The cool blast that comes through the open doors makes him gasp. By Scotland’s standards it is still warm, but the Ibizan summer has long gone. Hammy is wearing a chunky knit sweater and a New York Yankees baseball cap. Despite looking like an elderly Scottish folk singer at a Hogmanay Ceilidh, Joseph doesn’t see him. He scans the heads, looking for a ginger-haired six-footer. He hasn’t seen Hammy in nearly twenty years and even though he realises Hammy’s appearance will have changed, he doesn’t think his own has so much that he wouldn’t be immediately recognised. Of course, given the chaotic nature of the few messages since the initial email, it is entirely likely that Hammy is late, or has gotten the fucking date wrong.
‘Haw mister, can ah watch yer motor for a fiver?’
Joseph turns round sharply. It’s Hammy. But his head isn’t at the level Joseph expected.
‘Aye, we dinnae really like “disabled”, but it’s a fuckin’ step forwards fae “handicapped”, ken?’
‘Aye … ah can appreciate that.’
This is a surreal experience for Joseph. Hammy, wheelchair-bound and driving a converted BMW; repeatedly calling him Joey, despite Joseph’s insistence that he doesn’t. And, moreover, Hammy’s apparent determination not to clarify how Bobby is or explain what’s even happened to him. Hammy has also slalomed past questions about how he lost the use of his legs with all the dexterity of Franz Klammer, preferring to focus on the positives of the situation.
‘Ah mean, we’ve even got our ain fuckin’ Olympics noo! It’s no’ the stigma it used tae be,’ says Hammy.
‘Naw. Ah suppose it isnae.’ Joseph figures Hammy is still in some form of shock.
‘Christ, wi’ that fuckin’ geezer fae the X-Men wheelin’ aboot on they groovy chairs, weans’ll actually be aspiring to be fuckin’ disabled soon. It’s gonnae be a fuckin’ life goal, ken?’ Hammy is being ridiculous now.
‘Don’t talk pish, Hammy. Kids would gie up their legs just for a chair just because ae an actor, or some guy that wins a gold medal for wheeling a bogey up The Mall? Away an’ shite!’
‘Sometimes legs are no’ everythin’. Look at you … fuckin’ grimacin’ just walkin’ tae the motor earlier. Yer joints are aw fucked, eh? Ah can oil mine, but you’re stuck wi’ yours creakin’ an’ achin’. Ah bet ye ah could beat ye doon this hill in a race!’
‘Aye,’ says Joseph, ‘but ah’d be able tae fuckin’ stop at the bottom ae it, ya daft bastard.’
Hammy laughs, and eventually, grudgingly, so does Joseph.
‘It’s fuckin’ good tae see ye, Joey … after aw these years, man, it really is.’
‘Look ah telt ye, it’s Jos—. Ach, fuck it, whatever.’ Joseph/Joey stares out over the lush plantation to the sea beyond as they climb away from the urban fringe. He is surprised by an island he expected to be brash and vulgar. It is undeniably beautiful. Not as beautiful as Megan Carter, but then, even nature has its limits.
‘Hammy, for fuck sake, where are we goin’?’
‘Just up tae the house. It’s up in the hills. Ye’ll like it … It’s aw architecty an’ stuff.’
Joseph imagines his old friend, Bobby Cassidy, lying prone in a bedroom lined wall-to-wall with frightening medical apparatus, countless drips plugged into his arteries, keeping him alive purely to allow this one final emotional reconciliation to take place. Joseph shudders at this, though. It would have perhaps been easier to see him in a hospice or in an intensive-care unit or somewhere that would have helped them both accept the inevitable.
Hammy points the house out through a gap in the trees as they climb slowly up through the tight bends and undulations in the narrow road. Joseph is staggered. He knew the building by its reputation. It astonishes Joseph Miller that a ‘career’ playing the records of other people could be so lucrative, especially as Bobby Cassidy was far from the top of that particular tree. He considers his own path: office junior; the college stage; seven long years at university, and even then he still required some of Lucinda Burrough’s family money to sustain his part of the practice when the difficult economic times came. Now that he was finally free of her – and the practice – he was financially secure, but this appeared to pale in comparison to his former Heatwave Disco DJ’ing partner. But then, appearances can be very deceptive, he thinks.
‘Dive oot, an’ nip ower the bridge, Joey,’ says Hammy. ‘Ah left the door open for ye. Ah need tae take the motor doon tae the garages ‘roon the side. Ye’ll find him inside. Ah’ll see ye shortly.’
