

Costa del Trolls - Book 1 - Luton - Contents

Book 1 - Section 1

"It was the worst of times, it truly was, and then........

4 Non Blondes"

Book 1 - Section 2

"Once we was five"

Book 1 - Section 3

"For all the Eurovision Song Contests I can remember"

Book 1 - Section 4

"The Yobakishi Murders - I – Air"

Book 1 - Section 5

"Abusing simple idiots can be great fun in the

right circumstances"

Book 1 - Section 6

"When a man is tiring in London"

Book 1 - Section 7

"Memories of Thievery - I - French Knickers"

Book 1 - Section 8

"Oh! London, so much to answer for"

Book 1 - Section 9

"Hangover Cures - I – Spa"

Book 1 - Section 10

"M1 Junctions 1 to 44, A69 and A75"

Book 1 - Section 11

"Memories of Thievery - II - Imperatum Cadit"

Book 1 - Section 12

"Scotland for the brave"

Book 1 - Section 13

"The Yobakishi Murders - II – Fire"

Book 1 - Section 14

"How fear and reason precipitated a decision, and a brief

journey was made which indirectly brought reconciliation"

Book 1 - Section 15

"Gore opines on the miracle of modern aviation"

Book 1 - Section 16

"Memories of Thievery - III - The Virgin Soldiers"

Book 1 - Section 17

"Betwixt dos mundos"

Costa del Trolls - Book Two - The Marbella - Contents

Book 2 - Section 18

"Noche Alicantina"

Book 2 - Section 19

"Hangover Curs II – Standards"

Book 2 - Section 20

"Gore and Zippy's Road Movie"

Book 2 - Section 21

"Memories of Thievery IV - Military Misappropriation"

Book 2 - Section 22

"The Yobakishi Murders (III) Water"

Book 2 - Section 23

" A brief explanation as to the nature of the set-up"

Book 2 - Section 24

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, your very own, inimitable, Ruben Shuffle"

Book 2 - Section 25

"Fat Charlie Stank"

Book 2 - Section 26

"European Debut"

Book 2 - Section 27

"Memories of Thievery (V) Utter Bankers"

Book 2 - Section 28

"End of year appraisals"

Book 2 - Section 29

"Saturday afternoons were always a big deal"

Book 2 - Section 30

"Just another Friday night"

Book 2 - Section 31

"Bennyvision"

Book 2 - Section 32

" Severe moments with the civilians"

Book 2 - Section 33

"The Tuna Diaries"

Book 2 - Section 34

"Initial Impressions of Lisbon"

Book 2 - Section 35

"That Killing Bug"

Book 2 - Section 36

"Departures (I) Timeline Luton Timeline Marbella"

Book 2 - Section 37

"It took a tattooed boy from Maidenhead to really open her eyes"

Costa del Trolls - Book Three - The Third Book - Contents

Book 3 - Section 38

"The Yobakishi Murders IV – Air"

Book 3 - Section 39

"Hangover Cures III – Rage"

Book 3 - Section 40

"Departures II – On Line In Love"

Book 3 - Section 41

"Memories of Thievery VII – To Kill A Rocking Bird"

Book 3 - Section 42

" Departures III – Gore Vital"

Book 3 - Section 43

Surveillance was the Italian's Middle Name"

Book 3 - Section 44

"Two Conversations For One"

Book 3 - Section 45

"Departures (IV) And With That"

Acknowledgements 428

Artwork by Brent Atkinnson.

Written by Craig Cavanagh between 2004 and 2009.

The writer would like to thank Paul Blake for his selfless work formatting the digital version.

BOOK ONE - SECTION ONE

It was the worst of times, it truly was... And then 4 Non-Blondes

GRAHAM: And no word of a lie, it was a dreadful moment to be any of the four of us who had the misfortune of being stuck in our lives. No wonder there was so much talk of "the change", the change we hoped was around the corner, and, despite more than a few teething difficulties, seemed to be finally heading our way. Our privileged, idyllic situation as the undisputed kings of knock-off ladies' designer clothing in the Luton area had been usurped long ago, and now we were forced to work under the graceless auspices of the scallies who were once our underlings, now even the kids are tooled up with blades and shooters, the glamour has gone, the respect for your adversaries and the pride in your work lost. It was clearly time to wave goodbye to the Luton that had seen us turn from boys into men. Every day was going to be one of those days and this was no exception as "What's Goin' On" By 4 Non Blondes was the clock radio's offering to inform me that it was quarter past nine.

A song guaranteed to pervert and penetrate my head throughout the entire morning. Capable of transforming any other work so un-alike in its musicality that the connection would seem impossible, no matter how far removed the genre may be from the insidious whining of that abominable pile of shite, the track chosen to remove this perverse musical violation from my head will never be strong enough to prevent conversion. As I make my way to the living room, I quickly head for one of Zippy's dreadful techno efforts that seem to please his ears, but as I make for the kitchen the track has just become the even ghastlier remix brought out later. I would have to concede this battle to time. The music has caused Zippy to stir from his slumber. One is never aware if he has risen early or yet to make it to his quarters, but one would suggest from the Play Station control near him, the wrappers of an imaginary war between Nestle and Cadbury and the telltale holes on his sleeping bag all make me think that Zippy has enjoyed another night of leisure in the world he controls.

It's nearly half past nine now and I have to admit that is my favourite time to get up. Getting up a bit after nine reminds me of not being at school, either due to health reasons (my parents must have been surprised to see me reach eighteen after so many life threatening illnesses prevented me from attending school) or, as an angry youth with a penchant for pinching and being on the bunk. Once my mother's worryingly easy signature was mastered and a supply of nice writing paper ascertained, all I had to do was wait until both parents left for work at half past eight before returning home at a little after nine. Hence the affection for that hour of the morning. I almost feel self-anger welling up inside me if I go through to ten on a work day, as if I were a layabout or something. My parents were soon informed of my truancy by the less than sporting Headmaster and following the dispossession of my entry key, other methods had to be employed, for example the use of an ideally shaped stick which could reach inside through the letter box and force the handle down. This would never work if the double-lock was on, but in those days the streets were almost safe, especially the days we were at school. Then it would have to be over the fence and leaving the back door open, until a combination of me forgetting to close it later and my parents asking the eagerly nosy neighbours to keep a beady peeler out for any untoward activities led to first, an embarrassing moment upon my mother's unexpected return with me exploring the highlights of their video collection and subsequently, the inevitable burglary. After that I was forced to sit in silence as the merest sound from the telly or music machine would be brought to the attention of my parents.

That soon became actually more boring than being at school, and, to my joy, in my absence the school had acquired some characters. School had converted itself in a fun place to be as we formed a gang that, through the many moments of thick, would remain, almost intact until this day. And that's where this story really begins, back in the school days when we first met, when we first got together and when we all shared the realisation that passing "O" levels was no better guarantee of a steady income than knocking off catalogue warehouses and taking the gear round the streets. So that you don't feel ill at ease with the influx of information that will appear on the following pages, it is though necessary for you to know what we are like and how we operate, both in a professional sense as well as a personal one, if you are going to accompany us when the change comes, I shall introduce you to Zippy now, as he is present.

Zippy is still on the sofa, he will remain there until the food scattered around him is no more, when the last sip of Tizer has been consumed and he is forced to enter the kitchen for a replacement. Despite the 4 Non Blondes incident, I am in quite good form for the morning of Monday, certainly other comparisons with other Mondays would be less favourable, I decide to offer him a cuppa. It would be easy to think of Zippy as a lazy waster, I do regularly, but everyone in our organisation (we eschew terms like possee or crew) fulfils a function, and Zippy is the Chemist, perpetrator of fabled medicaments used to maintain lucidity or remove it from our victims, plus, he is also good at lifting. I am the numbers of thinking stuff man, the brain behind the operation, I like to think, logistics as is the modern argot, and the other two, who will be introduced formally in the forthcoming chapters, Benny is the gob, a silver-tongued ponce who could sell false moustaches to Arabian lads, and Gore, who is the muscle we prefer not to use, but always feel safer having around, especially in these inclement times, again also well versed in operations requiring lightness of fingers.

"Brew Zip?" I enquire.

"You read my mind! I was just about to make one." Was his almost unpredictable response. Zippy is almost about to make one, then something comes up. He is also a master of putting the kettle on. He will gleefully tell you that the kettle has just boiled, and, as we have a metal affair, who is to know?

"Well, I won't stop you then, make it nice and strong as it's cold this morn." Banter should always be embraced, even on Monday mornings.

"Yeah, but you're there now aren't you? I'll put the news on." Zippy has suddenly acquired an interest in current affairs it would seem. I'll give him two minutes before he smells the bacon and calls my name in that way you normally only hear from a long-term girlfriend returning from a business trip aboard. Maybe in some ways that is what he is like, not, and I wish to make that very clear from the outset, that there is anything like that going on at all. We have lived together for nearly four years now, Zippy seemed the obvious choice as me and Benny would end up murdering each other and Gore likes heavy metal. I consider closing the door to reduce the aroma levels so that I can see his face when I enter with only one bacon sarny, for myself. A relationship is maintained healthy at times by a modicum of good-natured torture and abuse. However, I decide to treat him, maybe my good deed will remove the song from my head, which is still causing grief. As the kettle boils and the boiling water weaves its magic with the PG tips, it seems like now would be a good moment for some more background.

Dates fail me to be able to say with any exactitude but we must have been in the fourth year at secondary school when we started knocking around together. That would make us around fourteen-fifteen, we believe that a person, like a footballer should never be constrained to one age, but like the season in which they are playing, they should be both ages, so no we are thirty-three - thirty four, which means we met in eighty-five - eighty-six. We are still unsure if this should continue once we pass the age of hanging up our boots, and if we take the omnigram of our organisation as Benny being the striker then Gore would be the goalkeeper could feasibly play at this level until he is forty-one - forty two whereas Benny would then be forty one and retired. We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. During that season we met when myself and Zippy realised that we got the same bus home and one day bumped into Benny with a young lady, who turned out to be the intended (unilaterally) of the school cock who took exception to Benjamin's amorous advances and offered him the chance to be beaten senseless, Benny had little muscle in those days, until Gore stepped in and rewrote the school's table of hardness. After that Benny shamelessly adopted Gore as his best friend, should his wayward genitalia get him into another scrape. Gore's family had a garage where his elder brother hung around with his makeshift band and Gore asked us if we wanted to hang around. Despite the family tradition to gravitate towards Motley Crew at best, once we discovered there were girls as old as seventeen and a seemingly never-ending supply of Woodpecker cider and Number 1's, we were welcome, in our eyes, additions to the garage.

Once we scraped past the surface of the music being offered by the group, shockingly called No Rite of Way, there were some interesting influences. It was there we got our education, musically and criminally, school was merely a place to plan, later a selling-ground and eventually and gladly, a memory. In the garage music of all genres cohabited happily with arguments only being ever tongue-in-cheek as a skeleton in the closet of someone was unearthed and mutilated. At first we sat in awe of these almost ancient creatures approaching eighteen with their endless knowledge on music, football, pulling and, most importantly, how to make a few bob from nothing. We knew we never had a chance with the girls, even Benny failed to make an impact in such illustrious company, and this was Benny who had become a legend at the age of thirteen when he was ceremoniously deflowered by a nineteen year-old nurse. Most people wanted to believe it was bullshit, but everyone knew that he walked like someone who had had sex, then he left her and started dating her roommate. The cider and Embassy Number 1's were not free, well occasionally, but with only one consenting party in the transaction, we weren't sure how funds were obtained, though were aware that the offerings of the YTS's proposed by the school career's office were clearly not the source.

Gore's brother didn't let us in on much at the time. We knew they were as shady as the shadiest willow tree in the garden, but we weren't about to pull the moral high-ground. I suppose we were not supposed to be present when they received a visit from Tony Matthews. We didn't even know who he was as naïve fifteen year olds looking to cop a feel and imbibe as much cider as our still developing livers could handle. Tony Matthews ran everything in Luton, he was an elegant, well-dressed man in his fifties. I remember thinking he just looked like someone's dad, but everyone in the garage's personality changed with his entry. Gore wasn't even that sure what his elder bro was involved with, although we thought he was keeping something from us. Another three years would pass before I saw Tony Matthews again in the flesh, and by that time it was too late, but let's not go too fast and hang around the garage for a while longer. Zippy is pleased with his bacon butty and informs me that tomorrow it's his turn.

Gore's brother explained the income he received by claiming that the band were doing well. We were employed as "roadies" as to explain Gore the Younger's healthy pot. His parents enjoyed Perry Como and Mantovani and as a result had no desire to attend the fictitious concerts the band was playing in the capital. Once the cover was in place Barry Gore and the "bassist" Jamie Riley made us an offer. We were considered small and nimble, and could get into a variety of nooks and crannies in order to misappropriate articles. This was basically just a nice way of saying that we were to perform the tasks that they had no wish to do, the ones that had a higher risk of an encounter with the long arm of the law. Our technique was inexpert at first but we soon learnt the ways of the world and despite having to make it away on our toes more than once we generally escaped with the booty. Most of it was to order so if there was anything extra we would have that and fence it in the school playground. By the time we were sixteen we were looking at seventy-five quid a week easy. Our only outlays at that time were records and clothes, though we soon learnt how to cut out the middle man with the latter. I remember my cousin coming back from work covered in grease, made up with his thirty pound pittance at nineteen. However, it wasn't before long that I got cocky and he soon twigged what was going on, he knew about Gore and Riley and the others and demanded a cut, lest he inform mama and papa. It was a learning curve and we wanted to learn fast. We just had to get off the bottom part of the J-Curve.

Luton may not seem like the ideal place for four young ambitious thieves, but it provided us with the perfect canvas to learn how to ply our trade. Ah! Luton, too close to London to be interesting and too far away to be important. In the early days, I was forced to stay on at school when the others bailed out at sixteen as not to lose the market. Gore went to technical college in the area too, simply to open up another. We were seen as likeable, cheeky wide-boys, we only ripped off shops and retailers, so people didn't seem to have a problem with us, they got their cheap fags, booze and other items and we made the quids. Our idyllic life looked like it would continue forever, but then again it always does. Whenever we were in the company of Gore the elder and Riley we were untouchable, everyone knew they went with Tony Matthews and his organisation and it would be too risky to do anything to us. So we made sure that we were always in safe company, then we got cocky, we pissed of Riley and then ripped off a lad called Dean Hughes who turned out to be a good mate of Riley's. Gore the elder was given a few stern words by Tony Matthews' right hand man Stephen Doherty and the message was passed on. Gore the elder was none too pleased about the embarrassment of the dressing down from the top and left his younger brother's face in a less than inviting state. As we considered Gore to be the hard one in the group, it was clear that were playing with fire. A combination of greed and silliness had overpowered us, poisoning our minds and making us believe we were some sort of gangsters. I'll never forget that phone call for the rest of my life.

"Graham?" A voice I couldn't place asked. The voice seemed older, well-spoken. Then I placed it. "Haven't we been trying to take a larger slice of the pie than corresponds to us, then?" I knew that the question was rhetorical, but couldn't prevent myself from answering. I knew I was boring him, but thought, if he was going to kill me? Why phone me? He was bored, but continued. "Graham, I like the way you boys work. You have initiative, some would even dare to use the word flair, you have a good balance between your group. But, and this is at the moment only a moderate size but, though it could grow, you are becoming greedy, and one thing I won't stand for is sloppy. However, you have placed me in something of a quandary. I can see your potential and wish to harness it, though your actions must be admonished for the mere status quo. I hear you are the intelligent one so you will realise I do not refer to one of your metal friend's records. So, I have arrived at the following decision. The protection which you enjoy and abuse, part of which filters down from me, will be removed for a short while and the streets will do with you as they please. You have angered some people not well versed in the art of ignoring vendettas. You have taken more than your share. You have assumed I would not find out. Still, I firmly believe in rehabilitation, and this short, sharp shock should impede the possibility of your falling into recidivism. So, when I decide the lesson has been learnt, you will return to the fold. This time on salary, rising when your worth has been proven and you will learn to operate in the correct way. Well, Graham, I'm glad we had this little chat. I just hope they don't end up murdering you all, which I do admit would be a shame. Though, if that is what is written in the stars then so be it. I'll be in touch and good luck." He put the phone down and though the incident seemed to pass in a flash, the words have remained ingrained in my head ever since.

After passing on the information to the others, we sat around and shat ourselves for a while. Then things were made worse by our regular customers, the ones we hadn't ripped off, getting the hump because we'd gone to ground. Some of them used our products to stock their pubs and punters were getting thirsty. If we stayed in, our client base would do us, if we went out, the enemies would. Either way, we had to take a pasting, and in true Scarface fashion we lined up, had some shots of tequila and went out to sell. Feeling invincible, we entered the pub owned by Dominic Morgan's dad and offered the loot. It wasn't long before the local telephone wires were jumping, and as we left Dean Hughes was in the car-park brandishing a baseball bat that looked actually friendlier than his cohorts. As we heard the doors of the pub bolt behind us, Zippy lit a fag and Benny rushed with all his might towards Hughes, Benny would rather die than have the baseball bat do any damage to that, in his opinion, beautiful face. I went for the biggest one and hit him pathetically on the elbow or something, maybe it caused a reaction in his funny bone at best, though he was soon able to wield his strength again. I remember very little from that moment on, except that as I went down I saw the lights of a Mercedes Benz go on and as the electric windows rose to blacken the image on the backseat, I made out the face of an older, classical looking gentleman enjoying a cigar and the view.

Zippy came out of it the worst. Zippy always did. He excelled in being the unfortunate one, a kind of Joe Bloggs dressed, weed-smoking Norman Wisdom. If we'd had a car crash and he had been in the passenger seat on the opposite side of the impact, he would have been the one expelled through the windscreen, whilst Benny would receive no injuries, except maybe some exotic scar to help in his pulling, I would get some sort of leg injury to further enhance my lack of physical movement and Gore would repel the blast. Perhaps Zippy's bad luck was the Yin to the Yan of Benny's good fortune. Zippy would always appear with cuts and burns when seemingly he had been nowhere near the presence of cutting implements or burning things. Once, on a family holiday, he hired a rowing boat off the coast of a Greek island, his parents, who never took much of an interest in their son's safety, yet were still continually surprised when the call came from casualty departments, he fell asleep in the warm, nee scorching mid-afternoon sun and drifted to another island where he was stranded for two days until rescued by a passing fishing trailer. His parents had taken advantage of the privacy to sample some of the local delicacies, their voyage taking an extended stop in the land of Oozo, returning to their hotel for a rekindling of the flames, and drunk, they fell into a deep sleep until the next morning. When they woke up and had had breakfast, nursing their sore heads, they realised they were minus their first born and lazily decided to investigate. Eventually, they were reunited with the boy who hadn't eaten for two days and was visibly weakened by mild sunstroke. As the lad had to spend the next few days in bed recovering, his parents then went on a tour of the islands and took advantage of an unexpected second honeymoon. If it had not been for an attentive chambermaid, the boy's nourishment would have gone even more amiss.

Zippy was in hospital for a month. We had to get on our toes a few times and there were unpleasant digs from time to time, but things died down. A truce was called by the publicans and Tony Matthews called us back into the fold. He put Zippy in a private room and gave us a few hundred quid for lost earnings. He told us to forget about the booze and fags racket, that was for the idiots. He told me he didn't want me getting any knocks on the head and six months later he enrolled me in a Business Management course at the tech. My mother was elated that my supposedly errant ways had been curtailed, as she, like many others, considered Tony Matthews to be beyond reproach. Of course, in many ways he was. People liked him because he was good to them, he had a clearly defined philosophy which went along the lines of: DON'T FUCK WITH TONY MATTHEWS. And very few did, as far as I know no-one did, no-one even tried. Why bother? Tony Matthews ran a tight ship and everyone benefited. People thought if you crossed him, you wouldn't live to tell the tale. And if you took his empire, you'd only have to run it yourself, and that could start a war. I have pondered this power situation on many occasions, and can only liken it to the myth of military invincibility enjoyed by Sweden in the latter part of the seventeenth century, like Sweden, Tony Matthews never fought a war, and when attacked for the first time by Kalvin and his scallies, that proved to be his battle of Ferbellen, and then the Prussians took Luton. Well, that's just my interpretation, anyway.

Briefly before my mother was mentioned. There was also a father too, but I never met him. You see, my mother is of Galician origin, and fled her native land when she fell pregnant for Blighty's more welcoming shores. She had heard of the sexual revolution and assumed it was commonplace in Portsmouth. She soon discovered it wasn't but as a trained nurse she found work easy to come by. That is when she met Jack, a patient of hers who took a shine to her. She was not keen to court again in her state, and in an attempt to thwart Jack's advances she told him her plight. To her surprise he told her that it were not a matter of concern for him, and that if she would do him the honour of becoming his good lady wife, then they could move to a new place and start a new life. She couldn't see a better offer coming before she got fatter, and accepted. They chose Luton and concocted the story of a holiday romance and him doing the right thing. Despite the marriage not being founded on the strongest base, they soon turned into quite the young couple, even after I arrived, and was so named after Jack's late father, which I preferred to mum's idea of Fernando, which would have made school so much more fun. My mother told me the truth when I was sixteen, and I'd love to be able to justify my garish behaviour due to the feelings of rejection and deceit after years of lies, but Jack was dad and always would be. She had had no contact since she left Spain with the man whose sperm turned into me, and I didn't feel I needed to either. Contacts were re-established with the homeland when the birth of democracy changed attitudes. Mum always spoke to me in Spanish so without learning it I was bilingual. We had great fun winding dad up as we spoke the language of Cervantes but said his name in a pointlessly loud voice. Family life was a reasonably happy affair, and if it wasn't, the blame fell solely at my feet.

