Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  As the procession drew level with them, Frankie caught the lead girl’s eyes and she blew him a kiss from the end of her white-gloved fingertips. One of her minions, a dwarf painted head to foot in gold, rushed up to Frankie and handed him a book of matches.

  ‘Mistress likes you,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t be late, don’t be late.’

  Frankie read the logo on the matches. It was promoting some club called Indigo Blue.

  ‘You know this place?’ he asked Bob.

  ‘Intimately,’ he grinned. ‘As the kids might put it, it is where it’s at.’

  Frankie turned to look at the woman again. But already she’d gone, moving on, her entourage with her.

  Jesús, he noticed, was glowering at him and the book of matches in his hand.

  ‘Right, let’s get back to the bloody drinking,’ Bob said.

  20

  The call came at just gone 1 a.m. It might have been bedtime for Frankie, but for most people round here the night seemed to be just getting going.

  Him, Grew and Bob had long since moved on from the Twisted Lemon – to Roca, via Bacchus, Mona Lisa and Ibo. Grew and Bob were pretty hammered, but still drinking and, even more surprising, still standing up. No doubt a result of whatever it was they’d been sticking up their noses, which was plenty, if the amount of trips they’d made to the bogs was anything to go by.

  ‘We’ve had a sighting,’ Bob said, lurching back from the bar with his phone in his hand.

  Grew looked at him unsteadily. ‘Blimey. That was quick.’

  ‘Told you, didn’t I? That my network was good? I’m like the fucking CIA.’

  ‘Him or her, or both?’ Frankie said.

  ‘Her.’

  Frankie clocked the look of disappointment on Grew’s face.

  ‘At least maybe,’ Bob added.

  ‘Only maybe?’ Grew frowned.

  ‘They’re keeping an eye on her. Seeing if Duke turns up. He’s harder to mistake, the tattooed freak.’

  ‘Who called it in?’ Grew asked.

  ‘Our friend.’

  The same one he’d mentioned before? The one who was Jesús’s friend too? No way to tell from reading his expression. He’d headed off half an hour ago, to go ‘set up that thing’ was all he’d said.

  ‘Where was she spotted?’ Frankie said. ‘If it’s her.’

  ‘Kooks,’ said Bob. ‘A right little hedonists’ haunt. No pikeys. Cognoscenti only, all locals and trustbusters, on the other side of the island. The middle of nowhere.’ He sighed. ‘And here we were just getting started. It’s gonna take us at least an hour to get there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Frankie said. He’d been about to make his excuses anyway. These two had reached that repeating themselves stage of drunkenness a good hour ago. He wasn’t exactly ready for bed, though, either. It was still too hot. Frankie questioned his choice of outfit, maybe shouldn’t have worn this suit, even if it was linen. A little jaunt across the island in an AC cab to a posh club might be just the ticket. Plus, no way was he letting a possible sighting of this girl slip by just because these two were too pissed to check it out. He wanted this dealt with, and fast.

  ‘And if it is her?’ Grew said.

  ‘Then I’ll do my best to persuade her to –’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Grew. ‘You call me on that phone. She might not be on her own and whatever we hit, I’d rather we hit it together.’

  Hit. Not exactly the kind of word you’d use if you thought this was going to be as easy as Riley had made out.

  ‘All right, I will,’ Frankie said.

  ‘All the numbers you’re going to need are already programmed into that phone I gave you before,’ said Bob, meaning the one in the envelope Frankie had here in his jacket pocket. ‘Jesús is one, Grew’s two, I’m three. And you’re four.’

  Frankie remembered that phrase from those reruns of The Prisoner he’d used to watch as a kid: I’m not a number, I’m a free man! Yeah, right. It was horribly clear the reverse was the case.

  *

  Frankie checked out the contents of the padded envelope as he travelled across the island in the cab he picked up just off the main drag. As well as the phone and a nice, tidy wedge of pesetas, there were five wraps of doo-dah, for God’s sake. Enough to get him banged up. He ditched the lot out the window. Some favours he could do without.