Joseph hesitates. How will he react? Will Bobby even know him through the depth of his medicated haze? This all makes no sense, to be here now, and in this context of finality. The whole experience has a surreal air, like being forced to watch a thirty-year-old home movie while tripping on LSD.
Joseph edges the door open. ‘Hullo,’ he says but in a tone so low, someone standing less than five feet away would’ve struggled to hear him. ‘Fuckin’ fuck, Hammy,’ he whispers to himself.
The house is impressive. It needs a good clean, admittedly, but in terms of its fluid spatial quality, it is breathtaking. Joseph Miller isn’t from that postmodern school that now denigrate the structure simply because its creator was a right-wing fascist cunt. That would have been like denying Oscar Pistorius was once a decent 400-metre runner.
‘Bobby? Where are ye, man?’ Joseph descends two flights of the open stairs, having quickly peeked into the principal rooms on each floor. The house is designed to be sparse, focusing more on the quality of the spaces and the way the brilliant Mediterranean light infuses them. Only prostitutes and architects look at ceilings: a maxim Joseph’s always remembered. He sniggers then feels that to be inappropriate. He catches sight of movement through the three-storey glazed frontage. Even this late in the year, the glare from the low sun is blinding. It reflects off a tiny splash pool recessed into the external wooden deck. Joseph’s sunglasses are still in his delayed baggage. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes. A heavy man lies face down on a garish pink inflatable lilo. It bobs gently on the clear water. He heads towards it. This might be Bobby’s carer. Shouldn’t he be at Bobby’s bedside – and dressed more appropriately. Maybe this indicates an improvement. Or maybe the selfish bastard is already fucking dead. Joseph’s heart is racing. He slides the glass door back, impressed at how quietly it operates.
‘’Scuse me, sir?’ Joseph leans over the pool’s edge.
The man jumps, startled. In turning around sharply, the inflatable overturns and submerges. The man surfaces, choking back swallowed water.
‘Joey?’
Joseph is speechless. ‘Bobby?’ he says at last. ‘Bobby fuckin’ Cassidy?’
‘Aye … aye, it’s me, man! Whit the fuck ae you doin’ here? Wait a minute … is somebody deid? Is it Hettie?’
Before Bobby can reach for a poolside towel, Joseph has launched himself, still fully suited, into the water.
‘Ya fuckin’ cunt, ye … last fuckin’ rites, my arse,’ he shouts as they splash around furiously. Joseph has his hands gripped around Bobby’s throat. ‘Yer no’ even a fuckin’ Catholic,’ he screams.
‘Aargh … get fuckin’ … aargh … cough … Get affa me, ya mental case!’
A freezing cold blast of water shocks the two of them. Hammy sits at the side of the tiny pool. He has turned the hose on them.
‘Right, now that ye’se have got the opening remarks oot the way, can we stop fuckin’ about an’ get doon tae business?’ With the authority – if not the diplomacy – of a United Nations envoy, Hamish May has kickstarted the middle-age peace process. Stan May would finally have been very proud of his son.
Chapter Seventeen
November 2014. Ibiza, Spain
‘Right. Start talkin’,’ demands Bobby. ‘Whit the fuck were ye thinkin’, bringin’ that bampot here?’
‘Ah spoke tae Laurence,’ says Hammy. ‘He telt me the full story.’ Bobby’s head dips. ‘Yer a mess, man. Yer headin’ for a flamin’ breakdown. Aw this “constant regrets” stuff. M
an, it’s really gettin’ ye doon … it’s fuckin’ gettin’ me doon. Ye need to pull out ae the tailspin or we’re both fucked. Gettin’ Joey here wis the only thing ah could think ae.’
‘An’ whit’s he gonnae dae, Hammy?’ Bobby sits at the kitchen table. He is holding a bag of frozen peas against the emerging lump under his left eye. Joseph’s uncoordinated swinger had caught him as they scrambled gingerly out of the pool.
Hammy is at one end of the solid wooden table. A place has been set and is waiting for Joseph. Hammy is making a point. Joseph is off having a shower and, despite Bobby’s protests, selecting something from his reluctant host’s closet to wear until his own clothes arrive on the island. Joseph drew the line at borrowing underwear. He would put his own in Bobby’s fridge overnight, knowing they would then feel fresher for the morning’s recycling.