In all our families there was a fair dose of deception when our career paths did not go in the desired way. At least Gore's father had been to prison, though that was for tax-evasion, much more glamorous than petty thievery, and everyone knew what his brother was like, so at least from a socio-demographic point of view his fall seemed inevitable. I know people whispered that, I, being from Latin stock would be inevitably drawn to corruption and crime. I know that hurt mum, Luton at times failed to be the welcoming, cosmopolitan metropolis it appeared. Zippy's parents were aghast, both his elder brothers had attended Oxbridge and, though it was clear that the same level of academic attainment was not to be expected from their youngest, they even admitted the word polytechnic, their disappointment was more than evident each time a police car drove into their cul-de-sac. I was kicked out pretty soon after the incident in the pub car park. However, as I was on the Tony Matthews payroll, I could get my own place and do what I wanted. It fills me with pride to look back on those days and revel in the absurdity of the wanker I was to the very people who had given me everything, how I let my mother spend sleepless nights worrying if she would have to identify me, how my father, an honest and decent working man as you would hope to find, could not enjoy a pint after work for fear of being the recipient of something owed to me. And so, despite my life of crime and deceit which has been never-ending, I did come to a realisation soon after that my attitude had to change, it seemed like everyone liked a thief with principles more than a wanker with none. Luckily, when I went back to college they took me back, and when I left, I did so because it was the right time and they retrieved their house for their autumn years in peace.

College was good fun, it was tempting to get involved in some business, but we had to play straight by Tony, we couldn't blow it again. The course was easy, the tutors wanted me to do an access course to do a full degree, but that seemed like too much time. Anyway, without wishing to sound boastful, most of the stuff they taught was common sense and so why bother listen to common sense for three more years when I could put it into practice. Tony only really wanted me to have qualifications in case of any future judicial appearances, he thought that kind of thing would make a nice bargaining plea. I was on the same wage as the other three but they were doing real work. I know Benny resented this, but for once in his life he managed to keep his big mouth shut. Tony wanted to leave the rackets more commonly associated with gangland to his minions, he was interested in getting into the fashion business, through the back door, of course. We were to acquire (nick) and sell (cheap) articles of varying degrees of quality. Ideally designer stuff, but in the absence copies, and in the extreme absence, market stuff. It was a safer environment to work in, although we would later prove that wrong, and no-one was up to it in the Luton area. With London down the road, all we needed was some audacious larceny and would be away. We approached eighteen with the spectre of a violent death looming over us, as we hit nineteen the world seemed a wholly more inviting place. It was the summer of '89 and we had cars with stereos that blasted out the sounds of the moment, and as we danced the nights away we thought anything was possible, and for a good while, it was.

It's hard not to get nostalgic when I think of those early days, we had to grow up fast and learn from our mistakes, if we'd repeated them it would have been the end. Our roles were clearly defined even then, Zippy and Gore were in charge of reconnaissance missions and general lifting, they loved it, the thrill of breaking in, the chase, even getting caught seemed a bonus to them. As they liked this chasing lark so much we sometimes had a system going whereby they caused such a ruckus that the security guards chased after them leaving us free reigns on the merchandise. This was generally only done on birthdays and special occasions as it would be seen, in the eyes of Mr. Matthews, as sloppy. I did transport, planning and numbers, and Benny, and you have to hand it to him, did the door to door flogging. He was a charming swine even at twenty and soon had the local women in the palm of his hand, of course, Benny being Benny, he soon found the need to relocate these women, which led to problems that we shall see later. Most operations ran smoothly, sometimes we wondered if these people wanted to be robbed, the easiest were the catalogue warehouses, that was almost insulting, it tempted you to be sloppy just for a bit of fun, but the Matthews theorem was still in the bonce. Best though, was doing jobs in London, the buzz of going down past Wembley, remembering those glorious final days out, and into town, coming back over Tower Bridge and back into the sticks. Whenever we went to London it was cos' there was something good on offer. Sometimes even beyond the speculative planning had led us to believe.

Like one time, we mustn't have been more than twenty at the time, we'd only done a couple of jobs in London at that point, Tony considered we were still cutting our teeth. We were down there for about six in the morning, Benny had been winging all the way down, cos' one of his "clients" had kept him up all night. He had some powder on him and begged us to let him take it, but we had a rule, and that was no drugs on jobs, no drinking even, sloppy innit? So he's half asleep when we get to the place. We thought it was gonna be down some back-street or something but it's only bloody next to Harrods's. The place is a joke, there is absolutely no security. We can't believe there is actually gonna be anything worth taking when there in front of us are three racks of Armani suits, dresses and fuckin' some fur coats! God knows how many thousands of pounds worth of gear is here, but it turns out that there was some fashion parade next door, but they decided it was too cold to store them there so they left them across the road trustingly. Tony thought there would be a nice lot of shirts from Gap and Next and that which always sold well, but this was beyond belief. There we are then, with the balaclavas on and loading up, some fruity looking guy turns up and asks us what we are doing. He looks like a designer and would lose a fight with one of his models. So Benny tells him we are moving the stuff for the show. He asks so why the balaclavas? And Ben replies "Cause it's fucking freezing!" He tells us were right there and says he's off to get a coat himself, he says he'll see us at the show. And we are off, looking for the M25 to get back to civilisation. Only in London! We are pissing it in the back of the van, and everyone enjoys a well earned line of Benny's powder as we race back to Luton. From that moment one, we were like Tony's sons, it was a lucky scoop, we admit, but we still did it well. With my three-grand share I got myself a Golf and then met Julia.

Julia wasn't meant to happen, but, then again when is it? We met while I was just finishing off at college, she was a few years older than me and was completing a masters degree in fine art. We got talking thanks to a tinkery, old photocopier which gave her and me problems at the same time. Immediately I was struck by the way she wasn't like any of the girls I had been with, or even talked to before. Her eyes contained enthusiasm that I had never seen before in a person, she talked with passion about all the things dear to her, and listened attentively to anything new that could be of benefit to her, or not. I was convinced at first she saw me for what I was, a young joker with a bit of nouse, doing a course out of boredom. Although we conversed frequently in the refectory, I never considered for one moment she would go out with me for a date, let alone enter into a relationship with me. She was continually surrounded by potential suitors which she brushed off with eloquence, and was clearly riled at being the oldest student at the college. She had wanted to do the masters in the capital where she hailed from, but was refused funding, thus was forced to make do with the inadequate facilities and teaching staff of our provincial institution. At first I pretended to share her interests to give me the opportunity to maintain our platonic, and probably, fictional relationship. Soon though, I found her verve intoxicating, and adopted these interests with, what I hoped was, a similar passion. We went to museums together, she showed me round places in London that I would never have found in a million years, and, most importantly, she was an escape from the world which controlled and owned me. I deliberately kept her apart from the others, mainly because I didn't want her to know what we got up to, and secondly because I feared Benny's charms might work on her. Even though I knew she was not the type Benny would go for, he may have just had a pop to rile me, to show me that he was the master. It was one of the facets about Benny that I most detested, and over the years more would come to replace and supersede that one. For me it was love at first sight, but that love soon turned into a longing pain that filled my entire existence, it was hard to concentrate on my work, or studies with Julia ever present in my head. I would have her as an imaginary passenger in the get-away vehicle, discussing modern art with her as the others raided another warehouse. When the cash came in, she would accompany me in my head on shopping sprees, with me imagining her laughing at hideous shirts I had tried on simply to amuse her. We would have deep, extensive conversations long into the night in my bedroom, when I was the only person present. My mum despaired of me, talking to myself, something she had seen in her village when she was young and nothing good ever came of it. I was infatuated with her, but left with the cleft stick of if I asked her out or, even worse, declared my love for her, that would be the end of our friendship, as neither would be able to recover from the chagrin of my declaration. If I didn't tell her though, I would remain miserable and distraught for the rest of my days, which I hoped that, without her, would be few.

One day I was in the boozer with Zippy and I saw her from the window, walking arm in arm, and clearly not besotted with me, with a poncey-looking twat in his forties. No doubt an artist of some sort, no doubt someone who could offer her the same intellectual desire that she fed on, no doubt someone wholly better and more deserving than me. I felt like my heart had been packed away in a loft somewhere, as, for the rest of eternity, it would never be needed again. I tried to sever links with her, but she kept calling me and asking what was up. She thought she had done something to offend me, and even asked if she bored me. I told her it was me that was the problem and that maybe it was best that we didn't see each other any more. Then she said the greatest sentence I have ever heard in my life, that she had high hopes for her and me. Simply that, but the way it ended in her and me, gave my hand Inspector Gadget like powers to reach up the stairs, upon the loft door and retrieve the heart, replacing the stale pasty that was acting as a stand in. I began to sweat from places I was sure I did not have sweat ducts, surely my toenails couldn't be sweating? I coyly asked her what she meant by her and me, then she gave me the look. I already considered her the epitome of beauty, nothing that had ever walked this planet could compare with my exquisite Julia, but at that moment she achieved perfection. I couldn't think of her though as a sexual being, despite being apocryphally ensconced with her in the privacy of my room, when the tension became to much and sleep could only be achieved by the outlet of relief, I could never manage it thinking of her. Maybe if I had managed to slip a sly one off the wrist about her, then her allure and magic may have dwindled and she would have returned to the domain of other females, but I felt like it would be abusing her. Then, when I thought about others during the act, I felt like I was betraying her. When she gave me that look, however, she became a sexual being, she became the zenith of all desire, she embodied every passion that could be evoked. She had done something to me, for a start I didn't fucking talk like this before I met her. We fell into an embrace and the details are not necessary. Perhaps, like they weren't when I mentioned the masturbation incident, but that can go under the umbrella term of clarification for the story.

She had been waiting for me to make a move and I didn't. I remember asking her.

"So, who was the old geezer I saw you with."

To which she responded:

"I can't stop being a woman just because you can't stop being a coward."

And so love blossomed. Benny found it sickening and Zippy questioned whether it was the end. I tried to tell him it was simply a new beginning, but he didn't seem to credit it. In the early days, Julia asked no questions, I told her we did a bit of selling, but it was all kosher. I went a bit overboard on how much and it was clear that no-one was that honest, but she didn't seem to mind, she worried about me getting into trouble, though as she never found out what trouble I got into, she assumed I was being a good boy. She was taken up with her art most of the time anyway so we only saw each other after the grafting had been done. Well, we also enjoyed numerous horizontal lunches and my Spanish blood introduced her to the joys of the (awake) siesta. It was the best time of my life. Tony was so happy with my progress and healthy state of mind that I was basically running his numbers and planning operations and was superfluous to requirements for the work of the foot-soldiers. The rest didn't get too uppity as my tactical brilliance brought them in some very big scores, it also meant the pots were full and the law were off our backs, in times of plenty, love is all around.

I was convinced that there was no way Julia could find out, I wasn't, at that time, aware as to what her potential reaction would be, but as my mum says when its the epoch of the thin cows, then problems started to appear. We had problems with the law, not that they wanted to arrest us, they just wanted a bigger share of the pot. We had our hands tied, to operate we needed jurisdiction, and to get jurisdiction we need to operate. Suddenly exorbitant amounts were requested and we needed to cut corners. Julia had heard some rumours, and was also wondering how someone who seemed to work so little enjoyed such fiscal delights. She smelt a rat. She asked me if I was involved in anything that I shouldn't be and I laughed it off. She told me the only thing she would never stand for was being lied to, then added a few more for good measure. All of these things read like my CV. When she said that she would believe what I told her, but if the opposite were proven true, she would leave me. I should have seen the writing on the wall, but with all the ease of the thief, lied to her, and continued doing so.

With the increased necessity to find funds, I was doing a double-shift with the foot patrol. Rumours were now all about town, my mum continually accosted me about my doings and began praying for my wayward soul. When she got nervous she lost her Estuary accent and adopted an unplaceable voice somewhere from between the Galician mountains and the Vatican City. It was then she got into cahoots with Julia and the pair began questioning my movements. I tried to explain the situation to Tony, but all he could do was empathise, while reminding me that the ship would sink without the lifeboats being used. And so, one routine job was turned sour when the constabulary were waiting for us on the inside. It turned out that the police on our side, which was really their side, got the impression that we were not going to play their games for much longer, and decided to sever ties. No questions were asked, no deals were struck. We were taken down the station and charged. When I saw the look on Julia and mum's face, I knew it was time to put the old pasty back in. Despite having a top lawyer, nothing much mattered, I remembered Tony's words about going down together, but we did not receive one visit or call from him.

We were tried hastily. In court, when under questioning Benny could not resist the opportunity to reproach the judge when he claimed we were selling these products for a hundred quid, his exact words: "Your honour, we're not those sort of boys, we'd only charge you twenty!", we couldn't help but laugh, not because it was funny, but because our brains had parted company with our moves. Maybe if we hadn't laughed wouldn't have got a year each, but then again, would it have made any difference? I couldn't look at Julia and my parents as I was led away, at that moment it wasn't the year in prison that bothered me, it was the prison that awaited me afterwards. I had broken Julia's heart, she would leave me now, and I deserved no less. Once again, I had managed to show contempt for the only beautiful thing that had happened to me in my adult life. We talked about fraternity and the organisation, but as Billy Ocean should have said, when the going gets tough, everyone fucks off and leaves you to get stiffed.

We assumed that being part of the Matthews organisation would guarantee us a smooth passage through prison. We all remembered Henry Hill and Pauly in the nick in Goodfellas and were sure that would be us, worrying about the wine and the bread so we could dine, running the joint. I would like to be able to say prison was a wheeze, that we did our time and met a few characters, that we mastered our trade and enjoyed a camaraderie that made the time easy, but it was not like that. Prison was the lowest point. We were kept apart and spent our time dodging assaults with physical and muscular weapons. I know Benny was raped in there, he never admitted it, but it was all too obvious. Zippy was systematically mistreated by all the lunatic cellmates the screws could think of, whilst I went quickly mad. A madness that would have driven me to a place I had no wish to visit had it not been for one thing, that visit. After about three weeks I received a visit and was in two minds about showing up. My mum came at every opportunity only to chastise herself in Galician for her failings as a mother. When I realised how it would make her feel if I refused to see her, I decided I had no right to give her any more pain. When I walked into the visiting room and saw Julia, it was the closest I have ever come to considering religion, not Catholicism mind. I remember feeling difficulty in my breathing, so absorbed was I with her beauty . She made it clear that any second chances would be on a number of very strict conditions which in layman's terms were not to be fucked around with. Any misdemeanour, she even mentioned library books, would result in a definitive end. I would have accepted any conditions and as I whistled my way back to my cell I was brought back to earth by a punch from someone who thought Tony Matthews was an old fruit.

Every week she came and although we couldn't touch or kiss or even hold hands, it felt like she was once again with me, accompanying me everywhere, shielding her eyes from the naughty men in the shower, and laughing at her when she tried to lift the twenty kilo dumbbell. These moments of relief were still interspersed with beatings, but to my joy I was released after six months with my sphincter the same size as I had entered prison. Gore and Zippy were already out when I got home. Julia made it clear I was not to mix with them until they had proven their worth. I couldn't see them getting proper jobs either, it was an anathema to me, but, I had to buy some time and placate Julia. I still had a fair bit of money stashed away, so work, was not considered a priority, until Julia announced she would not have the rewards of the devil's work in this house (she had spent a lot of time with my mother) and that caused me some pain. She wanted me to give the money to charity or some good cause but I managed to blag her and get it to Zippy, on condition. Julia and mum got their hooks into some retraining programme for ex -cons (Christ I only did six months) and with my qualifications I was offered a place in a ghastly company, working for nine to five in reward for my benefits. Yippeee dooooh. I thought prison was bad. After about two weeks I told Julia that it was doing my head in and what I wanted to do was go into business, but legit, like. She embraced this idea, but commented that funds were an issue as she hadn't sold a painting for yonks, and her work had suffered due to my incarceration. Then Tony Matthews found out where I was and came looking for me.

When I left prison I made myself two promises, one never to return to prison, and two never to lie to Julia again. Don't ask me about the order of priority cos I can't tell you. Soon, the second promise was modified to never lie to Julia again, unless it is wholly inevitable and you won't get caught. Tony offered me my old job back and a mate at the programme said he would cover for me. I felt capable of living a double life. Unfortunately, and unbeknown to me, my mate was done for robbing a car and was sent back from whence he came, leaving me without an alibi. For about four months I got away with it, I eschewed the materialistic trappings my earning power could aspire to and lied constantly and freely to Julia and my parents. She recovered her flair for painting and I managed to get an "anonymous" buyer to pay over the odds for her work with my money so there was cash in the house. So pleased was she with my recuperation that she decided to surprise me one day outside the programme with tickets for a week in the Bahamas. Needless to say, her disappointment levels reached new extremes when she discovered that Graham Thompson had not been seen in the place for months.

When I got home she showed no emotion. She asked me questions about how things were going, allowing me to prove myself truly the biggest twat in the world, which I did gleefully. Lying had become an integral part of our relationship, well at least my interpretation of it. Then she held up the tickets to my delight, when she ripped them in two, I began to suspect the worst. She simply said that the conditions had been broken and that she was leaving forever. I felt so emasculated and sub-human that I made no attempt to stop her. I had no right to stop her. I had destroyed her definition of trust, on two occasions and she knew I would gladly nosedive towards a third. My mother had been informed and excommunicated me, properly, this was no sulk. I had nobody, nobody except the organisation. What was the point of going straight now? And when I look back and wonder if things could have been any different, I'm not sure if they could. I hate myself at feeling in part relief because I now can do what I wish and pain for the loss of the only woman I could ever truly love in my life. And as I sat and recounted the pain and misery I caused her and my family, I wonder what kind of person I truly am, and despair as the answer always seems to be, fuck it.

Anyway, that was Julia, I fear she will crop up from time to time, but we have missed out a part of the story that is essential. That we are four but there was a Pete Best. Though, that is a story best told by Zippy and as he has to go to Kalvin's to pick up our sales produce for this week, he can tell you on the walk.

BOOK ONE - SECTION TWO

Once we was five

ZIPPY:

Has he been banging on about Julia? Inevitable. I heard something but was honestly too busy trying to get my Pro Card on the old Tiger Woods. So, I'm off to Kalvin's. I got the short straw with that bad boy. It had to be me, can you hear Harry singing? Kalvin hates Benny cos Benny Big Lover Man, he always thinks Graham says clever things to wind him up and he's scared of Gore. Course, he's not scared of Gore when he's got his scally mates all tooled-up. But, I'm the jolly one, let him take the piss we won't be here too long. It's time for the change. Graham told you? Still, that's Benny's tale.

When we say that we was five, there is a bit of artistic licence involved. We've tried to pinpoint when the graceful and elegant Alan appeared on the scene. Arrive he did, and with what Graham would probably call aplomb, and get away with it, if I said it the piss-taking would last longer than a tournament with the Tiger. Still, nice of Graham to do the brekky honours, guess it'll be my turn tomorrow. So Alan came with the old aplomb and for that reason it seems to have blurred our social scene beforehand, as if he had always been there. There didn't seem to be any pre-Alan anecdotes, or any worth telling anyway. Everyone rushed to Alan. He was a great lad, endowed with fine qualities (from our point of view), and, inevitably, hindsight has only made him greater. For indeed, Alan is no more, the James Dean of Leighton Buzzard via East London now rests with the deities.

Alan had been seen knocking around for a while before we really got to know him. He knew Benny and had served time with Jamie Riley for something they didn't do. The justice system in this nation of our does seem to be a cruel set up with so many innocent friends and acquaintances and enemies of mine sent to the land of Scottish brekky for no reason. Alan had everything, good-looks, even beyond the standards set by Benny, the gift of the gab, patter, plus he knew loads, an immense knowledge, both practical and the ever favourite pub type of useless stuff that won quizzes and left the gobs open. He was born in the East End and was proper London, his accent was the stuff of pale imitations in our post codes. He was the sort of lad lads wanted to be and the sort of lad that girls wanted to be with. Now, I know what you're thinking, and I'd probably be tempted to wander down the same boulevard of procrastination myself, but although he sounds like the most odious, conceited twat ever to walk our lord's planet, he wasn't, quite the opposite. Everyone lapped him up. He was like a Hollywood star and we couldn't believe he was on our patch. He became the social epicentre of our nocturnal earthquakes in no time and was soon established as the essential face on the local scene. It's hard not to well up a bit when I think back about him, but the way he was it was clear he wasn't gonna last too long.

His main problem was the way he worked. He was generally regarded as insane, a risk-taker, so Tony Matthews made it clear he was a no-no as a partner. Anyway, Alan didn't like being tied down to a restrictive organisation like ours. He joked that we were the librarians of Luton crime, everything so safe, so, he almost said it with disdain, Tony Matthews. Alan aimed to retire to the Bahamas before he was thirty and spent the days leading up to his 10957th day on the planet looking for a big job to guarantee him the lolly to live his dream. We only worked with him on special occasions like Christmas or birthdays, it was always a rush, but it was nice to get your feet back on the ground with what he called "lazy crime".

Despite the odd job with Alan, we saw him loads as he decided that socialising with the lads he did the jobs with could get him in a stick. He sometimes blanked Jamie Riley in the pub, or out and about, and once, famously, reported Riley's car for double parking to the rozzers, so that when they accused him of being in cahoots with the Rilemaster, he had a nice little alibi. Of course, Alan, being a gent paid the fine for Riley. He worked with the Upton Crew of Gary Dickinson and Tony Cooney mostly, and as those two are in a place where the keys have been well and truly thrown away, well at least for two decades, it was best not getting to close to Alan as an associate. You may also think, from what you'll have heard about Benny (I suppose will you notice that him and Gray don't see eye to eye always) that the Benny lover might have felt some pressure from the presence of Alan on the scene, having the girls, as he so quaintly puts it, frothing at the gash, but no, Benny liked the competition, he always said we were cramping his style and wouldn't touch anything that would so much as converse with "the sexual plebs of Luton". Though deep down there was another reason, Alan could have any lass he wanted, but had fallen in love with a lass from the Buzzard, a surprisingly plain, dull and un-Alan girl, to whom he remained faithful. Alan liked the idea of a chase, but didn't trust the vehicle. Benny couldn't understand it, but then again Benny never could comprehend a relationship that was based on anything more profound than screwing the new hairdresser before anyone else so that you could brag about it in the boozer. He couldn't understand how anyone would want to spend so much time with the same person, not realising that spending time with a person makes them grow even beyond your initial, seemingly exaggerated, expectations as you passionately glide towards a harmony and understanding only achieved by true love. Also, you must take into account that most girls detest Benny a week after meeting him after the realise just how shallow, and dull, in equal parts, he is. Of course, that has a nice wee domino effect for me as my principles do not prevent me from wearing the same wetsuit as a fellow diver, so to speak. It is also made easier for me by the conversation piece "What a shite Benny is". That may make me appear shallow, but my intentions are different. I would like to have a relationship with these girls, it's just them who aren't so convinced.

