Feel No Pain

by Bailey, RJ

  ‘This seat taken?’ He slid onto the stool next to me before I could answer. He knew damn well it wasn’t taken. He’d been watching me for twenty minutes from a corner table.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said, somewhat belatedly.

  ‘You OK?’ He had to shout slightly over the bar’s four-to-the-floor disco soundtrack.

  I took another sip of my rum. ‘Getting there.’

  ‘Quiet tonight.’

  He wasn’t referring to the music. The whole of Ibiza Town was dead. The season hadn’t started, the weather was grey and truculent, and it was midweek. There were half a dozen people in the bar. And that included just one other woman, in her thirties like me, sitting with a younger guy. Both were engrossed with their phones, in that modern way of couples. I imagined she was watching cute cat videos, whereas he’d be trawling through clickbait like ‘You Won’t Believe These Cheerleaders’ Wardrobe Malfunctions’. The beautiful people that Ibiza was famous for were still hibernating. Or, more likely, enjoying the last of the snow in St Moritz or Klosters, partying in Miami or catching the final gasp of the closing parties at Punta del Este. And the summer club fodder that filled the giant dance floors or paid obscene money for table service in so-called VIP areas were still working at their day jobs.

  ‘Buy you another?’ my new friend asked in an accent that was barely there unless you listened out for it. He was in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, flat of stomach and smooth of skin, with a handsome-and-he-knew-it confidence that stopped just short of him being what the locals called a narciso. He had on Edward Green two-tone loafers, J. Crew jeans and a skateboard top which looked like Gap but probably cost twenty times as much.

  ‘Diplomático,’ I said. ‘The 2001.’

  He gave a mock wince. ‘Expensive tastes.’

  ‘Expensive bar.’

  ‘I know. It’s my bar,’ he said with a little laugh. He held out a hand. ‘Pino.’

  As I took it I watched his eyes flick to my neckline and his gaze linger on the curve of my breast.

  ‘Samantha,’ I said, using my full name for once.

  He did some finger flicking at the barman that got me a generous refill and him a vodka and soda. ‘What brings you to Ibiza, Samantha?’

  ‘I looked for cheap flights on the easyJet site and this came up. Seemed as good a place as any. Although I was expecting sun and fun.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t do anything about the sun, I’m afraid.’

  The opening he left me was as wide as his grin, but I decided not to step into it. Not yet. I took another sip of rum. Feel no pain. Isn’t that what they said when the booze kicked in? I was still waiting for the numbness to hit.

  ‘What are you running from?’ he asked.

  The police, my former employer, my on-off paranoid boyfriend, my failure as a parent. It was a long list. ‘Who says I’m running?’

  He gave a little smirk, as if I were a child telling fibs. ‘I see a lot of people in this place. You get good at guessing backstories. You’re an attractive woman, alone and, forgive me . . .’ His fingers brushed my bare arm. ‘Intent on getting drunk as quickly as possible.’

  I swirled the rum in my glass. ‘If that were the case wouldn’t I be doing Jägerbombs?’

  ‘You know what I mean. And you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Not even good rum.’

  I felt a little bubble of irritation burst in me, a sure sign the brakes were coming off. ‘So you’re my father now? Next, you’ll be telling me I can’t go out dressed like this.’

  Even as I said it I could hear an echo of my own father saying just that. I was wearing a sleeveless shirt unbuttoned one step too far and black capris tight enough to show I wasn’t wearing any knickers.

  ‘I don’t give fashion advice. I’m sorry . . .’ He made to slip off the stool.

  ‘No, wait.’ I looked accusingly at my glass and the smear of rum left in the bottom. The sneaky little bastard obviously evaporates pretty fast. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Too hammered, too early. You know anywhere decent to eat?’

  ‘Of course. Most of the good places haven’t opened up yet. But I know one. It’s a little way out of town. I have my car.’ My eyes slid towards his vodka. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve hardly touched my drink. I’m fine to drive.’

  I shook my head to clear it a little. ‘They do coffee?’

