Henceforth, the two remaining founding partners of M(cubed) initially communicated by fax, more latterly by email and only occasionally by text. They had rooms at the opposite ends of the old converted brownstone building in central Glasgow that was the base of their operations. It passed into staff legend that the two partners didn’t engage with each other, and although it seemed bizarre at first, the internal practice management systems simply adapted to accommodate them. This studio apartheid lasted until 2007, when Carlos Martorell negotiated a deal with Felix to leave the business, which involved widening the shareholding to a number of the younger members of staff. Joseph remained the principle shareholder but with an insufficient percentage to block the others under the newly amended shareholders’ agreement. Having facilitated this, and with a sense of timing more aligned with luck than insight, Carlos left the practice with his shares inflated in value. The initial impact of the worldwide banking crisis hit barely six months after the ink was dry on his cheque. That cunt would’ve come out with fish in his pockets if he fell into the Clyde was Joseph’s popular – and public – refrain in the early months of 2008 as the work began to dry up and the M(cubed) share price began to head in the direction of an extreme sports base jumper – and at a similar pace.
Joseph doodles on the inside cover of one of the Moleskin notebooks that have been his constant companion on this journey into the heart of his soul’s darkness. It’s a curved scribble, which he has absent-mindedly drawn many times in the last three months. On the limited occasions when he has been able to sleep, he has even dreamt about this scribble. The journals were intended to be part of a specific task set months ago. Following a debilitating illness, his young partners offered him an opportunity to take some time away from the business. In return, they asked Joseph to research and write a recent practice history, focusing on the many interesting projects in various countries that he had largely been responsible for taking the practice into. Joseph suspected the ulterior motives but nonetheless jumped at the opportunity.
He considers the brief he was given last summer. Carlos Martorell would’ve got wind of the exercise and his attempts to get in contact might be prompted by a fear that Joseph would disclose their peripheral role in the bribing of a local government official in Egypt in the early days of their foreign adventures. It’s immaterial. The journals don’t contain the story of professional success; of a relatively small, hard-working Scottish design practice triumphing overseas despite the emerging economic turmoil. Or of any secrets or skeletons that might incriminate those who are still alive. They contain a different set of words: a personal account of a past gone mad. Of a time when it all went off the rails. A confession of sorts. An atonement. A lament for a lost friendship. Joseph realised a long time ago that this was essential for his spirit to be able to rest. He doesn’t expect it to be cathartic, but to honour the memory of who he once was, or might have become, it needs to be written down.
Chapter Four
April 1987. Ibiza, Spain
Bobby Cassidy had never been one for confronting personal and emotional challenges. His instinct had always been to run. So, aged twenty-three, and with Hamish May – his own personal Passepartout – in tow, he had run to the comparative peace, love and hippy tranquillity of Ibiza.
‘The possibilities are endless,’ said Bobby.
Hamish May had heard him say this around ten times that day and it was barely lunchtime. In the Bobby Cassidy wee black book of motivational clichés, it was up there with You’ll be rewarded in heaven. Hammy had argued strongly for a flight transfer from the mainland. He’d once been cast adrift in a tiny rowing boat while unconscious, and that memory – combined with the shock of the recent Herald of Free Enterprise capsizing off Zeebrugge – had cemented a fear of travelling on water that even his inanely upbeat companion was struggling to counter. Hammy had spent the sailing with his eyes either locked on the horizon or directed firmly downwards, mid-vomit. It would be a good few hours before he was fully ready to embrace any possibilities, endless or otherwise.
The two young Ayrshire men gathered up their baggage and headed out of the port buildings into the blinding sunshine. Despite its fearsome reputation for overindulgence, the White Isle already seemed calmer than Benidorm, which, the previous summer, had become increasingly fractious, as Bobby’s relationship with Lizzie King had finally dissolved.
‘Hear that?’ said Bobby as they clambered out of the sweltering taxi in Ibiza Town.
‘Whit, the music?’ said Hammy.
‘Naw … well, aye, but the sound ae the crowds.’ Bobby could see Hammy struggling to comprehend. ‘Every cunt’s laughin’ an’ happy … an’ they’re aw basically our age!’