Alan was into everything. Tony Matthews called us in. He said we could not, under no circumstances, get involved with that. We told him it was just social and he believed us, but we knew he was keeping tabs. In the early days though, we had no desire to work with Alan, we'd just got out the nick and no-one, especially Benny (Graham must have mentioned it) wanted to go back. We just took the vibes offered by the lad in our social whirl and wondered how long it would be before he was taken from us to please Queen Liz, or would get shot. The latter seemed more likely. I guess it's a bit like drugs, as first we didn't want them cos we didn't know what they were like then you try them and the slope gets a wee bit slippery. Same thing happened with Alan, we'd said no loads of times but he kept on, said it was a piss of a job, nothing could go wrong, just needed a bit of muscle in case it went off, which it wouldn't. Benny said he was up for it, Gore didn't appear either way arsed, until he heard about the spondoolies, I was easily swayed but Graham shite out. I remember we went in Brick's van to a tobacco warehouse and cleaned the place out with the so-called hard lads in brown-pant mode as we looked tough with our shooters and fuelled by the fat lines dished out by Brick. There was another do on the week after but wisely said no. Brick and Alan got away, but the rest were collared and went down, it marked the demise of Tony Cooney which caused a family feud that will play a part later in the story. We laughed about the deal with Alan, and enjoyed the two grand easily made, but knew Alan's way was not the Matthew's method. Still, the drug was in our system and we had the mini-Alan dos for birthdays and special occasions. Even Graham got on the vibe. Happy times!

Business with Tony Matthews was going so well that we didn't need to worry, but it was becoming routine, for Gray it was nine to five, and we had so much cover from the law that the edge had gone. We looked forward to the little outings with Alan for a respite from the mundane Luton we had taken over. We were grateful our birthdays fell in February, May, August and October so that we could enjoy an almost even period between events. Alan tried to add his birthday to the list, but, fearing he would probably go for Mrs. Windsor's golden hat, we declined.

Don't you always misjudge how long it takes to tell a story? I thought we'd be finished by the time we got to Kalvin's, and we're little more than halfway through. Well, I can't stop outside to tell you the rest. I'll take you in with me, so that you can see just how desperate our situation has become. Why the change is so necessary. I apologise beforehand for what may occur inside, just remember that if we are strong this will be over soon and we can enjoy the change.

From the collection of souped-up, pimped vehicles outside the hovel, Ford Escorts that have been given a Frankenstein style Nascar overhaul, turning them into a hideous abomination and testament to anti-motoring, his cohorts are in residence. This means my presence will be treated with, should I be fortunate, scorn. It also means that Kalvin will be in a rather provocative mood, forcing me to eschew my rather cool exterior and give him the excuse to finish us off. I will need all my powers to get through this, but motivation is high, as this could be one of my final visits. If Kalvin is in show-off mood, we will not get ladies' clothing to sell. That will be given to the clueless and the tasteless, people with no spirit for the game, no understanding of the market, and at a loss for Kalvin, who won't care as he knows it will wind us up. We haven't had clothes to sell for a while. Kalvin has got everything tied up in a nifty little radius, and if we go out of his radius, we'll just wander into that of another, maybe worse. I knock on the door, they haven't even got a bell, and they can see me from the living room, but decide to let me wait for more than five minutes before someone who can be merely sixteen opens the door and informs me that I am late. Sixteen? If I'd said that to anybody at sixteen, well, what is crime coming to? It really is disheartening. He goes back into the living room and closes the door, I am left waiting by the stairs for another ten.

As I wait it strikes me what squalor Kalvin lives in. This further demonstrates how low we have sunk since the glory days of Tony Matthews. Kalvin has no class. He is beyond a thug. He cannot enjoy his riches because his palette is not educated. That is what really breaks my heart, such a good thing we had going. It wasn't just about respect and gentlemanly agreements, there was an undercurrent of wanting to improve. To desire, to perfect the art, the beauty of crime without violence, for ingenuity to rule, to achieve the respect of law enforces impressed by your efforts and the acclamation of your peers. Now, Kalvin's empire could disappear tomorrow if someone could be arsed enough to get a decent crew together. But how long would the newcomer last? He would have to be twice as ruthless as our current top twat to stay in power, always living in fear of another coup d'êtat. That's better, always feel better after a circumflex. There is nothing left here. We've been lazy for too long. One day, Kalvin will realise he will have no use for us and we will go to prison for ever, or simply get killed. My master is ready for me it seems. He gestures we enter the kitchen.

In the kitchen there are the usual assortment of spotty sycophants on a tenner a day to test merchandise and laugh at Kalvin's jokes. Ten quid is not just reward for that victim of a comedy transplant. "Morning, Grandpa." He says out loud as we enter. Someone obviously had the "LAUGHTER" signs primed as there are hysterics following the comment, then followed by a series of painful sounding finger clicks suggesting they have all seen Boyz In The Hood. I keep my calm and pull out my pack of Embos, generously offering a splash. They all take one, even though most of them go behind the acne-infested ears. I decide to appear jovial.

"Kalvin, boys. Morning. I see you are having a spot of a.m. fun." Gesturing to the boys with the hot knives on the go. How primitive. How disgusting. You lot really are a disgrace to humanity. Still, must stay in character. "Got anything nice for us? I heard some Armani copies are in town." I ponder a wink, but resist. I don't want to set myself up for too much of a fall.

"Oh yeah!" He begins. "Nice stuff, good quality, Make some good cash out of that, Just up your street. Of course, I'd have to take 70/30. Know what I mean?"

I'm sure he's bullshitting me, but I've got to go with it. "Well, Kalvin, we have always said you need a business structure that is effective. The right people in the right posts." Now is the moment of truth. As he calls in Mark Owens I get the impression we're not gonna see the Italian copies. Owens comes in holding a brown paper bag. Goodbye Giorgio.

"I agree, Zip, that's why I've given them to Ray Kelly and Barry Whittaker." These two are the opposite of style, nice lads, but daft. They'd sell the originals for half the price they'd try to get for the copies. "Get rid of this for me by next Sunday." He throws me the bag. Marvellous. Pills, all weekend stood outside clubs trying to peddle what is obviously as potent as anything Sanategon have ever fabricated. Plus, another downside of dealing drugs instead of selling copied women's clothing is, that the police take none too kindly to it. Our records mean that we would be looking at a stretch and a half if caught. In the cells with stuff for the ladies means that you have a wee bargaining hold, many policemen have wives, many policemen have wives who like nice clothes, or at least copies of, but, of course, we can rob to order, originals. Not too many policemen have wives who like MDMA, and many have children who frequent clubs and are tempted to try these evil substances by the villainous dealers. If you've never been kicked in by a crusading anti-drug cop, try and keep it that way. One minute! I'm holding the packet in my hand and something's not right. Pills, feel like, well, pills. These aren't pills. I look inside the bag, and am horrified to see the brown.

"Come Kalvin. Play the game man! What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? This is smack. I can't move this. Where the fuck is the market? There must be two hundred grams here. How in the name of God am I gonna move this shite? No-one touches smack." I try to look pleading, he takes that as a sign of weakness.

"Two-fifty to be exact. If you don't sell the lot by next Sunday, you pay me what's leftover at 50 quid a gram. Now, if I were you I'd get selling. I've heard there are some kiddies on the estate, on that dodgy comp, that can't get enough of the stuff. You've already missed first playtime. Let's see if you're down there for lunch. Capisce?" His cohorts laugh, this is too much for my cool blood.

"I'm not selling drugs to school-kids. We built up this place. Alright you've come and taken it off us, but you owe us. We can't live like this. We're professionals. We've got class. You're just a bunch of thick scallies with guns. We want our patch back." I knew by about the seventh word I had said too much, but the momentum just kept me going. There was the off-chance that my little diatribe would make him reflect. Then again.

Kalvin took one of the hot knives that was glowing red and put it millimetres from my left eye. Owens punched me for insulting his merchandise and then a bevy of fists came in and I thought I was going to lose the eye. I woke up outside with the brown paper bag in my hand and a patrol car stopped to inspect me. I got the bag in my inside pocket, and tried to make it light on my feet. The coppers followed me and asked me what was wrong. I said I had just got into a wee fight over a bird. They said they wanted to search me. I questioned the legal validity of such an action, and then realised that I would have to pass by the cash-point. Two hundred pictures of Liz lighter I was back on the merry walk again, aching all over and not too pleased with morning. I also would be forced to listen to the continued complaints of the other three. Come on, Benny. It's really time for a change. I know I left the Alan story in the middle, but right now, all I want is a cup of tea in the café. So, with your permission we'll save the ending for later.
BOOK ONE - SECTION THREE

For all the Eurovision Song Contests I remember....

BENNY: Fucking Kalvin. Fuck him. Who does he think he is? How can he come from a nothing that we taught, we taught him everything he appears to deem more appropriate to forget, to this repulsive disgrace to humanity. Heroin? Two hundred grams? What on earth is this? What about the principles of decency, respect and honour? Has everything lost its worth now?" Benny was clearly outraged as Zippy returned with the merchandise, and commenced a rhetoric appealing to the old ideals, which seemed long gone. These ideals on really interested Benny when he was at a point where he may or would lose financially, sexually or in terms of superiority. On other occasions when Mister Benjamin would leave the crime scene with a healthy wad in his back pocket, these principles appearing superfluous. He was right though, Kalvin had gone too far, and basically laid the cards on the table that not only were the principles superfluous, but, so were they. Benny continued "And you just stood by and took all this, you didn't say anything?" He looked accusingly at Zippy.

Zippy was a calm creature by nature, but was not prepared to stand for Benny's insinuation. "Look at this." He pointed to the various marks left from his visit to Kalvin's. "What do you think? How did I get these, by saying Thank you, Mister Kalvin, how kind you are to allow us to sell your heroin and risk being banged up for fifteen years. If you could please rough me up a bit as well so I can genuinely realise how unworthy I am, then that would be the icing on the cake." Zippy finished and there was a dreadful moment when Gore and Graham didn't know whether to laugh or not. Zippy did sarcasm well, and Benny knew a war of words with him would be futile. Thankfully, he stepped down.

"Look, I'm sorry mate." He said to Zippy. "I had no right to say that. You're the one with the bruises after all. Mates?" He gestured with his right hand that peace be made.

"Don't be a melodramatic queen!" Zippy responded. Making it clear that they were mates, but extracting the upper-hand in the situation at the same time. "I'm more worried about what we do with this. I, for one, have no intention of standing outside dilapidated comps selling smack to school-kids. Even less desire do I have to do fifteen years for it, if I'm lucky. You know what cops are like when it comes to drugs. All it needs is one bigoted pig with a fifteen year old daughter and down the stairs we go. Or, the other charming scenario is, that other people sell the texture like sun round here find out we're selling and they inform us it isn't a market that doesn't embrace free market conditions. For these bad boys it's like Thatcherism never happened and nationalised industries rule. Of course, we refuse to sell and then Kalvin comes after us. I despise being assaulted by children. His urchins disgust me." Zippy also was speaking the truth. Selling heroin was a short cut to disaster, it also involved spending time transacting with consumers of the product who tended to displease the organisation. Whereas you could sell the white moustache and Gary Abblets to saucy, young rave-things, the glamour of the leisure drug did not extend to heroin. Everyone present may possess works by Bowie, Pop and Reed, but Benny had the Frog Song by McCartney, that didn't mean he wanted to live in a pond. The question was what to do.

"Fuck him. I say we fuck him." Benny offered as an option.

"Benjamin, we knew you've been in some dark, cavernous places in your unscrupulous time, but are you prepared to have intercourse with Luton's Lucifer?" Graham also enjoyed sarcasm, though more as a side-dish, rather than a main.

"I mean, you funny, asexual freak, let's fuck him over!"

"Inspired. I wish I'd thought of that." Zippy gestured again to his wounds.

"Well, what are we supposed to do then, get jobs?" You see? Gore can speak.

"Of course we don't get jobs. We hurt him, we take what's his and hurt him. When are we planning to go? Two, three weeks? How much have we go in cash? Ten grand each?" Benny answered the questions almost before finishing them, just to emphasise they truly were rhetorical. Graham started to think, they did have just over forty grand in the bank. Ten each, hardly a lot to show for a life of crime. The funny thing was, they had always seemed to have loads of cash, but now, there was almost nothing to show for their toils. "I say we nab the Armani lot. Nab it, take it to London, offload it and fuck off to Scotland. Lie low there and hit Spain. Tie up the final details from up north." Benny gave a look like they were all expected to congratulate him for the world's best idea. No-one did, there were, not surprisingly, some doubts needing to be clarified.

"Steal from Kalvin. He would kill us. It wouldn't work. He'd come after us." Graham was never the most adventurous in the group, but his common sense did appeal.

"Wrong." Benny, it transpired, was decided. "He hasn't got the gear. Zippy said, Whittaker and Kelly have got it. If we steal it from them and keep them off the scene for a day or two, by the time Kalvin finds out, we'll be well away. Kalvin won't go outside Luton cause he's shite scared. He's not gonna go looking for us in London cos he knows we know too many people, and doesn't know what they are capable of. For one job that he looses he's not gonna send his lads over the country, and, I must stress, to outwit his boys is not the work of a genius. Once we get the stuff, we head down London early and it's all boxed off. There's loads of people, who'd take it off our hands, alright we'll make less but that's not the issue. We have to strike now. I can't go back to prison." Benny wasn't sure if a sarcastic comment would be too much to resist, but the silence prevailed. None of them wanted to do time again. Thief time wasn't exactly glamorous Noël Coward style time, but it was better than heroin time. They'd end up users in there so they could be used as dealers once, or if, they got out. They enjoyed the recreational side, and liked pretending they were still in their twenties when maybe they should know better, but heroin was a none-starter.

"We need a better plan. We need a plan." Graham interrupted.

"Excuse me, but you are logistics man aren't you. The superhero of the Excel sheet? Well organise it. Make some phone calls. Do whatever you do. This is the only way. What do you say?" Benny looked at the other three knowing he was right. Three nods were taken as a sufficient majority for the motion to be carried. Now the question was how?

Whittaker and Kelly were not the smartest creatures in town. They had been given the job purely for Kalvin's entertainment. Despite Kalvin's lack of style, sophistication and general pertinence to the human race, his cash-flow situation was beyond favourable. He could afford for two idiots to balls up a sale just to annoy the four old men he considered arrogant (not the word he used). Kalvin assumed that the old men in question would never have the guts to call a mutiny. He judged people by his own intellectual standards, which meant, that as he couldn't have thought up a plan like Benny's, no-one else would. He also thought that Whittaker and Kelly would be able to move the Armani gear in a week, even those two. In this way he would make his money back and take the piss out of, putting on a mocking voice. "The organisation".

Whittaker and Kelly had a lock up and shared a flat on the less salubrious side of town. It wouldn't take long for them to be tempted into an evening of free drugs and drink that would allow the boys to take the Armani gear. Graham was clear that it had to be that very evening, and they would have to be away within hours. This meant there would be no long goodbyes, not that there were many people to say goodbye to. Most parents had given up on their errant sons a long while back. Only Benny had a real tie to the town in the shape of his ten year old daughter Kylie.

Kylie was fruit of Benny's most serious relationship. One where the word fidelity briefly became a watchword. Her mother, Sandra, was thought to have tamed the beast they called Benny, much to the horror of hormonally imbalanced forty-somethings in the local area. For a while he actually looked like he was going to settle down and make a home for his young family, but just before the birth his feet did itch and he requested some time to ponder this important step. Time, which was not available to Sandra who went into labour holding her mother's hand and withstanding the jibes from the nurses, two of which had seen Benny's ceiling. On a number of occasions, even Benny has had barren patches, reconciliation was made and the electoral role was temporarily changed, but not for long, as Benny's roving eye was also accompanied by equally, if not more so, roving genitalia. From those days on, Benny adhered to the school of parenting favoured in the late twentieth century, sporadic payments of maintenance and over-sized, inappropriate gifts at Christmas. From time to time, normally when one too many had been quaffed, he would claim that Sandra's new boyfriend, hardworking, loyal and genuine, had no right to claim he could father his child, and threatened to cease his existence should anything happen to his princess. Living in Luton didn't make him see her that often, so Marbella wouldn't really make that much difference. He thought about going round to see her, but considered it to be too potentially disrupting for her, in his magnanimous manner, convincing himself that it wasn't like he was never gonna see her again, and she'd love it over there on the beaches, playing in the sand and that. Then he remembered how good her mum looked with nice, all-over tan, and he was almost in the car, wondering which one he wanted to see, but desisted as time pressed.

Gore and Zippy had no such matters to attend to, as their families had long since denounced them. Gore the elder will not be gracing the streets of Luton till a fair while after the Olympic flame had been extinguished in Beijing, and that's with good behaviour, which is never truly likely. Gore's parents were extremely middle-class and were forced to abandon their leafy boulevard when their second son was incarcerated, rather hypocritically considering the time done by his father, though that was glamorous . When they left Luton, they left behind their son and moved somewhere which Gore believes to be up north, perhaps Scotland, or down south, maybe Devon. What he doesn't know is that the ashamed parents now tell their new friends that their two sons were taken from them in a dreadful road accident that is just too hideous to discuss. And then no-one does. The only real love of Gore's life will not be saying goodbye to him as she is now in a psychiatric institution after a flurry of suicide attempts, none of these were induced by Gore, but all thwarted by him, the most extravagant of which was when she consumed an entire A4 sheet of LSD,. Visiting her would be probably as interactive as a meeting with his parents so he let it be.

Zippy's parents hadn't gone to the extents of convincing parishioners that their only born sold quality ladies garments in the great celestial and eternal market, but a Christmas card was not expected by local bookmakers. When young Zippy himself was placed at her majesty's pleasure, there was talk of a revocation of the parent's golf club membership, as well as other privileges once the elaborate invitations stopped dropping onto the carpet, his parents also decided a move to newer, falser circles. There had been attempts at reconciliation, but all came to nothing due to a combination of Zippy's laziness and his parents' contempt. So, all Zippy and Gore had to do was get ready, a task that would be difficulty achieved in the time-span offered by Graham.

Graham had taken upon himself the role of making sure everything was ready for the big off the next day. The first job was assuring himself that all the party's passports were in order and valid. Here came the first problem. Not surprisingly, Zippy had failed to renew his, despite the fact that the change had been a predominant topic of conversation between the four of them for the last six months. Zippy just never got round to doing it. Graham was not best pleased. It was three p.m. and they would have to be in the zone of luring Whittaker and Kelly before eight, as not to be seen by anyone who could gazump them. At five on the dot, Zippy was dragged down to the passport office, still questioning why Graham couldn't do it on his own, and the paperwork was completed. The bad news was it would take at least a week. This meant that a favour would be required. Graham had planned to leave without putting his mother through more misery, but now would have to pay her a visit so that she could pick up Zippy's passport and forward it on to Scotland. He also had to secure provisions for the journey, believing that the trip to Scotland to be of the most low-lying and to ground going, he expected to provide enough essential material so that leaving their accommodation would be kept to a minimum. This proved slightly naïve as Benny would no doubt feel the need to sample the local lady's wares, and even more worryingly, Zippy will have to make another addition to his on-going drug compendium. Still, Graham hoped that common sense would prevail. He allocated every member of the party twenty kilograms of luggage to be placed into four rather attractive Adidas holdalls in different colours, recently purchased from a local sport's shop. Each traveller would also be allowed an item of hand-luggage to a maximum weight of five kilos, or thirty centimetres squared. If the other three though for a minute that Graham would not weigh and request the removal of items should their bags be overweight, then it would be clear that they were not as close to Graham as they had thought. His next stop was Boots, his favourite chemist. He had taken the time to inspect the bathroom of the other two as well as checking out Zippy's rather disinterested concern for personal hygiene, and allocated them two luxury grooming items each, as well as an after shave. Added to this were two toothbrushes per person with accompanying paste, here preferences were ignored in favour of practicality. Each also got two spray on Sanex deodorants, a face towel, hand soap, Wash and Go 2 in 1 (one for greasy hair for Gore), a bumper size pack of multivitamins, a twenty-four pack of Annadin Extra, a large packet of Rennies, plasters, handy-pack tissues and nail clippers. These were neatly put into four tartan travel bags as he sat in a café and treated himself to a capuccino. After that it was off to Poundland where he picked up items the others would never think of such as a tin opener, safety matches, lighters, blank CDs, sellotape, fuses, a screwdriver set, a foot pump, obligatory red triangles in case of accidents and an Indiana Jones video. Finally, he stopped at Halfords and got a drill and a tent and then told himself to stop. He got back home and placed the holdalls and travel-bags on the floor and informed the others they could be collected. It was already knocking on seven bells as they collected everything, and Graham still had to get his mum to do him the favour. It was decided that, Zippy was a useless waster, and Graham would meet them later once the passport issue had been resolved. Graham insisted on being given the passports of Benny and Gore and putting them in a safe place. Then, he had to get showered and try and butter his mum up, a task which he didn't fancy.

While the passport debacle was going on, the Gore and Benny household were busy packing, during which, Gore hit upon his first major dilemma. His weight allowance had been calculated so that he would only be able to take with him two CD cases which held ninety-six in each one. This meant that Gore had to sum up his entire musical existence in one hundred and ninety-two CDs. This was something that scared Gore as the choice was beyond difficult. Everyone thought of Gore as a metaller, Benny was always calling him vastly amusing names like Jon Bon Jovi or other such pearls of wisdom, but there was a lot more to Gore than metal, sure, he liked to rock, and built his musical reputation on the fine fundaments of the pioneers of what is now known as metal, but to fail to notice the eclectic nature of his collection was, in his eyes, blasphemy. From his metal roots, he soon expanded his knowledge to searching for the influences of the pioneers. He may have considered Motley Crew the best dressed people in the late eighties, but didn't Benny and Zippy have the back of their mullets permed? Didn't Graham once turn up with black nail vanish on? Why was he always the butt of the musical jokes? He who feared not sandwiching Aretha between Def Leppard and The Scorpions on a compilation, he who brought Motown to Luton, he who was skitted at for listening to the Roses when they were digging Deacon Blue, and then laughed at for not wanting to go to Spike Island? He sat on his bed and wondered why visionaries suffered.

