Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  Finally he made it over to near that cathedral, La Seu, off the main drag, overlooking the bay. The pavements were crawling with Brits wearing England T-shirts and flags. Sweating, swearing, swigging cans and pushing prams. All blisters and bra straps and Eng-ger-land!, Eng-ger-land! Crikey, it didn’t look quite so pretty abroad. There were Spanish flags out everywhere too, mind, hanging off the courtyard balconies, pinned up above the tapas bar doors.

  He looked down at his watch, it was noon – no wonder he was feeling the heat now. Was thirsty like a camel and hungry as hell so he headed off the beaten track, sticking to his grid, still scratching every street he walked off on his map with a pen. But already, he’d pretty much covered the whole area he’d been told to search. What would he do next, give up, get himself into a bar and watch the game? Suddenly a bar seemed mighty appealing indeed. A bar and beer. Yes, a beer. He could almost feel it in his hand, taste it in his throat.

  Then suddenly he stopped. What the hell? Had he just been daydreaming? He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and searched for a street sign to match up to where he reckoned he was on the map. It was easier said than done, this whole street was all scaffolding and netting. A grand exercise in sandblasting, it looked like. But still something about it gripped him, wouldn’t let him move.

  Feeling his heart starting to race now, he took out the postcard yet again and held it up. And, hang on, hang on. Wait one bloody minute. Because, yeah, take away all this bloody work being done and there was definitely something familiar about it all.

  Yes. Bloody hell. Get in, my son. Because, right there, in between the last two bars on the strip, he saw it – and not just because he was still thirsty as hell. Right ahead was a stone water fountain with a little imp or fairy on top. Again the buildings above, stretching three more storeys up, with their neat little shutters, were exactly the same as the postcard. Yes, this was bloody it, no doubt about it, he’d hit the bloody bull.

  He ran across the road and into the nearest bar where a TV was blaring in the corner. The usual pre-match guff was being chewed over, only it was in Spanish, not English. A bunch of locals glued to it, drinking coffees, smoking fags.

  ‘Oi, mate,’ he said, hurrying over to the grizzled bartender. ‘Señor,’ he corrected himself, suddenly wishing they’d taught Spanish back at home instead of just bloody French.

  ‘Qué?’

  What? Yeah, he knew that much. ‘This, mate. This,’ he said, putting the postcard down on the bar top and stabbing his finger at it. ‘This bar, here. Is this here?’

  ‘Here?’ the man repeated, staring down. ‘Here. Aquí? Sí. Sí es aquí.’

  Sí. Yes. Grinning, Frankie held out his hand, and when the man took it, he pumped it up and down. Un-be-bloody-liev-able. He’d done it, he’d found it. But did that really mean it? That she was somewhere near?

  He pulled out the envelope with the photos of her in it. Showed them to him. But this time he got nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. But that didn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. Because the photos were all of them eight years old or more, from before when she’d gone away.

  He tried saying her name, even wrote it down. He tried explaining who she was, slowly, in English, but the guy didn’t understand. All right, fine. Then he’d need to find someone who did, or who could translate. What about Sky? No, he checked his watch again, he wasn’t meeting up with her for at least another three hours. There must be someone else. Right, how many shops and bars were there showing on this card? At least a dozen. Thanking the man profusely, he headed back outside.

  Time to check out every single one.

  26

  But, heart still pounding, ten bars later Frankie had got no further. Yeah, he’d found three or four people who spoke good enough English for him to be able to explain that he was looking for this woman in these old photos who might be living somewhere around here – none of them recognized either her or her name. But that was another thing, who said she was even using her own name any more?

  He needed to get his thoughts together and headed across the road. At the end of the street was a little restaurant with red-and-white tablecloths on tables out on the pavement in the sun. This was a perfect spot for something to eat and drink, decked out with Italian football scarves in the window – and another flag he didn’t recognize, a golden eagle on a pink and black shield.