Hammy smiled. He wasn’t quite ready for anything more just yet; he hadn’t picked up the vibe.
But Bobby was way ahead of him. ‘Benidorm wis for auld folk wi’ hankies on their heids. Fuckin’ SAGA tours an’ roast beef bingos. This is where the cool action is, man.’
They paid the driver, clawed their rucksacks out of his boot and headed off towards the bleached, bright centre of the town.
‘Cool t-shirt, fella. You lads fancy a beer?’ Bobby instinctively looked down as if trying to remember what shirt he had on. He was ‘Choosing Life’ in every sense of the words. He and Hammy were now outside a string of vibrant bars, having been carried along the waterfront streets on a euphoric wave of young, excited people of all colours and ethnicities. If Benidorm was an increasingly conservative colony of Brits abroad, Ibiza was an intoxicating melting pot – all vivacious flamboyance.
The bare-chested, blond-haired Australian six-footer handed them ice-cold Coronas – and flyers – on the proviso that they would return that evening. Bobby promised him they would.
‘This place is gonnae be fuckin’ great, man,’ he said, clinking his bottle with Hammy’s.
It was the middle of the afternoon and it felt as alive as Benidorm had at the height of a busy evening. Benidorm recuperated and recharged in daylight hours, like an elderly vampire. It was already clear that Ibiza just didn’t stop. Decadence had long been the island’s byword, its neo-culture founded on the liberal lifestyles of those who had opposed Franco’s rule. The hippies colonised it in the 70s and much of their laid-back DNA remained. But just as Bobby, Lizzie and Hammy headed to the Costa Blanca in the early 80s, so the package holidays, the yachting set and the clubbers were spiritually drawn to Ibiza like it was an alternative, hedonistic Mecca.
Bobby and Hammy watched the people come and go in front of them. The ultra-glamourous mixed with the beach-surf slackers and they all seemed to fit. Fishnets, spandex and leopard print, evocative of end-of-the-pier tackiness in Benidorm, looked positively prescient on the backs of some of the most beautiful women – and men – Bobby had ever seen.
‘It’s no’ what ye wear … it’s the way ye wear it, pal,’ said Bobby, apropos of nothing.
‘F’you say so, mate,’ said Hammy. He scratched his unkempt ginger beard and looked down at his own Dennis the Menace t-shirt and cut-away denim shorts. He looked like Shaggy from Scooby Doo. Hammy wasn’t sure if Bobby was having a sartorial dig at him, but he let it go. The beer was only just settling his stomach and he didn’t want to risk the bile rising again.
‘Ah mean, look at this scene, man. It’s fuckin’ stupendous. Look at they two.’ Bobby nodded at a gloriously made-up couple. They both had cheekbones like those carved into Mount Rushmore, and luxuriantly deep-brown skin. They were both as androgynous as Bowie and looked astonishingly self-assured. Bobby initially thought one of them was Grace Jones.
The next hour passed rapidly, hundreds more looking just as remarkable promenading in front of the bar.
‘Holy fuck, it’s like a fashion catwalk, this street!’
A skinhead rolled past them on roller-skates. Her wheeled, sequinned boots were thigh-high. A tattoo of Che Guevara was skilfully inked at the top of her leg, his famous beret partly concealed by the frayed edge of denim hot
pants so tight they could’ve been spraypainted onto her. It was all topped off with a very bizarre-looking conical, pointy bra. She looked incredible but not in the slightest bit out of place.
Bobby was now wondering how he and Hammy had even been granted entry to this amazing Land of the Fucking Outrageously Beautiful. But whereas Bobby was energised, Hammy was now growing concerned that they would struggle to afford to remain here much longer than a day. They would have to find some work and a place to berth to avoid this becoming a short-stay holiday. Even in paradise, the working classes had to find a productive purpose in life, one that allowed them to sup from the same table as the higherborn. The youth hostels, bars and campsites were their starting point. And there were always opportunities for foreigners doing the type of menial jobs the locals didn’t quite fancy. Emigration was built on such universal beliefs and dreams. Why should the Scottish diaspora be concentrated purely in the Americas and the Asia-Pacific? Bobby Cassidy and Hammy May felt like pioneers. They were starting again at the bottom of the ladder, but, like the Scottish engineers who invented the world, their aspirations were truly limitless.
