

Little Men

The E Book

Copyright Ronnie Yax 2011

Published by Ronnie Yax at Smashwords

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The right of Ronnie Yax to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.

All the characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Prologue - January 2002

Kyla Andretti inched the curtain aside and peered out of her bedroom window. Journalists and photographers were gathering. She wondered how they knew.

It was a dank and miserable afternoon at the end of January. Frequently, a camera would flash, the bright yellow light momentarily illuminating the dismal grey surroundings. Kyla felt cold and numb as she watched the throng gathering at the front gates of her home.

Suddenly someone below spotted her at the window. A quick succession of cameras flashed in unison. She quickly moved away from the curtain as the police had told her to.

"Keep out of sight," the young PC had instructed her just over an hour ago. He and his colleague were first on the scene after Kyla had called 999 when she'd discovered the body. The dead body of her ex-boyfriend, Simon Owen.

It was clear he'd been murdered. Kyla had walked into the dining room of the house to find him tied to a chair, head slumped forward. A huge dark pool of blood surrounded the corpse, discolouring the cream carpet beyond all recognition.

Kyla shivered as she sat back down on the bed. She looked around her luxury bedroom. Here there was no evidence that anything untoward had happened in the house, it all looked normal. She glanced at the door of the en-suite bathroom. Again she shuddered, staring at the white door, slightly ajar. It was eerie. She could hear a lot of noise downstairs, vehicles pulling up outside, doors slamming. And voices. Again she stared at the door. She stood up, walked across the room and entered the bathroom. It was completely silent, spotless and empty, just as she'd left it the previous evening. She shut the door and sat back down awkwardly on the bed, listening. But it was hard to hear anything at all very clearly.

The young policeman, Graham Quinton, had told her she would have to give a statement and wouldn't be able to leave the house for a bit. They would have to wait for scenes of crime officers and CID to arrive, then forensics and the pathologist. It would all take a while.

It sounded like all hell was breaking loose downstairs. Kyla thought of Simon. The relationship had been over, although not officially, and they still lived together. It had lasted less than a year. Maybe it went tits-up because they'd rushed things, she thought. She shouldn't have moved in so quickly. But she'd had nowhere else to go at the time, other than back to her parents.

It was a 'showbiz' relationship, they'd met at a wrap party for a reality TV show Kyla was starring in. It had always been doomed to failure, maybe, as so many are. The house was huge but there still was not enough room for both of their egos, and that had been a problem.

Simon had been a well known record producer, not quite a household name but revered like a god in dance music circles, at least as popular as any of the big-name DJs.

It wasn't difficult to see why he'd fallen for Kyla. Half-Italian and stunningly attractive, with her jet black hair and dark, flawless skin and as perfect a body as it was possible to possess. She was confident, streetwise and savvy, although she felt none of those things today, just cold and vulnerable.

Simon had been fourteen years her senior, and Kyla genuinely believed she'd hit the jackpot when she hooked up with him. He was famous but in a cool way, it was mainly people under the age of thirty who knew about him. He was certainly flamboyant, as one might expect him to be as boss of the UK's biggest underground dance label and artist-booking agency.

He'd been involved in the club scene from the start and had been instrumental in shaping it into what it is today, a multi-billion pound global franchise. The biggest music movement since rock 'n' roll. He'd been there at the very beginning, the shores of Ibiza in the late 'eighties, to the rave scene in and around London in the 'nineties, to the superclub era of the new millennium, to the present day, early 2002.

Simon had been involved in projects around the world. He was on first-name terms with anyone that mattered within the music industry, from avant-garde techno DJs to the head of music at the BBC and Hollywood film producers. His agency, NMA, looked after the interests of some of the biggest dance acts and DJs in the world, whose appeal was now truly global, thanks in no small part to the work of Simon Owen and his company.

Predictably, there was a media feeding frenzy at the news of Simon's death. It 'sent shockwaves around the celebrity world' as one tabloid screamed. 'Murdered in his mansion' was the sensational headline of another.

Simon had worked the media to his own advantage over the years, but recently he'd found it more and more difficult. They had become increasingly cunning. He realised he needed them less and less, but this only made them seemingly take a greater interest in him. They became ever more prying and intrusive. The last few years had seen the advent of the 'weekly celebrity gossip magazine', and for some reason they took a keen interest in Simon and his antics.

Maybe it was his good looks, maybe they wanted to appeal to a young demographic. He didn't know, but he could've done without their persistent incursion in the months leading up to his death.

Kyla knew why, but she had a different agenda. She loved the media attention. It was what she craved. It had increased ten-fold when they became an item. They were portrayed as one of the country's 'golden couples'. How hollow that sounded now as Simon's cold body lay in a morgue and almost the entire press was offering up theories about who could have possibly done such a thing.
Chapter One - February 2001

Charlie Caxton stood at the back of the DJ booth. It was almost his time. 2 a.m., the peak slot. He waited patiently for the guy up front to finish his set. Charlie knew him vaguely, Mark Wheeler. He was little more than a warm-up really. Mark turned and gestured to Charlie that his final record had started. He now had about three minutes to get in position and cue up his first track.

Charlie took his first proper look at the dance floor. It was jumping. The warehouse-like room was dark, smoky, and the music deafening, but he instinctively knew how spangled the clubbers were, what stage they'd reached as the little white pills took their intensely magical effect on their collective brains.

Charlie didn't like big entrances. He was too cool for that. He was past it. He was pleased that this was one of the venues where they didn't stop the music to introduce the DJ. A name like his needed no introduction. Word would soon get round who was on the decks and he would change style anyway. Mark had whipped the crowd into a frenzy, almost everyone would have dropped their pills by now, some would be on their second, third or fourth.

Charlie carefully and expertly faded Mark's record out and brought his own one in. It wasn't a huge tune, but the change in tempo got the clubbers on the stage and at the front of the dance floor to turn and look.

A few of the slightly less mullered realised who it was. The biggest name in dance music was on the decks, a few feet away from where they stood.

Charlie was the main reason tonight was such a biggy, why such a huge crowd had turned up on this freezing Saturday night.

Clubbers were excitedly tapping their friends and pointing at Charlie, but he was used to it. He wasn't looking but he knew what was going on. He was a man at the absolute top of his profession and in some ways it really didn't matter what he played tonight. Just the name Charlie Caxton meant the punters would go home happy in the morning. That and a lot of drugs.

Sam Bradley stood at the edge of the dance floor. He was buzzing. He had double-dropped a couple of mitzis and they were having the desired effect. He felt someone grab his arm. It was Amanda.

"Guess who's just started! Charlie Caxton! Can you see him? I was on the stage. You come up yet? Come on, let's go!"

Amanda was wide-eyed and a sheen of sweat covered her exposed shoulders. She was chattering but trying to chew gum at the same time, her jaw not fully under control. Sam tried to focus on her, but he couldn't hear what she was saying as lights and images flashed wildly in front of his eyes which flickered in their sockets. They were both very messy.

Sam and Amanda were joined by the rest of their group, Chris, Ian and Susie.

Sam's evening of debauchery had begun approximately five hours ago. He and Chris were sitting in The Crown having a quiet drink, when Sam started getting restless.

"It's just so fucking boring... bollocks. I want some pills, you up for it?

"Sam, you know I don't..."

Sam and Chris had been friends for a long time, and although Sam had been away for a few years at university, they were now living near each other and had resumed their former close friendship. Although they were different in many ways, Chris really admired Sam, and Sam secretly admired Chris. However, this sort of evening tested the bond.

"Come on! All we ever seem to do is sit in this crappy pub."

"Well..." Chris knew what was coming next.

"It's Saturday night, for God's sake. We can't stay in this shithole."

Chris had to admit Sam had a point about the pub. It was full of old men dribbling into their beer. Chris knew Sam wouldn't be dissuaded now.

"I'll call Sean, we'll score some pills then go to a club up town. The world's our onion. Come on, I'm driving."

Chris reluctantly finished his drink and followed his friend out into the car park.

"Sean? Hello, mate... it's Sam."

Sam spoke on his mobile as they stood in the cold, trying to stop his teeth chattering.

"Listen, you got any pills? Sorry to be a pain. You have? Great. Er... fifteen? Okay, I'll be about ten minutes." Sam snapped his mobile shut, tucked it into his jeans pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"Got a score, Chris?"

"No. Look, I don't want any, okay?"

Chris was going to stand his ground on this one. Sam didn't bother pushing any further.

"Okay, fair enough."

The two men made the journey across Dartford to the council estate where Sean lived, stopping only at a cashpoint for Sam to withdraw the rest of the money. Sean had a fearsome reputation among his customers and it was never advisable to owe him money, so Sam made doubly sure he had the right amount.

"Come on! Come on!" Sam hated this part of it. Picking up. Strangely, others seemed to enjoy the slightly sordid risqué aspect of hanging around grotty flats waiting for the local dealer to get his act together in order to sort them out with a few cheekies.

"Don't be so impatient," said Chris, although he wasn't enjoying it any more than Sam. In fact Chris didn't want to be there at all. He didn't even like drugs, he was only there out of loyalty to his friend. And dealers always did this, he thought, they leave you hanging around for ages. Probably to make you think they've much more important things to do than faff about with a couple of idiots with nothing better to do on a Saturday night.

Eventually the rear door opened, and Sean let himself into the car.

"Alright, boys?"

"Sean."

Sean was a few years older but they'd known each other as kids, which meant he was friendlier with them than his other customers. He had been in prison several times since he left school, and a lot of this time was spent body-building. He was now huge and his T-shirt strained against his enormous tattooed chest. His hair was cropped short, revealing various scars on his head where hair didn't grow. He smelt strongly of cigarettes.

"What you boys been up to?"

"Oh, nothing much. We were up The Crown. You know what it's like, dull as pisswater. We thought, it's Saturday night, we should be out toeing it!"

"Well, whatever floats yer boat," said Sean. "Yeah, I was up The Crown the other night. Kyla was there."

Both Sam and Chris turned to look at Sean. Just the name was guaranteed to grab attention. The younger lads knew there was history between Kyla and Sean, but they would never dare to bring up her name within his earshot.

"Kyla? I heard she was in America."

"She was, but she's back. Her story is she's got a singing contract in the States but she's recording in London. Some poncey record label or something." Sam and Chris listened intently. She was a year younger than them and they remembered her from school, although all the boys knew who she was. Glamorous and stunning to look at, the coolest girl around, she had taken her kudos into adulthood.

Kyla enjoyed the good life and fancied herself as a bit of a celebrity. She had travelled the world, with rumours of her adventures filtering back to Dartford. Stories of her making and losing fortunes, sleeping with film and pop stars, contracts to do this, that and the other. Kyla had certainly gained a reputation, although mainly among the men of Dartford, fuelled by gossip and hearsay.

"Oh yeah, she was full of stories as usual, that one. Now she's gonna be on some telly programme or somethin'. You know, all the usual old crap. And everyone was round her like flies round shit. She's just a waste of space if you ask me. Nothing special."

"Er, yeah," agreed Sam, although he didn't really think so. He would love to date Kyla. He would be the envy of all his mates, and most of Dartford.

"Anyway boys, gotta love ya and leave ya. The missus'll start moaning. Here's your jimmys."

"Thanks, Sean." Sam handed the money over and Sean exited the car.

Sam felt pleased with the smoothness in obtaining his new acquisitions. The hard part was over. As they drove through town, Sam was thinking ahead.

"How about we go to mine now? I'll get ready double quick, we'll shoot over to yours, you can get ready, then we'll jump on a train into town. It'll be alright to leave my motor at yours, won't it?"

"Yeah, no problem. What club we going to?" Chris was surprised in that he was actually quite up for going out tonight. He had a reputation among his friends as the 'boring' one, and they were quite happy to say it in front of him. He didn't take drugs, although he'd tried most at one time or another. He enjoyed clubbing and the music, but always stuck to his argument that you didn't need drugs to have a good time. He was easy-going and valued friendship. He was in a long-term relationship but welcomed the occasional night out with the boys, it was nice to have a break from the old routine.

"I reckon we push the boat out. How does Snake grab you?"

Snake was the biggest nightclub in London. It had been running a few years, quietly gathering momentum with a very underground clientele, but with its success had recently established itself as one of Britain's new 'superclubs,' while still maintaining an icy-cool edge.

"Okay... actually, are you sure we'll get in? I've got a feeling it's a big one tonight, someone like... Charlie Caxton's there. I'm sure I heard on the radio..."

"So much the better. We're gonna have a great night then. We'll get in, probably just have to queue for a bit, that's all. It's not that cold!"

Sam drove swiftly across town in the direction of his flat. He was quite proud of his little place, pleased that he didn't live with his parents like most of his friends. He'd had the guts to step out on his own. Of course, it was far from ideal paying someone else's mortgage for a mediocre flat in a fairly run-down part of Dartford. It was, after all, dead money as his stay-at-home friends were so fond of telling him. Unfortunately, options are fairly limited when you're twenty-three, mired in student debt and taking your first tentative steps on the career ladder. Young, middle-class Britain under Tony Blair's New Labour. Debt-ridden, over-qualified and living in ridiculously over-priced housing. Postgraduate and potless, one might say. Still, there was plenty of drink and drugs around to cheer everyone up.

Sam and Chris walked up the stairs and into the flat. Darren (Sam's flatmate) wasn't in, but he must've only just gone out. The room was still warm and there was fresh washing-up in the sink.

"Probably round Steph's," said Sam. Stephanie was Darren's girlfriend. Sam preferred it when Darren went to hers than vice versa. Steph was okay, but listening to them shag through the flimsy walls was a constant reminder to Sam of his single status. Something he could do without being reminded of!

"Make yourself at home, mate."

Sam switched the television on. Darren had insisted on buying a huge plasma screen and it dominated the room, although this wasn't difficult as the flat was tiny. The rest of the décor was fairly standard for low-end rented accommodation. Walls painted white, stained carpet, furniture that didn't match. Chris noticed a few dog-eared magazines strewn around with some air-brushed young model on the front. He immediately thought of Kyla.

"Put what you want on, mate," said Sam, pointing to four remote controls next to his friend.

"Which one's the telly?"

Chris fumbled with the remote until he found the correct button to change the channels. He eventually stopped on something he recognised. Have I Got News For You. Sam returned from the kitchen clutching cold bottles.

"Right. Beer for you, and one for me. Why don't you try and round up a few of the lads. Tell 'em we've got pills. They just need to get their disco rags on and meet us at the train station."

Leon Kennedy looked over the balcony of the VIP room at Snake and admired his work. It was absolutely heaving. The club had had to move to larger premises recently due to its staggering rise in popularity, and tonight it was clear to see why. The venue, The Theatre, was full to its 2500 capacity. There was no space on the dance floor and the bar areas were at least four-deep.

The somewhat dull and unimaginative name of the venue was a reference to its previous incarnation, and the club had retained many of the original features from its days as a theatre. The stage and wings had been converted into a main dance floor, the luxury box area was now home to the DJ booth with a stage and stairs built beneath it. This meant the DJ could see most of the club in front of him. The two-tiered stalls area had been converted into a stepped dance area that stretched back high into the building, giving the effect of a half-bowl shape a lot like the classic design of the Space terrace in Ibiza.

The dance floor was surrounded by speakers so most of the sound stayed in the middle of the club, and the high roof meant there was little vibration overhead. Perfect acoustics for high-decibel dance music.

Charlie Caxton was close to finishing his set and the crowd were going berserk. Even an old hand like Leon got a buzz out of it. It reminded of him of when he was nineteen and carefree, when the only important thing in life was having a good time.

Leon was an experienced club promoter but even he had worked his arse off to get tonight right. It was probably the biggest night Snake had ever known, its third birthday bash. Leon had started the club fairly small, but it had grown so quickly and they'd moved to the bigger venue about a year ago.

Leon had been putting on parties on and off for the last twenty years. He knew what was needed to succeed and tonight proved it. He knew that he would be the toast of clubland after this, if he wasn't already. He was thirty-eight years old and now, with a lot of graft and a little help from his friends, he had reached the premier league of club promoting.

"Hey Leon, you cunt! How's it going?" Leon just about heard the shout over the deafening thudding base that shook the floor. It was Simon Owen, owner of Nomiston Music & Artists. The pair went way back, as far as the first Ibiza days of the 'eighties.

"Simon! You turned up then. I thought it was past your bedtime."

"Nah mate. I must say I'm impressed!" A wry smile played across Leon's lips. Simon, with his business partner, Tony, ran a DJ and musician booking agency and was a hugely successful record producer in his own right. He was a millionaire, and had some huge underground (and overground) acts on his books, including one of the world's biggest DJs, Charlie Caxton.

Leon was always slightly in awe of Simon, recognising him as a shrewd and at times ruthless businessman. But Simon always had time for his mates and was more than happy to help them out if necessary. Simon had a slight hand in making tonight what it was, but Leon had done the hard work, putting in the hours over the last three years, and Simon knew it. He understood the determination and slog it took to make a night like tonight go off. Leon deserved congratulations.

"I brought a case of Cristal over in case you ran out. Call it a birthday present."

"Cheers mate, but there's not much chance of that. The bar's stocked up. Then again, look at all these people..." It amazed Leon how many people had made it into his VIP room. It was always the same, no matter how strict he tried to keep the guest list. But then he admired blaggers, he was one himself. Tonight he wanted everyone to have a good time, sharing his success. His night.

Simon surveyed his surroundings. There were the obligatory stick-thin high-cheek-boned women, impossibly stunning, champagne glasses in hand, looking down their noses at anyone who walked past. As usual they seemed thoroughly bored but tonight this was the party to be at and the VIP room was the only place to be seen.

There were a few record industry bods scattered around, some he knew well, most he at least recognised. A few journalists hovered around, beer in hand. He had encountered many over the years. They usually wanted to speak to Charlie Caxton, but were useful to know when a track or an album was coming out.

Leon's head of security, Derek Butler, stood close by, radio in one hand, drink in the other. If Del felt relaxed enough to have a drink, then things must be going okay. He's even smiling! Almost, thought Leon. He was about to go over and chat to Del, when his attention was diverted to the stairway leading up to the VIP room. He could see security men clearing a path for a figure to slowly inch his way up the steps through the crowds of people. A small group followed behind the man, carrying boxes. Their path was treacherous due to the crowds of clubbers vying to catch a glimpse of their hero. And booze and drugs made them fearless.

Eventually the figure made it to the roped-off entrance of the VIP room. By this time everyone knew it was Charlie Caxton. He'd finished his set and had time for a few drinks before his next gig, an after-party over in the east end somewhere.

"Hey Charlie, how's it going?" Leon held out his hand, Charlie grabbed it and shook it warmly, still high on adrenalin from the blistering set he'd just played. Some of the clubbers would need to be scraped off the ceiling in the morning.

"Fucking great, mate, I need a drink!"

"Oh yeah, course, mate. Want one, Si?"

"Do you need to ask? Can you get me a beer as well?" Leon, playing host to the last detail, collected three glasses of the finest champagne from the bar, plus Simon's extra beer. Leon knew Simon was a heavy drinker. They all were. It went with the territory. Leon soon returned.

"I think congratulations are in order," Simon exclaimed. In a way he was glad the focus was away from him tonight. He could have a night off. He was so used to being the centre of attention. He had attended so many parties recently where any sycophantic Tom, Dick or Joe Bloggs would sidle over to him, sucking up, usually because they wanted something. Listen to this demo, go and see the other band. Simon had long realised his power came at a price, and the price was pathetic hangers-on, all wanting a piece of his action.

"This is some fucking party you've put on Leon, and the boy here played his usual blinder!" Praise indeed thought Leon, and allowed himself to bask in the glory. He was slightly less used to it than Simon and Charlie, and Charlie also felt relieved at grabbing a breather. As the men sipped their drinks Charlie felt his natural high start to wear off.

"Anyone got any ching?" he enquired. He needed to keep alert until at least the start of his next gig, which was a few hours away. He couldn't allow himself to relax too much. He never took drugs during a set, and usually not for a least an hour before. He liked to keep a clear head and concentrate, people had paid money to see him play, after all. On the other hand, he wasn't getting any younger and needed a bit of extra oomph these days to keep the mood going. He needed to at least bridge the gap until it was time to get into the car and head to the next club.

"Del'll sort you out," Leon replied. Derek normally had gear on him for moments like this. He was pretty straight-laced himself, and Leon paid him well for his discretion. Leon regarded him highly, as a trusted right-hand man. You could always rely on Del for anything, and he was so well-in with the local police his desk could look like the final scene from Scarface and no-one would touch him.

Leon gestured to Del to come over to the group. He put down his drink and sidled over.

"Sort Charlie out with some, er... Charlie, will you?"

"No problem, here you go, mate."

Del removed a small wrap from his pocket and handed it to Charlie. The DJ disappeared into the toilet, with the bouncer keeping a watchful eye on the door. He wouldn't let anyone in until Charlie returned. It was this astuteness that Leon admired in Del. Although he didn't give a toss about music, he knew that one of its biggest names was in his toilet, and even though everyone knew superstar DJs took drugs by the bucketload, it would be dangerous to the club if he was caught doing them inside. Del knew how much Leon had put into making the night work and he'd been part of it. Allowing the star act to do coke, quickly, easily and in total safety was just another spoke in the wheel of making the night go smoothly.

Del had been a real find for Leon a few years ago, and they were perfect together. Despite Leon's vast experience, all his previous endeavours had had limited success because he'd never had someone like Del. Leon now fully understood how essential a good security man was to putting on a night of this scale.

Leon's nights in the past had been okay, with a regular clientele and good music, but there were always problems. Problems with drugs, police and gangsters. Leon had been forced to close a number of seemingly successful nights because of the trouble.

He'd been about to call it a day, get out of club promoting for good, when he met Del. Del was an ex-policeman, and had gained a reputation as one of the hardest, cleverest coppers around, an expert at planting evidence and fitting-up. An awful lot of high-ranking bobbies in the Met owed their success to Derek Butler, and he still had many contacts within the force. He'd left a few years ago, after sailing a little too close to the wind with a case that very nearly brought down the very top brass within the force. Plus, he felt he could make better money working as a freelance security man.

And Leon, with this latest venture, had an ultra-reliable way of getting ecstasy into his club and selling it, via his old and trusted friend, Simon Owen. It was only when Snake was born that Leon properly appreciated the power of Simon and the service he could provide.

Each Friday morning, Del would send out one of his men to pick up a package, and Leon knew Del would only ever use reliable people. The pickup usually took place at a motorway services or a café somewhere. The package would contain about five thousand pills or so, enough for a weekend. The courier would then bring the package to the club and divide the pills into bags of fifty or a hundred. Various dealers would arrive at the club before it opened to the public and collect their quota. The dealers were welcome to sample the goods if they so desired, and they usually did.

The selling price was set by Leon, usually around five pounds each, but the dealers could be flexible if they wanted, say if a punter wanted ten in one go for example. It was on a 'sale or return' basis, any pills not sold could be returned to the club, but this was rare.

Each dealer had his own area of the club, and Del would have one of his bouncers keep an eye on the dealer. If a bouncer caught anyone else selling, the drugs would be confiscated and the pretender promptly thrown out with the offending substances handed to a Snake dealer. Once the Snake dealer had sold all his pills, he could either get some more from Del, or cane it with everyone else. The dealer would have a free night out and make some money, although a large percentage had to be turned over to the club in exchange for the right to deal.

The money from the pills would be swallowed up with the door and bar takings, and Del would personally ensure there were no problems with that process. He had such a fearsome reputation with his staff that no-one would dare to rip him off, least of all the dealers. Most of them were bright enough to realise that working for Del was a good thing, that they were well looked after and well paid. It beat selling drugs outside the club, like some losers insisted on doing. Once Leon had the drug money he could pay his supplier.

The local police largely knew this was going on, but they also knew Leon. He was a man to be trusted. Leon met regularly with a local officer, Chief Inspector John Penrose, whose job it was to keep an eye on Snake.

One of Leon's finest hours took place in the early days of Snake when discussing its licence-renewal with Penrose.

"You know, Leon, things have really started to look up for the area since Snake opened. I've been studying the statistics for Friday nights. Violent crime is down, assaults, drunken disorderlys, complaints by the public about antisocial behaviour, even Counsellor Davies is happy. It really is a surprise."

"It's no surprise to me, John. It's our... co-operation." Penrose wasn't clear. Up until now he'd secretly been wary about his arrangement with Leon. Leon could be trusted, sure, but was it really wise to allow a club of Snake's magnitude to operate in his own back yard, with such little police supervision? And why exactly had his job become so much easier since Snake opened its doors?

"It's simple," Leon began to explain. "Violent, alcohol-related crime is down sharply, right?"

"Right."

"Do you think the losers that used to cause those problems have seen the errors of their ways? Stopped the drinking and hooligan behaviour because they want to get an early night, ready for church in the morning? Of course not. The thugs are in my club, off their heads. But instead of caving people's heads in, they're running around hugging each other like a bunch of spaced-out loons. What would you rather? Your men can look after the community you're paid to look after. The frightened little old ladies. The press will get hold of those stats you've got in your hand and it will be congratulations all round, old boy. You will be the hero of the constabulary. And the reason is because you let us do our thing in our own club every Friday."

Leon decided even more ego-massage wouldn't hurt.

"And John, I take it your figures for drug offences are just as healthy as they always were?"

"Yes they are..." Penrose didn't like to admit it, but that was the thing he found most puzzling. It was fairly obvious that with a club like Snake open, alcohol related incidents would inevitably go down, but why had drugs stayed largely the same?

"Your men are bright enough to realise that people going out and coming into the club are bound to have drugs on them, right?"

"Right."

"So, all they need to do is drive around until they see a car full of kids, pull them over, use the stop and search powers, then voila! You're gonna get 'em on intent to supply or at least possession. Stats stay healthy, you tell the press, give them the zero tolerance angle. The press leave us alone, because they think we're drug-free. The kids get the message that it's not worth trying to bring anything in to Snake, and we can... do our thing."

John Penrose nodded slowly. He was a man who appreciated straight talking, but Leon also understood it would be a mistake to actually say out loud that drugs were being sold in Snake.

It was approaching 7 a.m. and the night was finally winding down. The music still pumped at a ferocious volume, but the cleaners had moved onto the dance floor. Daylight was streaming in through the doors. The floor surface was a sea of discarded plastic water and beer bottles and a film of black sludge covered the surface.

Two members of Sam's group had left about an hour ago when the first trains started. Only Sam, Ian and Amanda remained. The debate now was whether or not to find another party, or call it a day and head home for a smoke and a few drinks.

Sam was flying. "Come on, let's go somewhere else! The night's still young!"

"It's morning, Sam," Amanda pointed out.

"I know, but I'm still caned. I've got a few cheekies left. What you saying, Ian?"

"Yeah, fuck it. Let's go."

"Oh... alright then," Amanda capitulated.

"By the way, how did you get on with that girl?"

Amanda and Ian had seen Sam chatting to a girl about half an hour ago. Her body language told them she looked interested.

"Got her number and a little snog!" he said.

"Well done!"

Amanda was pleased. It was about time Sam got a girlfriend.
Chapter Two

"So, how many have we got so far?" Carl Johnson glanced down at his notepaper. He was keen to keep this production meeting on track. It had been going for most of the morning and he knew there was plenty more to get through. Several times now the discussion had broken down into small irrelevant conversations amongst those in attendance. At first Carl didn't mind, but he was starting to get irritable. He had an afternoon of engagements he couldn't be late for.

"I make it seven," Carl said firmly, before anyone had the chance to answer. He was chairing the meeting and his authoritative tone at least made everyone shut up, even if they didn't have an immediate answer to his question.

"Seven it is." Jeff Stein was the first to respond directly. He considered himself to be an equal of Carl, and they were around the same age. Jeff was CEO of Push, a large, mainstream record label. Having been with the company all his working life, he was about to embark on a second career he hoped, as a television personality.

Carl worked as a producer for Slam! Television and came from similarly humble beginnings. His many credits included the first two, highly successful, series of Sleeping With The Enemy. This was one of the final meetings for the team making the third series. Carl and Jeff were all too aware of how important they were to each other and the rest of the people in the room, so when one or other of them started talking, people tended to shut up and listen.

"Can we hurry things up, please? I want to be done by lunchtime." The tone of Carl's voice made everyone in the room simultaneously look downwards and study their notes intently. Jeff had already sensed, and indeed shared, Carl's impatience. He was also a busy man. It would do no harm at all, he felt, to do his bit in quickening the proceedings up somewhat.

"I think we should go for Kyla as number eight," he said boldly. The others at the table sensed the urgency and scrabbled through their paperwork to find the pictures and notes on Kyla which they had all been given.

Sleeping With The Enemy was the reality TV show of the moment. The first two series had pulled in well over ten million viewers and the format had been sold around the world. It had all the ingredients of what Carl Johnson called 'great telly'. The format was fairly simple. Ten highly ambitious young people had to live together in a giant mansion for the period of one month. They were watched 24-7 by 230 hidden cameras positioned all over the interior of the building.

The idea was to find the 'next big star' of various professions. The first series was female models, the second was male actors, and this, the third offering, was concerned with finding a new female pop-singer, and it promised to be the best yet.

The recorded footage of the house would be viewed by the 'judges'. Three experts in the field. In this series, music. The viewing public would see edited highlights of goings-on in the house and the judges, watching it all, passing comment. The contestants would also be set challenges that were either directly or indirectly involved with the profession they were aspiring to. This would help the judges determine the strongest and weakest candidates, as well as being highly entertaining for the viewers.

At the end of each week the judges would pick who they felt were the weakest two candidates after watching their behaviour while performing tasks, although the criteria on which the contestants were to be judged were a little vague to say the least.

The two candidates would then face the 'public vote'. The viewers had the opportunity to call in and nominate which of the pair they felt was not worthy of staying in the house, the evicted contestant would then be eliminated from the game.