‘Ah’m totally fuckin’ depressed, man. Ah cannae shake it. Him showin’ up unannounced wi’ his ah’m-a-big-shot-designer tin flute on just makes it aw worse. Here tae fuckin’ gloat about how great everythin’s turned out for him, nae doubt.’
‘Is he fuck, man. He’s here ’cos ah telt him you were dyin’,’ says Hammy. ‘The cunt fuckin’ cares about ye.’
‘Well, ma life’s total shite an’ ah don’t ken what tae dae about it.’
‘Aye, thanks for that,’ says Hammy sarcastically. Bobby’s deepening solipsism is rendering him almost unreachable. ‘How aboot startin’ wi’ patchin’ things up wi’ him then? Ye ken the date, an’ there’s nae better time than an anniversary for forgivin’ an’ forgettin’.’
It later surprises Hammy to find out that Joseph has actually forgotten the exact date, whereas Bobby has been thinking about it constantly for almost two weeks. He was sure it would have been the other way around.
Hammy bursts out laughing. ‘Jesus, Joey … ye no’ think tae put the light on when ye were in there lookin’ for stuff?’
Joey slopes towards them, still angry. ‘Fuck up,’ he says.
‘A vest an’ a pair ae raggy three-quarter length troosers? It’s an island but yer no’ a fuckin’ castaway, pal.’ Hammy is roaring with laughter.
Bobby remains silent.
‘Hey, they’re his bloody clothes, no’ mine. Have a word wi’ him!’ says Joseph. ‘An’ by the by, have you got anythin’ that isnae white? Or at least used tae be when ye first got it?’
‘Ah’ll “him” ye … fuckin’ blowin’ yer mouth aff, when yer in “his” hoose,’ says Bobby. ‘Uninvited.’
‘It’s hardly fuckin’ uninvited when this lying prick invites me, is it? “Come quick, Joey … Bobby needs ye, Joey … He’s no’ got long tae go, Joey.” Ah should fuckin’ sue the pair ae ye!’
‘Ach, fuckin’ gie’s peace, man,’ says Hammy. ‘Yer hardly bein’ held against yer will. Yer gettin’ a bloody holiday. An’ ye look like ye could dae wi’ one, ya miserable bastard. And anyway, ah wisnae lyin’. Fuckin’ look at him!’
Bobby gets up from the table and saunters away from them.
‘Ah’ll have tae stay here, ’cos ah didnae book a hotel, an’ ah’m nae stuff either, but ah’ll get a taxi first thing an’ ah’ll be ootae here before you two doss cunts are even up,’ says Joseph. It’s going to be a long night.
An hour passes. Barely a word is spoken. Whisky is consumed, plenty of it; and, much to Joseph’s disgust, three Pot Noodles are served. It seems hardly surprising that Bobby is considerably heavier than the last time Joseph saw him. That last time was six years ago to the day: a pivotal moment for a number of people.
Barack Hussein Obama said ‘Yes, we can’ to the American people. Megan Carter said ‘Yes, I do’ to Vincent Sevicci. Hamish May said ‘Aye, ah will’ to Esta Soler. And Joseph Miller said ‘Naw, ye fuckin’ willnae’ to Bobby Cassidy before both of them tumbled, punching and kicking, into the open grave that they had just helped lower the coffin containing the body of Gary Cassidy into.
It’s approaching 11 pm. From the moment he decided to intervene, Hammy knew things would be strained, but he naively hoped for a thawing of the ice, a ceasing of hostilities. Hammy wasn’t in London for Gary’s funeral. He was in Alicante, getting acquainted with his new female friend. He now understood that Bobby’s curtailed account of what happened may have been diluted. Maybe the wounds ran way too deep for any form of reconciliation.
‘Anywhere about here ye can get a drink this late?’ Joseph asks.
Hammy sighs. Bobby ignores both of them, puts a pair of Beats Bluetooth headphones on and continues watching the Barcelona match recorded earlier.
‘Look at this fuckin’ wean, eh?’ says Hammy, nodding at Bobby. ‘Stay here, Joey. Fuck sake, we’ve got plenty ae booze. It’s actually the only thing we’ve got plenty of. An’ that daft cunt fuckin’ needs ye, man. He’s just too bloody stubborn tae admit it.’
‘Naw, Hammy. Ah need tae get out ae here. Get some air an’ that. Is there somewhere?’