  ‘They’ll do whatever you want.’

  I reached for my wallet, but his fingers closed over my arm, just the right side of tight. Unlike me.

  ‘It’s on the house, Samantha. Mi casa.’ He leaned in close as he said the last words in Spanish. Close enough for me to smell him. No heavy fragrance, thank God. Just a hint of something clean and sharp.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I felt half a dozen pairs of judgmental eyes following me as I walked out behind him, trying hard to keep a straight line.

  I hope you know what you are doing, Buster.

  I knew that voice in my head of old. Freddie, my ex-army buddy.

  Of course I do. I’m going for dinner with a guy I just met in a bar. I’m drunk and dressed to kill. What could possibly go wrong?

  The place was about thirty minutes outside of town, a small hotel with a big, white-on-white restaurant on the side. The latter’s panoramic windows – retractable in summer – looking out over a restless sea. There should’ve been a sunset, too, but there was only a mean streak of red in the sky, as if a giant thumbnail had been drawn across the clouds to let a papercut of light bleed through.

  His car was a Porsche 911, of course, but he handled it well, driving fast and only sliding the back end a little as he entered the car park facing the hotel entrance. I had to bite my lip. I hated cars that weren’t positioned for a clean getaway. But, I reminded myself, it wasn’t my problem. I was off duty. Here to drink.

  ‘Yours, too?’ I asked, nodding at the restaurant.

  ‘Partly. Mostly my brother’s. He’s the one who knows about food.’

  Like the bar, the restaurant was under-populated, with a group of four suited businessmen and a couple the only other customers. The maitre d’ acted like we had come bearing flaming tablets from the mountain and gave us a seat at the window, from where we could watch the wind flick spume off the waves.

  ‘The rum’s wearing off,’ I said petulantly.

  ‘First we eat. Then, perhaps, some wine?’

  ‘And a rum while I’m waiting.’

  Pino shook his head but matched it with an indulgent smile as he ordered me a Plantation, apologising for not having any Diplomático. I gave him a ‘whatever’ shrug.

  ‘So, Samantha. Tell me your story.’

  He was a good listener, I’ll give him that. I told him about troubles with my husband, my ungrateful kids, my father’s dementia, the lover who broke my heart. All the bullshit I could shovel. Food arrived unordered, which I ploughed through rather than savouring it – although there were parcels of slow-cooked lamb’s heart ragu that gave me pause for thought – and did the same with the rather splendid red wine that came along for the ride.

  ‘Anyway,’ I asked eventually. ‘What about you? What’s your story, Mr Pino?’

  ‘Me? Nothing to tell. I’m just a local entrepreneur,’ he said. ‘I get rich in the summer and poor again in the winter. The cycle of life on a holiday island. My father was a builder. He owned some property in town, two or three little supermarkets. When the whole club boom started, it seemed silly not to capitalise on it by converting the stores to bars. We have four now plus this place, and one in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kids?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not that you know of, eh?’ I leered.

  He toyed with the rim of his wine glass. He hadn’t taken more tha
n three mouthfuls from it. ‘No kids. This life, it doesn’t do well with families.’

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ I said, rising to my unsteady feet.

  ‘Of course. Straight out the back.’

  I grabbed my handbag and stumbled as I tried to clear the table, dragging the tablecloth half off. A spoon clanged on the tiled floor with a sound as loud as a gong. Luckily the other customers had left, so only the staff – and Pino – witnessed my embarrassment. I looked down at him. ‘Mission accomplished,’ I slurred. ‘Drunk as a skunk. Be back soon.’

  ‘Take your time. I’ll order coffee.’

  I wobbled through to the lavatory, splashed cold water on my face, managed to roll down the capris and empty my bladder. My stomach had ballooned out like I had a small badger hiding in there. I needed more cold water to calm my cheeks, which were glowing from the exertion. A series of burps escaped from my lips like a rough-running two-stroke engine. They left an unpleasantly metallic aftertaste. But the pressure in my stomach lessened. I then applied an approximation of lipstick from my bag without making me look too much like Heath Ledger’s version of The Joker.

