Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  Jesús was faring just fine. Frankie wondered if maybe he’d misjudged him – they were having a right laugh now he’d loosened up. Frankie spotted that girl from the dance floor and waved her over past the bouncers. Next thing there must have been twenty or thirty other nutters in here round their table, off their heads, dancing. Grew chatting up some Spanish lad in a black leather codpiece, Bob up on the table swigging from a champagne bottle. Then Frankie and Jesús being pulled back onto the dance floor.

  The whole crowd moved as one, Frankie with it. Hell, yeah, he never wanted to go back home.

  He was turning, twisting, pumping his fist in the air, watching his arms fast forwarding then slowing up again. Faces and bodies twitched and shattered in the strobe. Then her. Was it her? Was it really her over there? Shit.

  Thunk.

  He was plummeting. Like he’d just dropped off a cliff. Like the bass had been pulled right out of him. Like suddenly none of this was important, none of this was real. He pushed away whoever it was who was pressed up next to him and shook their arm off. Jesus, it was Jesús.

  ‘It’s her,’ Frankie screamed.

  But Jesús just grinned and shrugged and pointed at his ears, carrying on dancing, turning away. Frankie twisted him back round to face him and stabbed two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed where he’d just looked. To make Jesús look that way too. Then . . . oh, yeah . . . He watched the Spaniard’s expression switch. Fuck, yeah. Totally.

  Because Jesús had just seen Little T too.

  29

  Or them. Because it wasn’t just Little T any more. Duke, bare-chested and tattooed up like bloody Braveheart, was there too. But none of them Russians, thank God.

  So what now that they’d found them? Frankie had already tried talking to her last night and had failed. Had got nowhere. Nothing had changed. Why the hell would she listen to them now?

  But it didn’t matter what Frankie thought because Jesús clearly did have a plan and was already making his move. Oomph. He grabbed hold of Duke by the back of his neck, swinging his right arm up tight into a lock. Ouch. A look of pure agony crumpled Dukey-boy’s face, then Jesús began steering him like he was on bloody wheels – whoosh – deeper into the crowd.

  But where? Glancing back to check that Frankie was following, Jesús headed right and now Frankie saw it – the backstage door. Just past a block of speakers to where Balearic Bob was standing hobnobbing with a bunch of miked-up thugs. Safety in numbers was always a good plan.

  Frankie clocked the Russian moving in from the left just a second too late. He stepped in sharply behind Jesús, wrapping one arm around his neck and pressing the other up tight against it. He’d caught him deep in the shadows, half hidden from the rest of the club, and still out of Bob’s line of sight. Just from the way Jesús froze then, it was obvious what was going down. The bastard had a blade.

  Frankie grabbed a beer bottle from the shelf of one of the mirrored pillars as bass boomed up loud inside his chest. His ears hissed, then popped. Shit-a-brick. Here we go again. That last dab of MDMA he’d done was kicking in again. He was starting to soar.

  Shit, he needed to focus, because it was all unravelling. Another one of them Russian bastards from last night had appeared out of nowhere and Frankie recognized this sod too. It was Sergei. The prick with the shooter who’d planned on giving him a beating. Well, up yours, mate. My turn.

  Frankie moved in fast. Right in front of the wanker. Surprise, surprise, motherfucker. He swung a punch at him. Missed. Too pissed. Instead he spun himself right round and almost fell, but didn’t. He saw Sergei’s fist in the nick of time, ducked, smashed him hard on the bonce with the bottle. Connected. The bastard fell writhing, gripping his head as he hit the deck.

  Frankie looked round for Jesús. Shit. The other guy still had hold of him and hadn’t noticed Frankie yet. Frankie lurched forward, then stopped. Because, shit . . . what now? What the hell was he going to do about that knife? He couldn’t go charging in there. Because the twat might just cut Jesús. Simple as that.

  He turned and shouted to Bob. Then crack, white light, he felt the ground twisting out from under him as his head hit the sticky black floor. He felt boots piling into the back of his head and his ribs. Bastards. Bastards. He managed to grab hold of a leg and twisted it as hard as he could. Thankfully something gave and someone screamed.