However, time was passing and he was no closer to a solution. He was close to panicking. There were thirty or forty that were superior to discussion, but then again, he might meet some like minded person who would clearly have them anyway. Then he would be angry at himself for having been so obvious. Conversely, if he did meet a like minded person and then was bereft of these titles, the impression it would give would be unthinkable. With the clock approaching six he had the first case full. Then he had the worry of which T shirts to take. Clearly, he could not take a t shirt by a band that had been excluded from the selection. There were many t shirts that could be used as a conversation starter, or simply to evoke a look from across a crowded room to acknowledge good taste. Then he wondered whether there should be a limit to the number of CDs per artist. This was decided upon and he once again had eleven spaces in the first case. By ten to seven he had managed to arrive at a selection which he detested, which made him look like a philistine, which showed no imagination or education, but would have to do. Benny saw him pondering over the CDs and asked if he could put a few of his in the old CD cases. Benny laughed. Gore didn't.

Gore would not transport the music of Benny in the same CD case as his own. Music for Benny was an extension of his need to have meaningless, false relationships, and, ergo, his music collection reflected this. The only time he listened to music was when Luther and Big Alex O'Neal were banged on to remove underwear. He also had an immense collection of things liked by women, just so the sneaky twat could look even better once they were in his lair. Gore never understood that, if they were in his bedroom anyway surely they had made their decision to view his ceiling, so why the music? It was all part of the Benny theatre. Zippy and Graham had their musical moments too, but mainly followed the current trends without any real concern over greatness, modernity and vitality in this music place. Gore was aghast at how they could like a song simply because it sounded nice, without taking so many other factors into consideration. People told Gore that he worried too much about these things, with him responding that it was the only things truly worth worrying about.

At seven bells the bags were packed. Gore and Benny awaited the arrival of Zippy and tried to select a CD. Of course, he could now only select from the remaining list, which made him want to unpack his bag and start again. He knew this was not an option and went for something purely to annoy Benny, The Toy Dolls. Benny went off to search for two cold bottles when Zippy phoned him. As luck would have it, he bumped into Whittaker and Kelly on the way out and the pair said they would gladly take a drink with, and on, them.
BOOK ONE - SECTION FOUR

The Yobakishi Murders I - Air

Yobakishi sat on the sand that fell into the area that marked the end of the territory pertaining to his parent's residence and where the beach truly began. His parents had continuously told him about playing there as it was wasn't really sand, as it wasn't really anything. Located towards the end of the garden area, as this was not graced by a man made border it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where the beach's domain was. It was an area that contained a majority of substandard soil, to dry for any use horticultural use, interspersed with the odd grain of sand, seemingly placed their for some unknown, aesthetic benefit. Yobakishi loved this part of the garden, he loved it because it was not part of the garden and neither did it form part of the beach. He loved it because no-one else loved it, and therefore did not have to contest it, as was so often the way with other things. His parents quickly tired of requesting his movement to a more suitable place and left the child there.

Yobakishi was a five year-old Japanese boy from a small, coastal village, far removed from the neon lights of Tokyo that he would have to wait for his youth to understand. His parents had arrived in the village after his father, under doctor's orders, had made his fortune in the capital. Yobakishi knew nothing of these circumstances, his age and lack of memories of Tokyo allowed him only to believe that all his existence had been spent in the semi-sandy area. He tried to count the number of days he had been there but soon renounced the task as the numbers went beyond his scant abilities. Yobakishi looked at the beach and wondered why all the other boys played there so much, he had played on the beach but never saw the attraction. He soon cultivated an immense hatred for the things of the beach, he would scorn at crabs and willingly destroy shells, enjoying the tears of the other children as the beauty was destroyed. As he saw it, if they could not appreciate his area, why should he appreciate theirs? So, he didn't.

When he sat he liked to bury his feet, so that when they were extracted they came out blackened by the soil. When he cleaned his feet, he tried to remember the songs he had heard, but never got the words right. At night he had heard other children being sung to by their mothers and often wondered why his mother never sang to him. He also wondered why she never gave him a little brother to bury his feet with in the sand and the soil. Yobakishi wanted to be sung to and wanted a brother to bury his feet. He looked into the reflection of the water accumulated on rainy days and saw the face of the podgy, almost compressed, little Japanese boy and imagined it was his brother calling him. Yobakishi knew nothing of being Japanese, he knew Japan was were he lived but being only five, he could not comprehend any greater context. He wanted a sister too, but didn't know what one was.

Yobakishi collected the things he found in his special area and guarded them in the garden shed that was disused by his father. He liked the smell of the place, it reminded him of when he couldn't remember things, and he knew his trophies were safe there. Yobakishi had a memory that astounded all those who came into contact with him. This embarrassed his mother, who didn't want her child prodded and poked, and was the true reason that the little brother lived in puddles and did not occupy the other bedroom. His mother was worried she had brought a monster into the world and feared continued breeding may only worsen the situation. When she tried to talk to Yobakishi she became frustrated, unable to make a point without angering. Yobakishi suspected his mother did not love him, and that is why she didn't sing to him. His mother suspected he would never accept her and could not sing to him. So, Yobakishi played with his findings in the shed, attributing to them magical powers that transported him and his brother to other worlds. Yobakishi never looked for things, he always found them. Like the day he found the stone.

Yobakishi knew that the stone was not a stone, it was to perfect and polished to be a mere stone, but it was also too indescribable to be a gem or a jewel. For more than two hours he sat and stared at the stone, and when his eyes got tired he buried it back in the soil, deeper than he ever had done with his feet, so he would never have to look at the stone again. That night, Yobakishi tried to sleep, but could not forget the stone. Then he heard the music that the other mothers sang to their sons. The music was coming from the stone, the stone was calling him. Checking his parents were sound asleep, Yobakishi left the house and made for the place that was his. He couldn't see and was forced to return to the house for a flashlight. He dug and dug until his little fingers started to bleed, but he couldn't find the stone, although the music was now unbearably loud. He continued looking but came across nothing, until exhausted and with bloody hands, he fell asleep outside.

When his mother went to wake him the next day and saw him gone, she begged the devil to take her instead as a bad mother. When the devil didn't respond she begged again, but still nothing. Then, she glanced out of the window and saw her little Yobakishi on the floor and rushed to him. His fingers were infected by the dirt from the soil and she had to take him to the hospital, all the time wondering what price the devil had put on her. The infection soon became worse and Yobakishi passed into a coma. His mother, with tears in her eyes, began to sing the songs of the other mothers and waited for the devil.

Yobakishi did not know why he was in the white place, his hands hurt and his mother was singing. All his life he had wanted her to sing for him, now he couldn't concentrate on the words because of the pain in his hands. He felt sleepy. He rested. She sang. His father came and sang too. All he could think about was breaking shells and burning crabs. Yobakishi visited many places while he slept, he saw the land of dragons that the scorpion skeleton in the shed had informed him of. His favourite though, was the land of the stone. When he saw the stone again, he apologised to it, and felt better when the stone said it didn't matter. The stone took him to the beach and they laughed at how rubbish it was. Yobakishi's cheeks went red as he took the stone into his injured hands and began to feel better. He was returning. He awoke. His mother thanked the devil, and promised to explain everything later. After a few days at home Yobakishi missed the stone dreadfully, but he knew that he would never find it looking for it. His patience was that of a five year-old boy's. He dreamt of the stone. He even went to the beach on the off-chance.

The summer was drawing to a close, and with the autumn rains, there would be less opportunity to hang around in Yobakishi's special place. He despised himself for burying the stone and promised to God he would be a good boy if he gave him the stone back. God asked him how. Yobakishi said he didn't know, but he would try. God did not consider that worthy of a treaty and left. Yobakishi cried and vowed to sleep at the end of the garden until the rains and the bad weather came. As he lay on the ground, a kingfisher asked him why he was so sad, and laughed at the response, telling him; "Little Yobakishi, don't you know that the stone is always with you if you want it? Just because it is not in your hand does not mean it is not in your heart." Yobakishi thanked the bird, and set about entering his heart to retrieve the stone. He entered the kitchen and found a tin opener. Attaching it to his tiny nipple, he tried to open his heart to remove the stone, cursing the cryptic kingfisher as he did. His mother, awoken by the commotion, rescued him in the kitchen, and begged of the devil the truth. Yobakishi told his mother that he only wanted to retrieve the stone from his heart and his mother laughed. "This stone?" She asked, removing the stone from her purse. "Is this the stone you want so much?" She gave it her little boy, and he thanked God for returning the stone to him, his mother returned to bed thanking the devil for a happy ending. The devil asked her why she assumed this was a happy ending, and Yobakishi's mother never slept again.

Yobakishi took the stone to join the rest of his collection. He wanted to make it talk, but it wouldn't. He knew the stone was special, but not why. He wanted the stone to reveal itself, but it wouldn't speak. He asked his mother why the stone wouldn't speak to him and she told him because the devil shouldn't speak to children. Yobakishi took the stone everywhere with him, even to bed. He was determined to know its powers. From time to time, it let out little words, when caught off-guard, but then returned to its normal stone self. Yobakishi wanted to control the stone. The stone did not want to control Yobakishi. The stone did not need the control of Yobakishi, the stone's power was evident, but it could not choose. It needed Yobakishi to chose. Assembling the images from Yobakishi's brain as he slept, the sporting images of football invaded the stone's conscience, as Yobakishi had been watching Oliver and Benjy before sleeping, with the stone, obviously. The stone would do the rest, calculating the angle at which, Yobakishi's, today, say, left foot was resting and pinpointing that as a place in the planet. Northern Italy. The stone increased it's temperature, causing the sleeping Yobakishi to let slip his grip and was soon away in the land of snooze. The stone now took control of Yobakishi's thoughts.
BOOK ONE - SECTION FIVE

Abusing simple idiots can be great fun under the right circumstances...

ZIPPY: A stroke of luck indeed, bumping into those two just as we were out to look for them. Still, they are creatures of habit and you'd hardly need the services of Larry's detectives to track those bad boys down. I still feel bad about the passport shenanigans. I'd been meaning to get round to it, but you know how these things are. Red tape's never been kind to me, and I don't like queuing. Anyway, means I've got an extra incentive to get things sorted. This can be my little show and I want to do things well. The plan is rather simple, I happened upon some rather high quality white lady the other day and that will get the boys in the mood. We'll be in a Kalvin friendly local at first but when they see we're dishing out they'll move on. They can't turn down the free scoops, for, as a wise man once said, the only things better than a skinful is a free skinful. Olé, as Graham's ma would say.

So here we are in the Old Dog. Try and imagine a dreadful, classless boozer and then stick it in Baghdad, then you get the idea. It isn't, and hasn't been called the Old Dog since the seventies, it's called Reflections or something ghastly now, but everyone still uses the old name, largely in reference to the unsavoury females that frequent the establishment. It's so Kalvin, ie shite. I'm allowing Whittaker and Kelly to mock me as I get them their pints.

"Sure you wouldn't like a wee drop of something on the side boys?" And they say Benny is charming.

"Well, if you're offering. Knock on two Glenfiddichs." And I thought these two were plebs. Someone must have taught them some taste. I'll have one too, then, like the rest of us, I'll be on the Kaliber when we get to the Frog and Partridge. Whittaker and Kelly appear to be enjoying this, they actually think that I am being generous to them out of respect for them. They also share a rather foolish notion that I wish to be informed of just how great they are. Lest the nip takes the pain away. Message comes in from B&G saying that they passed by Kalvin's place on the way over and there looks to be some sort of full-scale rave, or whatever the youngsters call them these days, on. What fortunate people are Kalvin's neighbours, kept awake till all hours by a form of music that most only be fore those who cannot taste real love. This also means the chances of a Kalvin friendly face popping up are relatively slim, not like the lines I'll be giving (wasting, but work is work) on these fools to find out why they aren't there (very curious) and where they have stashed the gear. Although, Benny's wee Kylie could easily work that out, sharp as she is. If it's not in their lock-up, I shall dine on trilbies for a good long while. Well, back into character.

"I've seen you looking better Zippy." This is reference to the wounds received for my outburst this a.m. They weren't present but word gets around quick enough.

"Yeah. We've been thinking, and talking (which of these actions are you two capable of?) about that and we've come to the conclusion that maybe Kalvin's right. Suppose fashion's a young man's game. You know what the young fillies are after. We, I suppose, are a bit past it. Looks like it's the drugs for us." I am trying not to lay it on too thick just on case they suss, but if I went to the Gents and left a copy of the script on the table this pair wouldn't be any the wiser. I'll give them just enough to rub it in. "So, that's why we wanted to see you. You know, any advice we can give, we will gladly. Still, I am sure that you two know the ropes and have your own methods." I leave them the floor, temporarily.

"That's it, Zip. I mean, how old are you lot? Thirty-five?" Kelly embarks and I am biting my lip, he knows I am thirty-four. I get a fresh deck of Marley lights out and offer a splash, they both take two, one in the gob and one behind the ear. It truly is heartbreaking to think that our once proud manor is now in these hands. The class has now left the building. "Kalvin knows the score, you're lucky to get anything off him. Then you show disrespect by getting arsey. Accept it and move on." He holds pint far too high to have any intention of finishing the remaining twenty millilitres, obviously furnishing me with the knowledge that they will permit me to purchase them another. I still have half a pint so they'll have to hang on a mo. The conversation soon dries up, as if the lubricating effect of the lager controls their vocal chords. I'm off to the bar again.

The barman, Paul Simmons, gives me a look that suggests I shan't be asked to be the godfather of his first-born, he serves other people, goes to wash some glasses and finally, and begrudgingly, attends to my request for a top-up. Just to annoy him more I offer him one for himself. He thinks he's annoying me by taking a double malt, what happened to the days of a barman just taking twenty pee for the pot? But I don't mind. In a perverse way, I'm kinda enjoying this. I return to the table and the Mensa contingent continue with their well developed theory on why we shouldn't be doing the thing we do better than anyone in deference to their obvious skills.

"You see, you lot think it's still the eighties or the nineties. Tony Matthews is in the ground, and you'll end up the same way if you're not careful." Kelly continued. I have a five pound bet with myself to see if Whittaker will speak before finishing the next pint. These two may not be giving much away at the moment, but that is the plan. They'll be singing soon enough after we get the plan into motion, but this is there moment, a chance for them to feel superior before they are carelessly brought back down to earth. So, as I take my pint to lips, I think, keep looking hard boys, cos a few days from now you're gonna need it. I raise a glass to the two clowns, genuinely not caring if they end up in the river because of this.

"Well, better later than never, eh boys? Like I said, time to move on. Age catches up with us all in the end." I am relieved to see Benny and Gore enter, also as this means I won't get stung for another round for a good while. They come to the table and generously offer our guests further refreshment. They decline on the chaser for this round and Benny snaps at the chance to purchase it. Once we are all seated, Kelly looks set to repeat the clever sentences from before, purely for the benefit of our new companions ears. As Whittaker is slurping back the last of his ale, he says hello to Benny, and darn it if I don't owe myself a fiver. These two seem a little bit tipsy already. This is something we don't want just yet as we have to gain their confidence, only for them to, at some point, realise, we were not worthy of it. Benny takes a big gulp and shows himself still an unknown to subtlety.

"Fair goes to your head with the chasers, dunnit boys?" Benny asks and Whittaker agrees. Maybe he fancies Benny, I'd never thought of that. Perhaps we could change the plan. I'll mention it to Benny when I get a chance. "You know, yer man Zippy there is holding some very high quality white powder. What do you say to adjourning to les toilletes for a little pick-me-up. Then we can have a proper drink." Benny is being far too theatrical and suspicious. What is he on about? Dropping in French? Yer man? Nothing sounds worse than someone with a nondescript Estuary English voice trying to pepper it with provincial colloquialisms. With my eyes I gesture to Benny that he calm it down a tad, but these two fancy a wee line, the units are coursing through the bloodstream, and this is a generation raised on Lucozade and bottled water rather than pints and spirits. I decide to be the buffer zone to Benny's thespian idiocy.

"What, in here? All five of us troop off to the lavs? Don't think Simmo would be too happy about that. He didn't exactly lay out the red carpet when I tried to get served." This also gives our two goons the chance to consider themselves ever more street-cred than their pathetic drinking partners, as they know Simmo won't give a shit, quite the opposite, he'll get someone to mind the bar and come in with us. Good job I'm holding ten grams. Could need to make another phone call if it gets out of hand. We've got to bin this shit-hole soon. Whittaker and Kelly swan over to the bar and have a word with our gracious benefactor, a word is had and the light is green. In no time we are in the bogs, a full gram going into my special silver tray and six healthy lines are racked up and make instant friends with the bloodstream. We head back to the bar and Simmo offers a round on the house, to which Benny accepts a chaser as well.

Back in tablelandia, the atmosphere was markedly different, almost pleasant, within the context of the event. We would have to get out of there soon and hit the Partridge. It will be nice to see the friendly face of Alan Pearson behind the bar. Nonetheless, Whittaker and Kelly are less vitriolic in their appraisal of our abilities. The slurring has stopped, which is a good sign, and has been replaced by incessant nattering, with each speaker believing themselves to have just made the most pertinent point ever made in a public house. The upshot of it all is that we are great guys, as are they (we say with our fingers crossed, Gore sees this and his to fight off a fit of the giggles). We were the masters, but what can you do? Kalvin's got everything tied up. As Kelly said this he realised where he was and looked around to make sure no-one had heard. These walls do have ears. With the general good mood around the table, it is suggested that the Partridge be taken in, to which they are in agreement when there is talk of more ching, and Benny's non too PC assertion that the fanny there pisses on that in the old dog. Benny did not realise his pun, and I didn't think it would be worth mentioning it. I feel immensely happy, a feeling that I haven't had for a fair while. We flag down a hackney as we get outside and I text Gray to meet us in the Partridge.

While we are in a taxi the scene in Graham's parents house is none too clever. His mother does not believe his talk of giving up the life and making a new start. She just thinks he's running from something. She begins to weep, and like a good Spanish Catholic blames herself for being a bad mother, desperately holding on to the rosary as if awaiting divine intervention. Lapsing into Spanish and Galician at will, speaking English in a strangely altered way that was neither Estuary nor Malaga. Graham repeatedly tells her that this time it is for real, and that things will get better. There will be no more knocks on the door. They had to get out of Luton, out of the UK and away. They had a plan. It was kosher. The bad times were over. Then he said the words that she could never stand to hear from him. Trust me. So many lies over so many years made the word trust something of a comedy item when it came from his lips. She told him that if her son insisted on getting himself killed, then she would like to bury him. Without thinking of the meaning behind the phrase, he promised he would bury both of them. His mother didn't want to, but couldn't help following her husband into laughter, simply referring to her son as an idiota.

Plans were made to collect the passport and pass it on to a PO box in Bonnie Scotland next week. Graham's mother insisted he eat a good meal before he leave. Spanish mothers cannot comprehend the fact that people can provide for themselves in terms of nourishment, though, it must be said that the quality does vary. She bemoaned having nothing in the house, despite the kitchen looking like a small market. She even had octopus and prepared it in the Galician way with paprika and potatoes. She also rustled up some mussels and dug out a bottle of Rias Baixas. The last thing Graham wanted to do after the mean was go an a pub session followed by, well, all the things he had lied to his mother and father about. Eventually, he made his excuses and promised to keep in touch, and once again his mother thought that this time it would be for real as he went out into the cold night, to steal and cheat.

In the taxi, I opened up another wrap and invited dipping fingers in. Leaving an unpleasant taste in their mouths, they were all ready for a lovely pint. To show their appreciation, Whittaker and Kelly offered a round. Why not? Isn't there something truly satisfying about having your victim buy you a drink. I remember one time, back in the very old days, Benny had always fancied Lucy Mainwright but never got a sniff cos she was going out with Kevin Lumsdun. He kept quite a tight reign on her as she was a wee fleshpot, and thus, he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her, although giving her lithe frame and his strength, that was quite far. Well, when Kevin was too busy knocking back the liquids, Benny took Lucy into the toilets and gave her the benefit of what he called in those day, I kid you not, the Bennyjection. You cannot imagine how much fun we have reminding him of that. Anyway, as he leaves the lavs, fluids and phone numbers exchanged, he bumps into KL at the bar who offers Benny a pint. Benny gratefully accepts and when Lucy comes out sheepishly a couple of minutes later, Benny can't resist telling Kev how lucky he is, saying she must be a little fire-cracker. During these long moments, for her, Lucy wished to be taken into the annals of hell in preference to continuing to listen to the conversation. And so, I gratefully accepted five hundred and sixty-eight millilitres of Leuven's finest in honour these muppet's demise.

They're starting to yak and I am beginning to get a trifle bored with their patter, even when they are brushing by topics such as "We Were the Masters" and "Things could be so much better". Still, this is work and work must be done. These two are fairly well gone now, this is not the aim so it's a quiet word with Alan Pearson, the landlord, and we're in what he laughingly calls the function suite. Benny has managed to find a couple of fun lasses who have joined the party swing. Benny does the introductions and they appear to be particularly taken by our new young friends, this is when me and Gore, but not them, realise that the Bennyjection, or something is up to very little good. With the privacy of the back room, we can throw the boys a few fat lines to sober them up. Now I only wish I could give them something for their shocking patter. After we see the ale staring to dissipate, the strong taste left behind by the ching means there is now way they can taste the vodka chasers we've thrown into their pints.