‘Aye, there’s a wee place doon the hill … stays open right through if there’s folk in there tae drink aw night,’ says Hammy. ‘Auld couple run it wi’ their son, Albert. Ah think they actually just dae it for the company tae be honest. It’s about half an hour’s walk though, mate. An’ they roads,’ he says, pointing to his legs. ‘Watch yerself … fuckin’ dangerous, man.’
Out of Joseph’s earshot, Hammy pleads with Bobby to go after him, but Joseph sets off alone. He has kept the daft white trousers on, but has diminished their laughable impact by pulling on one of Hammy’s long, dark-blue sweatshirts. He has lifted a pair of black opened-toed sandals. Judging from their barely worn condition, they are probably a pair belonging to someone else; someone who left them there. Joseph is staggered at how mild the late-night temperature is. It must be twenty degrees. It is midnight, and it is November.
A full moon and a clear sky provide him the necessary illumination and he finds his way to the small roadside bar easily. A tiny fluorescent strip lights the name ‘Salazars’ from above. The bar is essentially a covered area to the left-hand side of a small house. The debris and amateurish scaffolding suggest the house is undergoing a transformation, but at a pace that indicates the American TV detective, Petrocelli, is the contractor. As Hammy assured him, it is still open. A family group indulge in a fairly robust conversation in Spanish while sitting on the small, cantilevered timber terrace. The two women in the group are wrapped in shawls. One of the six men is bare-chested. He is the one who spots Joseph first. He stands up to greet him warmly.
‘Drink, sir?’ he says. His English is remarkably good. There is only the slightest hint of continental influence in it.
‘Eh, aye. Cheers. Jack Daniels an’ Coke, please.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘An’ have one yerself, yeah?’
‘Ah, thank you, sir. Very kind. I’m Albert,’ Albert extends a hand across the bar.
‘My name’s…’ Joseph hesitates. ‘Joey. Joseph Miller.’ He smiles.
‘Pleased to meet you, and thank you for coming to my bar,’ says Albert. ‘You’re from Scotland?’
‘Yeah. Just got here today.’ Joseph automatically softens his accent and speaks more slowly.
‘You know Hammy? The Rebel Hamster?’
Joseph laughs. ‘Yes. He’s a mate. We go way back. Went to school together. Ah’m sorta staying with them.’
‘He’s a very good man,’ says Albert. ‘Looks after his Bobby very well. He always drops in here with his friend when I’m away … to make sure they’re okay.’ Albert nods over to the table where his parents are sitting.
‘Aye, ah can’t deny he’s alright, is Hammy,’ says Joseph. ‘His friend … you mean, Bobby?’
‘No. Sorry, his woman friend. Bobby never comes down here anymore. Not for years. In fact, probably not since Hammy’s accident.’
It is a major surprise to Joseph that Hammy might have a female friend here. An assumption he made earlier in the day was that Bobby and Hammy might now be a couple; admittedly one with a relationship as
dysfunctional as Steptoe & Son, but still, more than just housemates. It matters little. But this news explains even less. If Hammy has an alternative, and he is evidently still able to access that alternative, why does he choose to remain up there in the miserable, chilled air of Castle Hotpoint?
Joseph hands Albert a five-euro note. The barman holds his hands up, smiling warmly and says, ‘later.’
Joseph walks over to a table in the opposite corner of the covered bar area, noticing the old jukebox partially concealed behind a curtain. He finds a soft armchair seat and turns it round to face the sea. Albert and his group continue with their discussion as if he isn’t even there. Joseph lays out the pad and pen he has taken from Bobby’s kitchen. He’ll transcribe what he writes to his laptop later.
The story is nearly complete:
It wasn’t always bad; these things never are. It’s just that disappointment and regret are blinding. They grow out of control, like a forest fire, to obscure and destroy any good there once was. I used to be amazed at how quickly a bottomless hatred can develop in a relationship. People will do and say things to each other that would be inconceivable to them only a few short years earlier, when they shared a life … when they created a life. And it’s all down to that sense of intense disappointment; of having lost something that can never be recovered. Time, mainly, but also to have invested emotionally, for no return. For no apparent benefit. To be back at square one.
Those great times we had, laughing until our sides were sore … tears running down our cheeks. Thinking that life would last forever. That we’d grow old together, still liking the same things, still teasing each other about the same differences. Recalling fondly the stupid names we had for each other. Planning to revisit places that held personal and memorable significance.
The Man Who Loved Islands Page 13