additional nights to appear—until now, we were working four or five nights a week.
I shrugged it off when Rob asked if we were moving to one of the white two-storey haciendas on the outskirts of town.
***
Slinky Simon had invited us to meet with the father of the island, a sort of British ex-pat friendly uncle known as Jessie, no surname, who knew everything about the British who made Ibiza their home.
If he’s such a father of the island, how come I’ve not yet met him? was the first thing that sprang to mind when Simon suggested it, but now, sitting opposite him at a restaurant in Ibiza Town, I smiled and politely ate my food. Paul had said we must take the meeting; if we’d been summonsed, we must come to it to see Jessie in person.
Whatever, was what I thought, but I hadn’t told Paul that.
Jessie was a large, round, short man with a bald head and ginger beard. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and tie, with tailored grey trousers. Both, in my opinion, fashion disasters.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to meet you both face-to-face. I’ve had people looking out for you—they’ve been combing the island. I like to meet all the British people who choose to move here—make them welcome, see if there’s anything else they need. Be kind, like.” He smiled broadly, revealing a mouthful of large, yellowing, wonky teeth.
I had never wanted to be somewhere else more than in that moment. Probably.
I was about to point out we were fine, now we’d lived there for nearly a year, and his offer of anything else we needed was about as useful as trying to find a virgin in Ibiza Town on a Saturday night, but I didn’t think it was best. Slinky Simon’s warning about Jessie rang in my ears: something about him pulling the strings of the island and having his finger on the pulse and not saying no to Jessie. Some load of old crap, anyway.
Slinky Simon said, “As you know, I’m here to see how these two are doing and if there’s any other areas of business we can work on together.”
Jessie picked up a flyer Slinky Simon had been showing him, turning it over in his fat fingers that reminded me of raw sausages.
The two of them talked about how we’d been taking over the island and how Jessie couldn’t turn up to a club without seeing us on the list of DJs. It was all very flattering, but I knew very much a load of old flannel.
Paul lapped it up, hanging on Jessie’s every word, asking if there were any other club nights he could get us into.
We’d finished our lunch and the waiter cleared the plates. A silence fell over the restaurant.
I checked the time and, contrary to what I believed, the last two hours had actually been twenty minutes.
Jessie said, “I do have an opening in one of the clubs on the other side of the island. I wondered if you’d be interested.”
Slinky Simon banged his hand on the table. “We’ll do it.”
Paul agreed; another bang on the table.
“Hang on,” I said, looking around at everyone. “We don’t even know what it is yet. And Simon, as much as I love you, you’re not part of us.” I pointed to myself and Paul. “You don’t live here, so unless you’re going to move out, it’s us two who are going to be doing all the work.” I turned to Paul. “Am I right?”
Jessie explained he was taking over a club in Ibiza Town, one of the venues the British package-holiday companies for the under-thirties used on their bar crawl, so it was always busy, always profitable, and always full of people wanting to party.
I knew exactly the sort of party people he meant. Kids flying over for their week of sun, sand, sex and shitloads of everything else, finishing the night upended in the gutter outside a club, passed out on the beach, red like a lobster when they flew home. Exactly the sort of clubbers we tried to avoid by playing the bigger clubs with the higher door prices. It wasn’t because we were snobs; it was just the way the island divided. We’d chosen to live and work on the other end of the island, for better or worse. And let’s be honest here: I, too, had been that person flying from the UK for my week in the sun and going more than a little bit mad. Who hadn’t? Twenty-somethings like us were discovering cheap sun in Ibiza in their droves every summer.
I had zoned out for a while but looked over and realised Jessie’s lips were still moving: “I’m looking for someone to serve up for me. At this club. Last owner had it closed down. Police were worried about underage drinkers, and when they came to look around, they found all sorts. We’d need to be a bit more subtle, do you know what I mean? Bar staff walking around squirting foamy drink into punters’ mouths, and it wasn’t just piña colada. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t quite know what he meant. As I’d reached my boredom threshold with this man and the entire lunch, and I had a square of beach, a paperback and not much else all afternoon with my name on it, I said, “What do you mean? Sure it’s not just me who’s thinking it.” Then I added, “Sorry,” for effect. I wasn’t remotely sorry.
“They’d laced the drink with MDMA powder and sprayed it into punters’ mouths, walking around the club. Blatantly.”
Paul shrugged and sniggered. “Yeah, that is rather blatant, isn’t it?”
“As I said, they were closed down. And now I’m taking over. It’s all still there, just needs someone to run it. How do you guys fancy managing it for me?”
Slinky Simon said, “Hang on, I thought you said something about serving up. What was that about?”
“I’m trying to look at it in the round. In the widest sense. Obviously, I’ll need someone to serve up, but I’ll need someone to manage it first. A manager.” He looked at me and Paul.
And then, slowly, quietly, aware that I’d been told by Slinky Simon and Paul that you didn’t say no to Jessie, I said, “I think we’re gonna have to say no, I’m afraid.” I looked for the waiter. “Busy, see. In fact, I’ve got to go. I have to get back for a beach thing I have planned.”