  There were a couple of pix too. That one of Tanya and one of a shaven-headed, heavily tattooed bloke, who looked half thug, half male model. Frankie was guessing it had to be Duke.

  Frankie had asked Jack about him yesterday, when he’d called round to see him to say goodbye. Had done it just casually, via talking about Tanya and those holidays they’d gone on. Just to try and get the lie of the land without Jack twigging that’s why Frankie was coming out here, in case he’d done something like ring her or this Duke up. Jack said he was a real headcase, scary, like – which was rich, considering the nutters he usually hung out with himself.

  Two business cards tucked into the envelope as well. One for a club called Secrets. All roses and lipstick marks. Had to be a brothel. And another with the legend ‘Hotel Visits’ written on it in embossed white print. Charming. And how convenient. He sent them both the same way as the wraps.

  The image of the lipstick, though, it stuck with him. For the whole forty-five minutes it took them to get out of Ibiza town. Forty-five minutes. Jesus, what was wrong with this effing island? The traffic was worse than south London. What if it was Tanya there in that club? What if he missed her because of this?

  As he sat back, telling himself to cool it, telling himself he might still be in with a chance of finding her tonight, he reprogrammed the phone with Jesús, Bob and Grew’s names instead of their numbers. What was this, The Man from fucking Uncle? The last thing he wanted was to end up ringing that bastard Jesús by mistake.

  He took out the card with lipstick on he had on him in his other jacket pocket. Palma, Mallorca . . . he traced the letters with his finger. He’d already asked back at hotel reception about how easy it was to get over to Mallorca. He could either fly or get a ferry. A piece of piss either way. Only question was when.

  When Balearic Bob had said the club was tucked away, he hadn’t been kidding. After Frankie’s cab finally broke free from the second glut of congestion they got snagged up in round Sant Antoni, they hit the countryside proper. It was like a different island. No music. No neon. No queues. Hardly a house or a car in sight. A maze of single-track roads. With a star-studded sky and a crescent moon above. Frankie was just about to tell the driver to turn back, assuming they’d got lost, when there it was. A glow in the distance. Red car tail lights. A trail of them, a hundred long, slowly edging on. Then noise. A steady, rising wall of drum and bass.

  They finally reached the car park on the cliff edge and were greeted by a sea of motors – the place was rammed. He’d never seen so much wealth. Porsches and Mercs littered the car park, some of them even with drivers standing by. Frankie paid the driver double what the fare showed and asked him to stay put. He didn’t fancy getting stuck out here without a ride back.

  There was a queue to get in, a snake of beautiful people. They were all dressed up like time travellers, some like they’d just stepped out of the sixties, others the seventies. Some straight out of Buck bleedin’ Rogers central casting. He joined the back of the queue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that in London.

  But while half these punters might have been dressed up like hippies and what have you, their jewellery and their accents gave them all away. This lot were minted, no different to what you’d find down some posh den like Annabel’s at home. He got talking to some bird in a white leather bikini and not much else. She told him she loved his suit. He reckoned she was probably taking the piss, because her mate she was with rolled her eyes. Not quite the vibe these others were aiming at, was he? But sod them. What was it Jack had said? The whole point about clubbing these days was that it was broad church. Yeah, even includ
ing him in his suit.

  When he finally reached the gate, he gasped at how much the entrance was. Cash entry. He shook his head slowly at the black-leather-jacketed bouncers either side. But sod it. It wasn’t his money. Tommy Riley was funding this whole shebang after all.

  As he weaved his way in, there were yet more beautiful people beyond the fence, getting pissed and high. Flaming torches lit up the perimeter of an outdoor courtyard, with a lit swimming pool, of all things, at its centre and a grand, sandstone building beyond – the club proper, he guessed. With yet more bouncers on the door. Frankie headed for one of the three bars by the pool.

  ‘Mineral water,’ he said.

  ‘For inside?’ asked the Courtney Love lookalike behind the bar.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She pointed to a sign. ‘No glasses inside.’

  Hilarious that no glasses were allowed, just gak and pills. Of course. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘For inside.’ Because he was going to have to check everywhere, wasn’t he, to see if she was here.