The viewing public would also ultimately decide the winner of the show. In this series the prize on offer was a record deal with the highly-regarded Push label, one of the biggest in the country. The winner could look forward to releasing a song backed by some of the most respected names in the industry, and it would almost certainly become a number-one hit. The singer would become a star overnight. 'The sky's the limit' as the trailers for the show constantly screamed. And the viewing public would have the satisfaction of knowing they contributed something to an industry that was constantly in their face but ordinarily they had little input into. Revolutionary.

"Does anyone have any objections to using Kyla as contestant number eight?" Carl asked.

"I think we should at least watch her audition tape before we make our final decision," Kelly replied. Kelly Rome was to be one of the judges on the show. She had been picked largely because she was loud and opinionated, but well-respected. In her capacity as one of the youngest editors of a national pop-music magazine, she was used to dealing with pushy, impatient men and was more than capable of standing up to them if the situation arose.

Carl cursed silently. He was not in the mood to argue and he knew, really, that it would be a good idea to watch Kyla's tape again.

"Kirsty, could you do the honours, please?" Carl addressed the young runner Slam! had employed to help with mundane duties such as retrieving a video tape, loading it, then playing it to the assembled gathering. While Kirsty fumbled at one end of the room, Kelly voiced her thoughts on the subject of Kyla.

"We've had a few dealings with Kyla Andretti at IFP," she began. Those in the room turned to look at her. She continued: "The newsdesk often gets sent pictures of her on the arm of various celebs. You know the type, desperate for their fifteen minutes. She sniffs round footballers and film stars."

Kelly was going to stop there, but she sensed her colleagues wanted her to go on. They loved gossip as much as anyone.

"As celeb shaggers go, she's done alright. There were rumours of a fling with Jaik Marlon, and she was seen with him a few times at LA nightclubs. Not bad for some little floozy from Kent." The others laughed. Jaik Marlon was an A-list American movie star.

"Come to think of it, I've seen her before," Jeff said slowly as he thought. "Yes... she sent pictures to us. She's desperate for anything. A true wannabe."

"She's stunning," Carl voiced what he'd been thinking for the last few minutes. "Why didn't she make it?"

"I can't remember now. I'm sure there was a good reason." Jeff desperately tried to remember more, but he dealt with so many beautiful young people on a daily basis it was difficult recall individuals. The conversation firmly made Carl's mind up. They would use Kyla as contestant number eight. From a ratings-grabbing point of view she was perfect. Imagine the headlines when the papers found out that the ex-girlfriend of a film star was going to be on the programme. And she was absolutely stunning. She was bound to upset the other contestants. A beautiful, desperate, fame-hungry wannabe with a past looking for the chance to show off on national television. Isn't that what Sleeping With The Enemy was all about? Those present in the meeting put up no resistance to Carl's suggestion of using Kyla. They too could already see the potential of featuring her in the show. This was, after all, an exercise in making fairly trashy television.

If anyone was wavering slightly in their decision to put Kyla on the programme, they certainly were not after seeing her audition tape. Kyla addressed the camera directly throughout the fifteen minutes. Her deep brown eyes were utterly mesmerising. She constantly reminded the viewers that she was 'ruthlessly ambitious' and 'hard as nails' and would 'stop at nothing to win at all costs.'

Slam! had its pantomime villain for the third series of Sleeping With The Enemy.
Chapter Three

Sam was late for work. Monday morning, and it had been a heavy weekend. No, please! It can't be!

Sam despaired as the alarm sounded, forcing him to wake from his fitful slumber. The tinny music from his clock-radio felt like it was piercing his brain. His eyelids were seemingly glued together as the grey morning daylight tried to force them apart, and it was strange how he couldn't remember the point during the night when his tongue had been replaced by carpet.

The previous evening Sam had felt exhausted, but the remains of the MDMA and alcohol danced in his system as he'd tried to sleep. It had been a terrible night. As soon as he dozed, horrible coloured images flashed before his eyes. He was cold, yet sweat soaked the sheets.

He tried not to think how many hours it was until Monday morning and he would have to face the world again, the fun memories of Saturday night disappearing with the working week that stretched out in front of him.

Now the radio cheerfully blared out in his right ear, oblivious to the pain Sam felt. He couldn't possibly get up now on this freezing morning. The whole idea was insane. Sam closed his eyes once more. A computer screen with his bank balance flashed before his eyes, especially the letters DR. He tried to push the thought out of his head when Dean, his boss's sweating head appeared, spitting the words as he'd done about a month ago when Sam was last off sick.

"Consider this your final warning. I've been very patient with you, Sam. Now

you're really starting to irritate me. You've made it quite clear how you view this job. To be honest, I'll be pleased when you finally do piss off. But right now I pay your wages and I expect a certain standard. Is that too much to ask? For you to actually turn up for work on a Monday morning?"

Wanker thought Sam, not for the first time. He somehow began to drag himself through the torture of a Monday morning with a pill comedown. Monday bore the physical pain. The headaches, the sweating, the dry mouth, the stomach doing somersaults. Irritability brought on by lack of sleep.

The psychological torment would come later. It was in the post. ETA Tuesday-ish. The depression. The midweek blues. Suicide Tuesday. Sam would swear to himself that he would never go clubbing again. Never touch pills. They were a waste of time. He would focus on getting his life back on track. He would get a decent job and start earning proper money. He would meet the girl of his dreams and leave all this crap behind. No more of that fucker Dean treating him like shit at work in the Energize! gym in dreary Dartford. No more earning something just above what was laughingly called the minimum wage. No more helplessly watching his overdraft grow bigger and bigger after a weekend spent caning it. Maybe he could actually get paid enough to live on and still go out on the razz every so often.

But on this hellish grey Monday morning all that seemed a very long way off. Somehow Sam hauled himself out of bed and made it to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror, not a pretty sight. His greasy skin was a pallid, grey colour. Daylight tried to force his red, watering, bloodshot eyes open properly, but they were protesting vigorously. His pupils, huge and dilated twenty-four hours ago, were now pin-prick small as they tried to adjust to the harsh glare of the winter sun through the frosted glass. The area beneath his eyes was swollen and dark.

Sam poked his tongue out. Saliva was non-existent, and his tongue had a white coating on it that was starting to tinge brown due to the length of time it had been there. His teeth felt sensitive and were the colour of an old newspaper that had been left out in the sun too long.

He was usually proud of his head of thick brown hair, but this morning it looked anything but cool. Sam had washed it last night to rid it from the filth of the club, and now it was shapelessly perched on top of his head, bouffant style. It needed cutting, Sam would've thought, if he could think straight.

He made his way to the kitchen. The floor was cold and hadn't been cleaned in a long time. It was sticky and he felt food debris attach itself to the soles of his feet. He was dehydrated, and his thirst raged. This was the first priority. With some effort Sam found a clean glass and a plastic bottle of orange squash. He turned the tap on until it ran cold, and with shaking hands somehow fixed himself the drink. He necked the glassful in one go, and made another and swallowed every drop. His shagpile-like mouth demanded still more. He made another glassful and drank half of it, then wandered back to his bedroom. Collapsing on the bed, he pulled the duvet back over himself. Just five minutes more to warm up again , he thought.

The liquid and sugar in his body very slightly eased his pain and he felt a little more alert. Suddenly, confused thoughts were aggressively vying for attention in his mind. He tried to concentrate on the main problem of the moment. Getting ready for work. It felt like an insurmountable task. Just go through the motions, the sensible part of Sam was saying. It's not difficult. Just get out of bed and get dressed and get to work. You've done it a hundred times before. It's just routine, just get through it, there's nothing to tax you today, just get on with it and no-one will know any different. Then you can get back home to sleep.

Sam attempted to get dressed. He so wished he could detach his body from his mind and not feel the pain it was causing him. If only he could leave his brain sleeping on his pillow while his body got on with the day.

Eventually Sam felt presentable enough to leave the flat. He usually drove to work, but not today. He felt too rough. He would wait for a bus. He was already late, and the bus would probably be quicker during rush hour.

It was a cold, crisp February morning. The air entering his lungs tried determinedly to force him from his stupor as his breath made large clouds in front of him.

He managed to doze at the back of the bus during the fifteen-minute journey to Energise! in Dartford. He was only about twenty minutes late. Sam prayed Dean wasn't around.

"Morning!" Sam called as he gingerly entered the building through the front door. His two colleagues were stood behind the reception desk. Unfortunately there were no customers.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." It was Tanya, one of Sam's workmates.

"Heavy weekend?" Tanya was about the same age as Sam and she knew all about his weekend escapades.

"Yeah, mental." Sam tried to smile. Any enthusiasm for the previous few days had vanished along with the energy from his body.

"You're lucky. Dean's out this morning. But he'll be back this afternoon. Hopefully you'll be able to put yourself back together by then." Sam was doubtful.

"Sarah and I'll do the front desk," she went on. "You can do a bit of cleaning or something, we can't have you dealing with customers in that state."

Was it really that obvious? But Sam appreciated Tanya's kindness. She was a good friend. Normally Sam hated cleaning, but this morning he was grateful. No-one breathing down his neck. And Monday mornings were normally quiet, customer-wise. He could get on with his tasks in peace, taking regular breaks. If he could just put up with the smell of the cleaning products he might just survive, he thought.

It was about eighteen months since Sam had left university. He felt he'd reached the proverbial brick wall as far as his career was going. A couple of months he'd thought when he took the job in the fitness centre.

He was sensible enough to realise that few people walk straight into well-paid jobs in advertising immediately after college, and he understood good careers don't grow on trees, but a year and a half? And there didn't seem to be much on the horizon, either.

He'd attended several interviews, some of which he had really thought he'd been close to clinching, but alas. Sam knew how many others there were in his shoes, how many he was competing against, something the tutors had failed to mention when he enrolled on his course. He'd been a little naive back then, at nineteen years old. He'd certainly had no idea that, four and half years down the line, he would find himself in this position. Still, he tried to keep positive. Keep at it. After all, he did have a job of sorts. It paid the bills (almost) and he could keep looking. Things were bound to pick up soon. Just not this cold February day with the comedown from hell and a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other.

Sam somehow survived the morning. On several occasions nausea swept over him and he had to breath deeply and move to a window to avoid puking. It was touch-and-go a few times, but he managed to keep it together to just about appear normal to those he encountered.

Food would make him feel worlds better, he knew that, but his mouth still felt like the bottom of a birdcage. Sam managed to force down a sandwich with the aid of two bottles of sweet fizzy-orange, a tried and tested recovery formula. There was a battle going on in his body, the toxins were being forced out. There was no home for them anymore. He still sweated profusely at the slightest exertion, but that was good, he thought. Sweat 'em out and guzzle fluids all day. He was winning the battle.

Then Dean came back.

"Sam, I want you on the front desk. Tanya and Sarah have got inductions." Fuck, thought Sam. He would have to speak to people, and at the moment that involved concentration. At least there might be a woman or two in a tight-fitting leotard passing through. The thought raised his spirits. And, he remembered, he would be sitting down.

The first hours of the afternoon passed slowly but uneventfully. Thankfully, Mondays were quiet generally, but they always got busier later in the afternoon as people finished work.

As the afternoon wore on, Sam's morning exertions and general tiredness were making themselves felt in his body and he began to doze in his chair. The heaters were on full blast as it was such a cold day. He would get up in a minute and splash his face with water.

"Sam!" Dean glared across the counter, his face pink with rage. Sam could see the veins throbbing at his temples. "What's wrong with you? This is a health and fitness club and the receptionist is dozing off at the front desk!" Sam bristled at the word receptionist, and he really wasn't in the mood for Dean today.

"Oh, er, sorry. It's just, erm, I'm not sleeping very well at the moment. A lot on my mind, you know." Sam thought he would try the sympathy angle.

"But you have no trouble sleeping at work, is that it?" Dean always did this, stated the obvious and tried to back you into a corner. Luckily, today it seemed he had something else on his mind. "You want to buck your ideas up. I don't pay you to nod off on the bloody front desk!"

This was another thing that irritated Sam. Dean always made it sound like he paid the employees personally, that anything they did wrong would cost Dean money out of his own pocket.

"Okay, sorry, it won't happen again." For once Dean let the matter lie.

Sam was more alert now. The run-in with Dean had woken the resentment inside him which he always felt after such incidents. His relationship with his boss had deteriorated gradually over the past eighteen months. The main problem was that Dean knew Sam viewed the job merely as a stopgap. Sam was often loud and outspoken and regularly made his feelings clear about the job. It angered Dean. He understood people had ambition and wanted to move on, but did he have to go on about it all the time? It undermined him and devalued the position. It affected staff morale, as they often got the impression that Sam wasn't pulling his weight. Add to this the fact that Sam would often come in, as he had today, suffering the after-effects of a long weekend abusing his body. Working relations between the two had reached an all-time low. Deep down, Sam felt he should try to make amends with Dean, he knew it was mainly his fault for the way in which his boss viewed him. Dean was just trying to run a business. It wasn't Dean's fault that Sam couldn't get the job he wanted. It also wasn't his fault that Sam got paid crap money, that decision was taken at some head office somewhere. Sam knew he should take more pride in his work, he would certainly have to change his attitude if he got the job in advertising he so hankered after. All this played on Sam's strung-out mind as he tried to get through the last hour of Monday afternoon.

As predicted, the gym steadily got busier as people knocked off work. Sam felt pleased, time passed quickly. Nearly home and dry he thought as he swiped the membership card of a petite, attractive blonde woman. He turned to his next customer. His heart sank. The huge frame of Don Quigley made a dark shadow over Sam's work area. Don had been a member at the centre for a long time. A keen user of the free-weights. His huge biceps bulged and his chest- and back-muscles stretched the flimsy singlet he was wearing. Like Dean earlier, his face was thunder and veins bulged out of his bald head, stretching his sunbed-enhanced brown skin. A feeling of dread engulfed Sam as Quigley spoke.

"I've been charged twice. Again! What's the matter with you people? There's plenty of other gyms 'round 'ere, you know. I can take my business elsewhere!"

"You've been charged twice? What for?" Sam could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his own voice.

"What do you think? Me bleedin' membership, of course! This keeps happening. You lot debit my account each month, and each time two lots of forty quid come out instead of one. Look!" Quigley thrust a piece of paper in front of Sam. A bank statement.

"There!" Quigley's thick finger hammered at the numbers in question. Sam did indeed see very clearly two debits for £40 under the heading of Energise! - Dartford branch.

"That's a bank error," Sam finally said, his voice a monotone.

"A bank error? Don't be ridiculous!" Quigley was fuming now. Flecks of spit rained down on Sam as he tried to keep his attention on the statement. "I had this problem before and your manager said he'd sorted it out! Now look!"

"All we do is fill the forms out and send them to your bank. It's up to them to set up the direct debit mandate correctly." Sam knew this part was correct.

"So you're blaming the bank! Passing the buck!"

"No..." What have I done to deserve this? Sam thought.

"What are you going to do about it?" Quigley demanded. Sam thought about asking him to speak to his bank, but dismissed the idea. The man was irate enough.

"Er, I can give you a refund for the forty pounds now..." I'll just give you whatever you want, just leave me alone.

"That's a start." Sam hoped this would be enough, but the expression on Quigley's face told him it wasn't.

"And I'll call your bank myself to get this error sorted out." Surely this would pacify the prat.

"And?" Obviously not.

"What?" Sam felt the irritation rise in himself now. What else did this idiot want? Sam had been more than helpful.

"Get me your manager, please." The self-importance of the man was staggering. Sam had personally offered to sort this problem out, but Quigley was still not satisfied. Now Sam would have to break the news to Dean that there was an irate muscleman in reception waiting to bend his ear. Sam got on the phone and called Dean's office.

"Yes?" Sam explained the situation. "Can't you deal with it?" asked Dean in his tetchy manner.

"I've tried, but..." Sam had to force himself not to say "the cunt won't listen."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming over."

And so the day ended. Sam survived. He'd only upset one customer and Dean a couple of times. An average Monday, really. He'd get an early night, and tomorrow would be a better day.

Dear Sam,

Thank you for your recent application for the position of office junior at FPC. I am pleased to invite you for an interview. Please call my secretary June Hemmings on 020 7845 2548 to arrange a convenient time.

Kind regards

Tristan Carrington-Smyth

Sam gazed at the computer screen with interest. It was Tuesday evening and he was going through his emails. Pleasing, but he didn't want to get too carried away. FPC was a large advertising agency, but the job he'd applied for was very low-ranking with a small salary and unlikely to involve much creativity. But it was a start, thought Sam, a way in. It was all he could hope for at this stage. It was good news. He would call the lady in the morning and arrange the interview.

Sam was in a good mood all the way home. He still felt a little fragile, but the news of the interview helped ward off the midweek blues creeping up on him, a belated reminder of the blistering weekend that was now a distant memory.

And there was something else occupying Sam's thoughts on this dark Tuesday evening. He had met a girl on Saturday night. It was time to call her. She was very pretty, from what he remembered. Small and gentle-looking. His memories beyond that were sketchy due to the state he'd been in. He'd written down her name, thankfully. Nikki. He remembered she wasn't English. Australian or American, he didn't know. But he had enough information to call her and attempt to fix up a date.

Sam closed his bedroom door and picked up his mobile. He had already stored Nikki's number as he didn't trust himself not lose it. It was a landline, an outer London 0208 number. It rang a few times.

"Oh hi, is that Nikki?"

"Yes."

"Er, hi, it's Sam. I met you in Snake at the weekend." Silence.

"Oh. Yeah, hi! I remember. Sorry, I'm not with it today. How are you?"

"Pretty good thanks, just about recovered, I think. How are you?" Why are these conversations always so awkward? thought Sam.

"I'm good, I'm good." She's American. The accent was unmistakable. Why had he been in doubt?

"You were real messy the other night."

"Oh yeah, you noticed." Sam smiled, but felt embarrassed. There was another awkward silence. "I was wondering if you fancied meeting up one night, maybe next week." Sam was hoping to recover fully from the weekend by the time he met Nikki.

"Er, yeah, sounds cool. How about Tuesday?"

"A week today, er, yeah. No problem. I take it you live in London, do you?"

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Dartford." There was another silence. It sounded like Nikki didn't know where Dartford was.

"Do you want to meet in town?" Nikki solved the problem. Sam felt relieved, and also pleased with her enthusiastic tone.

"Okay." Sam thought quickly, he needed to sound decisive but not like he'd thought about it too much. "How about near Snake? There's plenty of bars round there?"

"Great idea... Erm, do you know The Ice Bar?"

"Oh yes." Sam was pleased Nikki seemed to know the same haunts as him, and the conversation was now flowing freely.

"About...eight?" Nikki had taken charge now. But she is American, thought Sam. He could almost hear her confidence.

"Sure. I'll see you then?"

"Yep, sure will, bye."

"Bye." Sam shut his mobile, making sure the call had disconnected. A huge smile played across his face. He felt elated as the nerves that had built up before he'd made the call suddenly disappeared. That was painless, he thought.

He tried to recall exactly what she looked like. He remembered her as being small and dark, with short hair. But he couldn't picture her face. Inevitably he fantasised about what she looked like naked, and imagined having sex with her.

The week that had started out so horribly was actually turning out very well. Even the comedown was now in the distant past, the midweek blues had been chased away, before they'd had a chance to start.

Sam had not had a proper girlfriend for a long time. Too long, he thought. Another thing lacking in his life. His spare time was occupied with drinking and partying, which was enjoyable, but deep down he really longed to be in a couple.

"There's plenty of time for all that shit," he would say to his friends. "Right now I'm happy caning it every weekend, we're only this age once. We've got decades to meet birds. We won't be able to go out when we're fifty though, will we?"

It was a well-worn argument, he used it a lot, but only half meant it. He would love to have a girlfriend. To stay in on a Saturday night cuddled up in front of the telly. Spend Sunday morning making love, then going shopping together, that sort of thing. Sam would never admit it but he was more than ready to get into a long-term relationship. He would still go out clubbing and partying with his mates, but he dearly wanted to meet someone special.

There had been flings at university, and one-night stands. They were okay. He would bask in the glory for a few weeks and show off to his mates, but the relationships never lasted and this bothered Sam. What was he doing wrong? Why did women not want to stay with him? Why could other men his age sustain a relationship, but he couldn't?

He was quite good-looking, with cheeky, boyish features and a wicked smile, about average height. He had thick brown hair that sometimes even looked okay. He worked-out when he could face staying on at work after home-time. He had a personality, he was funny, he wore half-decent clothes, didn't live with his parents and owned a car. Plenty going for him. He felt sure he would meet someone soon. Maybe, just maybe he had. But he didn't want to get carried away. He had made that mistake in the past.

Sam's good mood lasted until Friday. The weekend came around again quickly, and as per usual his mobile buzzed with text messages from friends asking what he was up to, and could they join him? It was good to be so popular, thought Sam, but it wasn't other people that brought him crashing down to earth that Friday evening.

Sam finished work as usual, and decided to do something he had been avoiding. He checked the balance of his bank account. Sam felt the colour drain out of his face as he held the small white slip of paper in his hand. How could he possibly be this broke? It was still two weeks until payday and he was about twenty pounds short of reaching his overdraft limit. A limit he had increased on two occasions recently. Last Saturday had been big, admittedly, but he'd hardly been out apart from that.

Sam dejectedly drove home, trying to remember everything he'd spent recently. It was so difficult keeping track. He parked his Peugeot 205 outside his flat, thinking it was something he may not be able to do for much longer. The car was a constant drain on his funds.

What a way to ruin a weekend thought Sam. He felt so down he rejected any offers of company that evening. A night in front of the telly was about all he could afford and all he felt like doing. Sam reflected on his life. Up one minute, down the next, that's all it seemed to be at the moment. At least his body would thank him for a weekend away from alcohol and drugs.

Friday night TV completely failed to raise his spirits, the usual celebrity wank-fest as per usual. He paid far more attention to the adverts than the programmes. If he could only get a half-decent job, he thought, his troubles would be over. Most of them, anyway.

Sam eventually went to bed, but it wasn't long before he was woken by Darren and Steph having noisy sex in the next room. Just perfect thought Sam as he held the pillow around his ears.
Chapter Four

Sean Philips was in a foul mood. This was not uncommon. In fact, he was such an unpleasant person it was difficult to tell when he wasn't in a foul mood. His character only ever had three traits. Usually it switched between 'aggressive' and 'psychotic'. Very occasionally, and only when he absolutely had to be, Sean's manner could be described as 'civil'.

Today there was a particular reason for Sean's irritability. His boss, Tony, had called with a job he wanted Sean to carry out. Again, this was not unusual. What was unusual was the nature of the task. The phone conversation had gone something like this:

"It's Cascarino. How are you?"

"Alright."

"How are the kids?"

"The kids are alright. They're out with their mum."

"Okay. I've got a thermos for Fashanu." Sean grunted. Tony continued, unsure if Sean had actually heard or not. "It's a little...different from the usual spanner. But I'm sure Fash's up to it. I need someone trousers, which is why I thought of Fashanu." Silence. "You there?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"I need to real2real a psycho over from pancake. My usual trouser can't do it. He's gone rock 'n' roll, you know what a good custard I am!"

The joke was completely lost on Sean. He struggled with plain English, let alone Tony's coded instructions, invented in his own gibberish language. Tony gave his employee a minute to catch up.

"Pancake end is trousers," he went on, "been real2real with him for spock. Got the grinders, everything. I need Fashanu to go to his whore, nose a psycho and real2real to me. Fashanu needn't thermos about the spindle. Already slumbering. It's just a case of real2real in pancake."

At last Tony got a reaction from Sean that was more than a grunt. "You want me to drive to Hol... er, pancake and nose. How many?"

"Treble biscuit."

This got Sean's full attention. "...Okay. What about customs?"

Tony silently swore at Sean. 'Customs' was a banned word. "Fashanu's got a water boatman, right? No fever. Fashanu gets plenty of spindle, don't jangle."

"How much?"

"A sixth of a biscuit, and because I'm so custard, Fash can keep a desert of sainsburys. All Fashanu's to frank bruno."

"I don't know, it could be difficult to frank a desert."

"I can red cross Fashanu frank them. I'll butcher to more of my trousers." Tony knew Sean would do it. He was ambitious and greedy, and was always chasing a bigger slice of the pie. He sounded guarded on the phone, but he was just putting on a front. Tony pressed his point further. "And there's extra red cross. Chelsea are playing Anderlecht this week in the togger. There'll be deserts of water boatman basketball-ing across the pond. If Fash wears a Chelsea top he'll soap. You'll never get a cold in a million spocks." Tony sounded convincing and it was good money. Sean was just being deliberately awkward.

"I fucking hate Chelsea, I'm Millwall."

Tony started getting agitated. "Thermos or not? I can easily find another trouser."

"Okay, give me the details."

Sean had been working for Tony on and off for two years. They'd been introduced by someone Sean had met when he was last in prison. Sean had served several jail sentences for petty theft and assault. He had managed to avoid incarceration for the last two years, however, mainly because his business was now selling drugs for Tony. Sean largely respected Tony, he gave him regular work and paid well. It beat thieving for a living.

Sean was only irritable today because he was anxious. The job Tony had just given him was far bigger than anything he'd done before. It was riskier.

During the week, Sean usually drove around the UK picking up and dropping off packages of drugs for Tony. He would then take them to nightclubs or other clandestine drop-off points, sometimes collecting the money and taking it back to Tony.

At the weekend, Sean would sell his own stuff (which also came from Tony), and he had a regular customer base. Sean made a good living but it had risks. The constant threat of capture shredded his nerves and shortened his temper. He had a string of convictions for violence, caused mainly by his short fuse from before he became a drug dealer. Now he was constantly tetchy from the paranoia of the knowledge that, if caught, he would be straight back to prison, possibly for a very long stretch.

His home operation was relatively easy to administer. All the pills were kept at his girlfriend Shelley's flat, where she pretended to live with her 3-year-old daughter. Sean kept all the money at his place, which was a five-minute walk away. He would meet his customers in one of the car parks on the estate. No-one suspected his constant coming and going as he was Shelley's partner, and it allowed her to keep her own flat and claim full benefits from the council. If Sean's house got raided there was usually nothing on the premises except a small amount of cash.

Tony would usually call on Sunday or Monday with details of the following week's trafficking assignment.

Sean had endured a difficult childhood. He never knew his real parents and was moved around various foster homes and families while he was growing up. He was an intelligent boy, but the disruption and lack of discipline meant he regularly skipped school, which made it difficult for him to learn. When he did attend he would get bored very easily and become disruptive, mainly to seek the attention he lacked from not having a proper family.

In adolescence, Sean became increasingly angry with his situation. He was bright enough to realise when he did go to school that other kids didn't have the same difficulties he did. They mostly came from loving homes which provided all the support and encouragement they needed. Sean would often vent his frustration at children he felt were luckier than him. He was expelled many times from schools around the Dartford area, mainly for violent incidents. Eventually the education system washed its hands of him completely, and he never attended school again shortly after his fourteenth birthday.

With little to occupy his time, Sean got involved in crime. He would steal, and gained a reputation for violence. Physically, he became well-disposed to administer beatings from an early age. At fifteen he already had the frame of a man years older. His body became sinewy through lack of decent food, and during subsequent years he was able to pack on muscle by intense exercise, usually while he was in a prison or remand centre.

Now, at the age of twenty-five, he was an enormous hulk of a man, six feet two inches tall, with a chest in excess of fifty inches. He used steroids and worked out regularly to build the huge biceps which strained the extra large clothes he wore. Even putting aside Sean's size, his general demeanour was enough to strike fear into all those that crossed him.

His hair was shaved to a crew cut, but he sometimes left a strip on the top that gave an appearance resembling an old-style military private. His face bore the scars of numerous street and prison battles, it was clear to anyone who dared get close enough that Sean had been attacked with broken bottles and knives on several occasions.

Sean's face was scrunched into a constant scowl, people often commenting that his expression was something akin to a bulldog engaging in various activities. He shaved infrequently, leaving a shadow of stubble on his face. His eyes had developed large bags underneath them borne from years of disrupted sleep.

Sean had numerous tattoos, several on his neck and face. Most were the names of women he'd known, although with the change of the contours of his body over the years, most of the inscriptions were impossible to decipher. Even the pictures and symbols, often crafted by cack-handed acquaintances with no artistic talent or knowledge of the science of body art, now resembled weirdly-coloured blobs, adorning his skin like an ancient, puke-stained carpet.

Sean paid little attention to fashion and style, choosing mainly to wear a Nike tracksuit, T-shirt and trainers most of the time. He usually donned a dark-coloured woolly hat or a cap when leaving his flat as he never knew when he may need to hide his face.

He would skulk around his estate trying not to draw attention to himself, and was curt and unfriendly with anyone that attempted to speak to him. His paranoia dictated that other people should never get too close. The only person he really trusted was Shelley, whom he'd been seeing for nearly two years.

Sean had a very basic subterfuge for his life as a drug-runner and dealer. He drove a white car-derived van in which he kept tools. If questioned, he would say he was a freelance handyman and labourer, and the nature of his work often took him away from home for days at a time, with short notice. The boxes of tools and parts were heavy, which made them difficult to search, and Sean knew of numerous places to hide the different-sized bags of ecstasy tablets he was asked to transport.

He kept various items in the van if sleep were required, such as a blanket and pillow, but Sean rarely slept. He preferred to drive overnight, keeping constantly on the move to avoid arousing suspicion by parking his van somewhere. He would keep alert by taking amphetamines, often staying awake for days at a time. He regularly had to drive the length and breadth of the country, barely stopping other than to do the pickups. He would often arrive home totally wired on speed at completely random times of the day. Shelley always had a small amount of marijuana which he would smoke in order to sleep. His continually disrupted kip did nothing to improve his mood, and the drugs exacerbated his paranoia.