  It looked busy, always a good sign, but even as he was watching, a couple finished paying their bill and left. The closer he got, the more he could smell the oregano and basil. It was exactly what he needed right now, pasta, pizza, something filling. The sign up above the door said Al Duomo, half hidden by the scaffolding netting hanging down.

  ‘This one’s free?’ he asked the waitress who was just starting to clear the empty table. She was a tall twenty-something with long, dark plaited hair and big brown Sophia Loren eyes.

  ‘Sí, just one moment,’ she said as she cleared the plates onto a tray.

  Her voice was soft and friendly, but her accent was different to the rest of the people he’d been chatting to. And way more familiar too.

  ‘You’re Italian?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled at him curiously. ‘E tu?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’ He blushed a little. ‘Well, sort of. My mum was. Is,’ he quickly corrected himself. ‘I don’t really speak it myself.’

  ‘Then maybe you should learn.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  She smiled. ‘Or maybe I should teach you a little?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Vuoi venire a bere dopo il lavoro?’

  ‘Vuoi venire a bere dopo il lavoro?’ he did his best to repeat what she’d just said.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘You’ve just offered to take me out for a drink after work.’

  ‘Right.’ He laughed, embarrassed. ‘And what’s your answer?’

  ‘Ci penserò . . .’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I said I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Right.’ Was she joking? He couldn’t tell, but she looked dead serious as she continued to clear his table, before disappearing inside.

  A waiter with the same thick dark hair and big brown eyes as the girl came to serve him. Her brother maybe? He spoke OK English and recommended the specials. Tuna carpaccio, followed by tagliatelle pomodoro, with truffle oil and rocket salad. Frankie smiled, thinking of Riley footing the bill – who was he to disagree? Frankie decided to ask him about the photo too, but in a bit, once he’d eaten and got his shit together.

  The food was bang on, beautiful. The only problem was Frankie’s craving for something a bit stronger than Diet Coke to wash it all down with. He got the starter in as fast as he could to line his stomach and, by God, was it decent. Something about it, especially the pasta sauce, proper soul food – took him right back to his childhood, it did.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know where you are?’ It was half an hour later and he had Grew on the other end of the phone. He’d finally called Frankie back.

  ‘Just that I met some bird and she gave me a ride back to hers.’ Well, it was sort of true, wasn’t it?

  ‘More like just gave you a ride.’

  Frankie ignored it. Better off just moving the conversation on, less chance of slipping up.

  ‘So what about you? Where the hell were you last night when I rang?’

  ‘Hammered.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  Grew laughed. ‘Anyhow, you managed all right on your own, didn’t you, love? At least, that’s what I heard.’

  ‘And who told you that then?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just a little bird.’

  A big posh fellah called Jeremy, more like, son of one of the ten. Who, more and more, sounded like exactly the kind of family Tommy Riley might make an alliance with if he fancied getting somehow involved in the action out here. Yeah, Frankie reckoned his theory had been right.

&nb
sp; ‘Yeah? And this bird of yours, did it tell you about the bunch of dodgy Russian gangsters this Duke and little Tanya have got themselves mixed up with?’

  ‘Something along those lines was mentioned. I did warn you not to get involved in anything without us being there.’

  ‘The way it went down, I didn’t exactly have a choice. But I’ll tell you this – they’re not amateurs. And whatever Duke’s up to, I reckon Little T’s in more danger than she thinks.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason why we need to get her out of there and quick. And, talking of which, enough idle chitchat. Have you any idea how much these phones are costing the boss? Now what time are you getting back here, so we can have ourselves a proper powwow? You’re cutting it a bit fine already if you want to watch the match.’

  ‘Realistically?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s going to be a few more hours.’

  ‘That fit, is she?’ Grew laughed. ‘All right, well, make sure you come find me when you’re back. But I warn you now, Bob’s not going to be happy with you for standing us up at Rikitik’s.’