  Stumbling, Frankie forced himself up, cursing himself – what had he been thinking of, getting this pissed? Bodies were flying all around now. Bouncers. Russians. Duke and Jesús nowhere to be seen. Someone lamped Frankie and he smacked them right back, enough to slow them, but not stop them. He kicked out hard, but totally missed and landed on his arse.

  Balearic Bob bundled past then, belly first, fast as. Who knew? All eighteen stone of him swept into the bastard who’d just been stepping in to stamp on Frankie’s head and sent him flailing backwards.

  Two white-shirted bouncers followed like angels sent from heaven. The Russians were driven back and he could see Duke too along with Tanya, and their mate who’d stuck that knife to Jesús’s throat, nearly already at the exit now, with no one daring to slow them down.

  Frankie forced himself up, his head throbbing. Jesus. Where was Jesús? He came staggering past, his face livid from where he’d just been punched. Not cut, though. No. The Russian hadn’t done him, at least.

  He started shouting all kinds of shit in Spanish. Then marched right forward like he was going to wade single-handedly into the Russkis. Only to suddenly stand stock-still and throw up all over the floor.

  *

  ‘Well, that was a bloody shambles, wasn’t it, lads?’

  Grew was furious. All four of them were back in the booth. Frankie’s eye was already swelling up, he’d have a right old shiner tomorrow. Sitting next to him was Jesús, looking even worse. There was blood and water all over his shirt from where he’d tried cleaning himself up and a bit of bog roll stuffed up each nostril. It was a million miles from the Eurotrash glamour boy Frankie had first seen with Tam Jackson back on the night of the launch.

  ‘We had one job tonight,’ said Grew. ‘And the backup to do what we needed. Only you two had to go getting off your heads on this shit.’ He held up Jesús’s little origami frog.

  ‘It wasn’t just us,’ Frankie said. ‘You’ve been in and out of that bog all night.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Grew, ‘but my indulgence in the old Colombian marching powder does not put me off my game, it enhances it,’ he shouted, throwing a punch at Frankie that stopped half a millimetre from his chin – one that Frankie didn’t even see coming, fair cop. ‘Unlike you muppets on this bollocks,’ Grew went on, ‘which don’t seem to have enhanced anything about you apart from your ability to throw shapes.’

  Jesús nudged Frankie hard in the ribs. He’d spotted a phalanx of bouncers heading their way and none of them Bob’s lads from the ruck. Meaning, shit, here we go, thought Frankie. They’d probably been sent over to sling them all out.

  But then he watched as they split into two groups and guess who emerged from the middle? None other than Jeremy Algernon Entwhistle. Dressed exactly the same as last night, only this time with the addition of a matching bronze cape.

  ‘I hear there’s been some trouble,’ he said.

  Er, yeah, Frankie nearly said. But luckily Superman’s just flown in to sort that shit out. He kept his trap shut, having already caused enough trouble for one night, and Jeremy didn’t exactly look in a joking mood.

  ‘The Russians,’ Bob said, coming over from where he’d been calling someone on the phone.

  Jeremy smiled grimly. ‘I still can’t believe they had the nerve to show up here.’

  ‘Well, you did say they might.’

  ‘Might, not would. It’s like I told Frankie here last night, these people think they can come over here and take what they want . . . Not like you gentlemen, who are prepared to put in the work, and make the right alliances, and respect how things are done . . .’

&nbs
p; Meaning his way. Oh yeah, Frankie could see that now all right. Him and Riley were like two peas from the same pod. They weren’t the only lookee-likees here either, because Jesús was now up on his feet, and Jeremy and him gave each other a right old once over, before giving each other an even bigger hug.

  It was only then that Frankie noticed it properly, when they were side by side. They had the same hooked nose and blonde hair combo, bloody hell they looked similar. Of course they had their differences too, height, for one. The tasteful lounge suit versus the superhero cape for another.

  They must be brothers. What was it Sky had told him when he’d driven her back from Kooks? That Jeremy’s mum had got two other sons, both of them by local dads? Well, Frankie was guessing that Jesús here, from the way big brother Jeremy was now playfully head-locking him, was number two out of three.