  There was a brandy waiting with my coffee when I returned. I felt a burning in my throat at the thought of drinking it, but needs must. I sat down with more grace than I had managed on the exit. At least the tableware stayed in place.

  ‘You’ve been to Amsterdam?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Why?’

  ‘I said. We have a place there.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Never got round to going.’

  ‘You’d love it. I’ll give you the tour if you make it across.’

  ‘Would you?’ It sounded more disbelieving than I had intended.

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  I took a mouthful of the coffee. Then another of brandy.

  ‘Where are you staying in town?’ he asked.

  ‘Airbnb. I told you I was on a budget.’

  ‘Except for the rum, eh?’

  ‘You have to give yourself a little treat now and then,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed you do. Would you like to spend the night here? As my guest. I can assure you the rooms are better than any Airbnb.’ Before I could object he put his hands up, showing me his palms. ‘No strings attached.’

  I raised the brandy balloon to my lips once more and paused. The fumes stung my eyes as I said: ‘And what if I want a few strings attached?’

  The Oakenfold Suite was at the rear of the building, along a dimly lit corridor that I pinballed down, bouncing off the walls every few metres. The room itself was enormous, with a bed looking out onto a terrace. I could just make out in the twilight a view of the headland and the sea beyond. One wall was lined with mirrored wardrobes, there was a TV the size of the screen at my local Picturehouse, another mirror over the bed, classic Arne Jacobsen chairs, some mid-century modern furniture and a thick white carpet. It was a stylistic mess that almost worked.

  And there was a bar. Actually it was that blast from the past, a drinks trolley. A whole Don Draper’s worth of spirits. Pino followed my stare.

  ‘Fix you something?’

  I tossed my bag onto the bed. ‘More brandy?’

  I watched as he flipped the lock on the door and inserted the chain. ‘Just so we don’t get disturbed.’

  As he walked across to the drinks trolley, I stepped in front of him. The first flicker of concern crossed those chiselled, moisturised features. He was looking into my eyes. And sobriety was looking back at him.

  ‘First, I have a few questions to ask,’ I said.

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Just a couple.’

  ‘What’s going on, Samantha?’

  ‘I need to ask you about an old friend of yours. Matt. Matt Harper.’

  He tensed and I knew what was coming next. He was going to shove me. That isn’t a bad move. It instantly ups your adrenaline and puts your opponent off balance. But if done wrong, it’s you who loses your centre of gravity.

  He came at me and I did that old Krav Maga trick of pivoting on one foot like a very nimble matador, so that I was side-on to him. As he filled the empty space where I had been, I brought up the palm of my hand to just under his nasal septum. He gave a grunt as he went backwards. I got him into a headlock and twisted his whole body as he headed for the floor, so his face was now sunk into the shagpile and my knee was between his shoulders. My arm was raised to strike a second blow when the wardrobe door burst open and I realised I had played it all wrong.

  The waiter and the maitre d’ from the restaurant were in the room, both shouting at me. I looked at my purse over on the bed. There was a canister of mace in there. There was no way I could reach it in time. Meanwhile, I gave Pino the punch I had been waiting to deliver. I might have been able to take out two of them, but three was asking too much. At least Pino was out of the picture. One down.

  The waiter was holding a piece of metal as if it were a club. No, several pieces of metal. A camera tripod. The penny dropped.

  I rolled over and got to my feet, settling into a defensive crouch. ‘I thought this was a private conversation,’ I said.

  The maitre d’ took out a phone. ‘I am calling the police.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I nodded at the wardrobes. ‘And you’ll explain the camera set-up in there how, exactly?’

  The waiter took a step towards me, brandishing the tripod.

  I flashed him a smile. ‘Do that and I’ll break your fucking arm.’

  Now I knew the full set-up. Target lonely, desperate women, film them having sex, get them to take the trip to Amsterdam to bring back the MDMA, mephedrone, DMT or ketamine for the coming season. And there was me thinking Pino persuaded them solely on the basis of his personal magnetism and cocksmanship. Then again, maybe that worked and the films were insurance. Or perhaps it was all just for fun. Either way, I’d figured on it being one-to-one with Pino. The odds had shifted.