‘Some daft, wee Scouse prick’s just bought me a drink tae celebrate the second summer ae love.’ Bobby laughed as Hammy returned with three glasses. ‘Don’t even fuckin’ ken when the first yin wis!’ he said. ‘Ah must’ve been in the bog havin’ a big shite when it was here.’ Bobby looked around the bay, expensive boats seeming to bob and weave along to the omnipresent soundtrack.
Everything in San Antonio had a syncopated rhythm. It had been nine months since they had first arrived in Ibiza and it remained an intoxicating, addictive environment. Bobby had worked solidly back in Kilmarnock at Mickey Martin’s revamped Metropolis during the winter. It afforded him good festive-season wages for the return to the Balearics, and also a convenient excuse for avoiding any confrontation with the ghosts of his recent – and more distant – past. Hammy had done his bit too, picking up some grave-digging work at the cemetery in Grassyards Road. Accordingly, they were flush, and while that wouldn’t grant them complimentary Krug-laden access to Pacha’s VIP zones, they could freely enjoy the spoils of the island when not working at the jobs they had returned to.
A waiter approached them. He placed two further beers in front of them.
‘Fuck sake, Hammy, if yer Scouser’s a bender, yer on yer own, pal,’ said Bobby.
‘From the lady, guys,’ said the waiter. He nodded towards a distant table at the rear of the bar. ‘Enjoy.’ The dark-haired, bearded waiter swivelled his way swiftly through the thronging tables, like George Best avoiding defenders and law-suits, picking up as many empty glasses as his small circular tray could carry.
Bobby stared beyond him. ‘Do you ken who that is?’
‘Nae idea,’ said Hammy. ‘But she looks aw’right, man. If she wants a couple ae sex slaves for her dungeon ae depravity, then fuck it, ah’m game.’
‘Aye … cannae see it, mind you,’ said Bobby.
‘S’pose,’ said Hammy. ‘She’s probably got a knob that’s bigger than yours!’
They both laughed.
‘Haud up. She’s fuckin’ comin’ over.’ Hammy held his hand up to his mouth and breathed out, then sniffed deeply.
Bobby looked at him as if he had his jacket on back to front.
‘Whit?’ said Hammy, apparently satisfied with the smell. ‘Ye just never fuckin’ ken, man.’
‘Hi, I’m Laurie. Laurie Revlon,’ said Laurie Revlon. She held out a long, tanned arm. She had exquisite, perfectly maintained nails at the end of thin, talon-like fingers. A decorative cluster of gold rings interlocked on her forefingers like a glinting knuckleduster made by Tiffanys, Fifth Avenue.
‘Hullo, yerself,’ said Bobby.
‘I was watching you on the decks the other night at Santorini’s. You’re good.’ Laurie Revlon appeared genuine in her praise of Bobby’s DJ skills.
He looked pleased with himself, even if he still wasn’t sure where this was leading. She had that disconcerting manner of gazing into the middle distance while she was talking, as if there was always likely to be someone more interesting lurking just beyond a shoulder. But most of the London contingent here had that habit, so he couldn’t call her out for that alone.
Bobby had stumbled into a regular DJ-ing gig at the small club three months before. During an extended remix of D-Mob’s ‘We Call It Aceeid’, an overexuberant Pedro – the incumbent – had attempted to blow a flame by spitting a mouthful of alcohol at a lighter. He had burped before he was fully ready and accidentally sprayed the inflammable booze down his front, setting his abundant chest hair ablaze. The high-spirited crowd dancing on the open-air terrace had whooped and cheered until security arrived with an extinguisher and everyone understood it wasn’t part of the act. Seizing his moment, Bobby Cassidy had offered to do the next three nights free, as a trial, and he had been there ever since.
Bobby and Hammy had bumped into Pedro a month after the fire. He took an admirably sanguine view of his self-inflicted predicament, bearing the young Ayrshiremen no grudges. He even showed them his scars. He hadn’t recovered well. A track mark ran down through his remaining chest hair like a napalm strike in a Vietnamese jungle, and the flaking skin of his Latin torso now looked like a plasterer’s radio.