Sean rarely took the ecstasy he sold. He occasionally snorted cocaine, but found it to be less effective than speed to stay awake as it wore off so quickly.
Chapter Five

Kyla Andretti looked at herself in the mirror. Not an unusual activity for her. She was in her bedroom in her parents house preparing to travel to the London studios of Slam! Television to begin rehearsals of the opening scenes of Sleeping With The Enemy.

As a teenager, Kyla had ordered her parents to fit six full-length mirrors to her wardrobe doors, and she usually got what she wanted. She would whine constantly to them that any less than six was simply not enough because it was no good putting clothes on and standing still, she needed to see what she looked like as she walked.

As was fairly commonplace throughout her childhood, her parents capitulated and her father dutifully fitted the wall of mirrors exactly as requested.

It was moments like this, Kyla thought, that the mirrors came into their own. She needed to practise her walk as it was soon to be broadcast on national television. The opening show of Sleeping With The Enemy required the contestants to strut from a car to the door of the mansion that would be their home for the coming weeks. And simply everyone would be watching.

Kyla admired her reflection. She was truly stunning. Her father was Italian and her mother English and she had acquired the best genes from both. She was just under six-foot tall, but it wasn't just her height that made her striking. Her skin was a dark olive colour and her hair jet black. Her big, brown eyes dominated her face. It was difficult for anyone to look away when she fixed them with her gaze. Her long, long eyelashes framed them perfectly.

She had the high cheekbones most models could only dream of, which gave her an air of superiority and mystery that meant most men went to pieces in her presence. And her mouth. Kyla had discovered that just parting her lips ever so slightly and moving her pink tongue over her brilliant white teeth would get most men eating out of her hand. Her lips were a wonderful deep-red colour and perfectly complemented her dark skin. She knew her smile could manipulate, and she regularly used it to get what she wanted. It could be warm and friendly when necessary, or hot and seductive. Even she was sometimes surprised by how far she could get just by looking at someone a certain way with her striking eyes and flashing them a sultry grin.

Then there was her body. She was blessed with the perfect proportions of any centrefold glamour model. Now, at the age of twenty-two, she had fully formed into the peak of physical beauty. There was barely an ounce of fat on her toned stomach, legs, arms and buttocks. Her breasts were large for someone with such a slender frame. Again Kyla understood the power her ample cleavage had over males when she dealt with them. She usually dressed with this in mind. She would wear flimsy, low-cut tops on even the coldest of days, coupled with a push-up bra, giving whoever she was speaking to a tantalising glimpse of lace straining under the significant weight of her bust. Today she carefully selected just such an ensemble, knowing the first people she would be in contact with would be the production staff at Slam! It would do no harm to do a little trademark flirting accompanied with some epic views of her fantastic tits.

As Kyla once again pouted and preened herself in the gigantic mirror, she ruminated over the past few years. It had been a roller-coaster ride.

She was living temporarily back with her parents near Dartford, and she had moved out and back in more times than she could remember. The house largely brought back painful memories for her, as it was usually a crisis that forced her back to retreat and pick up the pieces.

She had first discovered her power over men at school when she hit puberty. Physically she had quickly blossomed into the buxom beauty she was now, but also became a stroppy, spiteful and vindictive teenager. She was hated by other girls and fawned over by boys. She actually became rather lonely despite her outward demeanour of a confident, popular siren of a young woman who was going places.

She began having flings with men much older than herself, much to the chagrin of her parents and the boys in her year. She was quite an intelligent young woman and gained reasonable grades in her GCSEs, but at the age of sixteen education was of no interest to her whatsoever. She began a relationship with Sean Philips, a man three years her senior, who was well known in the area as a rather unsavoury character. Most people thought it was the danger and excitement that attracted this impressionable teenager to the local hoodlum. That and the desire to piss her parents off, those long-suffering folk who had cared for and nurtured her over the years and satisfied almost every whim of their demanding daughter.

Latterly Kyla realised her looks could help her gain entry to the most exclusive clubs and parties, where she instinctively gravitated to the richest young men (or at least those that splashed the most money). These fellows could almost always be relied upon to supply her with drinks all night, therefore she was used to leading a somewhat lavish lifestyle while others picked up the tab.

Her relationship with Sean eventually broke down, not least because he was in and out of prison all the time as well as having to put up with Kyla's wild partying. The two now hated each other, and it was a favourite topic of conversation among those that knew them both as to what had caused the animosity. No-one dared asked them directly, especially not Sean, who had been known to react violently to the merest mention of Kyla's name.

As Kyla spent less and less time in her home town, her reputation there grew larger, especially among the young men with whom she was at school, and had nothing better to do than speculate what she was up to now. Conversations were fuelled by memories from their schooldays and the occasional titbit in the news or celebrity magazines.

Kyla's most famous liaison had taken place about a year ago. After quitting yet another job, she had decided it would be a good idea to fly to Los Angeles to see if she could make a few 'contacts' in her quest for fame and fortune. As in London, she found her looks and sex appeal could get her audiences with high-ranking men in show business, but again they would often dismiss her as nothing more than a pretty face, usually after sleeping with her.

Kyla became increasingly frustrated by this, but failed to realise it was the way she behaved and presented herself that exacerbated her reputation. She became known in entertainment circles as a hanger-on, just another pretty girl desperate for fame for fame's sake.

Then she met Jaik Marlon. At the time he was the hottest property in Hollywood, only twenty-three himself, and the toast of Tinseltown. He was the star of two high-grossing blockbusters and rapidly becoming a household name across the globe. It had happened so quickly that even Jaik himself was bemused by it. Not one to shy away from the adulation, he was a regular on the celebrity party circuit, often finding that drink and drugs were a way of coping with the new-found pressure he felt under. Naturally women flocked around him, and as a fit, healthy young man he found it difficult to say no to offers of sex from beautiful young females, especially when they handed it to him on a plate.

Of course it wasn't long before Kyla cottoned on to the fact that Jaik and his entourage may be worth getting to know, especially as she was now on his home patch. It didn't take a genius to work out which clubs he frequented on a Saturday night, and someone with Kyla's talent for sniffing out celebrities had no trouble at all 'bumping into' him.

One thing Kyla was good at was seducing men. With most mortals, her looks alone were enough to get them into bed, but she had learnt that celebrities could be slightly more of a challenge. She had, however, honed her skills over the years and discovered that a little gentle ego massage would get her into the hotel suite of a young footballer or pop star without too much difficulty.

It was one such night in an LA nightclub that she'd found herself sipping Cristal champagne with Jaik, whispering softly in his ear. He was drunk and had had a few lines of coke, and it didn't take too much persuading by Kyla, looking luscious as usual, to slip out of a back door together and into a waiting limousine.

Jaik Marlon was a big conquest even by Kyla's standards. She had given him a good time, and used her usual tactic of being cold and stand-offish the next morning. This confused Jaik, as most women he slept with would be pestering him for days afterwards. He found that he couldn't get Kyla out of his mind, and she deliberately made herself difficult to trace. When Jaik did eventually catch up with her at a party, she was outwardly cool but slowly made it clear she up was up for a repeat performance. This gave Jaik an impression that he had to work to seduce her, which he loved. Little did he know that it was a game Kyla had played many times before, albeit not with someone quite as huge as himself.

The couple began seeing each other regularly, and news of the fling eventually got into the papers. Most American journalists had a vague idea who Kyla was, due to her reputation as a hanger-on, but enjoyed running the 'Jaik Marlon dates new mystery woman' angle. The British press were less kind, painting her as a jumped-up slut who would sleep with anyone as long as they worked in show business.

The story, of course, was viewed with most interest in the Dartford area, where those that knew the Kyla of old became convinced that the devious little scrubber had struck gold at last.

Predictably, the fling only lasted a few weeks as some of the harsher English headlines filtered back to Jaik, and he got the distinct impression that she'd been using him. He remembered conversations he'd had with Kyla when it had seemed like all she'd wanted to talk about was his work and the contacts he had used to break into acting, and could he take her to see casting directors? She didn't seem to understand you needed talent to act, and he had attended expensive stage schools from the age of eleven. He quickly saw Kyla for what she was and dropped her like a hot brick.

The break-up hit Kyla harder than she thought it would. Jaik Marlon was in another league, and she was getting more attention than ever before. She had thought that finally she was getting somewhere in her quest for fame and her desire to be loved by complete strangers. Suddenly he wouldn't return her calls. She tried to confront him in a bar, but was ushered away by his bodyguards. She found herself barred from his favourite restaurants, places where they'd previously enjoyed quiet meals together.

Kyla had no choice but to accept that another relationship was over. She tried to hang on in America, and followed up the few leads she'd got from Jaik. There was little interest. She couldn't accept what other people seemed to know – she had no talent apart from her looks, and there were thousands like her in Hollywood.

With her money all but used up, she had little choice but to pack her things and return forlornly to her parents in the UK. It was a pattern they'd seen many times before. She would disappear for months on end, usually with a man, get up to all sorts, then return with her tail between her legs, usually owing money and expecting them to sort it out.

This time, of course, they'd known exactly where she'd been due to the fact she'd been in the papers – who, incidentally, had completely lost interest in her once they knew the relationship with Jaik was over for good.

Kyla half hoped there'd be a journalist or two waiting for her at Heathrow trying to get the dirt on the relationship with Jaik, but there were none. The media had long since moved on to other things. So it was a very forlorn and pathetic Kyla who had accepted the offer of a lift home from her father, and had once again moved into her old bedroom in the large detached house in Kent.

As she lay in bed crying one evening, shortly after she'd got back, she noticed through her tears an advert to appear on the next series of Sleeping With The Enemy. She knew the show well. Everyone talked about it. It took all of her steely resolve to write down the application details, such was the state of depression she found herself in. She received an application form in the post and, with little else to do and with time on her hands, filled it in and sent it off. Even though her confidence had reached rock-bottom she knew she at least had a chance with this. She knew she could sing as well as act.

Lucy Adams sat anxiously in her dressing room as stylists fiddled with her hair and touched her make-up. It was thirty minutes before the live launch of Sleeping With The Enemy, and the Slam! production team were making their final preparations.

Lucy had presented the last two series and worked on numerous other popular programmes, but it didn't stop her getting nervous before a live broadcast to the nation with some eleven million people estimated to tune in. She had memorised the names of the ten contestants and ran through them once again out loud.

"Sonia, Aleisha, Mercedes, Debi, Tracey, Sarina, Leanne, Kyla, Siobhan and...Stacey." For some reason Lucy had a slight mental block on the last one. She put the problem out of her mind and tried to focus completely on the task ahead. She breathed deeply, a routine a colleague had shown her a few years ago. It took the edge off her nerves.

"It's time to go, Luce." It was the director, Toby Jenkins, putting his head around the door and calmly prompting everyone into action. They had been rehearsing all day and it was tiring, but adrenalin suddenly kicked in and Lucy hurriedly checked her appearance for a final time before walking from her dressing room into the cold night air and the outdoor studio. A loud burst of applause and cheering greeted her from the assembled crowd. Slam! had discovered a live audience worked very well for Sleeping With The Enemy, especially on the opening night.

Lucy was in her element now. She loved playing to the crowd. Her nerves were forgotten as she ran through her sound-checks, deliberately speaking in different voices which the crowd found highly amusing as strange resonances echoed around the set. Then it was suddenly time to go live.

"Welcome..." Lucy shrilled at the top of her voice, struggling to make herself heard above the noise of the crowd. "Welcome to series three of Sleeping With The Enemy! It's gonna be the best yet!"

As the cheering died down, Lucy proceeded to briefly run through the rules of the game, interspersed with footage from the previous two series. The first segment of the show went well and ended with a five-minute commercial break.

Lucy smiled at the floor manager. He winked and smiled back before beginning his final countdown.

"10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1"... Cue more delirious cheering.

"Welcome back!" Lucy beamed into the camera. "Now for the moment you've all been waiting for... It's... the... contestants!"

The crowd had now reached fever pitch, and one by one the ten contestants strutted from the cars to the entrance of the Sleeping With The Enemy house, with Lucy simultaneously running through a brief potted biography on each of them. For a few weeks the papers had been speculating about the identity of the contestants, but Slam! had kept it a closely-guarded secret in order to increase the interest around the show. Now, as the participants were revealed live on national television, it would be open season. And of course Slam! would perform a complete u-turn by actively encouraging publishers to print lurid stories about the contestants and giving them all the help they could. Anything to keep interest in the programme bubbling.

It was inevitable that the story about Kyla and Jaik Marlon would re-ignite, only this time with far more interest from the British press than before. The production staff at Slam! decided to pre-empt the mad scramble among journalists for information on the affair, and maybe even kick off a bidding war for inside information that only Slam! was party to. Even Lucy had smiled to herself when she was given the script. All hell would break loose around contestant eight, and it was Lucy's job to introduce her.

"Please give it up for contestant number eight!" More rapturous applause erupted around the set as Kyla Andretti exited the vehicle and purposefully walked past the crowd to the house, trying to smile and wink into every camera she could. She lived for moments like this. She adored the attention. She got a thrill out of knowing her image was on television screens across the nation and her picture would be in all the tabloids the next morning. Kyla had no knowledge of what Lucy was about to say about her.

"Kyla is twenty-two years old. She is five foot eleven inches tall. She hit the headlines last year after a torrid affair with Hollywood heartthrob Jaik Marlon!"

Dozens of journalists simultaneously reached for the nearest phone. This was the story of the opening day of Sleeping With The Enemy. Jaik Marlon, had he been watching, would have booked a flight to Tibet as he was about to be hounded once again over a story he had thought was long-finished.
Chapter Six

Sam Bradley nervously sipped his lager. He was a few minutes early. He decided to wait by the bar so he could see Nikki as she walked in. It might take a few seconds to recognise that it definitely was her. He was having trouble recalling what she looked like, but he felt sure he would know her when he saw her. He placed his glass on the bar, being careful not to drink too much. Whatever time she turned up, he wanted to look like he had only just arrived himself. Sam always tried not to look too desperate.

After what seemed like hours the door of Ice Bar swung open and a small brunette walked in. She recognised Sam immediately.

"Sam, hi, how are you?" she asked warmly in a broad American accent.

"Er, yeah good thanks. What are you drinking?" He suddenly felt very aware of his estuary English and its contrast with how Nikki spoke. She ordered a dry white wine and they quickly found a free table.

She's lovely thought Sam. Nikki's beauty was subtle, she had an unfussy short hairstyle and it suited her perfectly. He could tell she wasn't one of those women that constantly obsessed about her looks, she was confident enough not to. Her skin was soft and pale and she had no need to cake a layer of make-up on, just a touch of mascara and lipstick. She dressed conservatively, blue jeans, thin black jacket with a white blouse, perhaps slightly insubstantial attire given the time of year. Her frame was tiny, but, as Sam couldn't help noticing, she had large breasts for her size and her blouse was unbuttoned just enough for Sam to make out a tantalising outline of her black bra. She was friendly and easy-going.

"So where are you from?" Sam asked.

"New Jersey, a small town about fifty miles outside of New York. Have you ever been to the States?"

"No, I can't say I have. I'd love to go, though." Sam felt embarrassed that his travelling experience extended only as far as Western Europe, but she seemed genuinely interested as he spoke at length about his trips to Ibiza. They'd quickly found some common ground. Of course she's into clubbing, thought Sam. He'd met her at 5 a.m. in Snake.

They soon got on to the thorny subject of drugs. Club culture was so widespread, it reached across the world and most people under the age of twenty-five would have been touched by it in some way. But Sam was often unsure how to broach the subject of drugs with people he'd only just met. There were people who went clubbing but deplored drug use. Chris, for example. And Sam didn't want Nikki to think that was all he was about, that he was some sort of ecstasy addict. It was, after all, just one of the things he was into. It was still quite a small part of his life. He could talk about music and sport and advertising and cars; as well as politics, television, food, books, education. In fact Sam prided himself on his worldly knowledge.

"I do occasionally do X," Nikki said eventually. "I had one that night I met you. But I try not to make a habit of it, I usually stick to booze when I go out."

Sam relaxed. He could now talk freely about his drug use, she wasn't going to take a moral high-ground. And he smiled at the name Americans used for ecstasy.

"What's so funny?" Nikki asked.

"The way you say 'X'. Just seems strange, that's all. We call them pills, or Es or cheekies... little men, little fellas..."

Nikki laughed. "I love the slang you guys come out with. I've lived in London for two years now and I still have no idea about what you're talking about."

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it." Sam took the opportunity to hint that things might go further than tonight.

The conversation flowed well with the aid of alcohol, which Sam insisted on buying for them both, despite his financial problems. Nikki was adamant that she buy the last round, for which Sam was grateful.

The conversation eventually came to its natural end.

"So what do we do now?" Nikki asked.

"I know what I want to do," said Sam, and leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

"I'm so glad you did that." They kissed passionately, almost forgetting where they were.

Sam arrived at work the next morning feeling elated, and it wasn't long before his colleagues noticed.

"What's got into you today?" Tanya asked.

"He's got a woman, it's written all over his face," Sarah chimed in. They loved winding Sam up and he'd inadvertently handed them a golden opportunity.

"What's her name?" Tanya asked.

"Nothing," Sam said. He didn't want to say too much about Nikki, it was still very early days.

"Don't give me that. We're women, we can tell."

"Is she pretty?" Sarah asked.

"I'm not saying, I don't want to jinx it."

"Okay, fair enough," said Tanya. "Just tell us her name."

"Oh...okay, it's Nikki," Sam said. He had to give them something.

"Nikki, eh? Have you shagged her?"

"Course not, it was the first date, she's classy."

"But you got a snog at least?"

"Yeah, course." Sam smiled again when he thought of kissing Nikki. Things were looking up. He tried to concentrate on his forthcoming interview with FPC.

Sam was down to his last pennies. He had enough food to last him until payday, but he could forget any extras until next week. It was survival rations time. He just about scraped together enough money for his train fare to the interview, at a large office block in central London.

He looked well-presentable, with a half-decent suit and a blue shirt and tie. Sam usually hated wearing suits, but he'd reached the stage where he would have changed anything for the purple polo T-shirt he was forced to wear at Energise!

He also hated interviews, and he'd been to many over the last eighteen months. He knew how confident he could be, he was a confident person. But sometimes, and at crucial moments, that confidence deserted him. He was determined not to let that happen today.

He had prepared thoroughly. His sudden, financially-enforced, hermit status had given him time to do plenty of research. He had been on the Internet – wecansortoutyourwholelife.com, been to the library, been through his old university notes, spoken to friends that had 'proper' jobs, everything he could think of. He desperately wanted the position. It wasn't too much to ask, and Nikki would be so impressed that he worked for a large, prestigious advertising agency. He wouldn't tell her that his new position was an 'Office Junior'.

Sam pushed these thoughts out of his mind. He had to get the job first. As he sat in reception he concentrated and tried to relax.

The interview was the usual awkward affair. Sam felt he did okay, but it was hard to tell. The interviewer, Tristan, had little in common with Sam. He was from a privileged family, had a public school education, and been to Oxford University. This probably accounted for his age. He was no older than twenty-two, and was now managing his own department.

Sam wandered back to the station, relieved it was over and replaying what had happened in his mind. He was sure he'd done enough to clinch it this time, but you never could tell.

It was the weekend again. The week had gone well. Sam felt so cheerful he almost forgot how poverty-stricken he was. He was itching to go out, get away from the confines of the four walls of his flat or work. He managed to control himself on Friday, but Saturday was a different story. He was climbing the walls. As usual, his mates badgered him constantly.

Eventually it was Ian (who was known for his strong will and powers of persuasion) who got Sam to capitulate. "Look, I know you're broke, mate, but I need you with me tonight. I've got a good feeling, I can tell it's gonna be a cracker. The others are up for it. We'll stay local, just go to The Warehouse in Dartford. It won't cost that much."

"But Ian, I really don't have a penny to my name."

Ian was persistent. "I've just been paid. I'll lend you fifty quid for the night. We'll score some pills off Sean, He'll do 'em on tick for us, he likes us."

Sam couldn't find a way out of that one. "Oh, okay."

"Nice one! You know it makes sense. We'll fuckin' 'ave it tonight, I can feel it. Right. There's no time to waste. I'll start getting ready. I'll get your money out and you can speak to Sean, sort the pills out. You know roughly how many to get. They'll all be taken. I'll meet you in The Crown at eight."

Ian put the phone down. Sam could see why he was doing well in his job as a salesman. Sam thought about what he'd agreed to do. It was true, he had a good relationship with Sean, but he'd heard all the stories, the savage beatings administered to those who crossed him. The man had been in prison, something that Sam could barely comprehend. It wasn't a good idea to owe him money. But he could pay him on Friday, less than a week. Sam got on the phone.

"Sean, hello mate, it's Sam. Can you sort us out a few cheekies?"

"Course, mate, you know me. How many?"

"Twenty?"

"No probs, you coming round?"

"Yeah, just one thing, about money..."

"You can have twenty for a oner, how about that? You've caught me in a good mood for once."

"Yeah... er, the thing is, I'm a bit broke and..."

"You want 'em ticked."

"Yeah, only till Friday!"

"I don't normally... but, as it's you. I know you'll be good for it."

"Cheers Sean, you're a star. I'm on my way round." Sam was shaking as he got off the phone.
Chapter Seven

Henrik Van Liessen stood back and admired his work. Like Sean Philips, he worked unsociable hours and had been up all night. It was 5 a.m. and he had almost finished for the night. The last batch of ecstasy tablets was nearly ready for packaging. They looked good.

There was an art to achieving the correct consistency and texture. Henrik regularly had to dispose of batches of pills because they were too hard or too crumbly. He prided himself on the quality of the goods he produced, and keeping his customers happy was of primary importance. He knew they could easily go elsewhere, and he operated in a competitive market. The Netherlands was awash with would-be chemists setting up illicit ecstasy factories to supply the growing demand across Europe and beyond.

Henrik had been manufacturing ecstasy a long time, almost ten years. He had regular customers with whom he had a good working relationship. He knew supplying just one dud batch could jeopardise an association, possibly forever.

The night's production had been a complete success. Henrik examined one of the pills he'd just created. A 'blue Motorola'. He had been experimenting with coloured dyes of late, and had achieved a beautiful cobalt speckled effect. A true work of art he thought to himself as he peered at the tablet under the light.

Like all good entrepreneurs Henrik understood the importance of altering and improving his product in line with the demands of the market. The kaleidoscope of dyes did nothing to change the potency of the tablets, but he also varied production techniques and the ratio of the chemical ingredients. This allowed him to invent the different varieties which had their own identity, the ironic names shamelessly stolen from a large corporate brand. It also served the dual purpose of throwing the police off the scent as it would be harder to trace their origin if they were seized. Staying one step ahead of the authorities was essential to everyone in Henrik's line of business.

Henrik's operation was as ingenious as it was efficient. He ran a legitimate perfume-manufacturing company, but nothing to rival Calvin Klein or Yves Saint Laurent. It produced the cheap stuff sold on market stalls or in budget shops. The business did reasonably well, but it wasn't important to make a huge profit as it was merely just a front for his criminal activities. The organisation, Dynamisch Internationaal, allowed Henrik to import the main raw ingredient needed to make Ecstasy.

Factories in China converted the bark of the Sassafras tree into the chemical piperonyl, the active ingredient. Henrik then shipped the substance into the Netherlands under the guise of using it for the legitimate manufacture of perfume. Indeed, some of it genuinely was used for that purpose, but the majority of Henrik's piperonyl would be mixed with other chemicals to create 3-4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) powder. The powder would then be crushed into solid tablets at Henrik's lab. Finally, the logo was stamped onto the pill to identify it.

Once the Es had dried and hardened sufficiently, they would be packaged into plastic bags to sell. Each bag usually contained 1000 tablets. This was sold for around £800 each. The buyer could sell them on for whatever mark-up he wanted and distribute them by whatever means necessary in his country. This was not Henrik's concern, although his operation was ultimately governed by the laws of supply and demand on the dance floors of the raves and clubs across the world.

Henrik's factory made approximately ten kilos of MDMA powder per week, enough to produce a million pills, which were then sold to customers across Europe. This morning Henrik had completed his final batch of the week, and was preparing to package them to sell.

The last of Henrik's helpers left the laboratory for the morning, and it was time to shut everything down. He made sure all the electricity was switched off and the flames from the gas burners had fully extinguished. Once they'd cooled down sufficiently, he removed the large 22-litre glass flasks and the clear, spherical containers and carefully placed them in an industrial cleaner. He deftly brushed off the burnt residue from the ceramic stirring plate, and sprayed it with a cleansing product, then wiped it, leaving it spotlessly clean.

Finally, he drained the remainder of the valuable piperonyl liquid into its glass container and made sure the plastic lid was screwed on tightly. He replaced it on the chemical storage shelf in its place among rows and rows of containers and bottles with white labels stuck to them, depicting the name of the contents, usually something ridiculously long and unpronounceable.

He walked past the enormous wall-chart representing chemical compositions and switched off the three sets of strip lights. He returned to his office, locking the door behind him.

Sean made the Channel crossing uneventfully. He caught the first ferry of the day from Dover to Calais. As Tony had predicted, there were plenty of football fans aboard, travelling via Belgium and France for the match. Sean avoided talking to anyone and did his best not get noticed, burying his head in a newspaper for the entire journey.

His plan was to drive through France and Belgium and arrive in Holland in the early evening to make the pickup. He would then drive back overnight to catch another early morning ferry back to the UK. It was a tight schedule, with little margin for error. Sean wanted to spend as little time as possible on the job, so it was essential to constantly keep moving.

Had he been a refined man he would have appreciated the beautiful scenery as he travelled along the coast road through France. Every so often the rugged wilderness was interrupted by an ancient castle or walled ruin, designed centuries ago to prevent invasion from foreign aggressors. The windswept fields looked incredibly peaceful, giving no indication that they'd seen so much unimaginably gruesome bloodshed over the centuries.

Sean kept to the main highways, passing the Belgian cities of Brugge and Gent until he reached the ring road around Antwerp and its skyline dominated by the Gothic cathedral spire. He was faced with an array of routes to the Dutch border, but he chose the scenic E19 autosnelweg, which took him past the town of Zundert, the historic birthplace of Vincent Van Gogh.

He continued resolutely across the flat country, passing lush forests and fields of tulips in bud, the first signs that winter was finally drawing to a close.

Sean tensed slightly when his progress slowed as he negotiated the traffic heading into the city of Arnhem, then relaxed as the cluster of vehicles gave way to open road again and he glided north through the beautiful Hoge Veluwe National Park.

Sean checked the map. He was still about a hundred miles from the city of Groningen, near to which he was due to meet Henrik at his factory. The sun was close to setting and night was drawing in. Sean looked at his watch, the rendezvous was scheduled for just over an hour. He would need to put his foot down. He would be late, but not desperately. Henrik would surely make allowances for that sort of thing, he reasoned.

Eventually he turned off the main road and into the minute town of Noordenveld. It was around 6 p.m. and people were on their way home from work, mainly commuting from the cities of Assen and Emmen and Groningen.

The largely rural area was home to a few small factories and warehouses, one of which Sean was looking for as he tentatively drove his old Citroën Berlingo around the open streets.

Sean often struggled with written instructions when they were in English. Now he was looking at a piece of paper with the name of a street and town in Dutch:

'232 Esweg, Noordenveld, Dynamisch Internationaal. Henrik Van Liessen. Meet at rear. Tel: +31 26 468 4442'

Sean found the town easily, but the street and the factory were proving to be far more problematic. Driving around the dimly-lit foreign roads very slowly was doing nothing for Sean's paranoia. He was tired and growing frustrated. It seemed every vehicle he passed was the police and he felt sure he was arousing suspicion in a van marked with English plates crawling slowly through an industrial area of Holland.

Eventually, Sean turned into a street with a name corresponding to what he had written down. After several more minutes driving he finally saw the sign he was looking for, identifying a building as belonging to 'Dynamisch Internationaal'.

Sean was experienced in pickups. He knew exactly what was required of him. He slowly drove the van to what looked like the rear of the warehouse and came to a halt, trying to look inconspicuous. The rear car park was deserted apart from a few vehicles, presumably owned by staff of Dynamisch that were still in the building. It started to drizzle with rain as Sean walked from his Citroën to what looked like an entrance, and rung the bell.

The intercom crackled. Sean heard a human voice utter a one-syllable word but it was indecipherable.

"Henrik!" was all Sean replied, as loud as he could without shouting.

After a few seconds the door buzzed and Sean entered the building. He faced a poorly-lit staircase which he climbed. He reached the top and walked through another door. He entered a small office. There was a desk with an old computer on it, the cream plastic now stained and discoloured through age. The room itself was in a poor decorative state, paint was chipped off the walls with a few tatty posters depicting maps and adverts for perfume. It was clear how old they were from the hairstyles of the models in the pictures. As Sean got his bearings, a door opened and a man walked in.

"I'm Henrik, happy to meet you. Are you Sean?" he questioned, his English broken. He extended a hand in greeting. Sean saved what little charm he had for moments like this. He'd learned from experience that there was no point antagonising these people unnecessarily.

"Hello, yes, I'm Sean." He firmly shook Henrik's hand, and nearly even managed a smile. The two men looked at each other in what was already an awkward situation.

Henrik was far older, Sean guessed fifty, but he was actually forty-four. His previously blonde hair was now almost completely grey. He wore small, rimless glasses that had slid down to the lower part of the bridge of his nose. He was tall and thin and dressed in a shabby shirt and tie with a blue fleece jacket over the top.

"Did you find the place okay?" Henrik asked.

"Yes," Sean said bluntly. The pleasantries were over. He wanted to get what he came for and get on his way. There was an awkward silence. The fact that he was dealing with a foreigner somewhat inhibited Sean and made him feel uneasy. "Have you got the stuff?" Sean said eventually.