  ‘So I hear you and my brother have been misbehaving?’ Jeremy said, coming over to Frankie, still steering his brother by the head.

  ‘We had a bit of a mix-up.’

  Jeremy let Jesús go. ‘With your water glasses. Yes, I heard. Well, don’t worry too much, it’s good, pure stuff, should be wearing off soon. With any luck it won’t drop you down with a crash.’

  ‘I’ll remember to feel grateful,’ Frankie said.

  ‘But, meanwhile, I hope you’re not trying to get this exciting venture of mine the wrong sort of reputation? Of ours,’ he added, nodding at Grew.

  And boom, there was yet more confirmation – if any were needed – of what Frankie had already guessed: Riley was sticking money into this club, and whatever else Jeremy’s family might need a partner, and some muscle, for. Like the drug trade, for example. Which clearly these Russians had an eye on an’ all. But where did that leave Duke? Because if he was now in with the Russians, did that mean he’d screwed over Riley and Jeremy both?

  ‘I need you to tell me what the hell is going on,’ Frankie said.

  ‘No, son,’ said Grew. ‘What you need right now is to get yourself back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep. I mean it,’ Grew told him. No longer a mate. His boss. ‘Because this shit that’s gone down here tonight has only just begun.’

  ‘We’ve already traced their names from their car registrations,’ Jeremy said. ‘It’s only a matter of time before we find out where they’re staying.’

  Meaning he had the cops round here in his pocket too? Fuck me, this whole island was bent. No wonder the Russians fancied a piece of it.

  ‘I tried tracing her number as well,’ Jeremy told Frankie.

  ‘Whose?’ What the hell was he on about now?

  ‘Tanya’s. The one she wrote down for you on that little matchbook.’

  The one for that restaurant she’d recommended, the Ca’n Costa? Hell’s tits. Old Jeremy here didn’t miss much, did he? He must have only gone and bloody memorized it when he’d lit himself that smoke.

  For the first time Frankie started to think that maybe they would track down Duke and these Russians after all, but he started to worry about Little T too. This Jeremy wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of and he very much doubted he’d give a shit about her.

  ‘But unfortunately we didn’t get anywhere,’ he said. ‘Which makes me think she probably destroyed her phone. It also makes me think that her Russian friends aren’t nearly as stupid as they look.’

  Jeremy started talking to Jesús, and Grew shot Frankie another look. The kind that said oi-didn’t-you-hear-what-I-told-you-the-first-time-so-why-are-you-still-here-just-fuck-off.

  Frankie made to get up, but then he saw her. At least he thought it was her – Sky. But, Christ, did she look different. All dressed up in a red corset and a black leather skirt as short as a belt, looking even more amazing than last night. To cap it all off, she was wearing a feather headdress and it was only then that he realized – was it her he’d seen in that first bar he’d sat in with Jesús, Bob and Grew? Had she been the one leading that procession? The girl in the mask? He remembered how he thought they’d even caught each other’s eye.

  Jeremy spotted her too and walked over and gave her a hug. Frankie watched her huddling up with him, kissing his glittery cheek, whispering something in his ear. Then she was sitting down by Frankie, kissing him on the cheek as well. He caught a whiff of her perfume and it cut right through to his brain.

  ‘You look bloody wasted,’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Here, drink some water.’ She giggled. ‘Nice-y, icy, cool, cool water. You look like you need it,’ she said.

  He felt sweat pouring off his brow and he suddenly wished he could click his fingers and sober up. Whatever fun he’d just been having, it was over. All of this now, it was doing his head in. The music, these people, the noise.

  ‘So how did your exclusive private party go?’ he said. ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s. His.’ She tilted her head slightly towards Jeremy.

  Yeah, that figured. Frankie didn’t want to feel jealous, but he did. ‘So what was the big occasion?’

  ‘Well, I thought it was for his birthday, but it turned out to be this.’ She waggled her engagement finger at him.

  ‘Well, you certainly weren’t wearing that on the boat . . .’ He knew he sounded like an arsehole, the second he said it.

  ‘That’s because he only asked me today.’ He remembered what she’d said about Jeremy settling down and marrying, and how one day that female line would pass down from his mother once again . . .