  He paid for the miniscule bottle of water with a fifty and she gave him his change. He guzzled down his drink. Christ, it was still so hot, he was parched.

  ‘You seen this girl?’ he then asked, taking Tanya’s photo out and showing it to the bar girl.

  She looked first it, then him, up and down, suspiciously. ‘What are you? Cop?’

  ‘No.’ He leafed a bunch of pesetas down onto the bar, but kept his hand on them. ‘Just an old friend.’ Well, it was true. ‘I’m meant to be meeting her here tonight.’

  The barmaid checked out the photo again. ‘The hair,’ she said. ‘It’s different. Shorter. I think it’s possible I saw her with a group of friends over there.’ She pointed to another bar at the end of the pool.

  ‘What was she wearing?

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wearing. Her clothes,’ he explained, tugging at his own.

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘White. She was wearing white.’

  Great. Just like every other prick in here. Why couldn’t someone he was after just be dressed up like Where’s Wally? for a change? ‘Thanks for you help,’ he said, taking the photo back off her and leaving the cash behind.

  The second bar was a little rum shack kind of a thing, all bamboo and woven palm leaves. Frankie put another bunch of pesetas down less than a minute later. The bar girl there hadn’t seen her, bollocks. He went through the same routine three more times with three more of the models masquerading as staff here before he got lucky. One of the lads clearing away glasses said he’d seen her and that she was dressed in white too. She’d gone inside, he reckoned, with a bunch of mates about half an hour ago when some DJ called Altro had started his set.

  Frankie headed in through the main doors into . . . another bloody world. He was blasted by sirens, bass, lasers and strobes. If outside had been ethereal, this here was more of the kind of sweat pit Frankie was used to avoiding in London. Because, seriously, he just didn’t get the point of it. A bunch of whacked-out muppets worshipping at the altar of some bellend whose only apparent talent was being able to spin someone else’s discs.

  Mind you, it wasn’t all bad. You had to admit that. Some of the birds were off the clock. Off their heads too, though. Jesus, the second he set foot on the main dance floor in an attempt to cross it, some blonde lurched into him, sloshing his water all over his suit.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at him, the green and yellow silk butterfly hairclip on the top of her head looking like it was about to fly away. Then, laughing, she pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed him hard on the lips. ‘Cheer up, it might never happen,’ she yelled in his ear over the noise.

  Yeah, right, it already had. But he didn’t get a chance to tell her that. She was already off, swallowed back up by the surging crowd, as the DJ screamed out above the track, ‘Are you having fucking fun?’ Frankie chugged his way slowly towards the back of the dance floor, feeling like an uncle, because no, he bloody wasn’t.

  Through the fug of sweat, smoke, perfume and booze, he tried checking out the faces he was forcing his way past. Almost impossible. All of them twisting, turning, grinning, gurning. How the hell was he ever going to find her in here?

  Then he spotted the kind of vantage point he was after. A roped-off VIP area at the back. A bunch of raised booths, overlooking the dance floor and stage. Packed with überrich party punters, sucking on joints and hookahs, and guzzling vodka and champagne. Hah, what a joke. The amount of money it cost just to get in here and that still didn’t mean you were in.

  Two ways in. Both of them guarded. Two geezers on one entrance. One on the other. He plumped for the one. Dressed in regulation bouncer black leather jacket. A short bloke. But tidy with it. Looked like he could handle himself. Frankie grinned at him like he’d seen him just two minutes back and tried walking right by him. But the little bastard wasn’t falling for it. He jutted out a metal-hard arm to hold Frankie back.

  ‘You need a wristband.’

  Jesus Christ. Would you believe it? Another Scouser.

  ‘Yeah, I lost it.’

  ‘So go find it.’

  ‘How about I just buy another one?’ Frankie held up another fifty, but the bouncer’s eyes just smiled piss off.

  ‘That won’t even buy you a gin and tonic in here, pal. So why don’t you sod off back to the plebs’ bar over there where you belong.’