"Yes, of course. You wait here, there's a seat." Henrik indicated a rickety old chair in front of the desk. "Do you mind if I search you first?"

This was standard practice. Sean lifted his arms and parted his legs to allow Henrik to perform an ungainly body search, mainly to ensure Sean wasn't wearing a wire or hidden camera.

As soon as he felt satisfied Sean was clear, Henrik disappeared. He returned approximately five minutes later with two small clear plastic bags filled with tiny blue Ecstasy tablets.

"Each bag contains one thousand. I understand you want ninety. Am I correct?"

"Yes, that's right," replied Sean. He was pleased communications between Henrik and Tony had been efficient enough to ensure there was no confusion over figures.

"I'll bring the rest down. You put them in your vehicle." Henrik adopted a more abrupt tone as they got down to business. He proceeded to fetch the ninety bags and placed them on the floor of the office. Sean carried them downstairs and put them in the back of the van. He would hide them properly later, plus he needed to check them without the presence of Henrik.

The two men worked quickly and without conversation, the atmosphere between them tense due in no small part to the fact that they were doing something highly illegal. At this moment they were particularly vulnerable to detection, no matter how cautious they'd been.

Sean felt considerable relief when the task was over. He'd made it halfway, and so far it had passed off without incident. He still couldn't relax, but he knew he had taken a huge step closer to completing his mission. He pulled out of the car park and drove into the cold night air.

It wasn't long before Sean was away from the town and back on the main road. He suddenly noticed the van was low on diesel. He pulled into a garage. Trying to be as discreet as possible, Sean began to replenish the tank with fuel. The road and garage were completely deserted until another, Transit-sized, van pulled in to the filling station forecourt. Sean glanced over at the vehicle. It was red, tatty and dented.

He was mildly surprised when, instead of manoeuvring the vehicle to one of the pumps, the driver pulled over at the side of the shop and started talking on his mobile phone. Sean felt slightly uneasy. The driver had merely pulled off the main carriageway of a dangerous road to make a phone call, but Sean was always wary and on his guard, especially in a foreign country. He hurriedly paid for the fuel and returned to his vehicle, then made his way off the forecourt and back onto the main road, heading in the direction of the motorway.

There was no other traffic on the road. Sean was clearly in a very isolated part of Holland. There were few signs of life. Occasionally he passed what looked like a pub or a guest house. Sean had been driving all day in a slow and uncomfortable van. He wished he could stop for the night. He could have a wash, get something to eat and a cold beer, then have a good night's sleep and set off again before sunrise. But he knew it was out of the question. He had to keep moving. He winced at the thought of another ten to twelve hours behind the wheel, but it had to be done. He'd be home in no time, he told himself. He'd see Shelley, and collect his payment from Tony.

He knew he needed to stay awake for the long drive ahead. With one hand on the steering wheel, he reached for his wallet and retrieved a paper wrap. Without slowing down, he unfolded the paper to reveal the white powder inside. He licked his index finger and dabbed the speed until most of the powder stuck. He then licked it off his finger and swallowed. He grimaced at the foul taste, and reached for a plastic bottle of water he kept in the glove box.

As he replaced the bottle, he noticed in the corner of his eye a vehicle behind him. He kept an eye on it, but didn't think a great deal of it until suddenly he noticed it getting closer. Before long it was so close it took up the whole of Sean's rear-view mirror. Sean considered his options. It was clearly trouble, but it didn't look like the police. In fact, it occurred to Sean, it looked like the red van he'd seen about ten minutes earlier in the filling station. He glanced down at the foot well of the vehicle. He kept a broken snooker cue for his protection but it wasn't much. There were various heavy tools in the back that could double as a weapon.

He suddenly felt very vulnerable. Visions came flooding back as adrenalin kicked in along with the synthetic chemicals entering his system. He remembered a childhood incident in a home, when a group of kids had attacked him for absolutely no reason. He felt the same helplessness. He had since discovered that attack was always the best form of defence, but there were other variables at play here. He was alone in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere with a van full of illegal drugs that he had to get home safely.

As all this was flashing through Sean's mind, the decision about whether to stop or not was made for him. With everything going on, he hadn't noticed a road sign depicting a level crossing ahead. He had to brake hard as he saw the bright red flashing lights ahead and the barrier moving down to block his path. He skidded and came to a halt just in time to avoid hitting the yellow metal pole that was now horizontal in front of him.

The cab of Sean's van suddenly became completely illuminated with dazzling bright white light from the approaching vehicle's headlights, which also skidded abruptly and stopped. Sean reached for the snooker cue and opened the van door, but it was too late. He saw a figure standing next to him. He felt a crack to the head and there was a sickening crunch as wood crashed down onto his skull. His consciousness slipped away as the van door slammed into his body. At that moment everything went black as an Amsterdam-bound express train thundered past, and the ground shook beneath him.

Sean's assailants worked quickly and diligently. There were three of them and it took them all to drag Sean's enormous frame to the rear of his van. They tied him up and dumped his insentient body into the long grass near the road. They then ransacked the vehicle thoroughly, stealing some of Sean's tools, then finding what they had really been looking for, the ninety bags of ecstasy tablets. Once the attackers were satisfied they had got all they needed, they set about wrecking Sean's Citroën. One of the men smashed every window with a crowbar, another ripped out the ignition barrel, while the third slashed each tyre. They then ran back to their own vehicle, started the engine and sped off with a screech of tyres. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.
Chapter Eight

Dear Sam

Thank you for attending the interview with myself last week for the office junior position. I regret to inform you that on this occasion you were unsuccessful. This was due to the very high standard of applications for the role.

I would like to thank you for your interest in FPC and wish you the best of luck for your future career.

Yours Sincerely

Tristan Carrington-Smythe

Sam's heart sank. The letter had been put on the kitchen table by Darren and was waiting for him when he returned home. He immediately saw the postmark, which told him it was from FPC. He knew from experience that small, flimsy envelopes were usually a bad sign as it took less than a hundred words to reject someone, but he still frantically ripped the paper apart.

He read the letter one more time then screwed the document into a ball and threw it in the bin. He walked into his bedroom and shut the door. He needed to be alone.

Sam had not cried for years, but he felt like doing so now. He just couldn't understand it. It was hardly a high-powered position he'd applied for. He just hadn't realised how difficult it would be. Thoughts flashed through his mind. This was beyond a joke, if he couldn't get a poxy office junior job then what hope was there? He would have to re-think his career options. He couldn't stay at Energise! It was going nowhere.

Sam thought about Nikki. He'd been on another date with her last night. They had been out for dinner. She was full of encouragement when Sam told her about his interview and career aspirations. Now she would think he was a right loser. Sam despaired. He'd really thought things were starting to improve. He knew he shouldn't get his hopes up too much before an interview, but he was a naturally optimistic person and never believed he would fail. Now he was stuck in a rut and didn't know how to get out of it.

Sam's despondent mood hung around until Friday. Payday at last. Sam finished work and headed to the cashpoint. He punched in his number in an attempt to withdraw £100. Nothing. There are insufficient funds... Sam re-keyed his PIN number and requested the balance. It was showing the same figure it had shown for the last two weeks. His money had not gone in. Those stupid fuckers at Energise! had cocked-up. Or the bank. Whoever it was had left Sam in the shit for the weekend. He owed money to everyone. Now he couldn't do anything until at least Monday. Once again Sam drove home frustrated and miserable.

Sam remembered Sean. Shaking, he picked up the phone and dialled the number. It just rang and rang and rang. Sam didn't have Sean's mobile number, Sean didn't give it to many people. It just gets better, thought Sam.

He texted Nikki. At least he had her. Almost.

'Hey Nikki, how was ur wk? Mine was ok. What r u up 2 this wkend?'

Sam's mobile rang – 'Ian' flashed on the display. He was his usual gregarious self. "Hey dude, you ready to get pissed? Friday night a la Crown publique house. It doesn't get much better than that!"

Sam laughed half-heartedly. "Not tonight, mate, I'm not in the mood. Shitty week."

"All the more reason for a drink-up, then."

"I dunno, my wages didn't go in properly. I've got no money again until Monday." Sam knew how down he must've sounded over the phone.

"I'll sort you out," Ian replied.

"I already owe you a fortune, and everyone else."

"Don't worry about it, just pay me back when you can. I'm having a good month with sales. I'll get you a few beers."

Sam hated this, depending on the charity of his mates. He had his pride. But he had done favours for Ian over the years. Sam thought of his options. He could wallow in self-pity in the flat for yet another weekend, or he could go to the pub and have a few drinks. It would at least take his mind off things for a few hours.

Sam had a shower and got ready, jeans and a T-shirt would do. The Crown always got hot on a Friday evening, even in late February. He pulled on a coat and caught a bus towards the centre of Dartford. The Crown was situated on the edge of the town centre on a main road which joined the one-way system. It was a regular haunt of Sam and his mates, it had been for years. They knew the bar staff, bouncers and a lot of the locals.

The pub had undergone many changes over the years, as different owners had come and gone, each with new ideas. It was now owned by a large chain which had completely renovated it, giving it a turquoise, art deco-style façade, making it look somewhat incongruous to the neighbouring Victorian terraced buildings which consisted of both homes and shops. It was fairly well served by public transport, but the car park usually filled up quickly.

The interior was divided into two main areas, the pub and the restaurant. The owners understood there was real money to be made serving food. It had high ceilings supported by substantial wooden pillars which were sporadically decorated with traditional ornaments of brass and wood. On the walls hung pictures of the exterior of the building throughout its history, dating back about a century.

The owners of course didn't miss a trick, and were quick to install the usual modern gizmos designed to separate punters from their money. The ubiquitous fruit machines, quiz games, fag dispenser and large plasma screens for football matches. A bright red carpet covered the floor, thick enough to withstand continually spilled beer and dropped fag-butts.

Sam walked into the pub, checking his mobile as he did so. No reply from Nikki yet. He saw his pals at a corner table. It was already busy and Sam had to squeeze past a few people to get to the far side of the room.

He reached his friends. The empty glasses on the table indicated they had already been there a while. There was Ian, Chris and Ian's friend from work, Ravi. Sam had known them all for years, except Ravi, whom he'd met a few times and had accompanied the group on several clubbing missions. He was a good laugh.

"Sammy! How you doing? Let me get you a drink!" Ian stood up. "What you drinking, son?"

"Krony, please. Cheers, mate."

"Anyone else?" Ian enquired. It was Friday night, the drinking was fast and furious. A chorus of replies came back with orders for various brands of beer.

It wasn't long before Ian returned, his hands stretched with the effort of carrying three pint glasses and trying not to spill the precious liquid inside. He was full of himself tonight.

"You seen that new barmaid? The blonde piece?"

"Oh yes, " Chris replied confidently. "Lovely, ain't she."

"Fu-ucking hell. Where did they get her from? She's wasted working in a crappy pub like this. Did you see those eyes and that dirty smile? She looks like an extra from The Fantasy Channel. Imagine doing her. I reckon she'd fuck the life out of you."

"I'd give her a run for her money," Sam said.

"She'd eat you alive, mate. Why's she working here?"

"Maybe she was a porn star and got sacked. She upset all the other porn stars by being too filthy, made them all jealous. Or they ran out of things for her to stick inside her, so she walked out."

"Not really the type of bird you'd take home to meet your mum, though, eh?" said Chris.

"I wouldn't worry about that. I'd lock her in the bedroom. I wouldn't let her out of my sight. She'd be trouble. I reckon she's insatiable. As soon as other blokes started sniffing round her she'd be off. You'd have to guard her from all the other tossers hanging round. Look! There, now." Ian indicated to the bar area. "Those blokes gawping at her. She must get that all the time. Never left alone. It would be hassle going out with her."

"Are you saying you wouldn't be capable of keeping her satisfied?" Sam asked.

"Well, I'd like to give it a go, but it'd be hard work, that's all."

"You've never even met her. How can you tell all this?" It was Chris again. He was perhaps the least 'laddish' of the four.

"You can just tell. Look at the tattoos and the piercings. And I reckon she's got more you can't see. I reckon you can tell a lot about people just from looking at them."

"Of course you can," said Chris. "But you can't always judge a book by its cover. Looks can be deceiving."

"Sometimes, but rarely. Look at the people in this pub. You've got your alcoholics. You can tell they're alkies by the way they look. Old, skanky teeth, thin as a rake, chain-smoking. You know, the ones that come and talk shit to you when you're standing at the bar."

"Well yeah, that's obvious," Chris conceded.

"Take Sean, for example." The others stopped smiling and looked at Ian. Sean was a constant fascination for Sam and his friends due to his reputation mainly for inflicting violence and harm on others. They were in favour with him, but this couldn't be taken for granted. They knew they had to be careful, even when speaking about Sean.

Ian continued. He knew he had their full attention, but the alcohol was now taking effect in his body, sending his mouth into overdrive.

"He just looks like a psycho. The scars, the tattoos, buzz haircut, the way he stares into space when he's talking. You can tell he could snap at any minute." Sam thought of the money he owed Sean. Ian was unrelenting. "Are you telling me that in his spare time he sits at home reading and listening to classical music? Course not. He walks around the house punching walls and shit, doing whatever psychos do in their spare time. I dunno. I don't want to know."

Chris decided to change the subject. "Hey Sam, what happened with that bird you met the other week at Snake?"

Sam wanted to tell the others about Nikki, but had been reluctant to do so in case it didn't work out. But tonight the beer was already taking effect. "Yeah, I've taken her out a few times, which has been a bit difficult due to my lack of finances, but it's going okay."

"What does she look like?" Ian asked. "I was spannered that night, I can't remember."

Sam described Nikki. He wasn't sexist, but as he was with his mates in a pub on a Friday night he couldn't help adding "lovely arse and tits." He inwardly apologised to Nikki for describing her in such terms. He knew she wouldn't like it. Then again, it was a compliment of sorts.

Talking of Nikki made Sam slightly uneasy. He got up and walked to the toilet and locked himself in a cubicle. He looked at his mobile. Still no messages. He would have felt it vibrate in his jeans pocket if there was, but he still checked it anyway. He looked in the 'sent items' menu. The message had definitely gone, nearly two and half hours ago. Sam finished up in the loo. There could be a million reasons for Nikki not replying yet. He put it out of his mind and returned to his beer.

Ravi, who had been quiet so far, was telling a joke. "There were four blokes in a bar. One of them asks the others what he thinks the fastest thing in the world is. The first geezer says, 'I think Concorde is the fastest thing in the world, because it can go faster than the speed of sound.' The second man says, 'Bollocks to that, lightning is the fastest thing in the world, because it can go faster than the speed of light and sound.' The third one says, 'Nah, you're both wrong. The brain is the fastest thing in the world, because whenever you need something, it's right there for you.'

"So the fourth guys says, 'I think the arsehole sphincter muscle is the fastest thing in the world.' The other three give it: 'Really? Why's that?' 'Well,' he says, 'I was on Concorde, it got struck by lightning, and I didn't know what to do ... so I shit myself!'"

The more inebriated members of the group laughed hysterically. Sam, who was a few drinks behind the others, managed merely a smile. And he couldn't get Nikki out of his mind. He decided to pick up the pace of his drinking.

"Have you got any more, Rav? That was a good one." Ian was keen to get his friend more involved in the conversation.

"Okay, okay, here's one. This geezer walks into a pub with an ostrich and a cat. He walks to the bar and says: 'Beer for me, beer for the ostrich, whisky for the cat.' They find a table, sit down and drink their drinks.

"Next it was the ostrich's round. He goes up to the bar and says: 'Beer for me, beer for the man, whisky for the cat.' He takes the drinks back to the table and they drink them.

"Then it was the cat's turn to buy the drinks, but he tells them to fuck off. So the man goes back to the bar and says: 'Beer for me, beer for the ostrich and whisky for the cat.'  
"But the barman was a bit confused about this and goes 'I notice that you and the ostrich have both bought a round but the cat hasn't. Why is that?' So the bloke says: 'I helped a little old lady across the road, and she turned out to be my Fairy Godmother. She granted me one wish.'  
"'What did you wish for?' says the barman. 'I wished for a long-legged bird with a tight pussy!'"

Again, the men at the table laughed raucously.

"That reminds me," said Ian. "Do you remember all that shit we were talking last week, after the club?" He gestured towards Sam.

"Dunno mate, I just know we were spangled," Sam replied, grinning.

"You know, about the animals. We were arguing about what is the hardest animal."

"Oh yeah! I remember. We had a mass debate! Pound-for-pound, which is the hardest animal in a fight situation." The memory came back to Sam. It was one of those discussions his mates often had after a club. They would all be as high as kites at someone's flat, usually Sam's. The party would continue with music, more drugs and alcohol. Then someone would usually start a topic of conversation going and the others would join in. Usually it was something completely ludicrous.

"Yeah, that was a good one!" Sam felt more like joining in now. He really enjoyed the after-hours sessions at his flat. They were sometimes better than the club itself. Usually they would continue well into Sunday morning. They would usually bypass sleep altogether and head straight to the pub as soon as it opened. No wonder Sam regularly felt so horrendous on Monday mornings.

Sometimes they would come home from clubs in the early hours, take more pills, then head to another club. London, and now the UK as a whole, had long catered for this market. There were now plenty of places one could go if he felt like squeezing every last drop out of a weekend.

Sam took the opportunity to relive one of the fun memories of the early hours of the previous Sunday. "Okay, if a tiger took on a shark, who would win?" he said.

Ian and Chris, never ones to keep their opinions to themselves, also enjoyed these debates. "Well, a shark can't live out of water, can it?" began Ian. "That immediately puts it at a disadvantage. How is it going to attack the tiger, if the tiger is on land?"

"That's a good point," said Sam. "But by the same token, how can the tiger attack the shark? Tigers can't swim, can they?"

"Yeah they can," argued Ian.

"But they can't breathe underwater, so they can't fight underwater. Therefore the Shark can have a go at the tiger while the tiger is trying to stay afloat." Everyone was smiling now. It was a silly discussion but they were enjoying it. "The shark is used to living underwater, the same way the tiger is used to living above water," Sam went on.

"Okay, what if we take living environment out of it," said Ian.

"Now you're changing the rules to suit you."

"What about a crocodile?" Ravi chimed in. "They can live in water and out, and they're hard as nails. They'd kick the arse of a tiger and a shark, maybe both at the same time!"

"Yeah, but they carry a lot of weight. Have you seen them waddle around? They have to use a crane to move them bastards about," Ian countered.

"Yeah, you've gotta consider weight. We're talking pound-for-pound. How about a mosquito or a cockroach? They don't weigh anything but they carry all sorts of diseases that kill you," Ravi said after giving the matter some thought.

"Hmmmm, he's got a point," Ian had to concede.

"Pills and booze don't half make you chat some bullshit, don't they?"

"Yeah, why is that?" Sam had often pondered this very question.

"And also, why do pills make people want to dance? Why not do something else like... I dunno, go ice-skating or something?"

"You've lost me there, mate," said Ian.

Sam continued. "Well, you do pills, right? They make you want to get up and dance, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And every pill does it, if it's a good one, yeah? Well, why don't they make you want to clean the car or something else sometimes?"

"I see what you mean," said Ian.

"You could get one that makes you want to do the ironing or clean your room or something; but you don't, you always want to get up and dance."

"Yeah, it's bizarre."

Sam had clearly opened up another silly topic of conversation that would no doubt be continued at a later date. The thought made him smile. He surreptitiously glanced at his mobile phone. Nothing.

Ian, when drunk, could go one of two ways. He either got over-emotional, which often led him to start hugging and kissing his friends, or he could be obnoxious and aggressive. Tonight, as the booze continued to flow, it seemed to be the latter.

"You obviously had a lot of time on your hands at university." Ian fixed Sam with a stare across the table, he was almost shouting, only pausing to take sizeable gulps of lager. "Didn't you do any work?"

Here we go, thought Sam. He had often got the impression that Ian was jealous of his time at university, as at the time Ian had worked at a string of dead-end jobs. Now Ian was a well-paid salesman and, at the moment, very successful. Occasionally Ian liked to ridicule Sam about how things had turned out. The two men both had strong, forceful personalities, and although they were usually close friends, they could occasionally clash, usually when alcohol was involved. Sam was particularly vulnerable at the moment. Ian knew about his financial difficulties and he could sense from his mood that he had other problems. Ian couldn't resist a little dig, the booze in his bloodstream eroding his self-control.

"How long is it since you left that place?" But Ian knew the answer.

"About eighteen months." Sam thought this sounded better than 'nearly two years', which was closer to the truth.

"And you're still working in that gym? That was money well-spent!"

Sam decided it was easier to go along with it than argue. "Yeah, I know. But I got out of work for three years, though."

"At least you got pissed a lot, eh? No-one can take that away from you, can they?" Chris chipped in, his tone surprisingly mocking.

But Sam was used to the banter; he had a few ready-made replies waiting that he'd trotted out many times before. "Yeah, I got a degree in boozing. That's why I can't get a job. Trouble is, they never ask at the interview how many shots I can down in one night, they want to know about computer skills and shit like that. My boozing abilities just aren't appreciated. Look how quickly I can down this pint..." To emphasise the point, Sam purposefully sank the remainder of his drink. "That skill took me three years to learn!"

The others roared with laughter. Sam's quick retort had taken the wind out of Ian's sails. His mocking would sound ridiculous if he continued with it now. Sam felt pleased he had half-won the point with Ian, but deep down it hurt. He did feel embarrassed about how his life seemed to be panning out, and snide remarks from his peer group cut the deepest, even if it was just half-cut bar banter. Sam knew people were often at their most honest when under the influence of a substance or two.

As the laughter died down, the group noticed a figure approaching their table.

"Dime-bar, how's it hanging?"

It was Stuart Dynes, another crony of Sam and his mates.

"Not too bad. Been here a while, I see? I'm getting them in. Anyone want a drink?" Again, the order was taken and several minutes later Stuart returned with replenished glasses of alcohol, met with noises of approval.

"What you been up to then, Stu?" Ian enquired.

"Got me new car, it's parked outside." A proud smile played across Stuart's face. He was the automotive enthusiast of the group. Sam was pleased the attention had moved away from him.

"Oh yeah, what is it?"

"Astra GSI." The others looked impressed. Although they were not into cars like Stuart, they knew as his friends it was decent protocol to voice a degree of admiration. He was clearly proud of his new acquisition.

"Goes like stink, does it?" Ian said.

"Oh yes. It's scarily fast. I'm still getting used to it."

"I bet it's a fanny magnet!" Sam also appreciated the need to give Stuart his moment of glory. Why shouldn't he get some credit? He had worked hard to buy his new car, and now he wanted to enjoy it. There was no harm in that. His mates were more than happy to humour him.

"I hope so."

"Yeah, birds love a fast car. They never admit it, but they do," Sam added reassuringly, repeating an often-used conjecture.

Stuart spoke at length about his prized possession, occasionally using technical jargon which Sam and the others barely understood, but were happy to go along with. The evening wore on with more pints being downed, occasionally accompanied by a shot of vodka or tequila.

The inebriated banter became louder, and attracted the attention of Kevin Wilesmith, who was standing close to the group's table. Kevin was a typical mouthy teenager. At eighteen years old he saw himself as something of a leader among his peers, like Ian or Sam. But, being five years younger, he still greatly lacked maturity, which often got him into trouble.

As he stood in The Crown the alcohol played havoc with his attempts to appear taller and broader than he actually was. He held a half-drunk bottle of Stella in one hand, a cigarette in the other. The contents of the bottle were frothy from constant movement as Kevin sauntered around the pub. He was small and skinny for his age, a late developer. He felt the need to make up for it by being aggressive and obnoxious.

Kevin wore the archetypal 'satellite town lad out on a Friday night' clothing: a pastel-pink long-sleeved shirt with most of the front buttons unfastened, revealing several gold chains hanging around his neck, coupled with jeans and bright white trainers. His small hands were bejewelled with three large gold sovereign rings. His short hair was scraped forward, rigid with wet-look gel.

"You got a new motor, Stu?" Kevin questioned. Stuart knew Kevin vaguely. The were both Crown regulars.

"Yes mate, Astra GSI. It's parked outside, the red one." Stuart gestured to the window, and Kevin stooped to look.

"Very nice, bruv. You seen my Imprezza?"

Stuart looked at Kevin. How could this little monkey afford a Subaru Imprezza? "Nah, I've not seen that. How long you had it?"

"Few weeks, fucking lovely motor. It's outside, go and have a butchers."

"Yeah, we can look at yours too, eh Stuart? Car, I mean!" Ian said.

The large group trooped outside accompanied by a few of Kevin's companions, all wearing similar clothes and clutching bottles of Stella. They hovered around Stuart's Astra. He opened the door, allowing his friends to sit inside and admire the interior. It was a truly impressive vehicle. Not to be outdone, Kevin started coaxing the group to the other side of the pub where his car was parked. In a similar way he opened the doors, allowing the accompanying gaggle to admire the machine.

"So, which is fastest?" Ian asked innocently.

"Well, the Astra is quick, but this would still kick its arse. I've had it chipped, but it's a faster car anyway."

"Like fuck!" Stuart roared, becoming animated. "Anyway, fuck what it says on paper. It's how you drive that matters. It's no good having a car like that if you can't control it."

"What you sayin'?" It was Kevin's turn to get defensive.

"Nothing, it's just a motor like this needs to be driven by someone with experience to do it justice, that's all."

"You sayin' I can't drive?" Kevin was angry. It was like a red rag to a bull. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Who did this Stuart cunt think he was? Dissing a man's driving in front of his mates outside his pub on a Friday night. Kevin didn't care that Stuart was older, bigger and had a large group of his friends with him. "You wanna watch yer mouth, mate."

Sam sensed a physical confrontation could be approaching. "Just leave it. Let's go inside and have a drink," he said calmly.

"No! This prick said I can't drive!"

"Okay, I'm sorry. Of course you can drive." Stuart's extra years meant he was almost above petty arguments about who said what. It was tedious. His friends turned to walk away.

"Where you going?" Kevin was yelling now. "You scared?" Stuart stopped. Although far more mature than Kevin, he couldn't let a teenager accuse him of being scared. And Stuart had started it. "Come on," Kevin continued. "I'll race yer. I'll show you who can't drive!"

The idea got drunken hollers of approval from both groups of blokes, their inhibitions squashed by alcohol.

"You can't let that one go, Stuart," Ian egged.

Stuart thought for a few seconds. "Okay, let's do it. What d'ya reckon? Three laps of the town centre then back here?"

"You're on."

Neither group of friends did much to discourage them, smelling a bit of excitement. Kevin was well over the alcohol-driving limit, and Stuart would be close to it, but egos and pride were at stake.

The two groups piled into their respective friend's car, the two drivers with looks of concentration etched on their faces, testosterone and adrenalin flowing. They started their engines and taxied their vehicles to the main entrance of the car park. There was enough space for two cars to sit alongside each other.

Stuart's front passenger, Ian, wound his window down so he could speak to Kevin.

"Those lights are red now; when they turn green, go!" There was a set of traffic lights allowing vehicles from the side road onto the main highway.

"Cheers, loser!" Kevin replied, his friends baying from the back seat.

The two vehicles' engines growled as the drivers teased the accelerators, waiting for the lights to change, their hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The red light switched to amber and, a few seconds later, green. The two cars roared forward in unison, tyres screeching. The occupants of both vehicles screamed with delight, apart from the drivers, who sat stony-faced as they regained control from the initial surge of power.

It was ten-thirty in the evening. The roads were mainly clear. The two cars veered dangerously close as they negotiated the first bends as they reached the infamous one-way system of Dartford town centre.

It quickly became apparent that Stuart had been spot-on about Kevin not being able to control his car. He swerved this way and that, struggling to manage the immense torque that threw him back in his seat as he accelerated. Stuart was far more experienced, and had driven plenty of cars in the five years since he had passed his test. He was more than a match for the considerable power of the Astra. He took a clear lead, and expertly guided the vehicle around the roads, while Kevin became more and more frustrated.

Sam and Ravi, sitting in the back, sensed victory. They looked out of the rear window and taunted Kevin with hand gestures. This made Kevin more and more angry and he paid even less attention to driving his vehicle with any sense of precaution to safety. The Imprezza skidded and squealed, and Kevin's poor clutch control caused it to rev erratically.

Sam felt incredibly childish doing what they were doing. He knew it was exceedingly dangerous, and he probably wouldn't have participated had he not been intoxicated. The interior of the car was now filled with a strong smell of alcohol. But the highly dubious actions of Stuart and Kevin provided a welcome escape for Sam from his problems.

The two vehicles completed the second lap, with Stuart easily extending his lead. He was tormenting Kevin now, just cruising around bends, allowing Kevin to catch up. Then, just as he was attempting to overtake, Stuart would use the Astra's power to block Kevin's path. Stuart's superior skill as a driver and knowledge of the road layout allowed him to force Kevin to slow down or face certain death by hitting a lamp post, another car, or some railings.

Stuart was also well aware that two high-performance cars screaming around a busy town centre, even at this time of the evening, was sure to attract the attention of the police or general public or both. Three laps was more than enough. It had been fun. Stuart felt proud that he had shown off his new car and driven it so expertly.

"Does anyone want to go back to the pub?" he enquired, hoping the answer would be 'no'.

The mood Kevin would be in, Stuart didn't fancy parking outside The Crown again tonight. Someone could decide to throw a bottle at it or something. Plus any police patrolling the area would have got wind of a bright red Astra driving at high speed around the town centre. The Crown's car park was probably the first place they would look.

Stuart knew Kevin was too stupid to realise this and, sure enough, as he drove past they saw the Imprezza gingerly pulling into the car park in the rear-view mirror. The race was well over.