  The waitress still hadn’t reappeared by the time it came for Frankie to pay the bill, but the waiter was just as keen to practise his English as she’d been. He was a big football fan too. Explained that the flags here in the window were for Unione Sportiva Città di Palermo, the Italian club the Sicilian restaurant owner supported. The waiter was from Sicily too, his father being an old family friend of the owner. He wasn’t too happy about Italy having been eliminated from Euro 96 by Germany, mind, and was going to be cheering for Spain this afternoon against England. On account of how he was now living out here.

  ‘And me also,’ said the waitress, appearing by his side, and waggling her Spanish scarf at Frankie with a grin. It wasn’t the only change she’d made either. The traditional black skirt and white shirt had been replaced with a red halter-neck top, three-quarter-length jeans and high heels.

  ‘So I have decided that the answer is yes,’ she said. ‘About you taking me out for that drink.’

  ‘Right. I mean, good. I thought you might have forgotten about me altogether.’ Frankie stood up. ‘Oh, and you look great, by the way.’ He meant it. She looked knockout, in fact.

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  She looked a little taken aback, or was it amused? He really couldn’t read her at all, which left him wondering if that had been the right thing to say. Because was that what this was? A date? He was none too sure about that either.

  Maybe his consternation was showing on his face, because suddenly the waiter was half smiling, half laughing at him too.

  ‘You be careful with this one,’ he warned. ‘She’s a real man eater.’

  ‘Stupid brother,’ she hissed, punching him hard on the arm – something that just made him grin even more.

  ‘OK, so now we go?’ she said, turning to Frankie. ‘The match begins in one hour and I know the perfect place to watch.’ She smiled. ‘But I think perhaps first we go for a walk. To show you some sights. Oh yes, and so . . . my name is Isabella.’ She shook his hand formally and even did a little curtsey. ‘It is very nice to make your acquaintance.’

  What the hell? Frankie could play this game too. He bowed theatrically and kissed the back of her hand. ‘My name’s Frankie James and it’s very nice to make your acquaintance too.’

  She laughed and linked her arm though his and steered him down the street. They talked about London, how she’d never been but had always wanted to visit. And a bit about her too. She was working here to improve her Spanish before going back to finish her modern languages degree in Italy. Apparently her brother was hoping to stay here and perhaps own his own restaurant one day. She pointed out various sights on the way, until finally they reached the cathedral.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Even if you’re not religious, it’s cool as air conditioning inside.’

  She wasn’t kidding. It was like lying in a cool pool in a shady forest. Frankie sat on one of the pews under the vast, vaulted stone ceiling, as she went in to confession – something Frankie would never be able to do. Not just because the Old Man had blocked him and Jack getting confirmed as kids, but because of what had happened last summer.

  He knew some of the things he’d done hadn’t been right, but he’d had no choice, he had to help Jack. But people had got hurt and he could never forgive himself for that.

  ‘Anyone you’re missing?’ Isabella said, coming back to find him after she was done. She looked too kind, too decent to have anything proper to confess. Or maybe her brother wasn’t kidding. Maybe she wasn’t quite the angel she appeared.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Come with me and we can light a candle for them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right. Yeah, I suppose. Good idea.’

  He walked over with her to the little collection box with the pyramid of flickering, glowing candles beside it and stuffed one of Tommy Riley’s fifties in. Christ, he wondered when Tommy last set foot in a church, as Irish Catholic as he was. He’d probably have burst into flames.

  ‘So who was it you lit it for?’ she asked him, as they stepped back out into the blinding sunshine outside.

  ‘My mum.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I mean . . .’ He sighed, taking out the envelope from his pocket. He slid one of the photos out and handed it over.

  ‘You’ve got her eyes and her cheekbones,’ she teased, gently nudging him in the ribs. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘She didn’t, I mean, she isn’t. At least, I don’t think so. It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I meant to show this to you and your brother in the restaurant, to see if, well, to see if you knew her, but . . . well, the food was so good, I forgot.’

  He took out the rest of the photos and handed them across, as he started to explain what he’d told the others. They sat down on a stone bench in the shade of a fountain and he pulled out the postcard too, the one showing the opposite side of the street to Al Duomo.