Graham appeared and immediately voiced concern. "Working hard?" He takes me to one side, like I'm responsible. "You said you were gonna get them scooped but stay on the alcohol free. We do have work to do." Graham's obviously been given a hard time by his olds and so I get to bear the brunt.

"Calm down, bad boy. I've only had a couple so not to look suspicious. Peo behind the bar's cool, and anyway we're taking from the other packet which is baking soda. These two don't realise. We thought they might be able to hold their ale a bit more, but you know what the bloody E-Generation are like. They make Benny look hard. That's why were levelling them out a bit. Take their minds off scooping, try and get them thinking they're in with the lasses. Understand? Then it's back to their kelly, lay the rape biscuits on them and let the lad's sleep." By this time Gore had come over, worried that Graham may spoil things with his common sense and lack of spontaneity. Graham eventually endorses my plan in his own lovely, by telling me not to fuck this up. The addition of this did not refer to the even in question, but my fucking up, in his eyes, of everything else. Thank you for your approbation and continued support big G. Semi-content, he departs for the bar.

Gore looks me in the eye and asks "So we're taking baking powder?"

"Maybe a bit less than fifty-fifty, but you know what Gray's like. Anyway, I've never sorted pure baking soda before. Don't know if it will make you sneeze. Got to avoid suspicion. Understand?" He must realise I do this for them.

"Fifty-fifty." Gore starts to laugh.

"Just to take the edge off it." I reply, and we return to the table.

Benny has now entered a theatrical mode which is very painful listening. He and our two fools are taking part in what looks to be a regional final of some sycophancy competition, with the ladies almost coming to blows over which of the two are more handsome (although they both mean Benny). This does have the look of being over-the-top and obvious, and I begin to panic, the Kaliber having a negative effect on me on one drug leaves the system. Their patter is truly ghastly. Their chat-up technique involves explaining to the poor dears the workings and complexities of their latest, favourite Play Station game, as well as who were the purveyors of the finest hardcore house in the business, a genre very far from our hearts. Spurred on by the comments that they would have to be bright to be able to engage in such complex game-play, they then proceeded to make extravagant claims as which of the pair possessed the greatest dexterity. When this turned into a mock scrap I caught one of the ladies glancing over to Benny with a look that suggested he owed her one, this in turn meant he would give her the one in question.

We put up with this for another twenty minutes before telepathically deciding it was time to advance the temporal parameters of our plan. I was getting tempted to sling the baking soda as these two were boring the arse of the lot of us. I took Benny and one of the lady friends, whose name was Angela, nice name, nice girl, she wasn't the one of the Benny look so maybe there might be some seconds for the Zip, a few words were had and we returned with drinks.

Angela opened the conversation. "You know a lot about music, it would seem. I suppose we must seem rather past it. We don't get the chance to hear that kind of music. Maybe one day you could open us up to a new world?" She said the open us up bit in such a way that one day would be today, and soon. They took the bait.

"Well, we could have a little party at ours. If Zippy brings the drugs and you bring the looks, we'll put the music on. It's a pity the offy is closed, but we've got some wine back at the flat." Kelly responded, and, my God! That was almost a good line. All of a sudden we were finishing up the drinks and stepping out into the cold air, not before showing Peo our gratitude in paper form.

Two taxis were hailed, with Whitakker and Kelly sharing with the ladies, both of whom were fighting for the front seat, and we were off. Things were going well it was agreed, and we were looking forward to checking out their wine cellar. No doubt they had only the best stuff imported. Maybe they even spent their summers scouring the finest vineyards of Europe in search of bottles to complement their collection. I just hoped their storage conditions provided the correct temperature to maintain the liquid at its optimum for the praising of Bacchus. "Tenner says the wine is shite." I offer as a bet to the other passengers.

"Twenty." Chips in Gore. And there is laughter, that kind of painful laughter that cannot be stopped, a laughter that made us think it was like the old days, and maybe it would be, soon. We get to their pad and a line is requested from us before we can even sit down. I oblige, but am thinking they should enjoy it cause it will be their list, for a couple of days, anyway. I was not aware that the No Frills brand had entered into the production of the fermented grape. They seemed to like it though. I, however, was tempted to empty the contents of a bottle of Sarson's that there was in the kitchen into my glass. Their flat was a real shite-hole, scruffy, unkempt and generally hideous. The girls didn't want to sit down as the furniture exhibited dubious looking stains. They served the wine in cups to the girls as they only had four glasses. Angela's didn't have a handle. If we get this job done in time, sweet one, I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. They're beginning to feel uncomfortable with the situation as Whittaker, now animated suggested they do a strip. They would do Benny a favour as he had the gift of the gab, and always got what he wanted, but the limit was being crossed. Time to move into work mode.

"So, you'll be looking forward to getting down to the market tomorrow. Sell the Armani stuff?" Benny enquired.

"Market? Have you seen what is there? Barely fits in the lock-up! We've had to throw stuff out." Comes the reply from Kelly. Sometimes it is too easy, thank you for doing our work for us. The only trouble is that I would like something of a challenge from time to time. Complacency can be a dreadful addition to your CV. Kelly continues. "We're off to London, make a bit extra and say nothing to Kalvin. Hush hush though. Mum's the word eh?" I often wonder why nasty governments spent so much money on torture instruments during wars to winkle information out of their poor prisoners. Generally, after a few drinks and lines of the white lady, a complete stranger with skeletons aplenty in their cupboard will sing you all their secrets whilst telling you how great you are. Maybe the baddies knew this, and they just liked the torture.

"He wouldn't believe us anyway. He'd think we were just jealous and making it up. You lads seem to know the game inside out. I wish we had contacts like that in London." Benny is good, beyond good. They're eating out of his hand and forgetting about the girls. If forced to describe the girls' current state I would have to use the word relieved. Oh! Angela, a few more minutes and I can take you away from this. Just be patient my dear.

"Well, it's all safely under lock and key. Says Kelly, unbuttoning his top one and extracting a chain from round his neck that contained as close as you can get to a plethora of keys. Kelly, please try and make us work. You are not our adversary, you are not worthy of taking this challenge. Only Angela is worthy.

"Running low on juice there boys." Suggests Benny who offers to fill them up for them, a request which is heartily accepted. Once in the kitchen, Benny fills their glasses and adds the Rohypnol which will have them soon sleeping like babies. Benny returns and hands out the drinks. As the rest of us are now on cups, the possibilities of a dreadful cock-up like one meet see in an amusing Hollywood blockbuster, or in Sixteenth Century Venetian tombs, of the goodie drinking the poison by mistake, were eliminated. "Here we are." Benny continued. "Pwarhh!" Strange noise, but strange situation, it was clear the Benny was up to something, else. "This party is a bit flat, isn't it? Why don't we neck these while Zippy's racking up? Then I'm sure the girls will do a dance for you." Benny is genuinely, effortlessly good. They agree and as the girls start to move the drinks are finished in one gulp. This stuff should take effect in about five minutes so the routine is, you can look but not touch, if you don't touch and are good boys who knows what you will get later? Well, we do. Fucked, but not the way they are thinking of.

These two are so daft it almost hurts. You always wonder why people on daft programmes when they play jokes and japes on unsuspecting members of the public. Why do they fall for them? Most are so obvious? Most people even recognise the presenter when the jape is revealed to be so, and still fail to notice anything. Whittaker gets up to dance as well, this is good as the movement will speed up the drug's effect on the body. Angela reminds him of rules and tells him to be a good boy. I promise to anything but a good boy with you my dear once this work is done. Kelly's also sitting forward in his chair. I'm looking for signs. He starts to rub his eyes, arching his neck back. His eyes are opening and closing and a confused look replaces the vague, gormless one that previously occupied the ugly mug. Gore gestures over to me and I notice that Kelly is back in the chair and awaiting the express to Dreamland. Tickets in hand, they board the train and are out.

"Bastard." Angela and her friend shout at Benny, though I suspect there may be a silent plural. "You never said anything about anything like this. We feel so great now, so proud. This is going to cost you." Benny apologise profusely. If it were any of us apart from Benny, the apology would receive a negative response, but already Benny is winning them round.

"If you wish to be angry with me, please can you do so later. We have to move quickly. Gore, where is your car?" Benny seems to be the boss, funny that.

"Outside, like WE PLANNED." Gore made it clear he wasn't.

"OK. Take these ladies back and pick up the van we'll meet you at the lock up in say, twenty." Benny was enjoying himself too much.

"Yes, WE HAD PLANNED THAT." Gore responded, his sarcasm wasted on Benny.

What did he mean take them back? Back to the flat no? The party was going to continue, surely? He bade them goodnight in a way that suggested that later would be another calendar moment. You will have to make do with my dreams young Angela. Gore's gone and we're getting the keys from round Kelly's neck. There must be more than thirty and that is generally a pain at this moment. Benny inspects the keys and starts laughing. They are all marked. One had F.D on it and one B.D. Benny removes them and undertakes an experiment. Indeed, F.D opens the front door and B.D the back. One would naturally assume that the key marked L.U. would have some effect on the door of the lock-up. We got our things together to move out. I saw a lump of hash on the table and helped myself to it. I also took a CD that didn't look too bad, and we were out.

It was probably cold on the walk to the lock up but we didn't feel it. Nerves and tension took over our senses, every car that passed surely contained Kalvin or one of his cohorts. It seemed to pass us by that Kelley had been going on with himself about how good the loot was, typical thief talk perhaps. When we got the door open there were more boxes than we had imagined. There were in fact more boxes than we could take, and two trips did not tempt any of us. We had two choices, be selective or have a nose. Gore just wanted to load up, but Benny insisted that we open a few boxes just in case. I'm glad we listened to him.

"Zip, over here." He called, I responded.

"That's...?" I'm looking at him so that he can say that it is, even though we both know already.

"My word." Sometimes swearing just doesn't sound right and so here Benny opts for a grandmother style exclamation. Graham and Gore take a peek, but favour swearing. In the box we have opened there are at least twenty original Armani leathers. With a market value of well over a grand each. Waste of bloody money of course, but we're going to London to sell them. Different values in the big smoke. We start opening boxes and the joy's life is shortened, all the others are little more than above average fakes with tell tale signs all over them. Of course, you could buy one and get away with it, but that was always something that I wondered about, if all your wardrobe was essentially normal, it wouldn't make much sense for you to have a thousand pound leather, so why get one? I always think that you're either all top fashion or all normal. Still, I could be wrong. Joy reappears as a watchword when the last four boxes also contain originals. We are under no doubt that these items have been misappropriated and the former proprietor will be less than pleased, but loading the van we're all doing the maths and things could look good. The only snag might be that with stuff like this we could need two days in London. This could be too big for our contacts to take in one bite. Twelve boxes are loaded up onto the van and the rest is left behind. Five boxes of silly priced, hot originals and the best of the copies. Graham and Gore go to make sure the coast is clear and they give me the keys to lock up. As I hold the keys I wonder if I was wrong about Kelly and Whittaker, maybe I was. I switch the light off and go to lock up. Then I remember how much they had annoyed me all night and how Angela would never know what true love could be. Switching the light back on I walk away with the door left open, exposing thousands of pounds worth of Armani fakes that we left behind. On an estate like this word will get round in no time and some fool, not knowing the Kalvin connection will have his greedy hands covered in shite. By that time though, we will be well gone. Good night losers!
BOOK ONE - SECTION SIX

When a man is tiring in London

GRAHAM: There's no room for four in the van with all the merchandise. Benny and Zippy take it and me and Gore are left to stomp it, or hope for a taxi. This should be a glorious moment for us, a real Champions league scoop. Unfortunately, we can't really enjoy it as the adrenaline vacates our bodies. It's just us and our result, coming to terms with the emotions and how little the joy lasts. Of course, if you win the European Cup, the losers don't come and try to assassinate you, in Luton they do, maybe that's why Luton never won it. It's not a nice part of town to walk round at this time of night and conversation is kept to a minimum due to the fact that the lampposts probably have ears round here. It's not a nice part of not a nice town. I shan't miss the old place too much. Luckily, a taxi appears and we're in. Then I realise what a lazy, sneaky shite Zippy is as we have to stop off at Gore's first and then ours. Zippy is sitting there with a cup of tea, having been driven to his door, and waiting to take on the Tiger for one last time (we've told him the Play Station is not included in the luggage allowance).

"Cosy?" Zippy can't see that he has done anything wrong but I still ask.

"Now yes. Kettle's just boiled." Zippy's innocence is overwhelming. He continues "I didn't make you one cos' I wasn't sure how long you'd be. If you'd had to walk then it would have been cold. Benny's taken the van out of town. Security measure. Graham Davies is coming in his taxi for us at seven tomorrow. It'll be a squeeze down to London but we'll shift all that in no time. Blinding score eh?" Zippy goes on. I'm still thinking about the tea.

"But. If you know it takes me twenty-five minutes to get from there to here. If you make it after fifteen it will be at a lovely, drinkable temperature when I arrive." Surely he won't have a response for that.

"Agreed. Though, it is quite feasible that you decide to wait for a taxi anyway. Once you wait for a bit you daren't give up cos one is guaranteed to go round the corner and you'll be furious. Then stubbornness sets in and you refuse to leave even though you know it's for the best. I just wanted to save you from more disappointment." That's his argument. I didn't make you a cup of tea to save you from more disappointment. Good to have friends isn't it? I refuse to continue with this and proceed to make my own. He, inevitably, asks for a top up, as I'm going anyway.

It's gone one, which means a maximum of five hours sleep. That's if I went straight to bed now. That's if I didn't have too much of Zippy's chemistry set in my veins. That's if I hadn't just lied to my parents, again. That's if I really thought things were really going to get any better. I take my tea to my room and survey the scant possessions that represent my life to this date. It's even more depressing when you have to stretch them to twenty kilos. I have packed and unpacked my favourite photo of Julia God knows how many times. At the moment it's in, but that doesn't mean it will go. I decide to put some music on to relax me and hopefully help me get some sleep. The last thing I want to do is get caught up in circle of, no sleep, take something to get me through London, sell the gear, no energy to celebrate, take something to celebrate, drive to Scotland, can't do that in the van, take something to keep me alive till Scotland. By then, days will have passed and I will have created my own personal Greenland winter from which I will not escape till the spring.

As I get into bed, I feel a yawn come on that is quite promising. Though as the light goes off and the head hits the pillow, the rascally toxins conspire to go on another scourge through my internal network, raping and pillaging my night. As sleep is futile, my mind wanders, trying to think of the happy moments that would make the film of my life. These are always pushed to one side as I realise that Julia was right, mum was right even the police were right. I'd had the chance to change but hadn't done it. Would I ever change? Probably not. So why do we call it "the change" like it were some miraculous transformation. We are just going to do the same things in a place with a micro-climate. The protection of the mountains which surround Marbella guarantee it reduced precipitation and more sunshine hours per capita than you can shake a stick at. Should you wish to shake a stick at meteorology. Jesus's toothpaste knows where that came from. I thought about crying but it just felt like too much effort. Then I convince myself that we have seen the last of Benny. He had organised the change and knew all the people there. He could do it alone, he didn't need us. He could also access the current account, not easily but it could surely be done, especially in Marbella. Stitched up by one of our own, and left to rot at Kalvin's will. After cursing and condemning the decisions I have made and will make again, I realise that the clock is now near the third hour of the morn. Angered by my failure to perform even one of the most simple human functions successfully, I drift of into an erratic and unrewarding slumber.

Adamski has been chosen to inform me that it eight minutes past six. Straight into the shower, I feel surprisingly good. This won't last. I dress without too much care and attention, but catching a glimpse in the mirror, realise that time has not been cruel to me. Maybe if I looked my age, I might act it. Maybe. Twenty past six, the demons would have to wait. I'm sure they will be better received on a terrace looking over the Med, with a cold glass of crisp, white wine in my hand. Pity we didn't sneak some from those idiots wine cellar. I laugh to myself as I slide down the stairs.

Expecting to see Zippy on the couch cursing the bunkers and devising a new conspiracy theory on how Sony refused to allow people to unlock their true potential via their games and how this lead to political complacency which meant the powers that be, will continue to be. Could be that he's just shit. But no, Zippy is in the kitchen and the eggs are scrambled, the bacon is crispy and the toast is popping up. He's even given the butter ten seconds in the microwave to enhance its spreadability (Zippy is loathe to purchase easy spread butters as he doesn't trust them). Steaming tea sits on the table, but their is also a filter coffee option. He apologises for the lack of broad-sheet press, citing the early timeframe of our departure as culpable.

"On a day like today, a hearty breakfast is called for. Gouldie is going to look after the place for us while we are away. Awaiting further instructions." Zippy informs me. I am quite pleased with this situation as Ian Gould is a trustworthy fellow who won't trash the place. Hopefully we will never need to see this hovel again, but you never know. Then I realise that he organised this before I got my mum involved, and Gouldie could send on the passport. I think about recriminating him for his selfishness but in some ways I'm glad I was forced to build bridges. Maybe I will change after all. Soon. Couple of years.

A ring at the bell lets us know that Gore is here. He hasn't slept due to a panic attack over the CD selection, he seems happy enough with it now. Though left a leather jacket behind to get fifty more examples of the finest recordings in popular musical history in. Strange how four out of every five songs he plays is a classic and five out of five I play cause him to simply despair. I'm looking forward to not letting him play them or complaining about them when we get to Scotland. He's with Graham Davies and the pair of them kindly help us with the hearty matinee feast. After a few cracks of fit for kings, condemned men ate a hearty and best meal of the day, we are ready for the off. We can't resist flying past Kalvin's, the vehicles appear to have remained untouched from last night, and the ravers must be resting. I remember my Benny paranoia moment from last night as we arrive at the industrial estate and Benny is there, looking impeccable, as if he has spent the night in the Hilton rather than the van. He's chomping on a sausage butty with brown sauce and ready for the big journey. We hit Davies with twenty bills for a four pound fare and he says that the word is, mum.

We never expect the journey down to be a joyous affair, and today is no different. We cram into the vehicle best we can, Benny has tried to rearrange the boxes so there is more room, and any leftover hot air from the radiator may make its way back to us, and prepare for an eventful ride down to Londinium. Adrenaline is never an issue either at this point, there are too many nerves about just how possible it would be for everything to go tits up to enjoy the thrill of the chase. Today's little excursion, apart from looking like two days (if we are lucky) has even more potential for calamity. It's not the sort of job we pull any more, firstly because it's too risky, and secondly, since the demise of Mr. Matthews, we don't get the chance. Paranoia is at the breakfast table now, what if our contacts are in cahoots with Kalvin? Maybe he's waiting for us there. At least Benny didn't rip us off and now I feel guilty about thinking he might. Another thing is that I don't trust London. I don't like places where I don't feel I belong, or could never belong, and I don't see how anyone could ever belong in London. Around the van, Gore has decided that this journey is a prelude and resumed sleeping, Zippy is fishing for approbation to indulge in some substance abuse, but this is not forthcoming. Benny, though, has the air of a thoroughly upbeat chap, he is giving off signals, but will not speak until someone capitulates and asks. As we hit the motorway I assume it's my responsibility.

"Full of the joys of spring this morning Benjamin?"

"With good reason my little South European bastard!" He likes making references to my uncertain parentage, but it's too early for a reprimand.

"What, Angela and her mate gave you a goodbye send-off?" I enjoy riling him by supposing his only motivation is sexual.

"Rather a derogatory supposition, wouldn't you say, young bastaradito? Assuming I would only be happy with two lovely young things in thongs riding and sitting? If you must know I made a few phone calls last night. One, in particular could prove very fruitful. Remember Timmy Kinch? Well, he's gone big time. Or, at least, big enough to maybe take all of our gear off us." Benny winks as he says this. We know he wouldn't lie about this just to get a rise, so it must be true news, and welcome.

"Timmy Kinch has gone big time? When was the last time we saw, '98? He was still with that two bit market operation. He was doing three pairs of socks for two squid!" Timmy was always ambitious but we never expected him to go big time. We knew him from school. A great lad who always wanted to make a few bob. When he left school he went down to London and we saw him from time to time, on Alan jobs mainly. He'd always be happy two take a couple of grand's worth of us, cos he knew our stuff was good, but the back of the van today, we are hoping to shift it for thirty. That's moving up in the world.

"May I remind you of Messieurs. Marks and Spencer, my little Generalisimo? Well, as you hear it. Got lucky with a big score and upscaled the operation. Hasn't looked back since. Says he's very keen to see what we've got, yet rather peeved at the fact we have allowed communications to become so intermittent.

"He'll take the lot?" Zippy enquires. Gore has been awoken from his slumber and invited to share the joy.

"Every last zip and button that you have, my ambulant chemist friend!" When you see Benny motivated like this, it is a joy to see him work. Once we get the change underway, he'll run amok on the Costa. There is a splash of tabs and the mood is now very different in the van. Benny reminds us that there is still a fuck-up factor, and there will always be one, but if Timmy likes what he says, we could be thirty grand better off by lunchtime. It is agreed that we shan't get over excited until the deal is done, so we decide to celebrate with a story, one of Benny's favourites. I know we still have to end the Alan story but Zippy can do that on the way to Scotland. Besides, Benny is in good raconteur form today. Our paranoia makes us too fragile to handle a tale of woe and demise so we get Benny to rack his brains and it doesn't take long to know which comedy moment has been chosen. By now the tiredness has forgotten me for a while, it will return, but if it does with the deal done, then let it try me.