Stuart was relieved when the consensus was to drive back to Sam's flat to continue the drinking session accompanied by spliffs and computer games.
Chapter Nine

Sean lay face-down in the long grass at the side of the road. It was a chill winter's night and large drops of rain were falling from the sky. It intensified, and the cold water hammering down stirred him awake. He blinked with complete disorientation, until the sudden realisation of what had happened hit him along with an extreme pain to the back of the head. He tried to move but it was impossible, he was bound tightly. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were fastened together. His mouth was also taped, which meant he could only breathe through his nose.

He managed to roll sideways towards the road. He made it as far as the van, which was parked at an angle in front of the level crossing, its door still gaping open. The road surface was covered in broken glass which cut into Sean's legs as he attempted to kneel up. He tried to move his arms and realised he was only bound with gaffer-tape, not rope or wire. The binding should be relatively easy to cut if he could find a decent-sized shard of glass.

Sean felt for fragments behind him with his fingers as he sat upright on the tarmac, rain soaking him and blurring his vision. He cursed his predicament aloud with the frustration of trying to get free. Eventually, he found a piece of glass large enough which felt like it should be sufficiently sharp to saw the plastic and fibre of the gaffer-tape. It was difficult work. The rain was pelting down now and Sean had severe pain in his head, chest and limbs. After what seemed like hours he managed to cut the tape enough to wrench his hands free. He then ripped the tape from his face and unbound his legs.

Sean surveyed the wreckage of the van. It couldn't be salvaged. He thought quickly, trying not to let the hopelessness of the situation overwhelm him. His head spun. The blow to the skull and the speed he'd taken less than half an hour ago was having a weird effect on his thought-processes. It felt like a very weird and surreal dream.

He couldn't stay with the van, it was completely immobile. Any second another road-user could appear and would undoubtedly call the police. Sean grabbed a few personal items from the vehicle (luckily he still had his wallet) and set off as fast as his painful legs would let him. He began walking alongside the main road, but well into the grass verge so as not to be noticeable. If he could just get to one of the roadside hotels he had seen earlier he could reassess his options.

Sean cut a very dishevelled figure as he fought his way through the long grass and scrub. Bruised and bleeding, he was soaked through as the rain continued to pour down. He was angry with himself for letting it happen. He knew the red van was trouble the moment he saw it in the filling station. He should have trusted his gut-instinct and done something about it then. But Sean was made of strong stuff. He was a born survivor. He could get through this.

After approximately half an hour of walking he reached the car park of one of the inviting-looking hotels he'd passed earlier. It still looked very warm and appealing but there was no way Sean could venture inside in his state. It would surely arouse suspicion, and the police may get involved. They would ask all sorts of questions about why Sean was travelling through Holland alone at night, and what could have possibly been in his vehicle to make a gang of renegade thieves ambush him in the middle of the road.

There were plenty of vehicles in the car park, and Sean was an accomplished car-thief with plenty of experience gained before he took up the far more lucrative occupation of drug-dealing. He looked around for a suitable vehicle. It needed to be something fast, but nothing too flash as it would have a sophisticated security system and would undoubtedly draw attention.

He settled on a medium-sized Ford, a make he was well-practised in gaining entry to. It took him less than thirty seconds to enter the car and get it started. He revved the engine then roared out of the car park as he tried to adjust his driving position to account for the fact that the steering wheel was on the left-side and the gear-stick now on his right. He accelerated hard down the road. Getting as far away from the hotel as possible was his first priority.

Sean came to a lay-by. He stopped the car and reached for his mobile phone. Luckily his attackers had not thought to take it. He dialled Tony's number.

"Fashanu, hello." There was a note of concern in Tony's voice. The fact that Sean was calling him late on the Wednesday evening of the pickup was bound to spell trouble.

"I've been fucking robbed! They done me!" Sean was wired on speed, in pain and exhausted. His panicked voice was difficult for Tony to comprehend.

"What? Who done you? What d'you mean you've been robbed?"

"I had the fucking pills in me van. I was driving back and some cunts whacked me over the head, took the pills and drove off! I need you to fucking sort it out!" Sean was too embarrassed to use the word 'help,' even in the terrible state he found himself in.

"Wait, just slow down." Tony had been in the drug business a long time. He had witnessed murders, kneecappings, beatings and violence too horrible to describe. What had happened to Sean was fairly commonplace, but a problem nonetheless.

There was little etiquette in the drugs world, but both Tony and Sean understood the unwritten rule that says if the courier or go-between somehow loses a batch, it's then down to him to retrieve it or compensate his co-conspirators. Tony considered this for a moment and decided he would sort it out with Sean when was calmer. He realised that if he were to stand any chance in recouping his investment he would have to co-operate with Sean by utilising his considerable wherewithal.

Sean was frothing at the mouth, spitting words into the phone. "I reckon it was that fucking Henrik. I don't trust him. He must've got someone to follow me. Whoever it was knew I had pills, they've taken the lot!"

Sean was close to delirium, but then slightly regained his composure. A thought popped into his mind. Maybe Tony had something to do with it. Maybe he was in cahoots with Henrik to somehow rip him off...

At the other end Tony was trying to absorb everything Sean was saying. The same things crossed his mind, and could he even trust Sean? Could he be making it all up? Stranger things had happened. For the moment, at least, he had to believe him.

"I don't think it was Henrik. I've worked with him for years. Anyway, that's not important right now. Take me through exactly what happened, but speak slowly."

Sean recounted the day's events, Tony's intelligent mind took it all in, but he still felt slightly irritated that Sean had messed up, disturbed his evening, and left incriminating evidence on his mobile phone.

Tony eventually spoke. He was calm and collected, and reassured Sean. "Okay. You can't come back over the Channel in a stolen strawberry. What you need to do is get to the ice-cream. I should be able to send a mandela over to nose. Do you know where you are exactly?"

"I must be near that town of Noordenveld. I think I've gone back on myself."

"Right, well you need to head naughty. Once you get near the ice-cream church me again. In the meantime I'll get a mandela organised. I just need to know where to send it." Although he was helping, Sean felt annoyed that Tony's manner seemed so blasé. In fact he seemed more concerned about the drugs than Sean.

"And you've got no idea who these men were or what they look like?"

"No, I didn't fuckin' see 'em!" Tony had a huge amount of resources at his disposal. He had been drug-trafficking for thirteen years and he knew all the methods. He had a reliable cell-network in place that could be called upon as required. His contacts didn't know each other, but occasionally they would need to work together. He owned vehicles and boats, but registered them with false names. He bribed police, customs and officials. Getting a vessel out to pick Sean up shouldn't be a problem. He was annoyed that Sean had lost the drugs, but he would deal with that another day.

Sean was thinking clearer now. In some ways he relished being the underdog. He had had a difficult life and encountered some horrifying situations. He was used to taking beatings. In some ways he worked better when the odds were really against him and the chips were down. He had always refused to be a victim, and taken any punishment like a man. He'd been in worse situations than this. At least now he had a car he was out of immediate danger.

Sean gritted his teeth as he saw a sign marked 'autosnelweg' and headed in the direction it was pointing. Instead of looking for the Belgian border, he now needed to go down through the centre of Holland to the coastline.

He reached the slip-road that took him onto the correct motorway, and joined the three-lane carriageway. It was nearly midnight. The speed was wearing off but there was no way he would feel tired tonight. Adrenalin-fuelled thoughts and visions were racing through his mind. He knew he was on borrowed time. It was impossible to tell when the Ford would be reported stolen. The owner was probably staying at the hotel and might not return to his vehicle until the morning. On the other hand, he could easily go back out to it tonight and realise it was gone. Also, the police would find Sean's Citroën and trace it back to him; but that, at least, would take time.

Sean knew as soon as he got to the coast he must destroy all evidence that he had ever touched the Ford. He would call Shelley in the morning and get her to report the Citroën stolen. No, that was no good. The ferry company would have CCTV footage of Sean taking the vehicle across the Channel. But would the police bother looking at it, just to determine the movements of a clapped-out Citroën Berlingo? Surely they had better things to do. Sean wouldn't bother claiming on the insurance anyway. As long as they had no way of linking him to the theft of the Ford, he should be okay.

Sean motored up the highway, the permutations continually going through his mind. He could travel more swiftly than his van would have allowed, but he wanted to be careful not to go too fast so as not to arouse the suspicion of any passing policemen.

It was on a particularly quiet and boring stretch of road that Sean noticed something very interesting. Up ahead, in the slow lane, was a red van. Sean rubbed his eyes, not sure if he was hallucinating from the trauma of the night's events, but no. It was definitely there, chugging along at approximately fifty miles per hour. Sean had to be very careful. He pulled a little closer. It looked exceptionally similar to the vehicle he had encountered twice already in the last few hours. It was red, old and tatty, with a Dutch number plate.

Sean backed off a long way, so that the red lights of the van were only just visible. He would need to wait until the van stopped, as at the moment, the early hours of Thursday morning, the red van and the Ford were virtually the only vehicles on the road.

It made sense that Sean's attackers were also heading to the coast. Obviously they now had ninety bags of ecstasy they needed to get rid of. They had done a professional job on Sean. They would be aware of the importance of keeping moving, but they clearly hadn't banked on Sean recovering so quickly. This thought occurred to Sean and a wry smile played across his lips. Many people had made the mistake of underestimating him in the past, and they had all paid a heavy price.

After about half an hour of Sean stalking the van, it pulled into a service station. And, much to Sean's delight, it didn't head to the fuel pumps, instead pulling over at a dimly-lit part of the lorry park. Sean kept his distance, managing to keep the Ford well out of sight of the occupants of the van. He guessed that they were having a quick break and changing drivers. Sean noticed plumes of cigarette smoke silhouetted by the interior light of the vehicle, indicating that the doors were open. Sean estimated he had about two minutes to make his move.

Sean manoeuvred the Ford into position behind a parked truck. He revved the engine once and dropped the clutch, the same way his attackers had earlier. Sean came to a screeching halt next to his prey. The men looked totally shocked as they tried to take in what was happening. Sean wasted no time. He ran from his car with a fist in the air and landed it square in the face of one of the men. He slumped down, out cold. Sean wrenched the van door open. A second man was sitting in the driver's seat, smoking a cigarette. Sean dragged him out, punched him several times in the head, then kicked him as his lifeless body hit the concrete. Sean knew there was one more, but couldn't see him immediately in the soft light. Sean turned around. The man stood behind him ready for a confrontation, but Sean could tell he was no fighter and no match for someone like Sean. He was small, thin and visibly shaking, his breath making clouds of steam in the cold night air. Sean stared at him. The man looked behind himself for an escape route. There was none, the car park was completely open, save for a few parked-up trucks. Sean pounced. Again a few blows to the head were all that was needed.

He tried to restrain himself from doing further damage. He didn't want them to end up in hospital, as the police might start asking questions. He knew they wouldn't go to the police voluntarily.

"Yes officer, we were out for an evening's drive and we saw this English thug with a van full of drugs so we thought we'd do the decent thing, attack him violently and steal the gear. It's just that he chased us, beat us up and stole them back."

No way thought Sean as he began moving the bags of pills from the red van into the boot of the Ford.

Sean allowed himself a little celebration as he accelerated away from the service station. Once again, he'd stopped someone getting the better of him. They had tried and failed. People really should learn not to mess with Sean Philips.

It was time to call Tony and share the good news. Sean fished out his mobile.

"Tony?"

"Yes, where are you?"

"I've got it back. All the sainsburys. I found the tossers and took them back."

"That's great Sean. I'm really pleased." You could sound it then, you twat. After all I've been through...

"Yeah, I caught the fuckers with the shit in their van and just took it back."

"And they just let you?" It was the early hours of the morning and Tony was irritable.

"No, I found 'em in a car park. I had to give 'em a bit of a hiding, but I got 'em back."

"Okay. Well done, mate." Christ thought Tony. He's wreaking havoc all over Europe. Tony resolved never to use Sean for anything complicated again. He just attracted trouble. He was just a thug, nothing more. He didn't have the brains for an operation like this. He was useful to put on a door because he could handle himself. He could cope with the have-a-go members of the public who would occasionally try to rip you off. That was his forte, selling direct to the public and protecting the larger consignments once they were in the UK. He was just a lump, an enforcer, nothing more. But at least his brawn may have actually salvaged something from this mess.

Tony decided he needed to take control of the situation.

"I've organised a mandela to take you back to the UK. How far are you from Rotterdam?"

"Not far. Maybe about two hours."

"That's good, but the mandela can't real2real during switched hours. It's too jangle with what you're carrying."

"What are you saying, Tony?"

"It'll switch soon. Unfortunately you'll have to wait until it gets denzel to get on the mandela. You can't real2real during the switch, you'll get a cold."

"Fuck's sake! What am I supposed to do until then?"

"I don't know. You'll think of something. But you need to get rid of that strawberry and get as far away from it as possible." Tony spoke in calm, measured tones, the complete opposite to Sean.

"So I've got to wait around for twelve fucking hours with ninety sainsburys bags and no car?"

Tony had admit it was slightly ridiculous. "I'm afraid so. But it's the only way of getting you back. You can't go on the ferry."

Sean couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was cold, tired, hungry and sleep-deprived. He had been violently assaulted and was in pain. And now he was expected to just disappear all day until this stupid boat turned up. Tony had a lot to answer for. Sean eventually composed himself. There was no point in arguing now, their relationship was strained enough as it was.

"Just give me the details," Sean said, wearily.
Chapter Ten

The living area of Sleeping With The Enemy buzzed with noisy chatter. The hidden cameras and microphones whirred in an attempt to keep track of ten females all speaking at once.

They were well aware that the competition had started and the judges and the public would already be forming opinions of them. Debi decided immediately she would try to get on the right side of the group by offering them all a hot drink. It was an amusing sight to watch ten women precariously holding their mugs with fingers constrained by huge, false fingernails, then collectively sip the hot liquid, perilously aware of smudging their lipstick.

"So has anyone done much singing before?" Sonia asked, not anticipating being on the receiving end of nine gregarious women all talking at once. Tracey was one of the loudest.

"I were on Stars In Their Eyes!" she shrilled in her thick Yorkshire accent. "It were brilliant, dead glamorous. They treated me like royalty, an' all. Chauffeur-driven car, dead posh hotel in London, the works. I got eight hundred pound for one day's work."

"Who were you?" asked Sonia.

"Shania Twain."

"I don't remember seeing you..."

"Yeah, well they didn't use it in the end. I sounded alright, but I don't exactly look like her, do I?" Some of the others laughed nervously. The production staff watched interestedly in the gallery, hoping for a lively discussion or even an early confrontation.

"What was Stars In Their Eyes like?" asked Sarina.

"They were brilliant, dead professional like, ya know."

"I can't understand why they didn't use you. They must've known what you looked like before you even got to the studio," Kyla said.

Tracey bristled, and glared at Kyla. "Yeah, well, maybe it weren't for me anyway. It's a bit cheesy, i'n't it?"

"Probably a blessing in disguise, eh?" said Kyla. Cheeky bitch, thought Tracey, but kept her own counsel.

"Who's Shania Twain?" asked Peter Bains the duty editor as he watched the screens in the gallery. Kirsty rolled her eyes.

"She's a pop singer," she said, struggling to hide her disdain. Kirsty, who was barely a year out of university, was surprised that Peter, who worked in the media on 'youth' television, had no idea who Shania Twain was. But he was about a hundred and eighty years old. "You'll be telling me you don't watch Stars In Their Eyes next, Peter."

Unbeknownst to Kirsty, the director, Toby Jenkins had returned to the gallery from the studio floor and was stood behind his two colleagues. He was pleased with how the show had opened. Peter remained silent, slightly embarrassed in front of his boss.

Their attention turned back to the living room of the house. An amusing discussion was taking place among the contestants about what they would or wouldn't do in the world of music.

"I think any experience is good experience. I do a Madonna tribute," Debi said in a thick Glasgow brogue.

"But anyone can do that sort of thing. I think you've got to establish your own name rather than pretending to be other people," Kyla said, again demonstrating an uncanny ability to irritate people.

"Well, what singing have you done then, Kyla?" Tracey enquired innocently.

"Erm, well... I was in America and I did a few charity events. Didn't get paid or anything, just me on stage, raised a fortune I did, and people loved it!"

Toby Jenkins looked on sceptically. "You've never done any singing in your life, have you?" he muttered under his breath, but he was satisfied. The girls had only been in the house an hour and they already had some great footage for the opening show, and he knew the judges would love it. Plenty of material to be rude and disparaging about, with the girls unwittingly setting traps for themselves.

One of the show's selling points was the bluntness and sometimes downright cruelty of the panel of judges. They would jump on any slightly embarrassing moment from the contestant's past and belittle it to the great amusement of the viewing public.

This was groundbreaking TV they were making, Toby thought to himself. They will truly go further than any reality programme in the past. The ratings will be huge, as will, of course, the advertising revenues!

Kyla Andretti cursed her luck. She had been paired with Tracey, the person she hated most on Sleeping With The Enemy. The two had clashed very early on. Tracey was naturally very funny, warm and outgoing. Kyla was none of these things and quickly branded her rival as 'common'. Tracey thought Kyla was 'stuck-up' and they barely disguised their feelings for each other. Kyla loved to look down on some of the other girls as she believed herself to be a cut above, but she was rapidly losing favour even with those she got on with, largely because Tracey was so popular. Tracey's power was growing and the other women were quickly learning it was better to be according with her than not, as one barbed comment from her could make them look utterly ridiculous on live television.

Today the contestants had been picked up by coach from the house and driven to a concert hall. The task was designed to show how each woman projected her voice when accompanied only by a piano. It was dubbed the 'duet' task, as it involved the girls singing in pairs.

The staff at Slam! had been particularly sadistic as they were well aware that two people who hated each other had been paired and would be forced to work together 'expressing their love' through the medium of song. The irony was not lost on the viewing public, who were expected to tune in in their droves.

Tracey and Kyla sat on opposite sides of the stage. Kyla had a sheet of A4 paper in her hand, pretending to learn the lyrics of the song she'd been given, but she was actually watching Tracey intently, dreading the moment when it would be time to start work.

All around them people were frantically working. The camera crew were setting up, soundmen were plugging in wires, and make-up ladies were flitting around, powdering noses.

Eventually it was time to start the day's filming. The plan was that the two women would rehearse the song with the help of a professional voice coach, Loretta Dempsey. They would then change into eveningwear and perform the song to the three judges, with everything being filmed. All five pairs would have a go, with the judges giving valuable feedback every step of the way, from the singers' attitudes in the rehearsals to the final performance.

Unbeknownst to the contestants, the judges were watching the rehearsals via video link in another room.

"Action!" shouted the unit director, her voice echoed. The camera operators fell silent on the almost-empty stage.

"Okay ladies," Loretta began. "We're going to start with scales to get you warmed up. Graham, off you go."

The pianist played a few notes for the girls to sing, with the cameras capturing everything, the footage to be edited almost immediately in order to be ready for the evening's broadcast. Once Loretta was satisfied the contestants' vocal chords had loosened sufficiently, she gathered them close to her and sung the first lines of the song, Graham continuing to plonk away on the piano.

"Kyla, can you sing the first line..." she said.

Kyla, crumpled paper in hand, broke into song. "Don't go breaking my heart..."

"Tracey!"

"I couldn't if I tried..."

"Kyla!"

"Honey, if I get restless..."

"Tracey!"

"Baby you're not that kind..."

"That was very good, for a first attempt. Kyla, you were a little flat. Remember to breath deeply before each line. It's quite a simple song, so we should have no trouble."

The session continued, with Loretta giving constant encouragement, offering advice when needed. "Right, you need to do it without the lyrics in front of you. You must have it memorised before the performance. Kyla, have a final read-through, then start us off, when you're ready."

Kyla smiled nervously at Loretta and tried to avoid eye contact with Tracey. The pianist played the opening bars of the song. Loretta counted Kyla in before dramatically pointing at her, inducing her to start.

"Don't go breaking my heart..."

"I couldn't if I tried..."

"Honey if I get restless..."

"Baby you're not that kind..."

"Don't go breaking my heart..."

"You take the weight off me..."

"Honey when you knocked on my door..."

"I gave you my key..."

"Nobody knows it..."

"When I was down..."

"Er... you're my clown..."

"What?"

"Er... Nobody knows it..."

"Okay, okay... stop there!" Loretta intervened and the piano fell silent. "What happened?" she asked.

"She forget the line," Tracey said, without thinking. Kyla glared at her.

"It doesn't matter," said Loretta. "Let's pick it up from the start of the second verse. Kyla..."

"Don't go breaking my heart..."

"When I was down..."

"I was your clown..."

"Nobody knows it..."

"Right from the start..."

"I gave you my heart..."

"I gave you my heart..."

"So don't go breaking my heart..."

"I won't go breaking your heart..."

"Don't go breaking my heart..."

"And nobody told us..."

"'Cause nobody showed us..."

"And now it's up to us babe..."

"I think we can make it..."

"You don't understand me..."

"No! It's not that, is it? You've done it wrong again! It wouldn't be 'You don't understand me.' That makes no sense!" Tracey's eyes flashed with anger as she spoke. Her frustration was palpably genuine. She felt she had the song licked.

"Alright Tracey, calm down," said Loretta.

"Kyla, we need to get this right..." Loretta looked at her watch anxiously.

"I'm sorry, I just forgot the line." Kyla was contrite and embarrassed. "Can I start again?"

"Okay, from the top then."

Tracey rolled her eyes. Once again, Graham played the opening melody.

"Don't go breaking my heart..."

"I couldn't if I tried..."

"Erm... er... don't go breaking m... I'm sorry, I messed that u..."

"For goodness sake!"

"Alright Tracey! Kyla, are you okay?"

There was a deathly silence in the room. The three women looked at each other for a moment. Kyla unplugged her microphone and threw it to the floor, it banged loudly and a metallic whine filled the room. The soundmen desperately tried to disconnect it, while the camera guys made sure they captured every moment of the tantrum. Kyla stomped loudly across the stage, holding her face, crying.

She entered a corridor, then found the toilet. A cameraman followed her in, ignoring the 'female' sign. This sort of spontaneous outburst was exactly what the production staff had been hoping for.

Peter and Kirsty watched the footage with glee as they began the edit. Kyla gave them plenty more as Loretta consoled her in the loos, trying to persuade her to return to the session.

"How the mighty have fallen," Toby Jenkins later commented sarcastically as he watched the footage in the editing suite. The rest of the rehearsal was a fiasco, and the performance little better as tension between the girls destroyed any on-stage chemistry.

Kyla and Tracey had given Sleeping With The Enemy its best moments by far. They were both strong characters and were now forcing the public to take sides as to who they preferred in the show. It was keeping the nation gripped. Initially, Tracey was winning hands down with her working class northern humour and say-it-like-it-is attitude, while Kyla was painted as a stuck-up southern tart who slept with celebrities because she believed she was better than everyone else. The media was enjoying hyping up the conflict between the two ladies. It would now be interesting to see what the public made of this episode which was suitably glorified into 'the battle of the bitches'.

Up until this instalment, Kyla had never lost her cool, secretly plotting against Tracey and some of the other housemates, but in this episode she was exposed as difficult and lazy and was told so by the judges.

This was, however, an exaggeration. The argument and collapse of the task was nearly as much Tracey's fault as Kyla's. It was just that the production team had already decided how they would portray each of the contestants. They had invented a loose 'story' and, by editing the footage a certain way and using the judges' comments, they could largely construct stereotypes for each of the women which they unwittingly fell into by their own actions. Par for the course in the world of reality television.

As the first week of the show drew to a close, Toby Jenkins called a meeting of the Slam! production staff and the judges.

"I would just like to start by saying how pleased I am with everyone," he said. "It's going better than we could all have hoped. Ratings are up, revenues are up and this Kyla vs. Tracey thing is all over the papers. Everyone's talking about it."

"I'm glad you're pleased, Toby," said Carl Johnson. "I agree. It's really working well at the moment."

"There is, however, one little problem." The people at the table watched Toby intently. "This is the end of the first week, and Kyla and Aleisha are up for eviction. This means Kyla could well be booted off." Those around the table knew this was highly likely. Kyla was very unpopular among the viewers of Sleeping With The Enemy.

Toby addressed the judges.

"Why did you put one of our most... important contestants up for eviction? If she goes, where will we get all our drama from?"

"She was hopeless in the tasks," said Kelly, one of the judges .

"She would make a terrible pop star. No-one can work with her. The audience can see that and no amount of editing can hide it. We would lose all credibility if we didn't nominate her, and the show would become ridiculous."

Carl backed up his colleague. "She's right. Kyla's awful. She's good-looking, but no good at anything else. She can't take direction, her voice is average, she won't listen to anyone, and is completely unprofessional. We had no choice."

Kyla was defiant when she learned of her nomination, although she was genuinely surprised. She just could not understand how she managed to rub everyone up the wrong way. It was a pattern that had repeated itself throughout her adult life.

She stormed into her bedroom as the Sleeping With The Enemy announcer read out the week's nominations. The cameras followed her as she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She felt like crying, but was determined not to on television.

The other housemates had been sitting in the living area as the results were announced. Most were expecting Kyla to be nominated and they were wondering how she would react when she heard. They were not disappointed as she flounced out of the room with a face like thunder. There was virtually no reaction as Aleisha's name was read out, also to face possible eviction. This was the effect the deeply unpopular Kyla had had on her living companions.

The days leading up to eviction night were terrible for Kyla. She had alienated almost everyone. She would walk into the kitchen and people would visibly move away from her. The daily shows would almost entirely focus on her. The 'search for a singer' almost became secondary as the station worked with the press to paint Kyla as 'the biggest bitch on television'.

Slam! were keen to co-operate as they knew they only had a few more days with Kyla as she would almost certainly be evicted. Kyla realised her back was against the wall and came out fighting. She knew her relationships with the other girls were damaged beyond repair, and she didn't bother trying to salvage them. She had a vague understanding of how television works, and an inclination about how she was being portrayed by the programme. She decided she might as well play up to it. At least this might generate some interest after she was inevitably booted off. The other housemates tried to have nothing to do with her, and if they did they knew they would face her wrath.

Stacey, one of the quieter contestants, found this out one evening as she used Kyla's hairbrush.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kyla stood above Stacey as she sat on the bed in front of a mirror. Kyla's arms were folded, her beautiful eyes stern and angry as she glared down at her housemate.

"I... er... I..." Stacey, a fairly timid young lady, was no match for Kyla, especially when she was in a rage. A deadly silence ensued as Stacey realised Kyla wanted to do her serious damage. One of the cameras whirred above their heads.

"That's my hairbrush. Did you ask to borrow it?"

"I... didn't know it was yours... I'm sorry!" she stammered, genuinely petrified. The nation collectively held its breath, wondering what Kyla would do next. This was a woman vilified, trapped in a house with her mortal enemies, forced to share shower, kitchen and toilet space with them. The female viewers at least empathised with her, even if they didn't like her. She was a fighter, a lone renegade trapped in a miserable, false microcosm of a miserable, false world she desperately wanted to be a part of. She was at war, and hairbrushes, make-up, false nails, clothes and pampering lotions were the weapons of choice to be used in battle.

Kyla snatched the hairbrush from Stacey and ran into the toilet, locking the door behind her. Slam! had yet more footage to trail the show on the various cable channels.

The public's view of Kyla was almost unanimous. While they sympathised with her, as it was clear some of the other housemates had ganged up on her, they still didn't like her. She was over-the-top. She wasn't clever enough to hide her deviousness. It was transparent. Some of the other girls had tried to make friends with her, but she had shunned them. She'd dug her own grave.

The audience of the series was largely female and they would be the ones doing the voting. They sort of understood the need to be devious and selfish on the show, but most felt Kyla had gone about it the wrong way. She alienated everyone too early on.

And they were happy to spend twelve pence on a text message to contribute to her demise. After just ten days in the house, Kyla Andretti was voted off after a majority vote of seventy-seven percent.
Chapter Eleven

Sean Philips glanced over his shoulder as the car exploded. He sprinted through the field, just pausing to make sure the Ford was completely ablaze. He was not disappointed. The flames now completely engulfed the shell of the vehicle and reached high into the air, illuminating the night sky.

Sean abandoned the vehicle at approximately 9 a.m. on Thursday morning. It had been a long and difficult night, and the new day did not bring any relief. He knew he had to destroy the car, but he couldn't do it in the morning as it was broad daylight and there were people around. He had to wait until nightfall, but was unable to leave the drugs in the car in case it was discovered in the meantime. The only option was to find a quiet field, remove the bags and stay with them until it got dark. Then torch the car and travel on foot to find Tony's boat.

And so Sean spent fifteen long and uncomfortable hours lying in a lonely field with a holdall full of illegal drugs, keeping vigil to the stolen Ford. Eventually, as midnight approached, he deemed it safe enough to remove some of the petrol from the vehicle's tank and set fire to it, thus destroying any evidence that he'd ever touched it. Sean had stolen enough cars in his time to know exactly how to get rid of any traces he may have left.

Now Sean once again ran through the cold night, the long damp grass soaked his feet and legs. He felt like a fugitive carrying the heavy bag with its illicit contents. He had already seen where he was to meet the boat. It was a tiny beach in the middle of nowhere, which did have the advantage of being surrounded by many deserted fields – easy to dispose of the car. If Sean timed it right, he should reach the beach about the same time as the boat which had been sent to collect him.

It was an indescribable relief to Sean as he stared into the inky blackness to hear the outboard motor of the vessel and see its light growing bigger as it approached the desolate beach. At last he felt vaguely optimistic that he would make it home safely and evade capture.

Sean waded into the sea to meet the boat. It suddenly crossed his mind that it could be undercover police, but he had no way of checking and it was too late anyway. His fears were quickly allayed when he was pulled into the boat by the two men Tony had sent to make the pickup.

The men introduced themselves as Roger and Gary, and described themselves as 'friends of Tony'. The men were cagey about the capacity in which they were involved with Tony's operation, but it was fairly clear to Sean that they held similar status to himself, drug-runners. In any case, Gary and Roger had been briefed by Tony about Sean and his predicament, and they knew about the bag he was carrying.