  ‘And you really think this could be from her?’ she finally asked, looking up.

  He shrugged, feeling his stomach tightening. The more people he’d shown today, and the more headshakes he’d got in return, the stupider it had somehow all seemed.

  ‘You don’t recognize her then? Or her name?’

  ‘No, but I can ask at the restaurant if you like, one of the Vaccaros might know?’

  ‘The Vaccaros.’ He rolled the word round his tongue. ‘And who are they?’

  ‘The owners.’

  She meant the Sicilian family her brother had been telling him all about. ‘Relatives of yours?’

  ‘Our families were close back home in Sicily and they are now a very big local family here. Second-generation immigrants. Very – how do you say it? – influente?’

  ‘Influential?’ Frankie guessed.

  ‘Yes, just so, which is why my brother and I came here this summer, because we knew they could find us work and we would be safe. Because in addition to being influente, they are exceedingly potente also. Powerful,’ she explained.

  Influential. Powerful. The way she said the words and the look on her face when she did reminded him of home. It was the same kind of wary and respectful way people spoke about families like the Rileys and the Hamiltons. Was that what these people were, gangsters? He guessed, but any help he could get with this, he’d take.

  ‘Between them they know everyone,’ Isabella said. ‘In addition to the restaurant, they own a number of bars and clubs, as well as Les Roques? You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘The rushes?’

  ‘Les Roques. The Rocks. It’s probably the most famous hotel on the island. In Deià. Their family home is part of it, on the hillside behind. It’s where the British writer Robert Graves used to throw his parties, or so they say.’ She smiled at him. ‘You have heard of him, yes?’

  ‘Actually, yeah,’ Frankie said. ‘I
, Claudius, wasn’t it?’ Blimey, she looked suitably impressed.

  ‘Not only a pretty face,’ she smiled, blushing almost as soon as she had. ‘If you like, I can photocopy this and maybe ask around?’ she said.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ he said. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘And, of course, it is a good reason for you to come back and visit me.’ She waggled the photo at him. ‘I promise I’ll keep it safe.’

  ‘Deal.’

  *

  They watched the quarter-final in a place called the Corner Bar in a little square near the cathedral. The place was packed with expats – a right old adrenalin rush it was too. Most of them were yacht crews, all blonde hair and deep tans. True to form, all of them getting hammered on anything they could get their gnarly hands on. The crowd roared at all the near misses through the first ninety minutes and then extra time, chewing their nails down to the knuckles during the penalty shootout, where for once England didn’t falter at all.

  Frankie could almost smell it, his Ladbrokes winnings. England were going to be up against either Germany or Croatia, depending on who won that quarter-final tomorrow. He knew who he’d rather win, that was for sure.

  He gave the Ambassador a quick bell while Isabella stepped out for a fag and an unfamiliar female voice picked up. Maxine, it turned out. Xandra’s girlfriend. The place was so rammed, she was helping her and Slim out behind the bar. He had a quick natter with Slim and asked him to thank the others. Told them he owed them big time for running the show while he was away. He’d pay them too. A decent-sized bonus. They’d have earned it this month, that was for sure.

  Slim put Jack on the line. He was absolutely wasted and wanted to know how Frankie was enjoying his cheap last-minute Ibiza break. It was on the tip of Frankie’s tongue to tell him about where he actually was and what he’d been doing today. He wanted to tell him how he’d tried, but how he’d come up empty-handed, but what would have been the point? Jack would have just told him he was crazy for thinking it could have been any other way.

  He asked Jack how he was healing and who he was hanging out with. He’d already asked Spartak to keep a seriously bloody close eye on him until he got back and Jack said he’d been chilling with him a lot, so Frankie felt he could rest easy over that much, at least. But even so, saying goodbye, he couldn’t help thinking about that note that had been left on his car windscreen. Had it been about Jack last year? From that bastard Dougie Hamilton, or something further back? Could Frankie being here now be putting them all in more danger again?