Benny needs to prepare himself to tell the story. Cigarette, someone must pour him a coffee from the Thermos, things like these. He will not tolerate a less than attentive audience and demands some demonstration of lucidity from Gore before commencing. My mind wanders back to TK and how we used to hang out at school. How we shared the same tastes in music and would frantically try to tape his sister's impressive collection while she was out, then nervously attempting to recall her latest classification system as to avoid being sussed. Strange how you lose contact with people. People that you see almost every day for long periods, and when they go you simply can't be arsed to make the slightest effort. It was always thought that we would end up working with TK out of London, though some people thought Luton would win the league one day, best not to red the papers, innit? Benny appears ready. Lights, camera and action.
BOOK ONE - SECTION SEVEN

Memories of Thievery (I) French Knickers

BENNY: So, we got a call off of Carl Reed and Alan Theobald, which was always a pleasure however you looked at, but even more so when there was a job in it. We knew Reedy and Theo from school and they were a right pair of chancers. Generally honest, but from time to time, a job came up they couldn't say no to. Me and Zippy went to meet them at the Brown Cow, leaving Gore and Gray under the watchful eye of Tony Matthews. He got suspicious if the four of us disappeared so we sub-divided and worked in pairs. If we made any money off the scam, it was split four ways, as it should be. They were good-looking, charming lads, who were well versed in the sexual art even while most people at school were overly concerned about their mock "O" levels. Carl was a top mechanic, and, as well as having an exclusive clientele, he also did work with long distance lorry drivers and occasional loads were misappropriated. Theo went into the army, where he learnt more about thievery than we did in prison. When we get to the bar Theo is ordering and, like the gent he is, asks us what our poison is.

We join him at the bar as Alan wanders in to a chorus of "Hello's" and Theo gets him another. Gloria behind the bar is not going to let Theo struggle with five pints and tells him to take a seat as she will bring them over. It must have been a bit of a treat for her, having such quality male specimens in that bar at that time of the day, well, if you don't count Zippy, but hey! Even he looked good in the Cow! Gloria came over with the beers and asked if we'd like some sandwiches to go with them. Very amiable, we agree. Chewing the fat was the order of the day for the first pint. Etiquette must be observed in these situations. You can't simply fire in and ask what the job is, time must be taken, codes of conduct observed, and above all, your hand must enter your pocket. Remember that Theo got the first round, so, it would be dreadful form for him to have to gesture to you with his empty glass. So little after the halfway mark on the glass, I'm off to the bar, asking them if they want a little something to go with it. "Plus tard, mon ami." Is Theo's response. Gloria behind the bar is not that bad, I decide, she does take some stick, especially when she comes back from her hols in Magaluf, prompting one too many jokes about her tan and the name of the bar where she works. Still, and I mean this sincerely, and in a non-sexist way, it's good to have a slapper behind a bar, let's you know it's a well run boozer.

Anyway, I digress. As the second pint is coming to an end I have to give Zippy a kick from under the table to move his stoned arse to the bar. All that time playing golf on the computer and he knows not of etiquette. Reedy casts a beady eye around to see if the walls have ears, but they don't. Then he tells us of a little consignment that might just be up our Boulevard. Turns out that some lad who goes over to France has hit upon boxes of top-notch French lingerie. Good stuff, the best, none of the usual crap you see on the market, or even in Etam, if you really like a bird and decide to treat her. This stuff is like, beyond M&S and some of it's beyond S&M! Advantages, as pointed out by Reedy, are, this lad wants rid cos his boss thinks he's up to no good, as he is, ergo, price reduction to right faces, namely, ours. But the icing on the cake which is already replete with marzipan, glacé cherries and chocolate Santas, is that selling underwear to horny young lasses is my favourite thing in the world. I feel my balls tense up at the very thought, and wonder how tender they'll be as we flog the last brassiere. Reedy and Theo are not into selling the stuff door to door as they are working men, so we agree on fifty-fifty and shake on it.

Gloria comes out with more butties and we scoff them happily as Alan flies to the bar. It's only just gone one and we don't want the liquid to get in the way of work, but it appears that Reedy and Theo have clocked off for the day, so, from a leisure point of view, it's their call. Alan comes back with the scoops as Zippy announces that nature calls, Colombian nature no doubt. The beer flies down and we notice the sarnies are just not cutting the mustard, despite Gloria's over-generous splatterings. Four pints is generally accepted as the cut-off point, if you try a fifth, then plans can be forgotten, cos after four the taste is there and the fire is on. Alan tries a tentative "We'd better be getting on with things", but no-one is too interested, especially our hosts who fancy a curry for lunch. So off it is, thanking Gloria and giving her ten bills for the butties (we do not want people thinking we don't do things properly) and hit the Luton Himalayas, a quality scoffing ground if ever there was one, and even more so with two litres of strong continental in the veins. Zippy is cursing his trip to the lavs now as his hunger levels have reached the same low attainment as his charm.

Inside it's poppadoms and the fifth pint while our friends from the mystic lands prepare the bahjis and the samosas. Pouring over the menu whilst we quaff the world's best crisps with chutney, monumental decisions are made for the mains. As always happens, by the time the glorious fare reaches the table the chances of finishing it are cut down to size from the energetic chomping on the poppas. Still, we give the lad a good run for his money and help digestion with a nice brandy. Reedy hands me a bit of paper which informs me to be present in his garage the next morning with a stipulated amount of purple pictures of the queen's bonce and the brandy flies down to toasts of the general excellence of all those present. I nonchalantly accept the bill, I'll take Zippy and Alan's share from their cut of the profits and suggest it would be nice to have afternoon liquors. All are agreed though pending confirmation from Mrs. Reed, a few tense words on the mobile later, and we are off to one of Luton's premier watering holes.

Inside there are cocktails and wee office lassies who have called it a day for the afternoon. Sometimes you have to question people's work ethic. We are at a business meeting remember. We have made the decision not to sell in Luton, so it'll be off to the Buzzard and surrounding environs where our faces remain more of an enigma. I'm getting right fruity downstairs with all this fanny in the house, imagining in the fun we're gonna have selling the gear. It's not long before a group come over and offer us the possibility to buy them a drink. We tell them that we are gay, and tight, and they scuttle off to get their own. Now I know why they're clothes look so good if they never get their own in. Unpredictably, they return and question our homosexuality. Zippy thinks he is being witty and clever, an anathema to the lad, by claiming that the good-looking ones are always gay. One them replies that they didn't think that he was gay for that reason. Well done, says I, she deserves a drink, let's see if her mates can play at the same high level. Zippy goes into a sulk and requires the bathroom for the powder to inform his shallow, self-esteem ridden persona that he is of true worth. Anyways, cocktails are purchased and a good laugh is had. Alan and Reedy make their excuses when it is becoming obvious that the party does not end in the bar, and return to the marital home. If you avoid temptation, you can't be tempted. One of the girls runs after Reedy, but he is already in a taxi with Alan, either towards home, or one last drink somewhere quieter. Reedy's missus is gonna bollock him anyway, so it's sheep for a lamb time in the Reed household.

Once the place get too chokka, we're off back to mine. In those days I lived alone, (before the encumbrance of Gore, who has just appeared from his own office) and had the place ready for oestrogen filled visitors. Gore's already eating the face of one of them who he's impressed with his shite music taste, and Zippy's been flashing his Persians to another so she feels obligated to return something. I'm with the finest of the lot, of course, and Theo's holding on to two and looking like he's in party mood.

Back at the pad, there are tequila slammers going down but I want to maintain the minimal sobriety for this lassie. Zippy's racking up on the living room table, and so, as I provide the location, I get first hit. The lass I'm with doesn't look too kindly on this activity, until I tell her the effect it has on sexual prowess. She's actually looking a bit pissed herself now, and I'm wondering whether I can be bothered as Gore's doing wonders with the choons, really mixing in it, something quite difficult considering he's at my Technic's desk and his new friend is below inspiring the choices. She does look a bit dishevelled. Hard to think really, she looked blinding in the bar and now she's here, I just don't feel arsed. The problem is exacerbated by the fact that the ching means I will never finish the job, and that effects my motivation. I decide to get her rat-arsed so she passes out, then I'll annoy Zippy by knicking his off him later. So, I think she's getting tucked into the slammers but she's really going for a fat line, the tequila, then another, her moral high-ground put to one side for the moment. She heads off to the loo, and comes back with hair slightly wet from a refreshing splash of cool waters on the face and a touch up on the make-up. Now she's giving me the horn again, and I want her upstairs. I'm just about to phone Collins dictionary to get them to change the definition of irony when she tells me that she's on fire and doesn't feel like sex now, maybe later. She just wants to groove. Unbelievable.

The rest of the night is a blur but I'm sure we get to bed at a decent time cos I feel fine in the morning. I've always said that getting pissed on a Sunday afternoon is like staying in on a Friday night, either way you feel alright the next day. I'm alone in bed, and there is no note either, so, that means she went home unsatisfied or I passed out, either way, I didn't care as I would need all my precious seed for this job. I go to stir the ravers and find her, in the spare bed, with Zippy and the other one. Dirty chemist must have spiked them. I tell everyone it is time to ship up and shape out, or something, and put the coffee on. I inform those who want coffee that they will have to muck in with cleaning duties. There are few groans and grunts but soon the place is looking good enough for the Peruvian lass to come in and do a proper job for four pound an hour. How much do I appreciate value for money? She's looking sheepish but I let her know that I have forgiven her, even if she has been soiled by Zippy, and, effectively rendered unusable. Gore goes his way, and me and Zippy head towards Reedy's garage, where Alan is waiting for us. Reedy comes out from under a Ford Transit covered in grease and nods to the back room. We load up in no time and hit the ring road.

Booking into a hotel in the Buzzard we freshen up and I, the foresighted one, change. Zippy is wearing his old Adidas First tracksuit and that won't do. I inform him of the need for proper attire and usher him towards the finest the B has to offer in couturiers. He returns with chinos and a navy shirt which he manages to make look scruffy. Sometimes, he is even less use than Graham. I implore upon him the need to make a good impression, and he goes to leave the room with his baseball cap in hand, I despair, I really do. Alan has set up some potential clients and we arrive at a house on an estate ready to sell. This lass has got four of her mates round and as we walk in, the soup in my soup tray is beginning to boil, so to speak. The gear is top notch and the girls are loving it, throwing their husbands hard earned quids at us. Alan gets a call on the mobey and says he can shift some more, he'll see us in the Rose for a pub lunch in an hour. So, what do we do for an hour? I pull out my master line of saying "How will you know if your husbands like them if you haven't tried them on?" They agree that this is the case and we sit back and enjoy the giggling from the kitchen. When they come back they give us the twirls we are looking for and ask us to adjust straps et al. Soon they are trying some others one and before long its a mess of unquestioning, married flesh. They take the entire box to punt on to their girlfriends and we leave drained, but richer.

Alan's waiting for us in the Rose, keen to hear the stories of our escapades but happy that he has saved a nice little number for his wife. He has sold two boxes already to a mate on the market who bit his hand off. Steak and Kidney pudding with farmhouse peas, carrots and proper chips, washed down with blackcurrant and soda. No booze till we sell the last garment. The girls don't like lads smelling of booze, it reminds them of their husbands. Ditto experience in the afternoon after I got talking to some girls at the bar in the Rose. They were bevvied on G&T's in the afternoon and needed little persuasion. I always find the second orgy of the day starts to drag. Zippy can't take any more. His pathetic little sack can produce no more, and he's walking like Clint after he's just got off his horse. So, by seven we are back in the hotel, enjoying a nice steak and trying to keep our eyes open to wash it down with a pint of Caffrey's. It is a big ask though, and we retire to the room, for once in our lives, shagged out.

Nearly twelve hours sleep puts the spring in my step and I heartily enjoy the fine breakfast provided by the well-known hotel chain. There's not that much to sell today. Alan arrives back shortly after ten, he went back home to spend the night with his wife, who tried on her little present, and he says he's gonna give the market another go, Zippy opts to go with him which leaves me the door to door. Too much action for the Zipmaister no doubt, he'll want to go home and recreate the scenes in his head only with him in control, as if. So, I'm off selling and financially it's going well, but I seem to be on Minging Pig Street as nothing is taking my fancy. It's now nearly twelve and I'm supposed to meet the other two at one to head back to Luton when a vision appears. Early twenties, long black hair, curves where the curves live and two lips offering a kind home to my pecker. She had no qualms about inviting me in and took everything I had left in the box. Then she ordered me upstairs and began her repertoire of tricks. This was heaven, I looked over to the clock radio and saw the hour flash past one, I'd have to move things on somewhat. Then just as I was getting ready for the grand finale, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Not the inviting footsteps of a female playmate wanting to join in, rather the noisy, clumping footsteps of a big lad, probably in some way involved with my new friend who was nestled on top of me. He called her name and she froze. I didn't have time to freeze and pushed her off me. All I could see was this big ape of a man hurtling towards me with a strangulation gesture. He was big but not nimble, I managed to roll off to the other side of the bed and get to my feet. As he lunged again, I wriggled under his left arm and got to the stairs, boasting a greater velocity, my momentum carrying me down the stairs and into the street. I saw the van about fifty yards in front and then realised I was stark-bollock naked. Knowing I couldn't go back, I carried on, gesturing to Alan and Zippy to start the thing up, with the other hand covering my now flaccid genitalia. I remember my feet causing me greet distress as I got to the van, avoiding the aghast cries of pensioners disgusted by the youth of today. I got into the front seat and Alan was on the road in a flash, the husband's fist just being able to bang the back of the door as we speed into the town. Another close shave, and the best of it? She paid up front.

So, I'm sitting there as God brought me to this world and funny-arse Zippy offers me the only thing they haven't sold, a pair of large lady's sports drawers. I put them on and we drive through town until we get to a clothes store. I must admit that there was quite a pleasant comfort factor to these undergarments. Alan goes in and gets me some gear and we're off home. Four grand each the better off, after the split with Graham and Gore and some happy memories for my old age. Oh, there we are. Central London straight on. We should be at Timmy Kinch's in no time, traffic providing.
BOOK ONE - SECTION EIGHT

Oh London! So much to answer for

GRAHAM: The good news about Timmy Kinch going big time was made even better by the fact that he had moved his headquarters to north London, which meant avoiding some dreadful jaunt through central London only to get lost and more lost on the never-ending road south, eventually dipping over the pier in Brighton before realising our mistake. Once we got off the motorway we were pleased to have more or less avoided the M25 or whichever road would cause anger in normally clement motorists. Swiftly, we were passed the memory where the twin towers of Wembley used to be and raised an imaginary glass to Luton's finest moment in '87. I had the A to Z in my hand and soon located the industrial estate where our meeting was to take place.

As we drove down the entry road, we were presented by a group of identical looking buildings that were lacking in names or any other indicators as to their purpose, and more worryingly, their owners. After a few pot-luck turnings we saw Timmy leaning against what looked like a spanking new BMW 7 series, furnished with extras from the top end of the range. He was drinking tea from a polystyrene cup and cutting quite a figure. The cold air of the morning had led him to opt for a charcoal grey lambs wool overcoat with a meticulously chosen scarf to protect the neck. Underneath, no doubt, was a suit of some value, for which he will have paid next to nothing. He managed to achieve an imposing look without appearing like a gangster, something which his diminutive frame did not permit. We parked up beside him and exit the van. Inside the car is Hilary, whom he refers to as his right hand man, though she doesn't exit the vehicle, just giving us a wave and a smile as she furiously continued imputing information into a PDA.

"Welcome to civilisation ladies!" Said Timmy offering handshakes. "I trust you had no problems at passport control?" We always got this in London, but from Timmy it was good-hearted, anyway he was Luton too. We knew him from school, an ambitious lad who outgrew Luton with the same pace as complacency kept us there. From time to time I also had to endure jibes like this from the rest of them as my passport said Maidenhead as my place of birth as my parents were enjoying a glamorous holiday there when I popped out. He'd always take a lot off our hands cos he knew we dealt with quality, punting it on in the markets and pubs that ringed the capital. Normally, though, his limit was a couple of grand, maybe five at the most, until he came into some cash and upgraded the operation. With the help of a couple of burly cousins, and his and Hilary's combined business brain, good times were forthcoming rather rapidly. No-one was too sure how much of a partner Hilary was, and Timmy managed to run things in a way in which you didn't ask, so no-one did. Outside the van, he indicates his place of trading, but suggests a cup of tea in the café across the road.

After the drive another cuppa and a sausage butty sound just the ticket. We find a table in the crowded place, filled with people hoping to put off the working day for a few minutes more, amidst banter, milky tea and dubious quality journalism. Timmy dominates the conversation in a way that makes it clear that he does not wish for business to be discussed in the current environs. Benny and Gore seem tense with the van still outside, not placing too much faith in Hilary's ability to fend off Kalvin's lot, should we have been followed. Timmy notices this and makes a quick call. In comes an associate of Timmy's and collects the keys for the van, which is inside his place in no time. Normally, we wouldn't like to do business like this, but the vibe with TK is cool and we allow for this lapse in protocol. With the second breakfast safely inside, we head to Timmy's to talk business.

Hilary joins us inside and offers another round of handshakes. She looks the part right enough, elegant and well-dressed, you get the impression that her ability to clinch deals is an essential part of Timmy's new set up. The van is opened up and we are greeted with the moment of truth. We want thirty grand, but will go as low as twenty if Timmy takes the lot. There's no need for bullshit here, he knows what they are worth and what he can make, I suppose it all boils down to his mood. The first box, containing the Armani original leathers is opened, Timmy is impressed.

"Fuck me!" Is his initial gambit. He holds one up and calls Hilary over. She has a good look and prod and makes a similar exclamation. "You've got twelve boxes of these?" He asks wondering if he can afford them all, he certainly wants them.

"Unfortunately not." Responds Benny. "Another box of original leathers. Two boxes of copies, good ones. Two boxes of original jeans and shirts and the rest are copies. The shirt copies are not that hot." Timmy calls the guy who came into the café for back up and they begin to furiously open the boxes. Hilary is normally a cool customer, but we can see that she is mentally doing some very pleasant arithmetic. The simple fact of the matter is that they can more than double there money passing it onto a smaller seller or two or triple it if they get greedy and sell it all themselves. I believe TK will go for the get rid quick option which will still see him vastly better off by tea time. Within ten minutes Hilary has everything more or less stockpiled into degrees of quality, she excitedly punches the digits into the calculator and asks Timmy, "How much?"

"That was going to be my question. So, boys, I imagine you are hoping for a quick sale and that that will be reflected in your asking price. Which is?" There is a look in his eye which suggests he's playing the mate card a bit too much. It's never a nice part of the deal this bit. We could get a bit large and ask for forty, or more. He's gonna barter us down in any case, so that way the middle point is a wee bit more acceptable. Today, however, Benny is in no mood for games as he speaks for the group.

"Thirty grand, Tim, the lot." Is Benny's request. I'm glad he didn't say take it or leave it and the end.

"Did you boys watch Trainspotting last night? It's good stuff, but thirty's a lot. I don't want to get caught with this hanging around, as I assume it is misappropriated?" He asks, but there is no need to answer, we're all adults. "Twenty-five? Cash, in an hour?" Is his rather generous, to my ears, offer.

"We we're hoping for thirty." Responds Benny. No! Ben, don't speak ever again! We will gladly take twenty five. The last thing we want to do is aggravate him.

"You're very good Benjamin. I have always said that. Let's see then if we shake on twenty-eight and you get lunch, that's seven each minus what I eat, would that please you?" Timmy is enjoying this. Benny has to say yes or will put democracy in place.

"Lunch where? These places in London can be a bit..." Benny decides to test everyone's patience. I can't believe he is worried about lunch when we are on the verge of sowing up the sweetest deal ever.

"Oh! Benny you never change. Maybe that's why you are so good. I promise it won't be anywhere more expensive than the Ritz! Twenty-eight?" Timmy offers his hand.

Benny still seems worried about lunch, so we decide to usurp him and clinch the deal. Within seconds, Timmy's team is compartmentalising the loot, and Hilary is frantically on the mobile. Benny is still sulking about having to foot the bill for lunch. Unbelievable. I'm shaking, partly in joy, partly because my inner-self tells me there is still a balls up factor, but as Hilary clicks off the mobey and two Berlingos pull up to move the stuff on, I began to relax and remember how tired I am. It's not even half nine yet, the deal is done and we have an entire day in London to enjoy. I am genuinely hoping that lunch is a few hundred quid a head, just to see the look on Benny's face. Timmy suggests that the workers can carry on with their toil without us, and we retire to his office.

Upstairs, Timmy has a nice little office come conference room, come leisure lounge for his more special associates, as he refers to us. Probably, just as many unfriendly moments have occurred within these very walls as pleasant ones, you don't get to a decent rank without having to show your teeth, but we are clearly here in the capacity of distinguished guests. He opens a tasteful chestnut cabinet (no MDF in the entire place) and reveals a large screen, plasma TV, pointing the remote control towards it as we are informed that Soccer AM is just round the corner. We make ourselves comfortable on the leather sofas as TK begins to show his prowess as a host.

"Now, I know it's a wee bit early, so I'll leave the decision in your capables, would it be rude not to seal this little deal with a wee drop?" It's barely ten o'clock and the last thing I want to do is start on the ale now. Now that the tension has passed I feel like a player who's just won the European cup still in the dressing-room, but all the press have gone and the rest of the team-mates are on the bus already, not knowing how to take it all in, drained of euphoria, feeling a sudden emptiness as reality replaces the adrenaline buzz that carried me to glory. As I'm thinking this they've already got a bottle open for me, and, not wanting to be rude, I accept. Problem is, two or three of these ice cold bottles of Stella and I'll be ready for my nap. Maybe, Zippy can help me into the afternoon. Better clear things with the master of ceremonies first.

"Timmy, would you mind if I used your toilet for a purpose other than which it was invented for. Didn't get much sleep last night and I'm beginning to feel a bit drowsy." I'm sure Timmy won't mind at all.

"Actually, I would be horrified that you performed such an anti-social activity in the toilet, especially when there is a perfectly good table in front of you." He throws me his wallet and tells me there is a credit card and fifty inside, letting me know it's time to get chopping. This is the cue for Zippy to move into action and rack up what I hope will be a pick me up, but am sure, will be merely a sample.