  Frankie gritted his teeth. Charming. But not a lot he could do about it now. One of the other bouncers was already worming his way over through the VIPs towards them, sensing trouble. OK. Shit. Fine. He’d have to find somewhere else to get a good look round from.

  Thanks for nothing, you prick, Frankie was about to say. But then he saw her. The bar girl said she was dressed in white – unless it was someone who looked a lot bloody like her? Her hair was shorter than in the pic, but she still had that heart-shaped stork mark just above her right eye and she was walking right towards him from the dance floor.

  It was bloody fate.

  21

  The bouncer started to push him backwards, to move him out of her way. She was with two other girls, all of them dripping with jewellery and sweat. Or rather, she was with two women – more like Frankie’s age. But they looked even older behind their eyes. They had that same look as those birds Tommy had working for him over in St James’s.

  ‘Hey, Tanya,’ he yelled, nice and loud, just as she reached him.

  ‘Huh?’ Her eyes narrowed. No mean feat, either, seeing as they were the size of saucers. Her face was even paler than in the photo he’d just been showing around. Her once-beautiful eyes nestled inside black circles.

  ‘Tanya Landy.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ she shouted back.

  ‘Is this guy bothering you?’ the bouncer bellowed, his hand still firmly on Frankie’s back, spring-loaded and ready to shove him right back down these steps.

  ‘TT,’ said Frankie.

  Her whole expression changed from confusion to curiosity. ‘No one calls me that any more.’

  ‘Or Little T, I’ll bet.’ He searched her face for signs of that little girl he’d once known, but there was nothing left. She looked gaunt, messed up, like the junkies he sometimes found asleep by the bins round the back of the club.

  ‘A friend of yours?’ asked one of the other girls, giving Frankie a once over. Eastern European accent.

  ‘Um . . . I mean, yes, but . . .’

  But could she remember him? Because of course the last time their paths had crossed, when she’d tipped up high on coke at Jack’s flat, Frankie had already been passed out.

  He had to move fast, before he lost her attention. ‘Yeah, yeah, you remember me. We saw each other just before Christmas and we used to go on holiday,’ he said. ‘When we were kids. I’m Frankie . . . Frankie . . .’

  ‘Frankie James!’ she shouted, and beamed over at him – she looked so pleased with herself, she might as well have been yelling Eureka! Like she’d just solved the biggest goddamn problem in the wo
rld. She threw her arms right round his neck. Christ, she was thin, he could feel the bones of her arms digging into his flesh. ‘Cool Frankie James!’ she laughed.

  Cool? Even the bouncer smiled at that. He finally took his hand off Frankie, his frown smoothing out from red alert.

  ‘And, yeah, yeah, I do remember it now. We saw you and Jack round at his?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Only you . . . Oh, my God, I remember it now. You were really drunk, weren’t you? You were sleeping it off in his bedroom.’

  ‘So much for being cool, eh?’

  A big, wide smile crossed her face. ‘Oh no, you’re still that. The cool big brother I never had.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Instead of the one I did get. Come on, come meet everyone. Sergei,’ she shouted ahead, pulling Frankie past the bouncer, who just slowly shook his head.

  Sergei had clearly been to the same school of fashion as the bouncer, and the same went for the four other guys he was sitting with. All of them were dressed in black, like a troupe of mime artists. There wasn’t a primary colour in sight. The two women Tanya had been dancing with draped themselves over two of the men, who didn’t look like they much cared for the attention either way. None of them were dancing, or speaking, and it was pretty bloody hard to guess what any of them were thinking. They were all wearing shades.

  ‘Drink?’ Tanya asked, patting the red leather banquette beside her for Frankie to sit down.

  ‘Er, no. I’m OK.’

  ‘So how long are you over for?’

  ‘Well, that kind of depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  On you. On how fast I can get you out of here. Which couldn’t be fast enough either. Because, Christ, just look at her. Here in the candlelight, away from the disco lights, she looked even sicker than before.

  ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘How about you?’ The million-dollar question.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose when this stops being fun . . . If . . .’ Her grin made it clear she didn’t reckon this would be until at least the end of the summer.