It was a very different Sean to the one that people usually encountered as he went about his business. He was bruised and bloodied, delirious from several days of very limited sleep. His clothes were ripped and dirtied, and he was weak from lack of food and water. His usual fearsome demeanour was replaced by something rather dishevelled and pathetic. Normally he would have refused the offer of food, drink and blankets, but tonight he was desperate.

The boat moved fairly quickly through the night, although Sean could see very little through the porthole of the cabin beneath deck. He allowed himself to doze, the first time he'd been comfortable for days. Again, he knew he was vulnerable, but this time he didn't care. He had got the drugs back for Tony. If he was ripped off now it was Tony's fault, and he could go and fuck himself anyway after all this.

Sean awoke after a very long and deep sleep. It was broad daylight in the cabin and the sun was shining. Sean stood and lifted his head above the deck of the boat. He saw Gary at the bow, steering the vessel. Gary heard Sean get up and turned to greet him.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed cheerily.

"Mornin'," said Sean, back to his usual prickly self.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

"Er, yeah, ta." Sean looked around. They were still on open water, but he could make out the silhouette of land on his left-hand side.

"Where are we, Gary?" Sean enquired.

"Just off the east coast of Scotland. Shouldn't be much longer."

Sean thought for a moment that he was still asleep and dreaming. "Scotland? What are we doing here?" The desperation and disbelief was audible as he spoke.

"You know Tony, he likes to cover his tracks. We need to land somewhere remote. He leaves his boats off the coast of Peterhead. He pays the local coastguards to keep schtum, and they keep an eye on things. They let us in and out without a problem. We couldn't do that down south, there's nowhere quiet enough. Peterhead Bay is perfect. You'll see why. As long as the seagulls don't grass us up, it's watertight!"

Sean took a moment to digest what he was being told. He surveyed the landscape through the late morning mist. It was rocky, rugged and deserted, the perfect place to secretly bring in illegal shipments. Sean knew Tony regularly used boats for smuggling, but he'd never paid much attention to the details. He had certainly been to Scotland on several occasions to move packages around.

Sean suddenly had a greater understanding of the scale of Tony's operation. He constantly brought drugs in through routes across the sea. He also had people shifting parcels around overland, through Europe. It made sense. If there was a problem with one method, like what had happened to Sean, it still meant there was plenty coming in from other directions to make up any shortfall. It was an efficient and streamlined way of doing business, and Sean was taking it all in, even though he was now contemplating a new problem of how to get home from Scotland.

"Why didn't Tony say we were going to Scotland?" Sean asked Gary.

"I don't know. I'm just doing what he told me. I would've thought he'd explained to you properly what's going on."

"No, he didn't. I live in fucking Kent. I've gotta get back. I can't be stuck up here in the middle of fucking nowhere!"

"You'd better give him a ring."

Once again Sean angrily called Tony's number. Tony did concede this time that he had been far too vague with the details of Sean's escape. "Oh yeah, okay. Sorry, that was my fault, I should've mentioned it."

"Bloody right you should've mentioned it. I've got to get back to Dartford!"

"It's taken care of. There'll be a strawberry waiting for you when the boat docks. It'll be driven by a guy called Austin. He'll drive you home. You'll be home by tonight."

Sean was too tired to protest, and he knew it was pointless. It was the only way to get home. He couldn't risk taking a plane or a train. He would take it up with Tony at a later date.

It was nearly three o'clock on Saturday morning when Sean eventually opened his front door. He'd met Austin okay, and the first part of the journey had gone smoothly. But about an hour after they'd joined the southbound M1 they had run into heavy traffic. A serious accident had brought the motorway and surrounding roads to a standstill, the problem compounded by the extra traffic on the road heading south for the weekend.

Sean slumped on his bed, beyond furious.

Sean slept heavily. Three days of broken sleep had caught up with him. A few times he heard his phone ringing, but ignored it. He needed to rest.

At the other end, Sam was panicking. Why was Sean not picking up? He was always around at the weekend. That's when he did most of his business. Sam needed to get through to explain to Sean that he didn't have his money, but he should have it by Monday. Sam knew it was best not to have Sean Philips chase you for money, and even though it was only £100, Sam was desperate to make contact. And the fact that it was now Saturday afternoon was making him feel more than a little concerned.

He decided to go round there. It might annoy Sean, but at least he wouldn't be able to accuse him of avoiding him. Sam would tackle the problem head-on. A horrible thought crossed Sam's mind. Maybe Sean was on the way round to see him. Panic-stricken, Sam quickly got ready and set off on the short journey across town to Sean's estate.

Sam looked for Sean's van as he arrived in the car park. He couldn't see it. Again, this was unusual for a weekend. Sam knew Sean did some sort of work during the week, but he had no idea as to the nature of it and indeed if it was legitimate or not. Sam knew that Sean was a major dealer to the whole area, which meant he needed to be at home pretty much all weekend.

Sam tentatively knocked on Sean's door. Nothing. Sam knocked again. This time he heard distant banging and a man's muffled swearing. Eventually the door opened. Sam was shocked by the sight that greeted him. It was Sean, but not as Sam had ever seen him before. Sean squinted at the bright sunlight in the manner of a man who had just awoken from a deep slumber. He was naked apart for a pair of long shorts. Cuts and open gashes were visible all over his body that had not been cleaned properly and were still caked in dry blood. Sam noticed that Sean's knees were especially lacerated. He had bruises to his face, his squinting eyes were bloodshot. Sam immediately knew it been a mistake to disturb Sean.

"What do you fucking want?" Sean spoke slowly and groggily.

"I, er, owe you some money and, I er..." Sam felt his mouth go dry and his voice became wobbly.

"Well, hand it over and fuck off!" Sean replied curtly. It crossed Sam's mind to just turn and run, then try to sort it out with Sean another time. He had clearly called at the worst possible moment. The money Sam owed was obviously the least of Sean's problems. Sam's legs wobbled in terror. He was about to annoy Sean even more.

"It's just that I, er, don't have it at the moment and..." Sam's voice was very quiet, but it was suddenly interrupted by the phone ringing in the hallway behind Sean.

"Fuck! Why can't you just leave me alone! Go in and sit down while I get that." To Sam's dismay, Sean gestured for him to go inside the flat and sit down while Sean took the phone call. Sam, still rigid with fear, did what he was told and entered the scruffily-decorated lounge and sat on the sofa. Sam could hear Sean's muffled voice as he took the cordless phone into the adjacent kitchen.

"Yeah?" came Sean's terse reply. "Yeah, I've got them."

Sam felt awkward listening to Sean's conversation. It was clearly something he had no business being party to. There was a long silence. If Sam had been in the room he would have noticed Sean's face scowling with rage as, once again, Tony was expecting him to run around, with little regard as to what Sean had been through during the previous few days.

Sam certainly heard the anger in Sean's voice when he spoke next. "So you expect me to bring them to a fucking club in the middle of London. Have you any idea what I've been through? You take the..." Sean stopped in his tracks, an idea occurred to him. His tone of voice changed to something far more friendly. "Actually, I've got someone I can send... Of course he's reliable. Give me the details..."

As Sean finished his conversation, Sam suddenly had an overwhelming sense of foreboding. He knew whatever Sean had agreed involved him. Sean returned to the living room.

"I've got a job for you." Sam looked at Sean with wide-eyed terror. "Do this, and you can forget about the ton you owe me." Sean's manner and tone told Sam that he absolutely could not even try to refuse what Sean was proposing. "My, er, colleague needs some pills bringing to him. He'll be at a club in London. Sounds like it's right up your alley. You can keep some for yourself. You'll have a free night out and, as I said, I'll forget about the money you owe me."

"Right, erm, how many we talking about?" Sam was shaking now.

"Not that many. About two hundred. He's going to some private party, y'see. He needs 'em for his bum-bandit mates. You don't have to worry about anything. Just tell 'em you're a friend of Tony's and they'll let you in. Give the pills to Tony, then you're free to do what you like. It should be a good night, Tony reckons there'll be all celebrities there and shit like that."

Sam didn't hear anything after Sean said the figure. Two hundred. This was big time. Out of Sam's league. The most he had ever bought in one go before was twenty. That was risky enough, now he was being asked, no, told, to take a huge amount into a London club. They couldn't be stashed in socks or hidden in pants. Sam tried to comprehend what was happening.

"So the bouncers will let me straight in?"

"Of course. They'll be expecting you. You're not a normal punter. They'll know what you've got on you, so you'll get a safe passage into the club. It couldn't be easier." Sean's tone again told Sam that any sort of protest would be pointless and stupid. Sean proceeded to give Sam the details he'd received from Tony, before leaving the house then returning with a small brown padded envelope. "Here you go. They're all there, I've just counted 'em. Good luck."

Again, Sam detected from Sean's abrupt tone that he should not attempt to argue or question, just simply take the package and leave. By now Sam had worked out that Tony was Sean's boss, and relations between them were strained for some reason, but probably had something to do with why Sean was in such an unkempt state.

Sam took the package and walked out of the flat, his head swimming. On the one hand he was pleased because he wouldn't have to worry any more about Sean and the hundred quid, but then again he would have to carry around this large and highly illegal package for the next five hours or so, then take it through London's crowded streets on a Saturday night, and then associate with Sean's highly undesirable friends.

He felt the same paranoia he always did when carrying drugs, only this time it was heightened significantly. It was also weird to be carrying in daylight hours too. Sam darted back to his car, constantly looking around him furtively to make sure no-one was watching, not that he could have done much about it if they were.

As Sam drove back to his flat, the initial shock of what had happened subsided slightly. He began to think logically again. It was a fairly simple thing he was doing. It happened all the time all over the world, and people took far bigger risks. Bigger packages, longer distances and most of them went by undetected. If he just kept his cool, he reasoned it would soon be all over.

Sam Bradley experienced an odd feeling as he walked through the narrow streets of central London. He walked quickly, head down apart from an occasional glance at passers-by. I'm doing something incredibly illegal... only me and a few other nefarious individuals know about it... you lot would love to know my secret...

It was cold, wet and dark, the bitterness of winter lingering into early March. There were plenty of people out, despite the chill. 'Revellers' the papers called them. Groups of girls chattered excitedly as they queued to enter bars and clubs. Young men in flimsy shirts walked hastily, arms held close to their bodies to shield from the weather. Bouncers dressed in black stood guard like soldiers in front of their establishments. Gaudy neon light reflected on the shiny wet surface of the pavements outside. Sam got a sudden blast of music every time a door was opened to allow someone to enter.

He slowed his pace. For some reason the extreme trepidation he felt earlier had almost dissipated completely. He was almost enjoying the element of danger. Adrenalin kept him moving. He approached the club, he knew it vaguely. It was not one of his usual haunts, it was an upmarket West End nightspot, famous in celebrity circles, regularly featuring in the gossip columns of newspapers and those silly, tiresome magazines Sam's female friends were so fond of reading.

He neared the entrance. The fear he'd been feeling earlier returned. He fingered the contours of the paper envelope through his jacket. There was no way of concealing it properly, and there was no way of trying to get into the club in the normal manner, i.e.: queuing up with everyone else then paying to get in. Holding drugs or not, Sam didn't like his chances of getting into a place like this. They didn't seem to like young, single men with little money, whose only intention on a night out was to have a good time.

Sam approached the entrance to the club. It was very nondescript. A single doorway with plant-pots on either side. A queuing area was roped off, but there was no-one outside the club yet apart from a rather large bouncer dressed in a dark suit. The man held a clipboard and immediately noticed Sam as he tentatively walked towards him. The bouncer stared at Sam, making him feel even more self-conscious.

"Yes?" the bouncer asked as if it was the first time anyone had ever attempted to enter his club on a Saturday night.

Sam tried to regain his composure. "I... I'm here to see Tony!" he blurted. "Sean sent me!" he added, for no real reason.

The bouncer looked down at his clipboard. "What's yer name?"

"Erm, Sam." The bouncer remained completely expressionless as he scanned the names in front of him. This was the moment of truth. Sam knew the drill. Bouncers held the key to the whole evening, only this time the stakes were far higher. Sam didn't want to think about what might happen if the bouncer couldn't find his name or, worse, he had been led to some kind of trap by Sean, and the police were waiting inside the club for him, or...

"Sam Bradley?" the bouncer said after what seemed like an eternity.

"Yes," Sam replied weakly.

"Go to the top of the stairs. Ask for a lady called Dee. Tell her who you are and you're here to see Tony."

The man turned away, pretending to look at something else on his clipboard. Sam looked at him, but it was all the bouncer was prepared to give and his body language told Sam not to bother asking anything else. He reminded Sam of Sean with his surly and abrupt attitude.

Sam reached the top of the stairs. There was the usual counter for people to pay for entry to the club. Sam glanced across the desk. A pretty blonde woman sat looking at him, her ample breasts squeezed into a figure-hugging black lycra vest-top, giving Sam a tantalising view of her cleavage. Sam tried to concentrate on the job in hand.

"I'm, er, looking for Dee. I'm Tony. A friend of Sam's." Sam immediately realised his mistake. "Sorry, I meant I'm Sam. I'm here to see Tony." He realised what a bumbling idiot he must seem.

The woman smiled. "I'm Dee." She picked up a phone handset and pressed one of the keys. A few seconds passed. "Hi," she said eventually. "Yes, he's here." The woman replaced the handset and stood up from her seat. She walked around the counter to where Sam stood. "Follow me, darling," she said warmly.

The pair walked through a door, then up another flight of stairs. They entered a room. There was an office area in one corner. A desk with a computer, a filing cabinet and so on. To the right of that were three huge black leather couches occupied by four men holding glasses of what looked like champagne. They were chatting, laughing. Sam felt awkward and intimidated, like he had no right to be there. It was clearly an informal and private meeting he'd interrupted. One of the men stood up. Dee approached him.

"Tony, this is Sam."

"Hello Sam, I'm Tony." The man smiled and offered his hand for Sam to shake. Sam did so and Tony pumped it firmly. Sam quickly noted his appearance. He was a large man in his late thirties or early forties. He had dark skin and a shock of thick black hair, probably Hispanic or Italian in origin, Sam thought. A huge silver watch adorned his wrist, accompanying various other items of expensive-looking chunky jewellery. An awkward moment passed as Sam realised Dee had disappeared and he was alone in the room with the four men. "Have you got something for me?" Tony said.

"Oh, errr, yeah, sure." Sam fumbled under his jacket to retrieve the envelope.

"Nice one!" Tony said loudly as Sam handed him the package. Tony sensed Sam's unease. "You okay, lad?" he asked as he peered inside the envelope. Sam hardly heard, such was the intimidation he felt to be in the presence of one of the country's major drug-dealers.

"Er... yeah, fine thanks." Tony looked at him and laughed. He was in party mode, among his old friends. He dropped his working, hard-man persona for a moment.

"You've done a good job," he said. "Sit down and have a drink with us."

Tony had encountered Sam's type many times in his line of work. Kids that were mouthy, confident and brash with their everyday circle of friends, but turned into gibbering wrecks once they were given anything seriously criminal to do. It amused him and fuelled his ego. He had a fearsome reputation within the drug-trade.

"Sorry to be so rude, but I'm going to have to search you first. You know how it is." Sam was quickly realising that he really didn't have a clue about how it is. Tony patted his hands gently over Sam's clothes. He had already removed his jacket and only had a T-shirt and jeans on anyway. Tony was quickly satisfied that Sam wasn't wearing a wire. "Champagne?" he asked, regaining his jovial manner.

"Yes please," Sam said, relaxing ever so slightly.

Tony walked to a large fridge situated next to the seating area of the office. He removed a champagne bottle and reached for a glass from a shelf. He filled the glass with liquid from the bottle.

"These are my friends," he said as he tried to avoid spilling the champagne as it bubbled up inside the flute. Sam shuffled nervously closer to the sofas. For the first time he glanced at the men seated before him. His jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw who it was.

The world's best-known disc jockey was sat on a sofa two feet in front of Sam Bradley, and sitting next to him was his production partner, Simon Owen, the man who owned the largest and most successful independent dance music label in the country.

NMA was a truly pioneering company. Not only did it look after the interests of many of the UK's top DJs and recording artists, it regularly released tracks and albums which reached the top of the charts, often outselling mainstream bands. Many of the CDs sitting on Sam's shelf in his bedroom had the egg-shaped NMA Music logo on them, with plenty of tracks credited to one Charlie Caxton.

Sam was well aware Charlie was one of the main players in the craze which had spread so rapidly throughout the UK and across the world. As the scene had grown, Charlie's career snowballed alongside it. Today, he earned thousands for a single night's work. He criss-crossed the country and the world playing to packed dance floors of kids who clamoured to catch a glimpse of him or just hear him play. He hosted shows on national radio stations, and even people with no interest in the club scene at least knew his name.

Sam had long since given up on mainstream pop music. He despised it. Or, more accurately, he despised the people who made it. It was the breathtaking hypocrisy he couldn't bear. One minute they were all over the telly telling everyone else why they should give their hard-earned cash to the starving families in Africa, the next they're poncing around at the Brit Awards shovelling buckets of coke up their noses and shagging groupies by the roomful. Okay, DJs are not exactly sex- and drug-free zones, but at least you don't have to put up with them jumping on some political bandwagon or other and crapping on about it whenever someone sticks a microphone under their nose.

Dance music was successful because it was about the people. You would go to a club and there would be a stage, often with elaborate lights and chintzy logos bolted to it, and people would stare at it, but usually nothing happened on it. But the crowd would still go bananas. The DJ and what he played was important, but it was the crowd that made the night, the atmosphere they created as they shared a high and the pure love of the music. Pop stars should be banned along with Monday mornings as far as Sam was concerned.

Tony introduced Charlie and Simon to Sam as old friends, along with the other man who Sam learned was the promoter of the club in which they were all sitting.

Sam felt like he was in a dream. Here he was sipping champagne with Charlie Caxton and Simon Owen after delivering a bag of pills to one of the most feared drug-dealers in the country. He sat in a daze as he listened to the men chatting. He learned that Charlie wasn't actually playing in the club, he had merely dropped in on his way to another gig in London. Tonight was a small, private birthday party for a very well-known celebrity, a super-model and her actor boyfriend. The four men were awaiting the couple's arrival, when the promoter would go downstairs to greet them. Sam's delivery of the chemical enhancements would no doubt be circulated throughout the course of the evening, as and when they were required.

"You work for Sean, then?" Tony spoke quickly, but his tone was friendly.

"Er, yeah, but..." Sam floundered once again, unsure as to how Sean had described him on the phone.

"Unlucky!" Tony exclaimed.

The other men laughed. Before Sam arrived, Tony had been telling the story as he knew it of Sean's exploits in Holland, much to the amusement of his companions. Sam was still pretty clueless as to the capacity in which Tony and Sean knew each other.

Sam sat in silence as the men laughed and chatted, trying to take in what had happened. It wasn't long, however, before a phone rang again. Brett, the promoter, answered it.

"Yeah... They're here? Okay. Cheers darlin'." It transpired that the guests of honour had arrived in the club downstairs and it was now time to go down and meet them.

The five men finished their drinks and rose from their seats, Sam copying the others and placing his glass on a tray on a table in front of them. Sam walked next to Charlie as they headed to the door. He had seen him in clubs before, from a distance. His picture was always in magazines and on the sleeves of many CDs in Sam's collection on the shelf in his bedroom. Now they were strolling alongside each other like old friends. Sam was absolutely lost for words. This would be a story down the pub and at work!

The group descended a flight of stairs, then walked through a door. The muffled bass thump of the music resonated around the wooden fittings then became clearer as they entered the main room of the club. It was far smaller than Sam imagined, but he was used to large, warehouse-style raves. The music, although still a deafening volume, was slow R'n'B, again not what Sam was used to on a night out. The room was just starting to fill up, and the bar staff were clearly moving up a gear. Sam looked around. There were some beautiful women in attendance, but as was usual, especially on a night like this, they looked completely bored and uninterested, that is, until they noticed Charlie Caxton walking through the room. It amused Sam to see them double-take. Sam felt his own credibility rise about ten-fold as well!

As the group reached the main bar area, they were approached by a young woman. Sure enough, it was the world-famous model Alicia Stowe. Sam could hardly believe he was standing next to her. She excitedly hugged Brett then greeted Charlie with the same enthusiasm. Brett introduced the rest of the group and, to Sam's delight, he remembered his name. Alicia shook his hand and smiled warmly.

She looked absolutely stunning, pencil thin, with her trademark high cheekbones and pouting lips. She veritably glowed and grinned with enthusiasm, seeming genuinely chuffed that everyone was making such a fuss for her birthday. In fact, Sam was surprised how down-to-earth she appeared.

Brett made sure everyone, including Sam, had a drink. But inevitably as the night wore on Brett, Tony and Simon became surrounded by more and more people they knew. Charlie Caxton, Sam noticed, made a fairly abrupt exit after his first drink. Sam was happy sitting by himself watching his new acquaintances as various soap stars, singers, models and footballers swanned around the club, usually stopping at some point to speak to Brett and his friends.

Sam felt intoxicated, and not just from the expensive alcohol he was sipping. For the first time in a very long while he felt important, like he was part of something. He was hob-nobbing with people he admired and looked up to, enjoying the lifestyle he aspired to, and he realised it had taken a highly illegal act on his part to get him here. He didn't dwell on it but it just felt so right.

As the night wore on and the music grew faster, Sam could tell his illicit contraband was starting to do the rounds from whatever outlet it was being sold. It had the desired effect. By 1a.m. the small, private party was jumping.
Chapter Twelve

The studio was alive with activity. It was a recording day, and an important one in the history of NMA. It was 9.30 a.m. on a Monday morning and Simon Owen was busy. He was preparing for his newest signing to come in, The Wanton Terriers. He was sitting at a mixing desk, fiddling with buttons. Occasionally he'd write something on an A4 pad of paper in front of him.

He looked at his watch. The terrible twosome should arrive any minute. Simon surveyed his morning's work so far. Not bad, just some ideas he had been kicking around in his mind since his first meeting with the lads a fortnight ago.

He had been to see them DJ in a club after they'd pestered him. He was impressed, the mixing faultless. They played a lot of their own tracks, stuff they'd been sending him for the past year. He decided to sign them up, seeing them as a promising pair of kids. Their energy and enthusiasm for the scene was phenomenal. They'd struck up an instant rapport in two meetings they'd had since, albeit one turning into a rather late session in the pub.

This morning the duo would be working closely with their new producer and mentor putting the finishing touches on a new track. It would be a white label, a few hundred copies pressed in time for the Miami Winter Music Conference. If successful it was almost guaranteed, with Simon's backing, to become a summer anthem.

Simon's PA/receptionist/occasional fuck-buddy, Nina, put her head around the sound-proofed door.

"They're here," she said, and disappeared. Simon got to his feet and walked out to the reception area. The Wanton Terriers were sprawled on the luxury leather sofas which were in place for waiting visitors to NMA Towers.

"Alright chaps?" Simon smiled and held out his hand to greet them. He noticed they were both wearing dark glasses, were unshaven, and clinging to plastic water bottles. "Heavy weekend, was it?"

"Slightly," said Mark. He was usually the livelier of the two, but today even he seemed subdued, his voice gravelly as he croaked a few pleasantries with Simon.

Mark stood up. He felt wobbly. It had been a long weekend of DJing gigs. They'd started on Friday evening at a club in Liverpool and finished at an after-hours do in South London at about 11 a.m. on Sunday morning. They'd had little sleep during the whole period. And, instead of going home to bed in preparation for today, they had hit the dance floor with the promoter and various stragglers and got stuck into the booze and drugs.

Mark could handle it. At the age of twenty-two, he was full of himself. He had a real talent for making music and was a gifted DJ. It was doing this that he met his production partner, Rupert Wilkington-Spencer. A former public schoolboy (he was kicked out after getting caught taking drugs), their backgrounds couldn't be more different. Rupert had trained as a sound-engineer, a job acquired for him by his well-connected father. He knew his way round a studio. With Mark's creative talent and Rupert's technical expertise and finance, they formed a winning partnership. Although it was an unlikely pairing, they shared an ideology: making fantastic music that people could get nutted and dance to at the weekend. Of course, they tested their music to the fullest, spending a great deal of time out of their heads themselves.

They knew they had the opportunity of a lifetime. Releasing music on the NMA label with the help of Simon Owen really could propel them into the premier league of dance music.

They shuffled through the long, spacious corridor. The interior was impressive. It comprised a ground floor of a converted print works in fashionable Clerkenwell. It had been divided into various rooms. There were the three recording studios, a palatial office for Simon, the reception and waiting area, and a meeting room.

The whole place was expensively decorated. There was solid teak flooring throughout, designer furniture, and fridges stocked full of food and liquid refreshment of every kind. The walls were painted brilliant white with subtle lighting, not usually needed during the day as sunlight streamed in through the enormous plate glass windows at the front of the building. Modern artwork adorned the walls, as well as the odd award certificate or picture of some DJ or other playing in front of a writhing sea of heads. And the recording technology was, of course, state-of-the-art.

The three men sat on the couches in Studio One, the biggest of the three. Simon was keen to get going.

"Okay chaps. You made it then... We've got a lot to do so I need your full concentration." Rupert smiled at his partner. He removed his sunglasses for the first time, revealing dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Simon continued. "Now, as we discussed the other day, I've got the vocal. Felicity came in the other day and recorded it. I'll play it to you in a second. I think if we take some elements of that unfinished track you made, what was it called?"

"Loose Chatter."

"Thanks Rob, yeah that's it. I've got the CD here. If we use the rhythm of Loose Chatter, Flick's vocals, and give it a bit of zero-point flange, I think we could have something."

"Yeah, sounds good," said Mark.

"Flick and flange!" The others laughed.

"Or loose Flick's flange!" added Rupert.

"Loose Flick licks flange!"

"Okay, okay, wind your necks in, it's time to work," said Simon, grinning. He walked to the enormous console and pressed a button on a CD deck. The room filled with the voice of a female singer.

"Flick fucking licked it..." Mark murmured, transfixed by the beautiful voice. The track faded out.

"Now let's fuckin' chop it up and make a banging house track!"

He looked at the others with relish. They shared and understood his creative vision and the morning's agenda was set.

The next two hours were spent tweaking and tuning, processing and pre-fading. The hangovers were largely forgotten as the men worked, fuelled by water, coffee and chocolate.

Simon toiled passionately, his face etched in concentration. He had a fastidious and scientific approach to his work, always first to adapt to the most precise technology available. He listened to the track over and over as it developed.

"The frequency's not quite right. Some of the percussion is too quiet," he announced. "I need to adjust the phon on those cymbals. I tell you what, let's take a little break, eh?"

"Cool," said Mark.

"Can we smoke a doobie?"

"Outside on the fire escape, please." Simon gestured to a door next to the studio marked 'fire exit'. The Wanton Terriers filed outside while Simon continued with his listening and knob-twiddling, ever the perfectionist. Eventually he joined the lads on the black metal fire escape.

"Here you go, mate," said Mark, handing him a crumpled joint.

"Cheers." Simon drew on the reefer, inhaling the smoke deeply. He passed it to Rupert who took a last drag before discarding it.

"Come inside. Fancy a beer?" Simon walked to one of the silver-chrome fridges and took out three Michelobs. He removed the tops and handed them to his colleagues. They resumed their original slouching positions on the easy chairs within the studio.

"Looking forward to Miami?" Rupert said, picking at the label of his bottle.

"Yeah, should be good. I reckon this track's a winner. I've got a few other artists I'll be plugging. Most of my DJs will be there as well." Mark looked at Simon in admiration. He hadn't realised before they met just how influential and well-connected Simon was. 'The most powerful man in dance', one magazine had proclaimed recently. Simon tended to agree with the assessment.

"I suppose all the big names have recorded in here," Mark said, looking around the room dreamily. Simon looked slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah, they've all been in here, eh Si? Madonna, Dom Joly, the lot," Rupert said.

"Quite," Simon said, sounding vague.

"So, where have you boys been playing lately? Been to any decent gigs?"

Mark smirked and looked at Rupert. "Yeah, there was this one the other day," he said slowly. Rupert smiled in recognition.

"We were a bit naïve. We thought it was just a normal club. The promoter didn't tell us it was a fucking S&M bondage do!"

"Oh yeah?" said Simon, smiling.

"Yeah, we didn't know where to look. I was on the decks and birds with their tits out kept walking past! And it was full of old geezers as well. Proper sex cases!"

Simon laughed. "You didn't get involved, did you?" he asked.

"Nah, we were too scared, the birds looked well ropey. I didn't know who was who. Some of the women looked like men and vice-versa. Twisted, it was. I was a bit spangled, which didn't help."

The three men laughed, the alcohol already having an affect.

"What about you, Simon? I bet you've seen some action in your time."

"What are you saying? I'm not that old!"

"No, but you were around at the beginning, illegal raves and all that."

"Yeah, I was, good times, man, good times. Different to now."

"I used to listen to it in my bedroom, back in the day... Oh my giddy giddy gosh! Lydd International Airport main arena! We're in the fuckin' place, we're off our fuckin' face! Horns massive! Whistle posse blow!" Mark was excited now, shouting at the top of his voice, Rupert and Simon were in fits of laughter at the impression.

The raucous mirth was interrupted by Nina appearing at the door. "Simon, there's a package here to sign for."

"Roll another fat one, lads, I'll be back shortly."

"Jimmy, gerroff dem drucks!" Simon laughed again as Mark switched to a mock scouse accent. He put his drink down and followed Nina out of the room. He knew what the package was. He always preferred to sign for it himself, where possible. He received several such parcels during the week from various clubs.