Tiredness forgotten, we're soon chatting away as Hilary returns with a brown envelope which seems to be for us. Eyeing the leftovers on the table and the cold strong, continental in TK's hand, she realised that the empire will have to be run by her today, perhaps a common occurrence. She seems not too bothered by the situation, perhaps it is her who truly runs things and her poor benefactor believes all this to be the fruit of his genius. God, if I was waffling before the line, now I'm in need of someone telling me to stop. She declines the offer of a drink, saying she may join us for lunch. The look of Benny's face is a picture as he nearly chokes on his beer. Me and Zip insist she must come and the room degenerates into laughter. "See you after playtime, boys." Is her exit line. Does she that say because she disapproves or because she wants to play too? If so, who does she want to play with? Inevitably, Zippy wants to, as he puts it, "maintain the levels" and is at the ching again. His supply seems, pleasingly waned, so hopefully, by lunchtime only the vibes will be left cursing through the blue highways of our bodies. Did I really just say that? Maybe I should bow out. That would look rude, I know I didn't pull my weight with the Whittaker and Kelly thing. Timmy's still got the envelope as well. Why doesn't he hand it over? They hand me another Stella and I indulge in the powder. Nothing like these two substances to help wave goodbye to Mr. Paranoia.

My mouth has entered a dry phase and Benny's tabs look inviting. Even if I didn't want one, or wasn't in this position, I think I'd nab one, just to annoy him. Timmy is enjoying the story of how we pulled the wool over Kalvin's eyes, and has nothing but praise for our actions as another round of drinks comes by, still failing to quench my thirst, or remove the sour taste.

"Well, I for one will raise a glass to your crusade, boys." Says Timmy holding his bottle aloft. "Too many nasty little pricks around these days. You should see it here. The idiots I get coming in here, chancing it, thinking they're some hot stuff. It's a shame but you need muscle, it's the only thing that keeps them in line. But, you must still show respect and do things the right way. That's why it's such a pleasure to do business with old school gents like yourselves." He raises his bottle again, and we have no qualms about toasting to our general excellence. "You know, sometimes." He continues. "We let them think they can pull one over on us too, cos there is nothing I like better than the look on their sad little faces when they realise their big talk is gonna lead them to a first rate shoeing. I remember, some little upstart, the other month back. Said he'd only do business with me on my own. Comes in, gets large and starts barking orders saying he wanted eighty percent. Eighty percent? I wouldn't give that to my old grandma! So, he thinks I'm alone in the office, well Hilary's around too, but she hasn't exactly got a kung-fu calculator, has she? He says he's gonna teach me a lesson. This ugly, brainless, talentless, clueless despicable little fuck is gonna teach me a lesson? So as he leans over my desk and he thinks he's got me, my finger hits a little button and in comes the cavalry. I inform him of the change in today's lesson. In minutes the useless prick is in tears, but I have a little thing I like to do with these laddies. I always like a toasted sandwich, who doesn't? So why we tie him down, after a few ceremonious digs, and remove his shoes, while I heat up the toastie-maker. When it reaches optimum temperature, I open the machine and force the scalding hot plates onto his now useless, plates. Then we untie him and I get me harpoon and we till the cunt to get on his feet. Never stops making me laugh the sight of a young scally, all the skin of his soles burned off, running for all he's worth down the pavement barefoot." He takes a big swig of his lager, and now we begin to understand how TK went big-time. It's quite a gruesome story and one that makes me think about Tony Matthews, the toxins inevitably giving way to nostalgia.

"A dying breed. That's what we are." I pipe in. "Everything's changed so much now. I used to dream of someone taking Kalvin out, but what would happen? Kalvins are everywhere. Their dress, their walk, their very existence is an epidemic in every town in this land. Here's to old school!" I say, inviting the others to join in, which they do heartily. An hour has passed since the cracking of the first, and it seems my biorhythms are returning to a semi-normal state, given the circumstances. There are further eulogies to decent men who have been and gone, then Timmy throws on some choons and things start to swing.

In no time it's past twelve and this causes Timmy to remember that the boozer is open and our little celebration should be relocated there. There are two options in boozer type for the afternoon's festivities. Now that work has become an unnecessary activity for the rest of the sojourn in the capital, leisure is the greatest need to be addressed at the current point in time. Across the road from TK's place of business are two very differing types of hostelries, both indicative of the desires of the more traditional and more modern clienteles that inhabited them. The first was what Benny refers to as an old man's boozer, ie a place with very nice woodwork, stained to give the effect of ageing, all genuine wood, no MDF anywhere. Music kept background, one twenty one-inch television screen that would have to do for all the sporting events, though usually only a Ceefax service is offered. A selection of ales is offered, resistance toward the bottled, European counterpart is only given when the item can prove its quality. Alcopops are not on sale, an opinion that is considered a metaphor for our times, as the drinkers sup on their pints of mild, they remember that when they were young, they had to learn to drink and were not eased into the process by flavoured drinks containing alcohol to reduce the workload. For many people that drank in there, soft drinks that weren't soft merely showed the modern youth's inability to take on a quest. There was also a roaring fire, where a group of old friends could relive the glory and pains of their youth, around a circular table which offered conversational perfection. Benny took one look at the place and once again fell under the impression that he had a UN veto.

Across the road was a place much more to Benny's liking. Row upon row of bottle beers intermingled happily with twelve percent Lucozades. Benny commented that this was more like it and down we sat at the table. Benny first, indicating that it wasn't his round. We would have to put up with how this deal was his baby for some good while to come, still the extra cash in the current account should make things easier to stand. As we left the TK empire, Hilary offered to deposit the money in our account, and after giving her the valuable details, she headed off to the Royal Bank of Scotland (it seemed like a good idea if we were going there, like when you make a deal with the gypsy god). Timmy came to the bar with me to help me carry the drinks over.

"Benny's not changed then? Still tight as ever?" TK astutely observes.

"Worse than ever." I respond. "Still gives us a chance for a few laughs. Never ending sea of opportunities." I order the drinks and pay the princely sum of three pounds twenty each for five hundred and sixty eight millilitres of various brewed liquids. Benny and Zippy have found a table near a group of office girls who seem to have sent their last fax for the week. Feeling the temptation to annoy Benny, I park the drinks on the table, knowing that Timmy and the rest will follow my lead, I declare "Good choice in here TK! Only a pound a pint before one p.m. You know what they say, the more you drink the more you save." Benny says nothing but you can tell he has done the math in his head. Despite having cut nearly thirty grand in deal this morning, he still considers getting five pints for five quid of greater worth, especially if he knows that the pints he is obliged to see in return from the other drinkers will cost them more than triple. To Benny that's like making twenty sheets. Certainly a twisted and bizarre logic. Benny is now making light work of his pint and suggesting our sexuality doth not lie with fun with ladies. Before we can rebuff his unfounded comment, Benjamin is at the bar, proudly holding the smallest picture of the queen readily available in note form. As I take a big swill of the beer, I feel my heart racing and realise that it is still very early. Things will probably get very messy today, I return from my thoughts as I hear Benny arguing the toss with the barman.

"But it's not even half past! It's a pound a pint till before one! That's what you charged my mate!" Benny looks pleadingly at the confused bartender who asks Benny to signal these underpaying rogues. As his finger points us out, we all fall into hysterics and young Benjamin realises he has indeed been duped. He has also been made to look tight whilst standing next to some rather attractive young ladies who now think he is an arse. Strange, that process usually takes a week.

Benny returns with the drinks and informs us of just how immensely comical we are. We thank him and accept his generous libations. We were then invited to talk "proper". Not wishing to fill Benny's head with complex matters such as adverbs, I let it go. He fell into a rather heavy sulk mode for the remainder of the next pint, only changing his mood when someone else was forced to shell out. Hilary returned and gave me the slip of paper which proved the transaction had been completed. Something, though, was amiss.

"One moment, Tim. This is not right. We clearly agreed on a figure and this deposit is not for the correct and corresponding amount." I held the deposit slip in front of him. He had no choice but to confirm that I was correct.

"I can explain." TK looked nervous. "I don't like numbers like twenty-eight. OK it may be divisible by four but there is something about it. Remember the twenty-eight bus? Full of twats. So I thought it best to just pay you thirty." As he finished he could hold his straight face no longer, and the other three, who had been close to an all-nighter in casualty, relieved and shocked, joined in. "Just call it a bonus, to say I agree with your stance on Kalvin. Here's to good luck!" Timmy raises his glass and is joined by all, except Hilary, as she, has no glass, and looks like she disapproves of such magnanimity with the company funds. Zippy suggests champagne may be appropriate and we all agree, except Benny who questions as to the mark up in such a place. Hilary also informs Timmy he has a table for six at a restaurant none of us had heard of for two p.m.

Gore, Zippy and Benny breathe a sigh of relief and Hilary notices that she at least an acquaintance of the office girls, whose number is now six, and goes to say hello. This in turn awakens Benny's interest who suggests there is more than enough space on the table, at least if we shove up. Timmy declares some major crime against good taste would be being committed were we not to celebrate with champagne, and as the magic word is uttered, a waiter-service is commenced. Strange how lovingly brewed ales from small Belgian towns are only administered by the patron claiming a waiting post at the bar. However, when champagne is mentioned, they start falling over themselves to sell the overpriced grape. Forty bills is the going rate, when the waiter returns with one bottle and sees our party has increased in number, he is informed by TK that we should very much like a glass each. I'm already wondering about how Benny will try and skive out of this one, probably the old toilet technique as his glass begins to contain only a third of its content once he has seen that the bottle too is nearing completion. Of course, he is putting it away, because it is expensive, and someone else is paying, despite having one of the least cultured palates in Luton. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable for some reason and begin to ponder which drug is having more of an effect on me, the ching or the booze. It's seems like a dead heat at the current moment, thinking then, something not advisable, I come to the conclusion that the discomfort is being caused by Hilary, realising that she is, indeed, giving me the horn. She is currently stationed next to Timmy, and, despite my hopes, their relationship seems to go beyond the stock market. Zippy parks his arse next to mine and hands me a wrap.

"Just in case. Could be a long day. You know what I mean?" He says. Why do people only ask if you know what they mean when it patently obvious what they mean.

"Cheers man. Seen anything you like?" I ask him, though I know he is not fussy.

"Check out the Maths man! Benny obviously gets number one fit. The hippy-chick'll be up Gore's street. Hilary's with TK. That leaves three over. As you're too cool for school. I'll work my way down the fit scale until we hit right levels. That's the best thing about it. That chick over there." He points out a rather attractive looking girl who has yet to participate fully in the conversation, indeed, none of them seem to, perhaps they think we are a bunch of shady gangsters. Cool! Zippy continues. "Give her a whirl, get blown out, downscale and try her mate. Can't lose. Then if you're still not arsed, I'll try yours, plus I can offer them drugs. Spread-betting, moving the goalposts, so to speak. If the odds of winning the lottery are fourteen million to one, if you buy two tickets they must be seven million to one." I have no desire to explain mathematics to Zippy so I congratulate him on his wisdom. Her mate is less of an oil-painting, sometimes it's refreshing to see Zippy's outlook on life, other times its best to leave the horny chemist to his own devices and logic. I pocket the bag and engineer how to get Hilary away from Timmy.

As the first bottles are finished, Zippy goes excitedly to the bar to get replacements, rather losing the San Tropez vibe as he asks if anyone wants a bottle of beer to go with that as it doesn't taste of much. Seeing that the coast is clear Benny hits the toilet as he assumes we will be accepting our table in a short while. It's quite noisy down the other end of the table now, though female voices are few and far between, you can also catch a glimpse of them looking at each other as if to ask what on earth are we doing with these idiots? Only when the lunch invitation is extended are they slightly convinced. When they hear where we are lunching they soon change their minds, and a brave soul suggests that place is rather outside their lunchtime fiscal expectations. TK, insulted, almost, tells them that no side order of fretting has been placed, and today they lunch as our guests. Hilary gives Timmy a funny look and gets up from the table. As always it is clear that she is going back to the office, or to talk to someone else, or simply to perform any action that doesn't involve sitting next to me. She checks her mobile, then turns one-hundred and eighty degrees to plonk her designer derrière next to mine, making much better use of the seat than Zippy did. As Benny returns from the lavs, TK informs him that this stuff is going down like water and we'd like two more. At the bar Ben tries to stifle his outcry but we all hear a shrieking voice repeat the price told to him by the barmaid, and there is laughter. All the table joins in the laughter, which means that Benny is now on the back foot as all the girls think he is tight, he may even be off the podium temporarily as Zippy is having much better luck with lassie number two. Benny comes over with the champers and pretends he was surprised about the good value in this place, apparently he normally shells out a ton a bottle. God loves a trier.

I have more pressing matters on my mind as Hilary needs quality conversation. I have to contend with the bubbles from the champagne which are making me light-headed. I had wanted to save any more visits to the toilet simply for urinary purposes, but I need to balance the levels. Of course, if I go now, she'll think I'm a fart and when I come back I'll have lost my vantage point. Five minutes of charming patter, then I'll make my excuses. Plus if I now find out the score I can save myself time, and embarrassment.

"Things are going well then?" I ask. She simply nods. She is too good to believe that I was inviting her into a monologue on their trading, you just have to look at her to know things are going well. My need to know is now immense. "They say that opposites attract. You and Tim are certainly chalk and cheese." I could be in the toilet in twenty seconds.

She lets out a little laugh. "Me and Tim? What? You think we are a couple? I couldn't be with someone with his lifestyle as it is incompatible. Besides, mixing business with pleasure is a risky area. Low returns. He needs me to do the business and I need him to get the six-figure salary. That's where it ends. Though everyone assumes we are a couple and at times it can be beneficial. It's quite a shame that people only take me seriously because they think I'm shagging a gangster. Could I have a cigarette, please?" And that was her opening gambit. On paper it seems like she's saying make love to me, but she could also just be telling me who she is not sleeping with, or how little she likes sleeping with small time crooks.

"Of course." I give her a light as well, then wish I hadn't as she sees my hand shaking. "I just sort of, well supposed that, as you were." Oh fuck! I'm trapped in a crap sentence. Please say something Hilary, help me out of this verbal vice.

"Got anything for those nerves?" She asks me. "I was working before but now it's leisure time. How's about reconvening this conversation in the facilities?" As she gets up she lets her hand fall on top of mine and slide off as she is away. As far as I know, that cannot be skin, she has hands made of pure silk. I get up quickly as I can feel myself stirring. At this moment in time I would kill for brewers droop, for half a minute or so. It's a short walk to the toilets, which are situated downstairs, as seems common in the twenty-first century. She is waiting for me at the door and grabs my head as we fall into a, technically, passionate embrace. I have the coke in my hand but it goes back into my jacket pocket as my hands discover other areas to prove themselves in. We squeeze into a cubicle and endeavour to get into a propitious position for some fumbling and tampering. Inevitably, the toilet's population immediately increases. First two of our party enter, then I realise we are in the ladies, I thought it smelt nice, and begin to discuss how much they would ride Benny, not really the aphrodisiac I was hoping for. Soon after, all the female clients of the boozer seem to have synchronised their urinary tracts and require the services at the same time. We continue fumbling and have managed to loosen the bottom layers of clothing sufficiently for the next stage to be attempted. As we get permission from the control tower she tells me to put a condom on. Condom which I don't have. She furnishes me with the information that there is a machine outside the cubicle. As the coast is clear I exit, not raising the pantaloons in case they won't come down again, and squat to extract the two pound required for the purchase of a flavoured Johnny. As I locate a coin that could be to my benefit, the other items in my pocket spill onto the floor. With almost negative dexterity I try to swing round and collect the rogue items, only to fall on my arse and be hit on the head by the door as it is opened by two forty year old women expecting to only find a spotless lav before their eyes, and not a fellow with his pants round his ankles and his, now flaccid, offerings on view. Hilary finds this hilarious, which makes me think of the origin of her name rather than pulling my pants up. Soon there are screams and I am making excuses as I do myself up, Hilary in stitches, and leave the toilets. Outside, I can finally see the funny side, but feel slightly disgruntled as I have left the toilets without a line or a shag. As we climb the stairs, she reaches behind to grab my crotch and tell me that it's still early. She tries to contain her laughter as we sit again, noticing that everyone is ready to leave. Timmy winks at me and asks if we can have lunch now. I'm not too sure if I like the idea of Timmy knowing what I'm up to, it feels almost like betrayal.

Back in the open air, and after the sobering experience with Hilary, I feel pleasantly compus mentus. We need three taxis. It's already five to and the restaurant may not hold the table for us, despite Hilary phoning on ahead. Magically, TK conjures up three Hackneys from nowhere and we are off. The girls all go together. They may be softening, but are a long way south of trust. By five past we are at the door of the restaurant, it is very London. The sort of place that your chances of leaving full are remote. We are greeted, if that's the word, by a Maitre'D whose welcome is as warm as his food turns out to be. The place is less than half full yet he looks like our presence is an enormous bind. His principles of economics are misguided as he lets Hilary know that he does not appreciate having bookings changed at short notice. This matter seems to lose importance as Timmy stands next to her with one of his drivers. We are seated and the plumby swine is only placated by TK's exuberant ordering of wine from the top end of the Carte des Vins. The menu is a testament to lunacy, otherwise dull foods given French names in order to make them sound cultured. When will people learn that "en croute" is as glamorous to people from Nancy, Tony Cascarino included, as in pastry is to people from Wakefield.

To avoid the oafs looking like what they are, we go for the special menu. Well, TK goes for it, you can tell the lad likes being in control, only remembering to enquire if anyone was vegetarian after the waiter had departed. Luckily, no-one was, or admitted to being, so we proceeded with the order. The first course came in a jiffy, being classy I'll avoid any sort of comedic possibility in relation to my experience in the lavatories. I didn't quite see the prices, or the menu for that matter, but this most cost the best part of a ton a head, being London, so this course must form nearly thirty pound of that. A few bits of broccoli, I didn't know it came that small, slices of carrot and aubergine with a few other things chucked in so that it takes longer to read off menu than eat. Not that we are given a great deal of time to consume the produce, must be the use-by date today, before the second course is passed in front of our eyes. Wondering how will manage to fit all this found in the old inner bag, we are asked as to our requirements for afters and cafelitos. This causes Timmy to lose his patience, not that he was doing a gob job to be so before.

"I understand you don't need much time to eat these dishes and I assume sample menu refers to the fact that it genuinely is a sample of the menu, but surely we should be those who tell you when we are ready for the next course." Timmy told our friend.

"This is the way we do things around here. If you don't like it there are always places which are simpler, more fitting, perhaps." Was the waiter's response. You do have to hand it to the lad for standing up to Timmy, but as soon as you hand it to him, you have to take it away, because it is a foolish move. As if by radar, two of TK's goons walk in and bolster his image. The waiter, God knows why he is putting up such a front for someone else's restaurant, realises now the error of his ways, and, to his relief, is joined by the manager. The manager just wants us all out. I'm sure that the girls are gonna do one as soon as we get out, so I'm pleased of the ill-fated rummaging with Hilary in the lavs, now Benny would consider her unclean and make no attempt. The manager, it turns out he is the owner as well, and is probably foreseeing a call from the fire brigade. The owner smoothes things out a bit and the goons go back to minding the, whatever they were minding. The waiter was spoken too seriously, being given the impression that soon his work would lie elsewhere, probably the incentive he needed to go on to be a great actor or something. Timmy was now clearly enjoying himself.

"You must promise me that you will learn from this experience." He told the waiter, and too the owner "I trust you will be giving him a second chance." Inevitably the reply was in the affirmative. The owner offered something on the house, intuitively avoiding the word discount should certain people find this derogatory, and Timmy decided a brandy would ease the pain, again without enquiring to the general level of brandy enjoyment at the table. The coffees then came, coupled with a generous brandy and all seemed fine and dandy again. The waiter served Timmy last and as he went to return to his duties, Timmy finished off the banter by telling him to make sure he kept safe on his walks home. Now, for some reason which I could not fathom, the waiter, instead of doing what anyone else would do, shit themselves and cower, informed TK that he didn't care for threats. TK responded by suggesting he was a trifle paranoid if he got confused between a piece of advice and a threat. The fool was going to take a shoeing for very, very little.

Despite the brandy, the atmosphere was a touch dour after that incident. It was decided that the best thing to do was leave the establishment. Timmy insisted on paying, which would be very bad form on our part, even though Benny had already uttered the "very" of "very generous of you" before I managed to give him an under the table kick. Our newly replenished gold card was offered and taken as a rather unenjoyable seven hundred sheet lunch was consigned to memory. A cocktail bar across the way would be able to re-light our collective fires and get the party back on track. You could sense the quandary overpowering our new female friends. They wanted out but would look rather bad sports if they accepted an expensive lunch and then did one. They had seen enough not to wish to make an enemy of our host, though they were clear that they didn't wish to make a friend of him either. Timmy sensed this too.

"Ladies, an unpleasant incident, that's all, but all forgotten and in the past now. As you will appreciate sometimes you have to use a little muscle in business, though I implore you to believe me when I tell you we are not ogres and would be delighted if you should continue as our guests." He gave them a look and they all agreed that they should also be delighted to continue. This may have been true or not, perhaps they liked the idea. Who knows? Certainly not me that's for sure. I don't even know why I'm even bothering to wonder, as my thoughts should firmly be with Hilary. Once out in the fresh air, I got the feeling of being in need of various things to keep the vibe alive. We crossed the road and were soon inside another bar eyeing up the cocktail menu.

Gore mentioned as we crossed the road if I thought this place would be alright. As we entered I hadn't given this comment much thought, but then as I saw his face upon entry, understood what he meant. Should Gore not consider the music to be "well thought out" (this does not necessarily mean good, it can music that is not to his particular taste, but there must be some thought process involved, a video jukebox on random play, for instance would clearly not do, as it is akin to blasphemy) If Gore is not happy with the music he can be a real pain in the arse. He allows it to antagonise him and ruin his day. At first this will manifest itself with tuts, the odd comment, a shake of the head, but as time goes on it will cause him to link the ills of this dear planet to people's inability to truly feel their music. Gore believes that a person's music is an extension of their personality, part of them, inexorably linked to their persona and psyche, and people who do not nurture this are allowing themselves do die as thinkers. I really hope they play something he likes. He stands alone from the group for a few minutes. He will generally give a place a chance from five tracks, the first five that he hears when he enters a place. The place only needs two tracks to be thought out for his approval, should a place get three he feels at home, four or five and he is surrounded by a joyous glow that can sometimes be infectious. I recognise what is playing as we enter, though placing it is rather difficult. Another failing in the eyes of Gore, just liking a song is not enough, you have to be able to name the artist, date, from which album it came from, producer, sound engineer, who drove the van to the pressing factory and at least one anecdote about the track or the artist. Gore informs me to his great joy that the track is A Man Called Adam's "Barefoot in the Head" and it's the twelve inch version. "Woopie-doo" I reply internally while the external comment is that it is "Such a classic." He goes on to tell me where the voiceover in the middle comes from, but the information is pointless and dull that my brain refuses to accept it. When the next track is "Perfume" by the Paris Angels we can rest here and order drinks (yes, he had to tell me the name of the track and artist).