  ‘And what are you two so busy chitter-chattering about?’ asked Jeremy, sitting down next to her and draping his arms confidently across her shoulders.

  ‘Your fiancée here was just showing me her ring.’

  ‘And that’s not all I hear you’ve seen of hers today, you naughty boy.’

  Jeremy stared hard into his eyes and Frankie felt his skin burn. Shit, this didn’t look good, did it? But then Jeremy smiled.

  ‘And if you play your cards right tonight,’ he said, ‘you might even be able to do it all again.’

  What the hell did that mean? Frankie watched him kissing her lingeringly on the lips, but his eyes never left Frankie’s, not even for a beat.

  ‘Because where better to continue our celebrations?’ Jeremy went on, plucking a fresh bottle of champagne from the ice bucket on the table and starting to pour. ‘One for you, Frankie Antonio James?’

  ‘Er no,’ said Frankie. ‘Thanks, but I’m all right. I’m going to take Grew’s advice, actually, and get some shut-eye. Make sure I’m fresh for whenever you find out that address.’

  One of the bouncers called Jeremy away then, leaving Frankie alone with Sky.

  ‘He doesn’t mind, then? About us?’ he asked.

  ‘Us. Oh, you are sweet, aren’t you?’ Sky said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Thinking that that’s what happened. That I was . . . I don’t know . . . being unfaithful . . .’

  ‘Well, weren’t you?’ It had certainly looked that way. The second time too.

  ‘It’s just that . . . Jeremy and I . . . we’re not exclusive . . .’

  ‘Exclusive?’

  ‘With each other. I mean, we’re kind of renowned for being the opposite, actually.’

  ‘Renowned?’

  ‘Yes, I thought you knew. I thought everyone did.’ She put her hand on his thigh and began to gently, slowly massage it. She grinned up at Jeremy, who Frankie now saw was again watching, smiling back. ‘But don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You can see for yourself in a minute – I do hope you come play.’

  Two girls appeared then, almost as if what she’d just said had been a prompt, and pulled her to her feet. Between them they were holding what Frankie at first thought was a white-feathered coat, but then realized, as they hooked it over her shoulders, was a pair of giant angel’s wings. She winked at Frankie, blew him a kiss, then walked back to Jeremy, who took her hand, and led her away from the booth and out into the crowd.

  ‘Come on, lad,
you’re going to love this,’ said Bob, pulling Frankie up onto his feet.

  Frankie felt it then. The whole atmosphere of the place changing. And not just the music – though that had changed as well. The house beats were replaced by fanfares and something much more tribal underneath. The dancing began to slow and died off. Then hundreds, thousands of people’s eyes were turning with the crowd parting, as Jeremy and Sky crossed the dance floor. They walked out to a raised platform in the centre, where Frankie saw semi-naked, painted performers had begun dancing and juggling and were spinning down from the ceiling on ribbons.

  Frankie stayed where he was. So much for this shit being pure and him not crashing, he hardly had the energy to move. Certainly not to fight through that lot, to come play what? What had she meant? Enough had happened already tonight. He wasn’t sure his heart could take any more.

  And, besides, he could see perfectly well from up here, right? Whatever it was they were about to do. It wasn’t good enough for Balearic Bob and Grew, though. The two of them were wading right in, Grew being led by the hand by the same Spanish lad in the black leather codpiece he’d been chatting to before. Bob, following, cackling in their wake.

  Frankie swore he saw Sky looking back over at him then as Jeremy climbed up onto the stage and began parading himself before the baying crowd. In an instant, she was up there beside him, and as she took her clothes off, the crowd erupted in applause.

  He couldn’t handle any more, his skin was burning up and he knew there were only two ways out of this. Either carry on getting wasted or do like Grew said. Get himself the hell out of here and into bed.

  *

  The rest of his night was a blur, as his cab wound through the thronging streets before dropping him at the hotel. What he needed now was a cold hotel shower – but first he drank the water from the tap like a kid in the school gym after sports. All the while he was slapping the wall repeatedly, asking himself the same questions over and over. Why? Why had he done it? Screwed himself over? Not just the MDMA, but the smokes, the booze. Why hadn’t he just left?