  On the plus side, they were as surprised as I was at how things had turned out. Especially that I was no longer a sozzled wreck. They weren’t sure what to do next. My threat to bust limbs had sounded like I meant it. That’s because I did mean it. I took their immobility as a signal to move. I was at the door in four strides, I had flipped the catch and undone the chain when I felt something grab my ankle and pull me back. Pino. He must have one thick skull.

  I tried to kick him with my free foot, but the other two saw their chance and finally got involved. I blocked a blow from the tripod, but my left arm went numb as it caught the bone. I got a hard punch into the waiter’s face with my other hand, but Pino was climbing up me like a bear up a tree.

  I thumped him with my right hand and tried another punch with my left at the maitre d’, but the strength had evaporated from it. Six hands grabbed me and threw me on the bed. That’s when Pino pulled his knife out.

  He was breathing hard. He didn’t look quite so composed and handsome now. The snot on his upper lip didn’t help. Those septum blows really sting.

  ‘Emilio, get the camera,’ Pino said to the waiter. The boy trotted off, a hand still held to his cheekbone.

  I looked at the knife. It wasn’t large, but it had a wicked hooked end. I was lying on my back on a soft mattress; he was standing well back out of kicking range. When they came for me I’d fight back, but I had few illusions about how it would end. I’d lost control of the situation.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Someone who is looking for Matt Harper.’

  The maitre d’ and Pino exchanged glances. ‘Harper? You could’ve just asked.’

  ‘And you’d have told me?’

  He shook his head. ‘And I’m not going to tell you now.’

  Emilio came back with the camera in his hand. Pino indicated he should turn it on.

  ‘You can handle your drink, I’ll give you that.’

  No I can’t. Well, not that much.

  I pushed myself back on the bed with my elbows. ‘The hard way.’

  ‘What?’


  ‘I think you’re next line is, do I want to do this the easy or the hard way?’

  Pino laughed. ‘We weren’t going to give you a choice.’ He waved the knife. ‘If you so much as kick, this goes in your thigh. Grab her arms.’

  ‘Room service.’

  We all looked around at the sound of the new voice. It was the woman from the bar, the one who had been watching cat videos at the table with her cab driver. Freddie. My friend from the army. And, as she had back then, she had my back.

  ‘Put the knife down.’

  Pino was looking at the Colt .45 pistol in her hands. But he didn’t drop the knife.

  ‘Three tours. Iraq. Afghanistan. Just in case you’re wondering if I know how to use a gun.’ There was something in her expression that showed she wasn’t lying.

  Pino dropped the knife.

  ‘OK, Buster?’

  ‘OK.’

  From her pocket Freddie produced three sets of plastic cable ties and tossed them over to me. ‘Just while we chat,’ she said. ‘I’ll cut you free when we leave.’

  Pino looked at me. I nodded. ‘I told you. I just wanted to ask some questions.’

  His lip curled. ‘I’m not answering anything tied like a hog.’

  I considered this while I strapped the wrists of the other two behind their backs. I made them kneel. That way, I’d have plenty of warning of any move they wanted to make. But I didn’t think I’d have too much to worry about. They were better at pulling corks than throwing punches.

  I indicated Pino should sit in one of the chairs. I didn’t try and restrain him. But I did pick up the knife.

  ‘Sam,’ Freddie said, with warning in her voice.

  But I knew that if I humiliated Pino in front of the staff, he would either feed me false information or come after me for payback. Or both. ‘It’s OK. Pino is cool. Aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘What is this all about, Samantha. If that is your real name.’

  ‘It is. A few months ago, Matt Harper, my ex-husband, abducted my daughter. Our daughter. Our only child. There have been sightings of both of them, along with the bitch who helped him, on this island. If he was here, I suspect he made contact with you, his old mucker from his clubbing days. I need to know if you’ve seen him recently.’