Paul kicked me under the table. “He’s joking.”
“I’m not. It’s with the woman. The woman I said I’d help. She fell asleep and woke not knowing where she was, and she was in this house with these seven little men. Each of them was doing something different to her. Anyway, she’s escaped now.”
Rob, who until this point had said nothing but at my blatant bullshit obviously couldn’t resist saying something, jumped in with, “Did she blow the house down? Or was she asking your help to get away from a wolf who was trying to blow her house down?”
“Yes, that’s it. She was homeless. Her house was swept away in the storm. She needed somewhere to stay and I said I’d help her, and I’m meant to be meeting her now.” I stood, sensing my lie was well beyond its best-before date, especially since there hadn’t been any storms for months and months.
Paul threw some money on the table as he stood and apologised for having to leave suddenly.
Jessie folded his arms. “Best go and sort out Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood or whatever this damsel in distress is called.” He waved dismissively for us to leave.
Paul grabbed my hand, waved qu
ick goodbyes to everyone at the table and we left. Once outside, he said, “What the fuck are you doing? That was an offer we couldn’t refuse. That was the person not to refuse. Slinky Simon told us before. And what do you do? You fucking well refuse him. Why?”
“He was dodgy as fuck. He’s icky. I don’t like hanging around icky men. Did you see how he looked at me when he realised I was sitting next to him?”
“Like a man sitting next to him for lunch?”
“Like a hungry dog looks at its breakfast. And he kept touching my arm, commenting on which things to order. Not to mention he stuck his fingers in my flies and had a good root around.”
“He did not.”
“OK, so I made up the last part, but the rest is true. He also rested his hand on my thigh until I removed it. I got a feeling from him. He gave off a feeling, and I’m not talking about his body odour that was making the plants wilt, or his bad breath that made my eyelashes curl. I’m talking about a feeling, a sense.”
“Managing the club could be good for us. Give me a chance at the event-planning stuff. I liked that. I was enjoying it, but now they only want me as the DJ, nothing to do with the decorations and stuff. I miss it. I wish we could go back to the parties in fields off the M25, don’t you?” Paul stuck out his bottom lip.
“In some ways, yes, in others, no. I wouldn’t swap a damp December in a field in Bucks for a pink sunset over the sea here. No way. And that’s why I said no to him. Well, why I walked out with my fairy-story lie. He’s dodgy. It’s one thing asking us to manage the club, but sorting out drug dealers, all that? Does he think we came down with the last bloody shower?”
“You knew what he meant—serve up?” Paul took my hand.
“’Course I did. Have you met my mum?” I blinked.
“Then why the big show, the innocence, the problem with it?”
“I don’t want to lose all this.” I gestured to the white buildings, the beach, the deep-blue sea, the light-blue sky. “Why would I risk all this, risk ending up in some Spanish prison for serving up for some weird man?”
“Does this mean you’re going to stop dropping yourself, now you’ve come over all legal and puritanical?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s a big difference between a bit of recreational use and dealing, or managing people who deal. And as far as I know, the law sees dealing or being involved with people who deal as pretty much the same. Intent to supply, dealing, all that.”
“Wicked.” He took my hand and we walked towards the beach.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“You said you had a beach meeting with a woman. Poor Snow White, sounds like she’s fucked without you.”
“She so is. She’s fucked without me. Totally fucked.”
As we reached the beach, we took off our shoes and walked towards the water. The sand between our toes, we sat a few yards from the sea.
Paul took off his Global Hypercolour T-shirt, darker colours at the armpits, and stepped out of his white shorts, revealing his boxers. “What?” He stood with his hands on his hips, and it was all I could do to stop myself jumping his bones there and then.
“Nothing. Well, it is something.”
He sat cross-legged in front of me. “What? I am all ears.” He bent his ears towards me.
“Do you think we’re maybe doing a bit too much partying? And maybe we should ease off a bit? Just a little bit?”
“I don’t know if you’re a bad influence on me, or I’m a bad influence on you,” he said.
“Neither do I. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Maybe. But nothing to worry about. Not as much as how we’re going to sort out the Jessie mess we’ve left back there. He’s important. He can uninvite us to clubs. He has connections. He is the father of the island.”
“Yeah, and doesn’t he ever stop telling us?” I’d been thinking about something for a while and decided now was a good time to mention it. “Why did we stop our date nights when we moved out here?”
“Dunno. Do you miss them?”
“I used to love them. Highlight of the week. Just us two.”
“It’s more freestyle now. Plus we don’t have those crappy jobs where we need something midweek to make us feel better.” He laughed.
“I thought it was more than that. Besides, I didn’t think our jobs were that crappy. Let’s bring date night back, shall we?”
“Whatever you want,” Paul replied and kissed me.