He took it into his office, but opened his other mail first. The usual stuff, invites to parties mainly. He tossed the paper onto his desk, then set about opening the large package. It was well sealed, as it should be. He carefully pulled away the grey plastic packaging to reveal the banknotes. Lots of them. £5000 in this packet in tens and twenties. He quickly counted it. Then, making sure the office door was shut, he opened the secret safe that was housed in the floorboards under his desk. There were another twenty-one bags there already, each with at least five grand in them. Well over a hundred-K in hard currency. The safe was full and it was the end of the month. Time to confiscate Magda's passport when she came to work this evening.

The scam had worked well so far and it had been in operation nearly two years. Magda Milosz worked for Simon part-time, cleaning the office in the evening. She was very good at her job. Her father, Jan, worked as a builder in London, moving around the many construction sites in the city. It was good, regular work and paid well. Once a month he would get into his Polish-registered Ford Galaxy and drive the nine hundred miles back to his home city of Warsaw. The main purpose of the visit was to see his extended family as they preferred to stay in their home town rather than take their chances on foreign soil as he and his daughter had done, albeit pretty successfully.

Somewhere in the MPV he would stash Simon's packages, usually a hundred to two hundred grand in sterling. He found border controls in Europe pretty lax, customs were used to Poles travelling all over the place to find work, and in any case there was nothing illegal about carrying large amounts of money between countries.

When he arrived in Warsaw, Jan would walk into his local branch of Poland's national bank. There, he would place the money in its entirety into a deposit account in his name, no questions asked.

Enter Tony Hawkins. From his base in the Netherlands he could access Jan's account using the various passwords, and would proceed to wire the newly deposited funds to another offshore account in Luxembourg, a country with very unrestrictive banking laws and the added bonus of being a tax haven.

The Luxembourg account was in NMA's name and attributed to its Dutch offshoot, but this branch of the company was little more than a shell. Its registered address was a P.O. Box in Amsterdam and, crucially, the company's annual report was filed from there, with Tony as the resident and guarantor of the offshore jurisdiction. The money would sit in the account until Tony needed it. His 'wages' were paid from it. The remainder would go back to England, converted back into pounds.

The existence of a foreign branch of NMA justified the necessity of export papers which gave them preferential exchange rates. The washed money was then placed back in Simon's hands where it would undergo still further layering, until the audit trail was utterly destroyed.

It was made very clear to Jan that if he or any of the money went 'missing', terrible things would happen to Magda, hence why she had to give her passport to Simon for the duration of Jan's visit. But the deal worked out very well for the Miloszs. They were paid generously, plenty of cash to bring back to the old country. In fact, it was all very efficient, the money trail was nice and complicated, passing through four different countries' jurisdictions.

Simon felt very pleased with himself as he counted the drug funds. They would magically appear in the company's accounts in ten days or so, and everyone would get paid. Another successful month at NMA.
Chapter Thirteen

Simon Owen was nearly ready. He looked in the mirror. He was thirty-six years old, and his appearance had arguably improved with age. Six-foot tall with a full head of thick, blonde hair that was only just starting to show flecks of grey. He was lightly tanned from his many trips abroad, and his healthy complexion belied the fact that he took drugs, drank heavily and had a very erratic sleep pattern.

He put the finishing touches to his outfit. A chest-hugging white Versace shirt, which he hoped would accentuate his toned physique. A pair of tight, velvet D&G trousers teamed with brown Oliver Sweeney loafers. He completed the look by hanging a solid silver Stephen Einhorn chain around his neck and fastening his Rolex watch.

His timing was perfect as the buzzer on his intercom sounded to indicate his car was waiting outside, ready to transport him to the club. Simon lived in the Kent countryside, it would take roughly an hour to get to London and the Sleeping With The Enemy wrap party hosted by Slam! television.

The show had been a huge success and had the nation gripped. It had exceeded all expectations and even outdone the previous two series. Slam! staff were becoming highly-revered within show business and tonight were throwing a lavish party to celebrate.

Everyone who was anyone was going to be there. The production staff, the judges, the contestants and a carefully selected show business clientele. Top brass from the worlds of fashion, television, media and music would be there, so it was natural enough that Simon would be top of the list of invitees.

Simon still enjoyed nights like these. He was a veteran party-goer, but showed no signs of slowing down. He buzzed off the fact that people actively tried to get him into their parties. He could still remember when it was the other way round, in the 'eighties when he and his mates had to almost beg bouncers to let them in. Those days were long gone. Going to parties was part of his job, but a part he adored nonetheless. He loved the fact that other industry executives would attend just because they thought Simon would be there, taking advantage of any opportunity for a little schmoozing.

There were usually plenty of wannabe dance acts and DJs that knew Simon had the power to make them rich and famous. They would feel privileged just to be in the same room as Simon Owen. And, naturally, there would be the obligatory beautiful women and free champagne associated with the fact that it was an after-show party for one of the biggest television series in the country, which was tasked with finding the country's next top singer. Simon was going to enjoy the evening.

In West London, Kyla was already at the Slam! party. The alcohol was flowing, and for once she was enjoying herself. This was the sort of thing she dreamed of: a showbiz party where she was one of the guests of honour. Some of the other contestants were in the room, but not the winner yet, Debi Roberts.

Kyla was still the main story of the show. It was three weeks after her eviction and her feet had barely touched the floor. She was enjoying playing up to her 'superbitch' persona. She had been on talk shows, invited to launches and other events, and been interviewed by newspapers and magazines. Panto offers would start flooding in any moment. Tonight everyone wanted a piece of her, and she discovered she could be absolutely charming when she wanted to be. It seemed like, for the first time in ages, people were treating her with genuine respect. Even Jeff Stein, the judge who'd been the most disparaging about her, was trying to be pleasant.

"So you're doing alright then, Kyla, are you? I can't open a paper without seeing you in it!" he said.

Kyla wasn't sure if he was mocking her or not. "Yeah, the offers are flooding in. Best thing you could've done, booting me out!"

"Any time, any time. Do you think it will last?"

"I think so. The world has not yet seen the real Kyla Andretti."

"And who's that exactly?" Jeff was definitely taking the piss now. Kyla decided to play along. She was in a good mood.

"Oh, just that I'm planning world domination. You and Sleeping With The Enemy were just part of it. It was a stepping stone to bigger and better things. Soon the whole world will know who I am!"

"That's the spirit, you go, girl! Just remember who helped you get started though, eh?" Kyla could barely believe what she was hearing. Help her? Jeff had called her a 'catty bitch with no talent' on live TV. She knew show business was fickle, superficial and pretentious, but this was still a little shocking. Kyla suddenly realised it would take everything she had and more to succeed if she was up against tossers like Jeff.

The conversation continued with increasing insincerity until someone caught Jeff's eye. "Oh, Simon Owen's here. That's good, I was hoping to catch up with him tonight."

The name rang a bell with Kyla, but she couldn't quite place who it belonged to. "Simon Owen?" she asked innocently.

Jeff smiled sardonically. "You mean you don't know who he is?"

"Well, I do, but..."

Once again Jeff deliberately demonstrated his arrogance. "He's probably the biggest music producer in the country right now. He happens to be a close personal friend of mine. I helped him get where he is, you know." Condescending is too nice a work for this prick, Kyla thought. "Yeah, me and Si go way back," he continued. "I'm surprised you don't know him, now you're a bona-fide A-lister."

"Well, I'm sure he knows me," Kyla said with an icy smile. Her attention had now turned to Simon. Jeff had really started to irritate her. She did know who Simon was. He worked with Charlie Caxton, one of the biggest DJs in the world, and everyone aged under twenty-five knew who he was.

She watched Simon across the room, transfixed. He was gorgeous. At least ten years older, which she liked, and clearly a man of money and power. She stared at him as he worked the room. People swarmed to him, their faces lit up as they realised he was in their vicinity. They jostled to shake his hand or buy him a drink. A new energy seemed to take hold of the small but suddenly very crowded party.

Eventually Simon fought his way through the crowd. He noticed Jeff.

"Hey Steino, how's it going?" Simon said, shaking him warmly by the hand.

"Not bad, mate, not bad." Kyla was perplexed. How could someone as cool as Simon be friends with a dickhead like Jeff?"

"And who is this delicious creature?" Simon looked at Kyla, his charisma allowing him to get away with the cheesy line.

"This, my friend, is Kyla. She's the next big thing on TV. Got kicked off early from Sleeping, and now she's a media darling. Surely you've seen her? She's been all over the Daily Star in her knickers."

Kyla would have lost her temper with Jeff if she'd heard him properly, but she was utterly engrossed in Simon. And he was having trouble keeping his eyes off her.

"Yeah, I think I have seen you. How could I forget those gorgeous eyes?"

Kyla smiled coyly. Simon offered his hand for her to shake. She touched it gently. He sandwiched it with his other hand, and held it far longer than normal for two strangers that had just met. He just couldn't look away from those huge, brown puppy-dog eyes. Kyla parted her lips ever so slightly.

"Simon!"

"Yeah, sorry, Jeff." The older man was eager for the attention to focus back on him.

"What did you think of the series?"

"Yeah, really good, Jeffrey, really good. I have to agree with Carl, though. It could do with a slight... update."

"What do you mean? What about Carl?"

"Well, it goes out on 4Xtreme, doesn't it?"

"Among others, yeah."

"That channel was invented for the kids, but you've mums and granddads tuning in and what have you."

"So, who cares who's watching, as long as they are watching?"

"And you're selling advertising, you mean?"

"Yeah, course. That's what it's all about, isn't it? I thought you understood that, Simon."

"Oh, I understand it, Jeff. We discussed it in the treatment meeting last week."

"Hold on... meeting?"

Kyla smirked impertinently. Simon continued.

"Yeah, there's youth brands out there with bags of cash, ready to do huge sponsorship deals, but they won't at the moment because the programme's too, well, stuffy."

"What are you saying?"

"They love the idea and that, it's just the format needs re-vamping for the next series. They've brought me in as a consultant. I'm dahhhn with the kids, y'know!" Simon winked mischievously at Kyla.

"It's news to me," said Jeff, clearly perplexed.

"It's a good show, Jeff, but this series was a bit like 'super sounds of 70s karaoke down the pub'."

"And how are you gonna change it, then?" Jeff was beginning to sound aggressive.

"I'm gonna be doing the music for a start, and..."

"When was this all decided?"

"In the meeting the other day. TV's fickle, Jeff. It moves fast, you know that."

"And who else was at this meeting?"

"Oh, it was just me, Carl Johnson and the new...er...judges..."

Jeff's face was a picture. It first contorted with surprise and then rage as the implications of what Simon had said sunk in. Kyla tried desperately to control her giggling.

"I'm getting a drink!" Jeff stormed off in the direction of the bar.

"Oops. If the papers get hold of that I'm in all sorts of trouble," Simon said, his expression one of mock anguish.

"I need the loo," Kyla said, grinning uncontrollably. A new gaggle had formed next to Simon. He turned and faced them and greeted them warmly, but followed Kyla with one eye as she disappeared into the crowd.

He could not stop thinking about the stunning woman he'd just encountered. He'd met and dated gorgeous women before, of course, but Kyla seemed to be something else. Dark and mysterious, yet friendly and flirty. He just had to speak to her again. Luckily, he didn't have long to wait.

"Hi Simon," she said as she approached him from behind, tapping him gently on the shoulder.

"Kyla! I was just thinking how boring this party is. How are you finding things?"

"Yeah, it's a bit tedious, isn't it?" Kyla was lying. She was loving it. She adored showbiz parties and, at last, this was one where people actually wanted to speak to her. And they were friendly too, not just out to knock her down, or so it seemed.

"Why don't we get some champagne and find a table?" Simon asked, but he knew the answer. His power meant he rarely had to try too hard with women.

"Okay," Kyla replied eagerly.

They found a spare table and sat down together. Kyla was rather drunk and Simon was naturally full of confidence. There was none of the usual awkwardness of two people who had just met.

"So, people have been telling me what a star you are these days," Simon said.

"Been doing your research, have you? Why didn't you just ask me direct? And where have you been lately? You must be the only person who doesn't think I'm the 'bitchy one' off Sleeping With The Enemy."

"I didn't watch it. I know I should've, I'm involved in the next series. I suppose that's why I'm here tonight, really. But I've been out of the country. I've been promoting a few acts in South Africa. I only came back for the meeting with Carl the other day." Kyla listened intently. This sort of talk never failed to impress her.

"What sort of acts?"

"Well, you know Charlie Caxton? He works for me, and my label. He writes a lot of his own tracks, with other producers. He DJs in clubs, plays the music. They might do a live PA or something with a singer. I'm a promotions guy really. I help get it in the press, get the right... exposure. It's pretty boring... but it pays the bills, you know."

Kyla thought it sounded anything but boring. It was exactly the kind of lifestyle she aspired to. "Oh, don't be so modest. I bet you go to loads of showbiz parties, don't you? Like this one?"

Simon realised it wouldn't be too difficult to get Kyla into bed. "Well, I'm friends with a lot of Hollywood actors and directors and whatnot. I get invited to their houses sometimes. I've started doing a lot of film soundtracks, you see."

Kyla listened, wide-eyed. They chatted some more and drank champagne. Simon had trouble keeping his eyes off Kyla's crossed legs, her tiny denim skirt barely covering her lacy knickers. Inevitably they started kissing. The party was starting to wind down. Simon put his hand on Kyla's bare knee. Her chocolate-coloured skin felt silky-smooth to his touch. He felt blood rush to his penis.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked.

"Sure," she whispered, drunk, but still well aware that she was about to be seduced by one of the most powerful and good-looking men in music.

As they spilled out onto the street, Simon hailed a passing black cab. They started snogging feverishly in the back.

"Cosmopolitan Hotel, please," Simon said. "I've got an account there." Kyla could feel herself getting wet.

The taxi drove steadily through the damp London night until it pulled up at one of London's most expensive and exclusive hotels. Simon paid the driver and led Kyla into the lobby and up to the reception desk.

"Hello, Mr. Owen. Your usual suite?"

"Yes, please. And can you send up some champagne, please?"

"Certainly, sir. It will be about five minutes."

The couple had barely got through the door of Suite 411 when they were tearing at each other's clothes. Kyla lay on the bed in just her tiny thong as Simon knelt above her, his erection straining in his pants. Kyla felt his cock through the thin material then pulled them off completely. His manhood sprang upwards close to her face. She leant forward and teased the tip with her tongue, making Simon breathe with pleasure. He didn't want to come straight away so he gently pushed her down and slowly eased her knickers off, then started kissing her inner thigh until he reached her vagina. He softly teased her clitoris with his tongue. It was her turn to gasp with pleasure. He continued, varying the pace with hard and soft flicks of his tongue, her juices wetting his chin. She came hard, breathing heavily. Before she had time to recover he slammed his hard cock into her pussy, thrusting vigorously. After a few thrusts he pulled out and shot a stream of hot semen over her tanned stomach. They collapsed in a heap on the bed.

There was a knock on the door. The champagne had arrived.
Chapter Fourteen - June 1987

Denise Thompson looked at her boyfriend. For the first time in a long time she felt secure, finally she had him to herself. The fortnight's holiday was exactly what they needed, she thought, as they sat together on the plane as it began its descent into Ibiza airport.

A romantic getaway on a quiet Mediterranean island. Perfect. She knew Tony was a good man at heart. She could see that in him. They had been together a year, and at times things had been very difficult. Tony would often disappear for days at a time, whole weekends sometimes, without a word to anyone. His parents had practically disowned him. Denise knew he'd been in trouble with the law, he was a thief and had a violent streak.

He ran with a gang and would travel around the country under the pretence of going to football matches. Denise was no fool, he would come back with black eyes and cuts, occasionally even broken bones. She knew he was one of the 'football hooligans' she saw on the news and read about in the newspapers.

But he was never violent with her, he was just a high-spirited jack-the-lad, she reasoned. And now, at the age of twenty-two, he should be ready to settle down and commit, she hoped. Maybe even during this holiday, and maybe she would even get a proposal... She smiled to herself, trying not to get carried away. But she had a warm fuzzy feeling inside that she couldn't explain.

Again she gazed at Tony. He looked back and smiled. God, that smile! No wonder women fawned over him. Now she had him all to herself and she was determined not to let him go. Two weeks of pure togetherness, no distractions, just the two of them.

At last he seemed to be showing some enthusiasm for the holiday, the relationship and her. That's all he needed, she thought, some gentle but determined persuasion and he would be all hers.

She watched him as he looked out of the plane's window.

"Weather looks good, doll!" he exclaimed in his chirpy Essex accent.

"Are you looking forward to it?" Denise asked, not for the first time.

"Yeah, course, babe. Get a bit of sun on our backs. Just what we need!" He playfully squeezed her leg.

"D'you think there'll be much to do? You know I get a bid bored sometimes just sitting around doing nothing." Denise knew this only too well. Tony had trouble keeping still for more than five minutes.

"Oh yeah," she replied. "We'll have a lovely time. There's beaches and restaurants. We can go for romantic walks in the evening. There's also plenty for you to do during day, watersports and whatnot." Tony smiled half-heartedly. Not really what he had in mind.

Denise had only heard of the island because she was a massive Wham! fan. She had often read that Ibiza was a favourite hang-out of George Michael. One thing did worry her slightly. She had also read that parts of the island were notorious for lager louts, young single lads abroad. She would keep Tony away from all that, and at the moment he didn't have a clue. He never read anything, and had little knowledge of anywhere outside the UK. This was only his second time abroad.

The plane touched down smoothly and the couple made their way to the coach, smiling and laughing in the warm Spanish sunshine. They both felt excited as the bus slowly made its way across the island to their resort in a town called Santa Eularia.

The accommodation was fairly typical for a cheap European package holiday. A one-bedroom apartment, functional pine furniture, balcony and basic equipment. Denise, who lived in a tiny house with her parents, thought it was a palace.

She strolled out onto the balcony and breathed the sea air. Tony walked out behind her and ensconced her in his arms. He kissed the back of her neck and soon they were tenderly making love as the early evening sun went down, bathing the bedroom in soft natural light.

Several days passed. It was everything Denise had hoped for. The couple became completely wrapped in each other. They spent their days on the beach, baking in the hot sun. They would head back to the room in the late afternoon and doze together, and usually had passionate sex before heading out for dinner at about eight o'clock. After a romantic meal they would slowly walk together in the moonlight, arm-in-arm. Tony was a different person to his usual, brash, Essex boy persona. He was tender and loving. He even regularly whispered "I love you" to Denise as they strolled along the beach, waves gently lapping at the shore.

One afternoon, as the couple lay on the beach together, Tony said:

"Babe, shall we try somewhere different for dinner tonight, maybe somewhere else on the island?" They were the words Denise was secretly dreading. It meant that Tony was thinking outside the bubble of the relationship. It meant that, for the first time during the holiday, she wouldn't have full control over her boyfriend. She didn't, however, want to spoil the idyllic chemistry they'd created, so she knew she had to agree to what was in reality a pretty harmless request.

"Yeah, okay. Where did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. I don't really know anything about this place. I just feel like exploring a bit. We've come all this way. It'd be nice to see a bit out of town, y'know?"

"Yeah okay, why not?" Denise gazed into the distance. Why not? She thought.

The couple got ready as usual and walked from their hotel into the street. It was a beautiful summer's evening, completely still. Denise wore a long white dress. It perfectly accentuated her slim figure. Although she was a naturally very pretty girl, she never went out in public without first applying her bright pink lipstick and turquoise eyeshadow. Her permed blonde hair was immaculate as the hairspray dried in the warmth of the evening.

Tony also wore his hair long. It was thick and black, rarely needing any products to keep it in place. He was tall and skinny, not yet filled out fully into a man's frame. He had tanned deeply, which made him, at least in Denise's eyes, even more good-looking.

He was dressed almost completely in blue, a baggy T-shirt, acid-washed jeans, and white loafers which Denise had bought him, knowing he was a huge fan of Miami Vice. He completed the outfit with a gold chain and cross, which he wore outside his T-shirt .

It occurred to Denise that Tony looked ever-so-slightly like a long-haired Marc Almond, but she kept this quiet, fearing his reaction if she were to voice this observation out loud. She smiled to herself as he flagged a taxi. They still had no idea where they were going to spend the evening. They boarded the cab.

"Engliss?" asked the driver. It was easy to tell they were.

"Yeah," said Tony.

"Where to, guv'ner?" the driver asked in a mock cockney accent. They both laughed.

"We, er, dunno." Tony, the more extrovert of the two, always tried to take control of situations, although conversing with Spanish taxi drivers was a new experience for him. He soldiered on. "We wanna go somewhere a bit different, you know? A bit... livelier. Cosmopolitan."

"Si, señor."

The driver knew exactly where to take them. They were young Brits abroad. 'Lively' was a word he understood well. He would take them to San Antonio, it was exactly what they had asked for and, being on the other side of the island, meant a nice fare for him.

San Antonio De Portmany was completely different to Santa Eularia. Music blared from bars illuminated from bright neon lights. Denise loved the music, Culture Club, Duran Duran, The Thompson Twins. It was the bars themselves she was wary of. There would be other women there, temptation for Tony. And he was looking more gorgeous than ever. She pulled him closer as they made their way past the fountains and along the pavements that were starting to fill up with people out for their evening's entertainment.

Shortly, they decided on an open-air restaurant on the promenade with a pretty backdrop of the bay, with its moored-up boats. The eatery, like everywhere else, was crowded. They took their seats. As they perused the menu, a waiter appeared in front of the table next to them. Without a word, he slid it closer, obviously keen to accommodate as many people as possible. Tony didn't even notice, but Denise wanted to object as another young couple took their seats so close it was almost as if they'd gone out together and asked for a table for four. Before Denise could say anything, Tony, being Tony, had introduced himself to the couple and they were already laughing and chatting. Denise smiled awkwardly.

"This is Denise," Tony said.

"Hello Denise," said the man sat diagonally opposite her.

"I'm Simon. This is my girlfriend Nicola." The two men instantly hit it off, and swivelled their chairs to face each other.

"Where are you from?" asked Tony.

"Kent, Sidcup," replied Simon.

"Just over the river from us. Barking in Essex."

"Small world," said Denise quietly.

"What do you do?" asked Simon.

"I'm a mechanic. I work with my uncle. I'm still doing my apprenticeship. Should be finishing this year. What about you?"

"I work in the City. On the futures and options exchange. I'm just a runner at the moment, but hoping to move on soon."

"It's tedious, ain't it? You finish school and you think, that's it now. I've learnt everything. I can start work."

"It's just the bloody beginning." Simon nodded in agreement. "I'm still doing exams now." They both laughed.

The drinks arrived. Lager for the men. Strawberry Daiquiris for the women.

"Where are you staying?" Tony asked.

"Here in San An. Great nightlife. What about you?"

"Other side of the island, mate. Santa Eularia. It's dead compared to here." Tony looked around him, the neon light flashes reflecting on his burnished brown skin and eyes. There were groups of young men and women everywhere, laughing and drunkenly stumbling around. Denise looked at him ominously. She knew what he was thinking. He was like this with his mates back home. As soon as he'd had a drink he became loud and obnoxious. He couldn't just leave it at one or two either. He had to drink until he fell over. This was the other side of Tony, the side she didn't like. He became impulsive and unpredictable as well as devious and deceitful.

The evening wore on and the two men sank more and more beer. It was uncanny how much they had in common. Both aged twenty-two, and been with their girlfriends for about a year. They had similar personalities, loud and outgoing. Every so often one would tell a joke and the other roar raucously with laughter, while the girls looked on, bemused.

As the two men polished off their fifth glass of beer each, Simon's attention turned to a family sitting on a table directly in front of them within their line of vision.

"Look at him," Simon whispered under his breath. "He looks happy!"

Tony spluttered, trying to suppress his laughter. "Fuck me, yeah. Christ, he's on holiday, surely he could cheer up a bit."

They looked on through their boozy haze, smirks on their faces. A young lad of about sixteen was sitting at a table with a middle-aged man and woman, maybe his parents, although it was impossible to see any bond between the three at this particular moment. The kid's body language spoke volumes. He was looking down sullenly at his food, aimlessly pushing it around his plate with his fork. He looked utterly miserable and incapable of any communication with anyone around him. Tony studied him for a moment from the distance of his table.

"He looks like one of them... what do they call it? Romantics?"

"New Romantics," corrected Denise.

"Yeah, but gone wrong. Look, his make-up's smudged!" Tony and Simon again roared with laughter. The pale, skinny, miserable teenager didn't look up. He was oblivious to all around him as the two adults sat stony-faced next to him, not speaking, just grimly eating their meals, both looking like it was the last place they wanted to be.

The evening drew to a close, the restaurant emptied out, with Simon and Tony still in fits of giggles and the two women looking slightly embarrassed.

"What we gonna do now?" Simon asked. "The night's still young!"

Tony needed little encouragement. "It's time to paint the town red!"

"Well, I'm going in, I'm knackered," said Nicola.

"Oh, come on. We've been to bed early every night we've been here. Let's have some more drinks."

"Nah, I'm not up for it. You three go."

This put Denise in a difficult position. She knew she couldn't go out drinking with Tony and Simon. She could never keep up with two men drinking lager, and she knew from experience that Tony wouldn't want her around anyway. He was like that. He could be very selfish at times. She also didn't want to spoil Tony's fun by ordering him home. He might come, but he would resent her for it. It would cause arguments and possibly ruin the rest of the holiday. She knew she had no choice.

"You two go, I'll get a cab home." Secretly Tony celebrated. A night of freedom out with a new male partner in crime. He wasn't too bothered about Denise. He knew she wouldn't be happy, but she couldn't begrudge him one night out, surely?

Reluctantly, Denise left in a cab and the two men headed for the bright lights of San Antonio.

Simon and Tony soon realised they had a similar tolerance of alcohol, i.e.: they could both drink an absolute skin-full. They moved from bar to bar downing beer and shots. They met women, they would chat and flirt and occasionally dance and fool around.

One thing they did differ on was music. Tony liked soul, while Simon liked soft rock. It was hard to find a bar that played either, let alone catered for them both.

It was 3 a.m. and even the hardened drinkers began to slow down. They approached a small bar with an open front called Sancho's in the West End of San Antonio. They both sensed it would probably be the last drink of the evening. The bar was still reasonably lively and Duran Duran's Notorious was blaring out of the speakers. As they crossed the threshold, a body fell from the crowd and dropped lifeless in front of them. It was the pale teenager from earlier!

He lay in front of the two men, motionless; his face ashen white, his dark eyes closed. Simon and Tony froze looking down, not quite believing what they had just seen. Suddenly, they were shoved out of the way.

"Help him then!" They were pushed aside as a man crouched beside the teenager, forcing him into the sitting position. A long-haired man dressed completely in orange slapped the young boy, trying to bring him to. "Get some water!" he shouted. Simon disappeared into the bar.

Eventually the boy blinked and coughed. His head swivelled erratically as if it wasn't attached properly to his shoulders. He shuddered then lurched forward. Again the man in orange tried to prop him up.

"Help me hold him!" the man yelled. Tony stooped behind the boy and tried to pull him to his feet. The man in orange helped as they guided the lad to one of the metal chairs on the patio of the bar. Simon returned with a glass of water, and two beers in the other hand. The boy quickly came round as he drank the cold water. He blinked, and eventually smiled at the three men looking at him anxiously.

"You fucking scared us there, kid. We thought you were a gonna!" said Tony.

"He's just had too much to drink, eh kid?" said the man in orange. The boy mumbled something incomprehensible, then looked at the three men.

"Shhh...shtay with me for a minute, will you?"

Simon and Tony looked at each other doubtfully.

"Of course we will, kid.," said the orange man, glaring at the other two. "Right?"

"Er... yeah," said Simon, thinking it might be entertaining if nothing else.

"My name is Swami Anand Michael," the man in orange said. "You can call me Mike."

"I'm Charles," the kid said. There was a silence.

"Er, this is Tony and I'm Simon," said Simon, regretting his decision to buy the two beers. The four men sat awkwardly at the table. Tony and Simon were sobering up fast. They nervously sipped their drinks. Mike was doing all the talking. He was genuinely concerned for Charles, notwithstanding the fact they'd only just met.

"Where are your friends?"

"Not got any. I'm here on my own," Charles said in barely more than a whisper.

"Have you been drinking all night?"

"Yeah."

"Drink is wrong. You seek solace in the booze. You are looking for enlightenment in the wrong places. You are pushing out your demons, but they will come back stronger and faster and harder. If you continue to drink like that, you will never be truly free."

Again Tony and Simon looked at each other and smirked. "You just fancied a drink on holiday, eh kid? And had one too many. We've all been there!" said Tony.

"Wise words, my friend. But I sense torment. Disharmony is in the air. Our young friend is troubled, are you not?"

"I don't want to live any more," Charles said.

Mike looked pleased. "Tell me more. Nothing is so troublesome as to want to relinquish life. Life is a gift bestowed on a privileged few. What on earth is the problem?"

Charles remained silent. Tony and Simon looked on, slightly bewildered as a scruffy-haired, bearded man in orange robes spoke in riddles to a suicidal teenager who had drunk too much. Eventually Charles spoke.

"Everything's fucked." Tears sprang from his eyes. "I hate the world."

"Hate is a very cruel discourse and a negative emotion that is no match for the world. The whole world is far too noble a subject to have something as miserable as hate imposed upon it."

"Just let the kid speak," said Tony.

"My mum brought us here for a fresh start. Said it would bring the family back together. But it didn't work. My fucking stepdad fucked it up, as he always does." For the first time, Charles raised his voice. His eyes flashed with anger.

"Ahhh, families," said Mike. "Now it becomes clear. The cause of much strife among young people. But also so unnecessary. Your family is always there for you, to help you and guide you in your journey towards enlightenment."

"Not mine," Charles quickly replied. "My stepdad can burn in hell."

"If you go to hell willingly, you will be happy there. If you are forced into paradise you will hate it."

