Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  He walked Isabella back to Al Duomo, where she was starting her evening shift at six, they swapped numbers and he told her he’d be in touch soon and asked her to call him straight away if she had any news for him about the photo that he’d left. She kissed him softly on the cheek when he went. Glancing back just before he rounded the corner of her street, he saw she was still standing there and could have sworn he saw her smile.

  27

  Sky got him back to Ibiza for just gone eight. This time there were no interludes, not even a swim, just a hardcore burn back to the Old Town that would have given Damon Hill a run for his money, the bloody speed that they’d gone.

  The sun was melting on the horizon by the time they hit the port, with the whole sky burning pink, and another Ibiza night about to begin. Frankie stepped off the back of the boat onto the quay, with the two ropes Sky had just given him. Dib dib dib . . . He hooked them round the two big lumps of metal she’d just pointed at.

  ‘How’s that?’ he shouted over the idling engine.

  But Sky was already disappearing from sight, down below. Still in a right old rush to get all that food she’d got stashed down there in ice boxes back to the finca where this party of hers would be kicking off in a bit.

  She’d been pretty short with him the whole way over, so much so that he wondered if she might have somehow clocked him with Isabella some time during the afternoon. Not that anything had happened. Not really, right? But, Christ, he couldn’t stop picturing her eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to call you a taxi to get you back into town?’ Sky said, climbing back up into the cockpit, having changed into a loose-fitting silk gown thingy, tied off at the waist with a belt.

  No offer of a second ride in that Porsche, then. But, still, Frankie had plenty to thank her for, even if his little trip to Mallorca guttingly hadn’t really turned anything up.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t sweat it. I’ll walk.’

  She grinned at him. A good grin. He reckoned he was just being paranoid then. She’d not seen him with Isabella. There were no hard feelings. She probably really was just mega bloody busy. And maybe even feeling a little guilty about this boyfriend of hers. For all Frankie knew she worked with him and was heading off to meet him in a bit. Yeah, time to make himself scarce.

  ‘I hope your mates aren’t too pissed off,’ she said.

  He’d told her a bit about them. Or a story about them anyway. Enough to let her know he wasn’t just some weirdo hanging out here on his own. He’d said he was just over with a few lads from back home to watch a bit of footie in the sun.

  ‘They’ll be fine, they’ll have to be nice to me anyway,’ he said. ‘The last I spoke to them’ – which had been just before they’d set out from Mallorca – ‘they’d sounded like they were going to need someone to carry them home.’

  Grew had been well slurry. Hopefully he’d be in bed by now and Frankie could get an early night.

  ‘But, listen, I just want to say thanks,’ he said. ‘For everything. What can I tell you? It’s been a wicked day.’ Wicked? In both senses of the word, in fact. Good times, but with big disappointments too.

  ‘Well, stay in touch,’ she said.

  They’d already swapped numbers. ‘I will.’

  ‘Who knows? We might even see each other sooner than we think?’

  On an island like this, anything was possible, he supposed.

  *

  Grew was waiting for him in reception at the Mandalay when he got back. Jesús was there too, with his shades on and an unimpressed look on his face. Clearly he’d not much enjoyed the match.

  ‘Ah, and finally, the wanderer returns?’ Grew said, looking Frankie slowly up and down. ‘We are meant to be working here, you know.’

  Frankie didn’t even answer that. Grew was already nursing the tail end of a pint, while Jesús had a spliff poking out of his jacket pocket, and eyes like a knackered bloodhound.

  ‘So what was the name of this lucky lady?’ he said.

  ‘Cielo,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Cielo?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Spanish for sky.’ Something he’d learned from his book. And something else he’d learned, from bullshitting the Old Man back when he’d still been at school, was to always stick as close as you could to the truth, as there was less chance of getting caught out on a lie that way.

  ‘A local was she, name like that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Nice place?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Grew pointed at the seat opposite him at the little table. ‘So break it down a little bit more for me about what the fuck happened last night.’