CHAPTER 14
A WHILE LATER, we’d all gone out with Slinky Simon and Rob, who’d apparently spent the intervening few days “Clearing up the fucking mess you left with Jessie,” Slinky Simon said.
Despite the music being just the right mix of uplifting and repetitive beat dance, and the fact I was flying on my one pill of the evening—I didn’t want to overdo things and had told Paul one each tonight would be enough—my sense of not wanting to be there overtook all the other feelings swirling round my stomach and brain.
I turned to Slinky Simon, stroked his sweaty cheek and said, “Have fun, I’m done. We’re going home. See you later. You can let yourselves in, can’t you?”
“It’s early. It’s not even two. What you going for? Look, if it’s about Jessie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on about it. I was just saying, that’s what we’d been doing, sorting stuff out for you. That’s all.” He grabbed my arm.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’m done. It’s fine.”
He leant forward, hugged me, kissed my cheek and told me he loved me and didn’t want to end things on a bad note.
Even in my somewhat mind-altered state, I thought this was a bit over the top, but judging by his quickly chewing mouth and wide black pupils, he was much further gone than either me or Paul, so I agreed with him, kissed his cheek and said I’d see him later.
Paul and I walked the short distance back to our flat, surrounded by crowds of scantily clad people dancing, drinking from bottles, some leaning forward and throwing up in the street, pausing behind rubbish bins to relieve themselves, not showing an ounce of worry about anyone seeing them. This, I would not miss when I left Ibiza. This, I wouldn’t hanker after when the crowds left for the summer and the island returned to its usual sleepy Spanish chilled-out self for people who called it home and not just a fairground ride for a few weeks of summer.
Paul was making us a cup of tea while I rolled us a cigarette each and the CD of chill-out tracks filled the living room—our usual coming-down routine—when the phone rang.
At nearly three in the morning, who the hell would be ringing us?
I let it ring and busied myself with the rolling of the cigarette paper, and the inserting of the filter tips, and the licking of the paper to finish the job, but the phone didn’t stop.
Paul shouted, “Can you get it, please? It’s doing my head in.”
I stepped across the room, mumbling to myself something about so much for the love drug, and picked up the phone. “Mum, if this is you, I hope someone’s dead,” I said with a smile to myself.
Rob’s voice filled my ear, babbling quickly, repeating himself, saying something about the hospital, and the ambulance, and just after we’d left it had all gone wrong.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital, the nearest one. Can’t pronounce how to say it. Can you come? It’s Simon. It’s not looking good.”
“On our way.” I put the phone down.
Paul stood next to me, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “What’s up?”
“You all right to drive or shall we taxi it?”
“Where we going?”
“Hospital. It’s Simon.” By Rob using Simon’s real name, omitting the Slinky part, I knew this was serious. No one ever called him just Simon, it was always Slinky Simon—a nickname given to him years before any of us had met him, relating to how much of a wheeler-dealer he was, always slinking between groups of people, trying to cook up the next deal, sort out the next party. Now, in the hospital, if Rob’s blu
rted message was anything to go by, he was anything but slinky.
In the car, I told Paul what I knew from Rob’s call. “Twenty minutes after we left, Simon asked Rob to sit down cos he felt faint, his legs were wobbly. Then Simon started shaking, threw up all over himself and went into a foetal ball with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Rob called the security staff, who got an ambulance, and now he’s in hospital.”
“Shit,” Paul said. As we walked into the A&E, he asked, “Is he still conscious?”
“Rob didn’t say he was, but he didn’t said he wasn’t.” At the reception desk, in my best schoolboy, picked up in little pieces Spanish, I asked if I could see my friend Simon Stephens.
Paul furrowed his brow. “Stephens?”
I shrugged.
The receptionist told me in very quick Spanish something about family and no visitors, then pointed to the rows of chairs behind us.
I tried to explain we were expected and we needed to see the friend he was with; my friend had no family with him on the island.
She shook her head, pointed to the seats again and turned back to her computer screen.
Defeated, my stomach churning and Rob’s words echoing in my mind, I joined the rest of the average-night-in-a-hospital flotsam and jetsam on the chairs.
Paul sat next to me. “What now? Can’t you at least tell Rob we’re here? He must be going mad.”
“I tried. She’s having none of it. Feel free to try yourself.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my shorts and clutched my stomach, willing everything to be all right.
Paul left, walking quickly past the reception desk through the double doors where nurses had been taking patients from the chairs since we’d arrived.
Alone in my thoughts, I remembered Mum’s drug horror stories from the seventies. There had been something about orange juice and acid, I struggled to recall. And something about just leaving it, and another something about usually people came back, found themselves again, and it was someone’s way of giving them a little warning shot across the bow. Yes, that’s what this is, surely. Slinky Simon’s prone to overdoing it every now and again, isn’t he? This’ll show him. He’ll leave here and have an amusing story to tell everyone when he gets back home to the UK. Stupid fucking idiot Slinky Simon, with his big grin and his bottomless appetite for more and more of everything. A hand on my arm brought me from my spiralling thoughts.