"That's hardly the point," said Simon. Everyone ignored him. Charles needed to get things off his chest and he'd finally found an outlet, albeit an utterly bizarre one.

"My dad died five years ago... and my mum took up with this religious freak. He's a vicar. A... fascist if you ask me. He tries to control me and Mum, but he can do no wrong in her eyes... He tries to stop me wearing... this. Listening to my music. Says it's work of the devil. What's wrong with a bit of Soft Cell and Culture Club? He just doesn't understand. He's a homophobic twat."

"Ahh, now I understand," said Mike. "It's true. There is no god other than life itself. Those who follow organised religion are truly narrow-minded and will never be free. They are our biggest enemy and are despicable. But they are not beyond hope and deserve our love."

Simon and Tony sniggered.

"And I fucked up all my exams," Charles added.

"Again, that can make a man's summer wretched. But there is hope. There are far more important things in this wondrous life than exams, my friend. I can save all three of you."

Tony glared at Mike. "We don't need saving, mate."

Mike ignored him and produced from somewhere a handful of something. They looked like brightly-coloured sweets. He swallowed one. "Take one of these, dear friends. You will find what you are looking for. Your mind will become free. Your body will be in control." Mike handed the three men one each.

"What is it?" Simon said, eyeing the small capsule suspiciously.

"A tablet of absolute and total love," Mike replied. "Normally retail for over twenty quid, but you can have them for nothing, dear friends."

"They're drugs?" Tony asked.

Mike smiled mysteriously. "They're whatever you want them to be. They truly have their own personality. Like little men."

"What the hell." Charles swallowed his. It couldn't possibly make him feel worse than he already did.

"Fuck it. I'm on holiday," Tony said and swallowed the capsule. Not to be outdone, Simon did likewise. There was a weird bond between the four men. Strangers a few hours ago, the unusual events of the evening had brought them together.

"What now?" said Tony.

"Let's all have another drink," said Simon.

"Please enjoy, my friends, but I have a pressing engagement. I cannot stay." With that, Mike stood up, put his hands together in a praying gesture. He bowed his head slightly and was gone.

The remaining men sat at the table, slightly bemused, looking at each other. Eventually they stood up and wandered into the more crowded bar area. The cacophony of music temporarily prevented any further conversation.

Again Simon brought over a round of drinks. Tony was more subdued now. Both he and Simon were thinking how they could get rid of Charles and get on with their evening. It was the first time of the holiday for both of them that they'd managed to escape the clutches of their respective girlfriends, and they were determined to make the most of it.

Charles was positively beaming. He had also escaped, but from the smothering confines of his parents, and had found some new friends. They were older, streetwise and cool. Everything he wasn't. There were girls in the bar, lots of them. He was free to drink, dance and enjoy the music, something he could never do at home. His stepfather governed the house like a strict schoolmaster. Alcohol was banned completely. Charles couldn't use his stereo at all during the week. He was rarely allowed to see the few friends he had. Tonight had been the final straw. They had been out for a miserable meal together. As the three of them disconsolately walked back to their hotel, Charles did a runner. His parents had been gazing in a shop window, completely ignoring their son. He suddenly darted up a side street towards the busy throng of people in the centre of San Antonio. His parents turned, startled, only in time to see him disappear into the crowd. They would never find him tonight, and Charles doubted they would even try. His stepfather would never venture into bars looking for him. He believed alcohol was the work of the devil. His mother would cry, of course, she did it a lot. His stepfather would reason with her that he would come back when he was hungry or ran out of money.

The three men stood in the bar. It was getting late. They sipped their drinks as the music pounded in their ears. Eventually Simon spoke. "Why are you looking so happy?" He addressed Charles, shouting to make himself heard above the noise.

"Yeah, you looked like you were gonna top yourself earlier. What's happened?" Tony said.

Charles grinned. He still looked pale, but his face had changed. His eyes shone. He couldn't put into words how he felt. For the first time in years he felt free. His parents had controlled him for too long. He was nearly seventeen, his own man. They would be nothing to him soon. He could break away. It was a fantastic feeling. And he had some cool, new mates.

"I'm just, y'know, enjoying the summer!" Simon and Tony laughed. The tension of earlier had dissipated. Maybe Charles was okay after all. They wouldn't normally be seen dead talking to a sixteen-year-old kid with bad make-up, but they both identified with him. It wasn't that long ago that they were teenagers themselves. They both felt a strange sense of pride that the kid seemed to so admire them.

Tony suddenly felt a huge rush of euphoria engulf his entire body. Strange. He grinned, feeling slightly dizzy. "That's it, mate. You enjoy yourself, we'll look after you. Me and Si here. Don't worry about your fucking parents."

Tony spoke quickly, but it was weird. It felt almost like he couldn't control what he was saying. He was naturally gobby and opinionated, but this was different. He had a strange urge to tell the others how he loved them and wanted to look after them. Or just talk. About anything.

"This is my fucking favourite bar of the whole holiday so far. It's fucking great here, don't you think, Si? You know we've only just met, mate, but I feel like I've known you forever, you know what I mean? And you, Charlie. What do you think of this bar? I know this is like probably the first time you've been out on your own and that, but me and Si, we'll look after you. You don't have to worry. Okay? You're okay, right? You're with us now, okay?"

Tony looked directly into Charles's eyes. He looked back and smiled. His grin now seemed to be fixed permanently to his face. "Yeah, man. You know I'm so glad I met you two tonight. Y'know, I don't know what I would've done without you. You saved me. You saved my life. You two. You did. I can't thank you enough. Let me buy you a drink. What do you want?"

"No, let me," said Simon. "I'll get 'em in!"

"How generous is this bloke?" Tony put his arm round Simon. "He's bought drinks all night." Tony turned to face Simon, pulling him closer. "I fucking love you, mate!" he said as he planted a kiss on Simon's cheek.

"I'm going to the bar. I insist!" Charles walked to the bar with a kind of skipping walk, in time to the blaring music.

"He's a top bloke that one. Poor kid, had a shit life," Simon said as a rush of pure energy hit him, causing him to almost lose his balance and cling to Tony.

"Top, top bloke," Tony replied.

"We'll look after him, eh? Let's promise. Promise to take care of that kid while we're here."

"Oh, fucking yeah. Course we will. No-one deserves that shit, and me and you, Tone, we can help him. We can make sure he's okay. We can, you know, keep him... er... do it... fuckin' hell I love this song, don't you?"

"Oh yeah!" The two men jigged in time to the rhythm. It was a Madonna track, Lucky Star. The bar was dark save for a small set of traffic disco lights that flashed in time to the music. The two men faced the lights and stared at them, attempting to dance, oblivious to everyone around, completely caught up in the moment and the voice of Madonna as it resonated from the speakers.

Charles returned, drinks in hand. He handed them out and joined the other two, dancing, his body now pulsed with euphoria, his vision blurred, seeing only the flashing lights. He wanted to speak, but couldn't. He wanted to shout, run, sing, dance, all at once. He was hot, and sweat smudged his mascara, impairing his vision further. He didn't care.

The music stopped. The three men embraced, and swigged their drinks. They were all sweating heavily.

"Let's go outside!" said Tony.

"Nah, man! The music's in here. I wanna dance some more!" Charles replied.

"Yeah, but look at all those people out there! Let's dance under the moonlight!"

"Okay, come on." The trio bounced outside, now unable to feel their legs properly. They walked into the street, other people were dotted about. A few turned and stared at the three sweaty men as they grinned inanely and jumped around waving their arms hysterically, dancing to the music that was loud enough to be clearly heard from the bar they had just left.

The rest of the evening was a complete blur for Charles, Simon and Tony. They ran around the streets of San Antonio, holding hands, talking rubbish to puzzled onlookers as they headed home. They would move in and out of bars, most of which contained only a solitary staff member, putting chairs on tables or sweeping the floor.

Eventually there was nowhere else to go. The streets were deserted, birds were singing in the trees and the sun was coming up rapidly. The three men slumped on a bench, exhausted, but still smiling, their perspiring bodies tangled around each other.
Chapter Fifteen

Denise awoke early. She knew something wasn't quite right. Tony was missing, he hadn't come home last night. In the UK this was not unusual, but here on holiday, in a strange country? She was worried and felt a surge of panic.

She'd barely spoken to Nicola last night, but she knew she would be feeling the same if Simon had also not returned. She busied herself, tidying the apartment, visualising Tony strolling in at any moment, looking relaxed and happy, full of apologies, explaining how he got drunk, then lost, ran out of money, then had to walk back. Something that was the norm at home in Essex.

In reality Tony, Simon and Charles were sitting in the living area of Simon and Nicola's apartment in San Antonio, trying to piece together the events of the previous night. 'Trying' being the operative word, as they were having little success, constantly collapsing into fits of giggles. Nicola sat watching them, perplexed.

"So you met a hippy. Then what happened?" The three men looked at each other, smirking.

"He... er... started talking shit, didn't he?" said Simon.

"Yeah, he was cool, man," Charles said as he lay on his back on a sofa, staring at the ceiling.

"He helped Charles out," Tony added. "You'd had a few, eh kid?"

"Sounds like you all did."

The three men tried to recall what had happened after they'd met Mike. Their thoughts were confused. Simon felt vaguely guilty as he had been out all night and he knew Nic would've been worried. He knew she wanted an explanation and it would make his life easier if he could give her one. But his brain struggled to make sense of anything. He could only see colours and music and his friends in happy togetherness.

"He gave us something! That's it! We swallowed it. Do you remember?"

"Oh yeah, he did. He was a top bloke, that Mike."

The penny dropped with Nicola, being able to think a lot clearer without the fug of alcohol and chemicals destroying her thought processes. "The hippy gave you drugs?" She was shocked, but she knew Simon. He was wild. He was capable of anything when he was with his mates. He knew no fear.

For the first time that morning, Simon looked uneasy. He looked at his friends. They grinned back. They suddenly realised what had happened in the early hours of the morning.

"Shouldn't you let Denise know you're okay?" said Nicola, looking at Tony.

"She'll be alright. I'll go back later." Tony's eyes were closing, he dozed, blissed out.

The men slept for most of the day. When they awoke, Nicola was gone. By the pool, Simon assumed. He fixed drinks for his friends, glasses of water. They drank readily, dehydrated.

"We've gotta find that guy Mike," Tony said eventually.

"Yeah. I'll help you. Last night was fucking magic!" replied Charles. Simon looked at Tony and smirked.

"We better get a move on," said Simon.

"Nic will be back soon. She'll never let me out. Let's just go before she comes back."

"What now?" Charles said. They looked at each other blankly. They stood on the narrow beach on the edge of San Antonio. They had looked all over the resort for Mike. It had been an anxious experience for Charles. The perpetual fear of bumping into his parents was constantly on his mind.

They hadn't seen anyone who remotely resembled Mike. Sunburnt English tourists, yes; enigmatic, spiritual hippies wearing orange, no. The men were close to giving up when they suddenly noticed a crusty-looking old man approaching them. He spoke with a Spanish accent, but his English was fluent.

"Spare any change, mate?" He addressed Simon, probably the most wealthy-looking of the three with his designer clothes and jewellery. Simon looked at the man. He wore rags, and his skin was deeply tanned. His hair grey and straggly. He was hunched over. Simon never normally gave to beggars, but this one had caught him slightly off-guard. He fished a coin from his tight jeans.

"Here you go, mate. Listen, do you know a guy by the name of Mike? We think he lives on the island."

"Well, what does he look like? I know a lot of people here, I live here myself." The old man was curt, but friendly.

"Long hair," said Charles. "Er... wears orange..." he tailed off realising it sounded fairly ridiculous.

"Like a hippy?" the old geezer said.

"Er... yeah, I suppose so."

"There's loads of 'em here. Go to Benirras. Ask around. Someone'll know 'im."

"Okay," said Charles. "What's it called again?"

"Benirras. Benirras Beach." The old man wandered off.

"What shall we do, chaps?" Tony asked. "Fuck knows where this place is."

"It's only a small island. It can't be very far." Charles was loving the adventure. He couldn't face his parents yet, and he was desperate to re-experience the amazing high. It was exactly what he needed. What the old man had said was something and nothing, sure, but that was the fun of it. Christ, his mother still expected him to go on treasure hunts with the resort kids' club! It felt great, doing his own thing for once.

"I'm not sure. Sounds a bit vague for me..." Simon thought of Nicola, probably again wondering where he was.

"Come on, are you a man or a mouse?" Tony said. Simon wasn't good at resisting peer group pressure. Charles hailed a taxi, luckily the driver had heard of Benirras and was willing to drive them the half hour or so to get to the remote area on the north-west side of the island.

The scenery around Cala Benirras was different to anything Charles and Simon had seen on the island so far, but Tony was now getting to grips with the geography quite well. The landscape was rugged and hilly. They drove through small villages, far removed from the gaudy bright lights of San Antonio. There were a few signs of life, small cafés and restaurants, the odd Coca-Cola sign here and there, but the area seemed to be largely untouched by the flourishing package holiday industry that was dominating many of the island's resorts.

The car turned off the main road and followed a narrow lane, gently sloping downwards towards the sea. They reached a small clearing surrounded by trees. "Here we are, squire," said the cabbie. Did they all speak with pseudo-London accents? Again Simon delved into his ample pockets to pick up the fair.

With some trepidation the young men walked through the clearing following a worn, dusty path. The sea looked utterly beautiful in front of them, perfectly still. The cove was dappled in evening sunlight as the glade opened onto a golden, sandy beach. They heard the rhythmic sound of drumming somewhere in the distance.

"Look! Over there!" Charles pointed to the far left-hand side of the beach and the bottom of a sheer cliff face. A group of young people dressed in strange clothes were congregated around a fire. Some of them were naked. Some lay on the sand, others smoked, some sat cross-legged staring out to sea.

Tony and Simon felt uneasy. They were not used to mixing with people outside their usual circle. Conversing with scantily-clad Spanish hippies in the middle of nowhere would be an entirely new experience. Charles Caxton, however, was not going to be discouraged.

"Come on." He hurriedly walked towards the group. Tony, pausing only to look at Simon and roll his eyes, followed suit. Some of the hippies stopped and stared inquisitively. What did the strangers want?

Charles was the first to speak. He had almost taken charge of the little expedition. "Hello! We're looking for Mike. We were told he might be here?" It seemed promising. The hippies looked and dressed very much like the man they'd encountered the previous night at Sancho's. But they seemed reluctant to help, eyeing the three tourists suspiciously. There was silence. Eventually, someone spoke.

"Do you mean Swami Anand Michael?" The voice came from somewhere in the middle of the group. It belonged to a middle-aged man sat cross-legged staring into the fire. He wore only tatty trousers and his hair was unkempt.

"Er, yes we do." Charles thought quickly. He had already noticed the curious jewellery the people wore.

"We were with him last night. He dropped one of his trinkets. We're trying to find him to return it to him." Simon and Tony were impressed.

"San Juan," said the man. He spoke with an American accent, bizarrely.

"Come again?"

"San Juan. You'll find him at San Juan."

"Where the fuck's that?" Tony blurted out without thinking. He was starting to get a little irritated with this wild goose chase. The man glared at Tony.

"Sorry," said Charles. "Where is San Juan, please?"

"Not far from here. You'll find him at the ashram in the village, next to the carretera."

The man returned to his meditation. His stony expression told them he didn't want to be bothered any further. The three Englishmen felt apprehensive. The drumming had stopped and they were surrounded on either side by foreign-looking hippies, staring at them. The contrast between the clothing of the two groups couldn't have been starker. They hurriedly turned and headed back along the beach, keen to escape the awkward situation.

Apart from the hippies, the area was deserted. The tourists were silent now, the exuberant mood of earlier had dissipated. Even Charles was questioning to himself the point of what they were doing.

"I suppose we better find a taxi," he said eventually. He looked at his companions. Tony and Simon were subdued and it made him feel uncomfortable. Although they were complete strangers, they had become his role models. They had shared an experience in the early hours of the morning that was so powerful they had no comprehension of its meaning.

Charles had no intention of giving up. He had to experience that high again and he didn't want to go back to his parents. But he sensed Simon and Tony's enthusiasm was waning. They were far more worldly and independent and they sought only short-term gratification and laughs. They were fast losing interest in investing time and hassle chasing across a God-forsaken island looking for a hippy who may or may not have the answer to what was definitely a very strange experience a few hours earlier. They waited.

"There are no taxis," Tony said, voicing the thoughts of them all. "Let's just go back to San Antonio."

Simon was glad he'd said it. "Fucking right, mate," he said.

Charles felt dejected, although he'd been expecting it. He looked down at his feet. But there was a glimmer of hope. "How?" he said. The others looked at him. "There's nothing around here. No taxis, nothing. How are we going to get back to San Antonio?" The three men looked around themselves. There was no obvious answer.

It was close to nine o'clock on a Tuesday evening. They stood for a few moments, hushed. The entrance to the beach was bathed in a beautiful orange light as the sun made its final descent in the far distance. The three men's attention turned from their predicament to the astounding natural spectacle unfolding before their eyes. They sat on the loose gravel and just watched in silent awe at the magnificent, majestic splendour, the rocky landscape framed the vision perfectly as if it were God's own theatre. They stared, shielding their eyes from the intense light, until the brilliant orange disc disappeared completely under the still Balearic ocean. In the distance the hippies cheered. Charles felt like crying.

The extreme heat had subsided, but it was still very warm. There were no cars in sight. The only buildings had long since closed for the day, with their metal shutters down.

Eventually, Charlie spoke. "At least if we walk to San Juan we might find a taxi." It was at least logical, and Simon and Tony had to admire his enthusiasm. They partly understood the kid's thirst for adventure, to break free from his miserable childhood. He was, for the first time, making decisions and thinking for himself. They could see in Charles's face that it felt good. Plus, the only road sign they could see pointed towards San Juan.

In silence they set off up the narrow, sloping road. The track had been carved two-foot deep into the red earth. All around them were brilliant shades of green, trees and plants scorched in the sun, but thriving nonetheless. Apart from the concrete roadway the trail looked almost completely untouched by human civilisation. Not a single vehicle passed the three men as they trekked slowly onwards, the gradient unrelentingly steep.

They remained quiet, unsure of each other perhaps. They knew they had to keep going now. What other choice was there? Daylight was fading fast. The men subconsciously stepped up their pace. They were soaked in sweat, such was the humidity of the midsummer's evening.

None of them had a watch, but Charles guessed they'd been walking a good hour, maybe even two, almost completely in uncomfortable silence. Only Charles, it seemed, was enjoying himself. Only Charles appreciated the sense of freedom, the impromptu journeying into the unknown on some chaotic, half-baked idea of a mission.

Eventually, in complete darkness, the men reached a junction. On closer inspection they realised it was a four-way crossroads.

"Look!" yelled Charles excitedly. He pointed to a faded road sign, almost indistinguishable in the gloom. 'San Juan - 1' it read, and pointed left. Simon looked at Tony. He had a look of despair, even panic. Although they didn't know each other well, Simon could tell it was not his normal persona. He was usually a tough man, could handle himself, but faced with the prospect of another kilometre's uphill trek he looked like he was going to fall apart.

The road became even steeper as they soldiered on. They reached a main road. Surely it couldn't be much further? There was a basic-looking filling station to their right, but it was closed, of course, with its lights off.

Again, a sign informed them that San Juan was to their left, up yet another steep, winding road.

Exhausted, they reached the village. There were no signs of activity. A few cars were dotted around, some houses, a few shops. But it was devoid of human life, there was not a soul on the streets. The three men scoured the area for vehicles, but there was nothing that even slightly resembled a taxi.

"If you see someone with a car, tell 'em I'll pay 'em whatever they want just to get us the fuck out of here!" Simon said, with panic in his voice.

They approached the largest building in the street. It resembled a church, but it was painted completely white. It looked like it had been maintained better than some of the other buildings they could see. It had obviously been decorated recently, even in the darkness the dazzling white stood out. While the surrounding structures looked a little ramshackle and dilapidated, this building was made of solid stone and stood proudly in the centre of the tiny village, its brilliant white façade dominating the dusty roads. And it was the only building they could see that had its interior lights on.

In desperation, the intrepid threesome approached the edifice. It was completely detached from its neighbouring structures, which meant they could walk either side of it. Only what looked like a garden at the rear was fenced off. Warily, the men crept around the side of the building, trying to find a window low enough for them to look into. They were all too high. In the gloom they noticed a door made of brown wood. Again the tourists looked at each other for answers.

"Shall we knock?" Tony said.

Simon looked blank. He was petrified but didn't want the others to see it. "It doesn't look very inviting," he said eventually. Charles stayed quiet.

"Go on, Charlie," said Tony. "This was your idea. You can get us out of here!" For the first time, there was a note of aggression in Tony's voice.

"Well...I...errr. I..." Charles couldn't think of a response. He was a geeky teenager not used to standing up for himself. He sensed correctly that Tony could be formidable when angry.

"Off you pop," said Simon, matter-of-factly. He was glad Tony had taken charge of the situation, and it seemed like good sense to force Charles to try to sort things out, given the circumstances.

Charles gingerly approached the door. Tony and Simon backed off, crouching down into the wild grass and bushes next to the building. Charles knocked on the door. Nothing. He tried banging a little harder.

"Push the door!" he heard Tony whisper from the darkness. Charles pushed. The door opened. Orange light from the interior illuminated the front of his body, making him squint. He had the urge to turn and run, but he couldn't. Very timidly he entered the building, holding the door ajar for fear of it slamming and locking himself inside.

Charles blinked and looked around. A quite incredible sight met his eyes. It was like a dream. A huge, oval hall packed full of people. They wore bright loose-fitting robes of orange and maroon. Some of them were naked, all barefoot. The people were all shapes and sizes. Most sat or squatted on the flat stone floor. And there were strange noises. A kind of low, deep humming sound. Some appeared to be talking in hushed tones, while others seemed to be breathing heavily and growling as they sat facing each other on cushions, cross-legged. At one end of the room was a raised marble platform with people sitting on chairs. Two huge black women, also dressed in maroon, sat facing each other next to a stand with a microphone assembly.

Above their heads was an enormous colour photograph in a wooden frame. The picture depicted a portrait of an elderly Asian gentleman with grey-white hair and a beard so long the picture was not large enough to display it fully. The man was half-smiling, with a warm, kindly look in his deep brown eyes.

Charles had never seen anything like it before. He gazed up at the old man and struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. His mouth lolled open in wonder. Suddenly his attention turned to a loud noise at the far end of the room. The low, continuous hum was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched shouting.

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!" Two men were yelling at each other. They were jumping up and down waving their arms in the air in a bizarre dance like a pair of demented baboons. It looked utterly uncoordinated and haphazard to Charles as he stared, agog.

One of the women on the platform noticed the teenager. She gestured to her companion who turned around. They both faced Charles and smiled.

"Come here, my child," one of them said, beckoning him. Charles trembled. He looked behind him. The heavy door had slammed shut. "Do not be afraid," the lady said.

Charles walked slowly towards her. Some of the men and women sitting on the floor had noticed him and stared as he slowly inched towards the platform. He reached where the woman sat. She was huge, her giant breasts sagged unevenly over the rolls of fat on her stomach. She wore loose-fitting and faded maroon robes. She had a trinket of beads around her neck and Charles noticed a picture of the bearded guy set in a stone attached to the necklace lying against her dark-brown skin. Her hair was wild, but she smiled warmly, exposing brilliant white teeth.

Charles glanced to his left. Much of the huge crowd had now noticed him and were looking on with wide-eyed amusement. The noise died down slightly. Charles realised he ought to say something.

"I... er, we... erm... I'm a bit lost! I need to get back to San Antonio."

The woman spoke with a foreign accent. "You come to the right place, friend. Many here are lost!" A few people chuckled. "What your name, boy?"

"Er, Charles."

"Ahh, I am Ma Deva Lula. This is Ma Prem Jill." There was an embarrassed silence. Then, another figure entered the stage. It was Mike! He now looked completely at home. His vivid orange robes that had looked so incongruous the previous night allowed him to blend into these new surroundings perfectly. Everyone around him looked exactly the same. Slightly unkempt, but healthy and tanned, a stark contrast to Charles's black clothes and ashen, white skin.

"Charles!" he exclaimed in his well-spoken English accent. "What on earth are you doing here, my friend?"

"Well... erm... last night. You know, we thought, that thing you gave us... it was powerful! And..."

Mike laughed. "You want some more! I'm not surprised, my friend. You did well to find me."

Mike felt very flattered and impressed that the young kid had made the effort to find him, and had done so in such a short space of time on this island, largely inhabited by the confused and dispossessed. Mike led him to a secluded corner of the hall.

"You're probably wondering what all this is about." Charles nodded. Mike hadn't failed to notice the look of utter bewilderment on his face. "We are the Neo-sannyas, disciples of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh." Mike gestured towards the giant picture of the Asian man. "We work for him. He is the blessed one... yet he is... persecuted..." Mike looked sad and distant for a second. "I seek to recruit new followers, believers, those of good heart. Men like you, my dear friend!"

Mike smiled again, his brilliant blue eyes shone. Charles, not for the first time, looked downright frightened. "Come, come. Do not fear, my friend. There is nothing but love in this room. We follow no direct path. We seek only liberation and enlightenment."

Charles looked around him. No-one he could see looked even slightly aggressive. He relaxed a little.

"Here, take one of these." Mike handed Charles an orange and white capsule.

"Is that...?"

"Yes, my friend." Charles swallowed the tablet.

Tony and Simon crouched together in the darkness. The door had closed a long time ago. There was no sign of Charles.

"Where the fuck is he?" Tony said.

"We can't stay here." The two men crept to the other side of the building. The windows were still too high for them to see into.

"Give me a bunk-up," said Simon. Tony clasped his hands together, and Simon lifted his leg. Both quickly realised the procedure was not quite so easy for two full-grown adults. They had last tried it as ten-year-olds when they were into climbing trees.

After much swearing, Simon managed to clamber high enough to look into one of the windows of the building. He tried to grip the ancient brickwork, but it was no good. The height and angle of the window made it impossible to see what was going on inside. The two men slumped on the grass with their backs to the wall, beaten by the exhaustion of the evening's events.

Had they been able to see into the ashram, Tony and Simon would have seen a very different Charles Caxton to the one who had left them less than an hour ago. Mike had found him some orange robes. He now stood, facing the picture of Bhagwan, his eyes bulged out of their sockets and flickered wildly, distorting his vision. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He glanced over at Mike.

"Follow the crowd!" he said. "Life is now and here!" Most of the sannyasins now stood, aware of a new recruit into their ranks. "This is dynamic meditation," Mike yelled excitedly. "We are looking for a single essence. Something that transcends any type of categorisation. You must forget past, present, future, ego and self in order to connect with one state."

Charles tried to listen as the powerful chemicals vied for control in his brain. He felt rush after rush of pure euphoria, again the intense urge to dance engulfed him. He looked around. Clusters of men and women were doing the same, breathing deeply through their noses, then waving their hands wildly above their heads. Charles felt completely at ease with this and his surroundings. Mike stood next to him, yelling the favourite quotes of his leader.

"Never obey anyone's command unless it is coming from within you also. You must live in an egoless state of at-one-ness with the inner laws of life!" Charles felt it. "Think about the whole, the interdependent cycle of things in existence. Everything depends on everything else. Nothing is absolutely independent or can be. We are parts, very small parts, cogs in a wheel!"

"Cogs in a wheel..." Charles repeated, slurring as he waved his arms in front of himself deliriously. Then, the chanting again. "Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!" Charles mimicked those around him. The drug had taken hold of him completely. It felt perfectly natural to be behaving so utterly bizarrely, a way so entirely removed from the monotonous routines of everyday life.

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!"

Eventually someone shouted, "Stop!" Charles sat down, out of breath and sweating, with a huge grin on his face. Mike smiled at him, utterly wired. Charles closed his eyes. Mike was wittering something about God and Jesus Christ. Charles thought of his stepfather. If only he could see him now! What would he make of it? Charles knew he was experiencing something cosmic, something utterly outlandish and other-worldly. Something he didn't understand and something his narrow-minded family would never in a million years comprehend. Charles couldn't make sense of it himself, or anything at all for that matter. He slumped on the floor as a feeling of utter bliss swept over him.

The other disciples were calmer now, sitting and lying on the floor, some chattering, some silent. Mike thought for a moment. The evening's session would soon be winding down, it was approaching three a.m. Another gathering would start at about eight, but Mike wanted to keep going with his new recruit. Charles looked at him and smiled again, but the effects of the MDMA he had taken was starting to wear off.

"Come on!" Mike leapt to his feet. "Follow me!"

Mike led Charles out of the ashram and into the night. The warm humid air made them rush again.

"Where are we going?" Charles said dreamily.

"Somewhere amazing. Here..." Mike handed Charles another pill and necked one himself. He led his companion down a side road to a battered Citroën 2CV.

"Get in." They entered the vehicle. Mike reached behind. He produced a plastic water bottle and took a swig. He handed it to Charles. He took several huge gulps, he needed it. The water made his thoughts a little clearer.

"Wait! My friends!"

"Where?"

"They should be round here somewhere!" Charles hurriedly opened the door and exited the car. He ran back to the building. "Where the hell are they?"

Charles ran to the far side of the ashram. There, slumped against the white wall, were Tony and Simon, both fast asleep, lying in the dusty grass. Charles crouched down and shook them.

"Wake up! Wake up!" he yelled, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. First Tony, then Simon, jolted awake. "Come on! Let's get out of here." They looked confused. It was Charles, but dressed in orange robes. They clocked Mike standing behind him, his long hair floating in the gentle breeze. They stood up, and Charles ushered them towards the tatty red car. They squeezed into the back seat, blinking sleep away.

"Where are we going?" Tony asked.

"We are going to Amnesia," Mike replied.
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