But it was a break for Bobby, albeit at the painful expense of a fellow member of the international DJ fraternity. He and Hammy grabbed the chance with both hands. Bobby’s ability to build an atmosphere was now regularly packing out one of Ibiza’s smaller, ‘third division’ nightclubs, and interested people, like those working and scouting for Laurie Revlon, were raising an inquiring eyebrow. There were no histrionics in Bobby’s sets – nothing that would cause him potential harm – just good, solid selections and mixes. He built on a different vibe to the one Pedro pushed, aiming at the chilled-out ambience that was gradually emerging. His slot began at 2 am and lasted for three hours, typically featuring cooler grooves from the likes of Soul II Soul, Inner City and even newer, trippier songs, like De La Soul’s ‘Me, Myself & I’. Bobby had even dispensed with DJ Pedro’s trademark: the ‘Erection Section’ of plodding slow-songs. The amount of times he played ‘Careless Whisper’ for an audience who evidently couldn’t have cared less, Bobby reckoned Pedro must’ve been on a cut of George Michael’s royalties.
‘It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’ said Laurie Revlon.
Bobby nodded in acknowledgement
‘I wondered if you might be interested in working for me.’
‘Em … ah’m no’ sure. Ah’m actually quite content here tae be honest,’ said Bobby. ‘Demis gie’d us a chance, ken? Seems only fair tae commit tae him for the rest ae the season.’
If this was barter, Hammy thought, Bobby was fucking bollocks at it.
Hammy coughed theatrically and then leaned nearer to his man. ‘Fuck sake,’ he whispered. ‘He’s Demis Dimitri … no’ Brian fuckin’ Clough, man! Ye don’t owe the cunt yer livelihood because he plucked ye fae fuckin’ Doncaster Reserves an’ stuck ye in the Cup Final startin’ line-up. Hear the lassie oot.’
Laurie had heard him, and smiled at her young, ginger-haired advocate.
‘Just promise me you’ll think about it, that’s all I ask.’ Laurie Revlon handed over a card. ‘I’ll come back and see you next week. If you’re here, I’ll assume you’re interested. If not, there’s no harm done. Deal?’
‘Aye … seems fair enough. And thanks. Ah’m glad ye like the stuff that ah play.’
Laurie Revlon raised an eyebrow and sashayed away, all Joan Collins arse and Bardot pout. On her way out of the establishment, she air-kissed people at five separate tables; she was apparently well known to many on the island, if not the two she had just met.
Laurie Revlon had made a substantial personal fortune in the avowedly heterosexual world of English professional football. Beginning as a teenage secretary on work experience in the lower divisions, she had worked, slept and married her way up to a position as the mos
t influential player’s agent in the game. Her reputation as the most ruthless operator in football was cemented after an alleged bribing scandal involving medical consultants representing Inter Milan. In the early 70s – when she was still only in her mid-twenties – she negotiated the world’s first million-pound transfer fee with the sale of Terry Dooley to the Italian club. Terry Dooley was universally lauded as the most promising young player of England’s post-World Cup-winning era. Terracing rumours circulated that his controversial move to Italy was orchestrated by Laurie Revlon in order to remove him from the influence of a cabal of men who allegedly indulged in group sex with underage teenage girls. Many of these men – again allegedly – occupied senior positions within the English Football Association. Terry Dooley was an addict – of alcohol and cocaine, principally – but miraculously he passed a stringent medical in a Milan hospital. However, he would play only two games of the following Serie A season. Laurie Revlon was accused of collusion in a fraud investigation brought against both Terry Dooley’s English club and Inter Milan by the governing body, UEFA. The case didn’t proceed, due to a lack of direct evidence. The player had helped Leeds United to the league title the previous season. He had won thirty-two caps for his country and had even recently captained the national team. There were no obvious reasons to suspect that the transfer wasn’t above board. Terry Dooley was found dead in a shallow Bergamo ditch on the last day of the 1976 Italian football season. While a postmortem recorded high levels of alcohol and heroin in his system, the coroner’s verdict was ‘accidental death’. Terry Dooley was twenty-four years old.
The Man Who Loved Islands Page 4