  Frankie took him through what had happened from the moment he’d blagged himself into the VIP area at Kooks.

  He then concluded: ‘The long and short of it, at least insofar as what Tommy sent me out here for, is that Little T is not interested in coming home.’

  ‘You got a chance to ask her, then, before . . . ?’

  ‘Before they decided to kick the living shit out of me.’

  ‘And before the security boys there turned up to ensure that this did not occur . . .’

  ‘Your security boys – your mate Jeremy’s, at least.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve worked that little connection out.’ Grew looked impressed. ‘Yes, he is indeed our friend.’

  ‘Duke also made it perfectly sodding clear to me that it was his hide you were after as much as hers,’ Frankie said.

  Grew’s face hardened. ‘That’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘Apart from last night it nearly resulted in me getting a free Russian facelift.’ Frankie smiled thinly. ‘A danger I’d have liked to have been warned about, seeing as I was thinking I was only there to warn some kid off her boyfriend and persuade her to go home.’

  ‘All right, I hear you,’ Grew said. ‘And, yeah, it’s true. As you no doubt picked up at your meeting with him in St James’s, the boss isn’t exactly best pleased with young Duke.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘That don’t matter, not to you. The truth is we’re not even sure what the exact details are of what this twat’s up to – especially not how these here Russians fit in. You seeing them there last night was the first any of us knew they were on the scene.’

  Fine, so Frankie hadn’t just been thrown out there to the wolves. He felt a bit better about that, at least.

  ‘Fortuna . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fortuna,’ Jesús said again. It was the first thing he’d said since Frankie had got here. Or rather, slurred. Fuck a duck. Was he drunk too? Frankie could hardly believe these two. Laying down the bloody law to him, with both of them getting merrily off their tits.

  ‘You what?’ said Frankie, still having no clue what he was on about.

  ‘Lucky . . .’ Jesús said, slowly waving his finger back and forth. ‘Very . . . very . . . lucky. The best side most assuredly did not win.’

  ‘Oh, God. You’re talking about the football,’ Frankie said. ‘Which you bloody well lost.’

  Grew lit himself a smoke, trying and failing to hide his own smile.

  ‘You think this is funny, Grew?’ Jesús said.

  ‘No, mate. Not at all.’

  ‘Good, because it’s a tragedy.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a Bee Gees fan,’ Frankie said.

  But the joke went right over Jesús’s neatly coiffed head.

  ‘All right, enough of this bollocks,’ said Grew. ‘Both of you please pay attention. Because as well as the bad news of losing both Duke and the girl last night, we’ve possibly got ourselves some good news too.’

  ‘How so?’ said Frankie.

  ‘Because ’tis the season to be jolly,’ Grew said.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Or to get totally off one’s knockers, at least. It’s the season opening of Indigo Blue,’ he explained. ‘Anyone who’s anyone, or is planning on being anyone, is going to be there. Including, hopefully, Little T and our man Duke.’r />
  And not just them. Sky as well. What was it she’d told Frankie last night about Indigo Blue? That had amused her so much? What happens there, well, as they always say round here, you’ve got to see it with your own eyes. Well, it now looked like he would.

  ‘And lookee here, we got lucky,’ said Grew, digging into his pocket and producing three wristbands. ‘VIP tickets, no less. Which gives you twenty minutes to get shitted, showered and shaved, Frankie. Because we’re leaving here in half an hour.’

  So much for an early night, then. Looked like his day had just begun.

  28

  Indigo Blue was already rammed by the time they got there. The queues of whacked-out, half-naked clubbers stretched around the block, all of them itching to get in. Whatever hippy charm had been on display at Kooks last night, this was the opposite. Here was a way more urban crowd – the type Frankie was used to seeing round Soho on a Friday night. Nothing old school about it at all.

  Balearic Bob waded right to the front of the queue, dressed in a black pork pie hat and a Hawaiian shirt so loud you could have used it to order a kebab from Romford. It wasn’t to the front of the plebs’ queue either, but the one roped off for VIPs. After a smattering of muttering and snarky complaints behind them, the bouncers waved Frankie and their posse through. Bob was no bullshitter, he really did know every player on this island.

  They split up to search the place once they got inside, which was no easy task. First up, Indigo Blue had an 8,000 punter capacity. Second, it wasn’t even just one club at all. More like a massive one with several other satellite clubs inside, each with its own separate entrance and vibes. But, lucky for them, these wristbands Bob had scored were getting them into every one.

  Also it wasn’t just them looking: all the bouncers and half the proppers too had been given snaps of who to look out for. After an hour or so looking, Grew decided the four of them might as well camp out in one of the better VIP areas and just wait. If Duke showed up, it was hopefully only a matter of time before they heard.

  Frankie kept himself hydrated on water. These tunes were doing his head in. Yet more repetitive bollocks, and his ears were still ringing from last night. Frankie knew one thing, he was fed up with these loonies dancing all around and he wanted his bed.

  The heavy beats didn’t seem to be bothering the others, mind, they just kept on drinking. They all seemed to be having a great old time – plenty more trips to the bogs for all three of them. Frankie wasn’t sure how smart being hammered would prove if it turned out Duke had them Russians in tow. He did try pointing this out to Grew and Bob, but they both just told him to chill.

  Only then, about ten minutes after he’d got back from going to the bogs for a piss himself, Frankie found his feet starting to tap along to the music. Because – you know what? – it suddenly didn’t seem half so bad. The same went for the people too, he couldn’t understand why they’d been annoying him before. They were just having a good time and, frankly, what was so wrong with that?

  But then WHOOOOOOOOSH! Frankie felt it right here in his gut like he’d just hit a speed bump at sixty miles an hour. He grinned at Jesús, who was grinning right back. Laughing, in fact.

  And only then did Frankie realize what was going on.

  ‘What the fuck have you done, you bastard?’

  Jesús screwed up his perfect, tanned face in a frown. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’ Frankie felt another wave of whatever the hell was now inside him. Something way, way stronger than coke. ‘What have you given me? You’ve slipped me something, haven’t you, you twat? I can tell.’

  Jesús’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at the table. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What?’ said Frankie.

  ‘I think this is a real problem. I think you’re going to be off your head.’

  ‘Wanker,’ Frankie said, throwing himself halfway across the table and grabbing him by the throat.

  ‘I would not do that, my friend,’ Jesús said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Friend? You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.’

  Bizarrely, Jesús looked genuinely offended at this.

  But Frankie wasn’t falling for it. ‘What have you given me? You tell me now, you prick.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ It was Bob, grabbing hold of the both of them, trying and failing to pull them apart.

  Some bald bastard of a bouncer started wading in too.

  ‘No, back off, mate, I’ve got this,’ Bob snapped.

  Frankie tightened his grip on Jesús’s collar. ‘This arsehole’s just spiked me,’ he said.

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Spiked me.’

  Jesús moved fast, twisting free from Frankie’s grip. He was suddenly up on his feet and caught Frankie off balance and pinned his face flat to the table.

  ‘Right, that’s it. Pack it in,’ Bob snarled.

  ‘You’re dead,’ Frankie growled, trying and failing to tear himself free.

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Jesús.

  ‘You bloody liar.’

  ‘No, look!’

  Jesús flung him then, actually flung him, some kind of judo throw. Frankie had no idea this bastard was as strong as that. He landed in a ball on the sofa and spun round to get up. But then he saw Jesús wasn’t even trying to defend himself. He was just pointing, aghast, at his drink.

  ‘It’s true,’ Jesús said. ‘You took my drink, it was meant for me.’

  Frankie stared across the table to where he’d been sitting. Shit, he was right. His glass of water was still sitting there, untouched. But the one next to it was empty. Jesús’s. Not his.

  Grew then got back and Frankie watched Bob whispering something into his ear.

  ‘Oops,’ Grew giggled, and he sat down to watch.

  ‘What the fuck? You think this is funny?’ Frankie said.

  When WHOOOOSH! Here it came again. That whole wave of – what? Well, no other way to put it – pure pleasure, washing up and down his spine, making his whole body shiver with delight.

  ‘What was in that?’ he snarled at Jesús. ‘Ecstasy?’ Because, yeah, he’d done a few pills in his time, but only when he’d already been pissed. And what he was feeling now was something way more powerful that that.

  ‘MDMA.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The best bit of the pill. Pure. Without any crap.’

  Pure. Yeah, Frankie could see that working for Jesús, just look at the bastard. Everything about him was squeaky clean. ‘But how? Why?’ Frankie asked, not even feeling pissed off any more, more curious.

  ‘Most people eat it. I prefer to dissolve.’ Jesús checked to see the bouncer who’d intervened earlier wasn’t looking, then produced an origami sodding frog of all things and opened up its legs to reveal a little pile of well muddy-looking crystals inside. He licked his fingertip and dabbed it in before wiping it on his tongue.

  ‘See? Tastes like death,’ he said with a wince. ‘Try it, if you don’t believe.’

  ‘Er, no,’ Frankie said. ‘But that’s quite a sales pitch. You never know, it might even catch on.’ He laughed again. Because, hell, it was hard to stay angry when you were feeling as bleedin’ brilliant as this.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jesús said. ‘Mate,’ he added.

  Frankie and him just looked at each other, then Frankie felt his mouth stretch into a smile.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Grew asked, lighting up a fag, and watching them shake hands.

  ‘Nothing.’ Frankie reached out for the packet. ‘All right if I bum one of them off you?’

  ‘I didn’t think you did.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know . . .’ He sparked one up himself and sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs – and, bloody hell, it tasted good. ‘. . . when in Rome.’

  ‘Ibiza,’ Jesús corrected him.

  And this time it was both Jesús and Frankie who started to laugh – they couldn’t stop.

  Frankie couldn’t remember exactly when it was h
e decided it was a good idea to hit the dance floor, or exactly when he decided to take off his shirt. Both decisions felt spot on at the time, though, because it was melting hot in here and the tunes were ace. Banging, wasn’t that how Jack had described them? Frankie had thought he was being a right knob back then, but suddenly it all made sense.

  Not the only thing either; hugging suddenly made a whole lot of sense too. With this girl here now and this geezer too. He couldn’t exactly hear what either of them was saying. It felt like his whole body was one big echo chamber for the bass being pumped out of the massive banks of speakers underneath and either side of the DJ’s decks. But who cared, right? Words, what did they matter anyway? Everyone was happy and moving together. That was all that was really important, right?

  The bloke kissed him on the cheek. Whoah, steady, mate. But that didn’t really matter either, did it? The girl grabbed his hands, hauling him deeper into the crowd. Faces swirling. The bass pumping. After a while, he had no bloody idea how long he’d been here.

  Water, that’s what he needed now, so he headed for the bar. He’d lost the girl somewhere back there on the dance floor. But, sod it, she didn’t matter. He was talking to someone else now and this bird had a bottle of iced water in her hand and poured it into his mouth then right down his chest. Bloody lovely, it felt. Then this barman was asking him what he wanted to drink. Next thing he was handing the girl a gin and tonic and was necking one himself. If the water had been good, this was nectar.

  ‘Another,’ he told the barman.

  And another after that. He checked back in on Grew and the others, who were quite comfy in the VIP booth, necking their second bottle of Grey Goose vodka. In for a penny, in for a pound. So he got himself stuck into that too, neat, on ice. Bloody beautiful, it was. Then he tucked into a little bit more of that mandy too, but dabbed it this time – and, bloody hell, Jesús was right, it did taste like shite.