At the bar, Benny is holding court with the aim of being considered genuinely and effortlessly funny. He asks Hilary if she would like a Long Tall Comfortable Screw Against a Wall and she replies that she had a short one before. Is she having a go at my height? OK so the rest have a wee bit on me but I'm a good five foot ten, it's just my posture stinks a bit. She gives me a wink that is rather theatrical for my tastes, yet still reeks of suggestion that this cup competition will be played over two legs, with, hopefully, a replay. There are a few clients in the bar who have made the trip simply for a quiet afternoon drink, and, in some cases a simple coffee. These, seeing the lunacy which is about to be unleashed upon the establishment finish up their drinks with disregard to any possible burns on the roof of the mouth. Other punters enter and think twice, considering festivities in far too an advanced stage to be able to enter the field of play at this moment. TK obviously is none too keen on these interruptions and has a quiet word with the guy he assumes is the owner, or at least the manager.

"Look mate." He begins, the essence is question but the reality is command. "How much would it take for you to put the closed sign up and let us have a wee private party in your lovely little place."

Knowing that his best bet is to offer a price that may cover any predictable breakage to the establishment and hope Timmy does not consider him to be taking the piss. "A grand? But we've got a booking at seven." He offered sheepishly.

"Done, but I hope that there will be some price reductions on your cocktails for that." Responded Timmy.

"That was including the drinks." Now the manager got to look like a great geezer and would retain all of his teeth. There were only twelve of us, I think, and it was nearly four already. I doubt we could drink too much of his profits out of a grand. Anyway, he may charge a fiver a cocktail, but that does not suggest he is selling them at cost, imagine each five pound cocktail costs him two pound, and I would say that is generous, then we would have to do five hundred for him to "lose" money, that means forty one point six recurring cocktails in three hours per person, over thirteen an hour, or if you prefer, one every four minutes. We can but try. The manager flicks the latch on the door and gets the drinks going. TK insists he has one himself and his new friend agrees, even going to the lengths that he should get another couple of girls in to tend the bar. Mixing cocktails and mobiling at the same time he says he'll have another two lasses in in thirty which will relieve his bar tension. That would make a staff to client ratio of one to three, and I have to get off this maths tip. I take a seat by Hilary and ask her what she is going to have. I was hoping the answer would be "you!" but Long Island Ice Tea came out. Must try not to look to keen.

During preparation many people are seen visiting the toilet, unsubtly and accompanied. It is clear that the party is swinging in all zones of the locale. A quiet word is had in an ear and the manager, Steve, produces a couple of mirrors from under the bar and we place them on the tables. From now on the toilets will only be used for urination, this amount of ching and that amount of food is hardly likely to produce a bowel movement, or maybe some un-romantic loving. The drinks hit the table as the new barmaids arrive and remove their coats, asking for the taxi to be covered, I begin to wonder whether they might catch a sniffle attired thus, but do not put it to the floor. Our female companions seem more at ease now, after the restaurant incident and with the help of the cocktails. Zippy begins to carve out ridiculous lines for everyone, Steve first, and TK asks how supplies are. Zippy cannot guarantee continued replenishment, so TK makes a call. TK doesn't seem to be the kind of chap to go to the supermarket and leave with just one bag. Things look promising at the table but I feel like listening to Gore and the DJ for a while, it is a strangely enticing experience to listen to the Gore about choons, the passion that he has for tracks and the perhaps undeserved meaning attributed to them in his life. The only thing I don't like about it is when he insists on playing you a track and then sees his arse when you don't give it your fullest attention.

I sidle over there and find the pair of them engrossed in each other's knowledge, of course it's a form of competition as well, but both know so much that any extra wisdom is a mere bonus. The hippy girl from before is hanging on to every word Gore says and trying to contribute in the hope of being noticed, but it is all in vain. Gore is not being a snide, he has just been carried away on his own musical journey that he can't focus in on anything else. She offers to get them drinks and the pair just raise their bottles, not even deigning to respond. She probably feels even worse as I come over and receive an introduction, she heads to the bar, while you're there love! The DJ changes the track and Gore makes a noise that I assume hippy-chick would like to make him produce. I recognise the track and chance my arm. I know it's "Things Are Gonna Get Easier" and tell them so, unfortunately I credit the track to Otis and the pair of them look at me like I have just asked for permission to exhume the cadavers of their grandmothers for their posterior violation. I apologise for my lack of knowledge and hang back as they run through producers, studio names, engineers and possibly finish up with the shoe sizes of the cleaners. God, still loving a trier, sends back our hippy and she gives us our drinks, planting herself behind Gore, she begins to caress his crotch over his jeans. Gore, completely unfazed, cannot take his eyes off a Chet Baker vinyl the DJ has given him to inspect. She starts biting his neck and he finally realises that he should at least give her a kiss which he does. I chew the fat with the DJ for a while when Hilary comes to inform me she is bored with the patter at the table.

Despite the tables being furnished for the occasion, we adjourn to the lavs for a pick-me-up and take our drinks with us. I can't make her out at all, I don't know if she's giving me signals to pounce or telling me to stay where I am. She also looks like she must have to put up with this sort of rubbish all the time, and I want to show her I am different, that I can be what she deserves. Well, OK, maybe deserves isn't the best word to describe her potential luck, but I do like her. She notes my silence and asks what's up. I try to articulate I find her presence stimulating yet restrictive, I cannot fathom what she wants from me or how I am supposed to act in this situation.

"Graham, do not mistake something for something that it isn't." She informs me. Now I feel better after such clarity. "You do have something that I like, I don't really know what, but it must be something. This is the first time I have spent a day with Timmy and his cronies on the piss in years, all because of you. Later we will find a window in this tough schedule and have wild, passionate sex, then tomorrow we will say goodbye and continue with our lives. You are going to Spain remember? I live here, and, as I told you before I don't date thieves." That was her monologue. What do I say now?

"I could change." Was my pathetic response.

"Graham, if you cannot handle the situation as it is, I will leave and none of what will blow your mind, and your organ, later will happen to you. Don't turn shit on me, Graham. Accept spontaneity, but don't question it. Are you with me or not?"

"When's later?" I smiled at her, quite pleased that I had redeemed myself somewhat.

"Well." She began raising her skirt again. "I have a window..... See if you can find it. "

Twenty minutes later we were back at the bar and ordered the silliest cocktails we could invent. The girls at the table seemed to be enjoying things thoroughly now. I assumed it was merely the coke and the cocktails but later found out that Zippy had spiked their drinks with half an "E", just in case, as he puts it. Two were performing a striptease for Benny's pleasure and even Zippy was being indulged, perhaps if his partner knew the truth, her keenness would dissipate. Gore is being fellated by the hippy-chick whilst continuing to discuss what seems to be the merits of Deep Purple with his DJ friend, who is receiving the same treatment from one of the barmaids. It is quite a sight to behold as everyone indulges in all sorts of messiness. We sat back and survey, enjoying our cocktails and understanding that the little time we have together will be special.

With disappointment in his eyes, Steve informs us that it is nearly seven, and that we shall have to begin making our way out. TK announces it's back to his. Steve is in no mood to resume work so makes the necessary changes with the incoming shift, bribing them with drugs and money. Timmy pays Steve and has the decency to tip all of the staff to the tune of fifty pounds before thanking everyone profusely. Vehicles are hastily arranged to transport us back to TK Towers, he also informs us that he has another flat in the block which is for our use tonight, our luggage already transported there by kind help. It is not as nice as his, we are told as he has the penthouse. Benny muses that he would like to have the penthouse one day, and TK responds that hard work is the key. Rather patronising, I thought, but I let it go.

I told Hilary that I wanted to hang back a while. I needed to eat something and ideally to change. I had no hunger whatsoever, but had a niggling thought in the back of my head that I should put something solid in my stomach. The only options were the bevy of High Street fast-food outlets that did not inspire much confidence. However, as my palate had suffered a career threatening injury during the day, I wasn't too fussed. Hilary, on the other had, had principles. She refuses to pass through the Golden Arches and informs me that she will await my presence in the rather swanky café across the road. I tell her that I am not choosing this place out of taste, simply convenience. She tells me to do what I must do and be quick, nothing else, she is not judging me, simply expressing herself, and I have managed, once again, to visualise the stick, and then grasp the wrong end.

Inside, I suddenly remember that the rest of the human race has not acted in the way I have today. I feel slightly paranoid and more than uncomfortable. Before ordering, the toilet may be of some use to me. Inside there is a father with his young son, no doubt offering him the first of many treats to such establishments and having it ruined by the presence of such a disgrace to humanity, as I now consider myself. Undeterred, I enter the cubicle and wonder why he has the right to come to such a conclusion. Haven't I and my esteemed friends just fucked Kalvin over? Is that not a generous gesture to the society in which we live? Would he not like to earn thirty grand in a morning and take beautiful women into cubicles for drugs and sex rather than changing nappies. I consider him a loser, and vow to give him a dirty look upon my exit. Down the throat go the fingers and out come all the colours of the rainbow, largely in liquid form, I assume the greasy spoon now resides, and shall continue to do so, in the small intestine, awaiting its calorific redeployment, the lunch being hardly enough to warrant a supermodel vomit. Most of the end comes with the tell-tale traces of red globules indicating that blood has also joined the race to leave my body. For a brief moment, I sweat and feel worse, then this is replaced by a feeling of joy as the veins seem to find a new freedom with which to transport the toxins around my body. Time for a burger.

With the cold water still dripping down my face, I order a large Mac and a shake, assuming this is the least painful way of getting stodge into my system. I try to look cool amongst the acne ridden teenagers dressed in homage to Kalvin and find a table that doesn't look like the devil has shat on it. I wolf down the burger and suck on the shake before my body can realise what I am up to and make for the exit, leaving the tray on the table for some underpaid underling to remove at a later date. I am not party to doing their cleaning for them until they come round and do the washing up. As a customer I do not believe that forms part of the contract. Realising my desire to kiss Hilary and her probable desire to comment on the sewer that is my mouth, I hit a newsagent's and pick up some Extra Strong Mints before sauntering into the café, almost a new man. I flash her smile and order a capuccino, taking my seat next to her as if I had just left the office.

"Better?" She enquires.

"Keeps the wolf from the door." Is my response. Where did that come from? I reiterate my desire to freshen up and she is of the belief that none of my colleagues will have the same desire, so the flat should be clear. This is true, Benny won't dirty clean clothes if he knows he is "in", Zippy eschews hygiene and Gore will be more interested in the thought of another CD collection, (him and TK went to a fair few concerts together in the old days). The coffee is finished, the bill is paid and the taxi is hailed.

Slightly rebuffed in the taxi, despite the Trebors, we get to the Canary Wharf apartments and Hilary only needs two of her three allotted gos to crack the entry access code. Keys are so old school round here. Once inside, I locate my stuff and prepare for a shower. She is more concerned about the presence of coffee and whether I am holding coke. I say there may be the dregs left in my jacket and prepare for the bathroom. I hear her cursing the quality of the blend, her repeated use of the word "instant" with a sound that can only suggest dismay gave it away, and turn on the taps. Leaving the door open just in case she wishes to scrub my back, I stand under the shower and wait. Nothing seems to be happening so I resign myself to soaping my own flesh. Feeling the benefit of the power shower and the joy of the soap, I close my eyes and am lost in a world that is quite pleasant to visit. It is after a good few seconds that I came too and decide to count the number of hands soaping my body at this instant, it appears to be between three and four. I turn round and see her standing there naked, resisting the desire to tell her I love her, I embrace her and so begins the process of getting dirty in the place that is supposed to get you clean. I shan't bore you with the details but we required the shower again an hour later as our presence was required at the party.

I can't remember the last time I was smiling so much. I felt like I was walking on air. Realising that the most powerful drug was love. I understood that Hilary would disappear physically tomorrow, but would be carried in a small compartment in my cardiac muscle for the rest of eternity. We sauntered through the party and accepted the occasional dance. Reaching that point in a session where the cyclical nature of our existence I discover that I have drunk myself sober. Reaching into the fridge I crack open a Stella, she calls me a peasant and thanks God she educated TK about wine. We laugh and go out onto the patio / terrace. The air is chilly but feels good. Occasionally popping inside for nasal activities we spend most of the evening outside, talking about everything and nothing at the same time, feeling like soon to be executed prisoners who have made their peace with the world. I hold her hand, but feel the grip loosening with every minute. I accept fate as a cruel maid as she suggests this party is not the best place in the known solar system.

Lying there with her in my arms, I feel that I could gladly accept knowing the secrets of the afterlife now. Sleep cheated us as the drugs continued cursing through our bodies, inviting us briefly to rest, only to have it taken from us by the slightest movement. I tried to close my eyes, but my brain registered no difference between the two states, so I decided to keep them open until I lost the fight, gazing at the beauty by my side, now firmly under the spell of sleep. I wondered if I would remember her like this for ever, and as my neck began to give way, her face intermingled with that of Julia's and suddenly I was none too sure who was who and whether I was awake. I can vaguely remember the last words that were uttered before consciousness was lost. "All you have to do is come and find me."
BOOK ONE - SECTION NINE

Hangover Cures (I) Spa

GORE: The phone had been ringing at least three minutes, and it was probably the fifteenth time, so I assumed that the person on the other end had some more than passing desire to communicate with somebody in the flat. Of course, as far as I knew nobody knew we were here, still for some reasons the calls hadn't ceased and it didn't look like any of the others would inform the unceasing telephonic user of their error. I picked up the phone and instinctively read out the numbers on the handset. Do people still do that? I wasn't thinking straight. A male voice began questioning.

"Who's that?" I couldn't place the voice.

"Who's that" I responded. Trying to give nothing away. The sound of my voice had caused some minor stirring in the resting quarters. The question was fired back at me, so I responded with the gift of slightly more information. "It's Gore." Only slightly more information, you understand?

"Gore man. It's TK. I've been calling for an hour. Don't you have phones in Luton? Are you up? I have a surprise for you. Make you lot feel reborn. You need a change of clothes and to be ready in forty mins. Don't have a shower but do brush your teeth, and open the door, one of my staff is waiting for you. The car will be round in forty mins, be ready, see you there." He was gone and had hung up, I heard the line go but still thought it wise to say "but" to the tone.

By now two of the three had risen, only Zippy remained in slumber. Benny's curiosity had been stirred in equal amounts by the phone call and the lack of presence of two young friends who tucked him in at the end of the previous night's festivities. Graham had risen because he simply had to know what was going on. Then we heard the knock at the door. Benny rushed to answer it, perhaps subconsciously hoping the two dollies had returned heroically, or would it be heroinically in this case? With sausage and egg McMuffins for the boys.

On the other side of the door was a small, squat woman of south American origin who announced herself as Maria. She immediately apologised for her poor English on the account that she was Bolivian, saying.

"I am sorreee, mi Eenglish is very bad because Ee am Bolivian."

To which Benny replied. "Don't worry, my Bolivian isn't much better." Much to the amusement of Graham who reminded him that the native tongue of Bolivia was in fact Spanish.

Benny was far from ruffled by this latest outburst of intellectual snobbery and responded with the usual acidity reserved for Graham. "I see getting laid hasn't made you any less an anally retentive nerd." Graham went into a minor sulk and Maria, upon seeing this, adopted a motherly aspect told them to cut it out. She, we then noticed, was carrying two thermos flasks and enquired as to whether we would help her with the trolley.

Contained on the trolley was a fine breakfast spread boasting scrambled eggs, streaky bacon, Cumberland sausages, toast, croissants, jam, proper butter, tea, coffee, orange juice and a variety pack. As we sat at the table Maria began to serve, and offer us some her grammatically deficient views on life. When the wafting smells of the bacon caused the chemist to rise, at least one mystery was solved. Zippy left the room with two waif-like blonde specimens who had original been party to Benny's charms but had then been enticed by the pharmaceutical offerings of the Zip. Benny managed to make the girls feel extra special by calling Zippy a sneaky sloppy-seconds swine and they made a hasty exit with the beady eyes of Maria casting aspersions on their character. She began, we ate.

"That is not a woman. In mi countree the woman are the most bee-youtiful in the world. You go to Bolivia and you fall in love with the woman. She make you crazee with the love. That is not woman. The yellow hair, where is the meat? She has no the fire in her heart. In Bolivia the woman make you mad with fire. You is crazy for the fire. You see the eyes and you no can move, you want dance. Dance with the fire. You go to my country and the woman is best of world. You in love for ever. You stay for ever. Not like English woman. That is why you need two. One is nothing. One is like a girl. You are men, men want women! Two makes one woman. I am suppose." She said all that without pausing for breath.

The breakfast continued and continued. Zippy felt that something had to be said in favour of the European lass and made it clear his preference was for the Scandinavian look in deference to child-bearing hips from South America. Maria was only too pleased to point out how wrong he was when she remembered that they had to brush their teeth. Then, upon, offering us all Annadin extra for any throbbing heads she informed us that the car was waiting for us. She bade us farewell and looked offended when we offered to help her with tidying things up. Be gone with us we were told and soon we were gone, our change of clothes in hand and wondering just what awaited us.

We get into a very smart looking Audi A4 and sat comfortably in the passenger seats. Kenny was the driver, we met him yesterday, apparently, though judging by the tunes he has on I'm not surprised I don't remember him. We drive out of London, seemingly towards the north but not towards Luton, which is a relief. We drive for about forty minutes and are in the countryside. Timmy must have something planned but lips remain tight. We approach a rather grand looking stately home type building and see TK propping himself up on his flashy Merc, with Hilary waiting by the side. This latter vision caused Graham's interest levels to pick up.

"Feeling good?" Enquires TK. We feel obliged to hide the truth. "If not you will do in a couple of hours. Welcome to one of my little retreats. I often adjourn here when things get out of hand after an evening's revelry. Timmy looks like the strongest thing that went past his lips yesterday was a cider-lolly and an energy drink, we, on the other hand, look and feel like the devil is holding a swingball round-robin with Genghis Khan, Peter Sutcliffe and Black Lace in the overgrown weed garden that is our current consciousness. Timmy feels the need to go on. "Our bodies have been the victims of excess, and, quite rightly are cross with us. They will remain cross with us until we demonstrate how much we really dote on them by offering some form of internal cleansing. Then our bodies will be the first to forgive us, for they know that they need us as much as we need them, but, as in many walks of life, do not care for having the piss taken out of them." This was vintage TK. He couldn't simply say welcome to the herbal baths or spa or whatever this place was, he had to do the monologue. I'm sure Christians all over the globe are glad he didn't write the Bible, cos they'd still be reading it now and have no time to find their faith.

We are led inside and greeted by a rather fine looking pair of receptionists. Benny had been mumbling something about this being a waste of time outside, but was now enjoying the mental imagery of what he assumed would be a massage situation with these two which would need rather TV movie style saxophone music in the background. Our visit will take various stages, the first shall be an aromatherapy shower which claims to give some form of inner peace and outer cleansing. We'll wait before passing judgement on that one, but I'm tempted to cough "Bollocks" rather loudly. Then we will enjoy the thermal baths, alternating from cold, to tepid to hot for improved circulation. Timmy reckons this is what causes the hangover to dissipate, as the blood is forced into working quicker, then being confused by the hot water. Now, I remember him failing Biology "O" Level. Still, it's good crack with the feller from the centre pattering on and TK dropping in pearls of wisdom. Graham doesn't stop looking at Hilary and goes and stands by her. She's not giving much away, but it doesn't look like true love, and Graham is just plying Benny with ammunition for future piss-taking. From the baths we adjourn to take Arabic tea, cold as is done in the best establishments in Rabat, according to TK, though not corroborated by the guy we now know is called Sebastian. Vibe on, Seb. After tea, we will spend some time in the steam bath and the enjoy the water jets of the Jacuzzi. With the external areas now cleansed, it is time to work on the inside, starting with the muscles, a strenuous massage will help put everything back in its right place for the grand finale of lunch. Various types of fruit juice and salads. Don't fancy salads much but will try anything once.

We are taken to the changing rooms and in our individual cubicles prepare for the experience. The place provides us with navy-blue swimming shorts (thankfully preferred in favour of figure hugging, and soul-destroying, trunks). Inside the cubicle is probably better than my bedroom. My thieving instincts get the better of me and I decide that I shall be clearing this place out on my departure. Then when you think about the simple mathematics, this place can't come cheap, and most people don't rob, at least not to our standards, so they can probably afford to lose a few. In my way, I help the economy turn, without asking for thanks. The highlight for me so far is the white towelling bath robe, I don't know if there are some toxins still cruising down the internal avenues and hanging out with their little red cellular friends, but I can't stop thinking that I look like a sheep and this causes a fit of the giggles which is only curtailed when I begin to wretch, testament to over-smoking heir.

We all come out of the cubicle at more or less the same instant. People talk about girls who live together and synchronise their periods, in our own little way, we have synchronised our habits too, taking the same amount of time for the same activities and have the same ludicrous ideas for conversation in unison. Dressed like four biped sheep with fuzzy heads we are ready for the first stage. There is an old feller on duty in the changing room which is now my favourite thing about it as it allows me to believe myself in fifties New York.

The first stage is rather bizarre, to say the least, there is a sort of tramolator (I believe they are called, or maybe my memory has been infested by episodes of the Gladiators) which we stand on after removing the robe. This makes me think of a wolf in sheep's clothing and I'm off again. Benny doesn't know why I'm laughing, If I explained it to him, that wouldn't change, though Gray and Zip consider a chuckle. I feel the bile rising in my throat again, and gasp for breath as the first jets of scented water tickle my body. Composing myself, I manage to ride out the moment and get to the other end of the, I don't want to use the Gladiator word so I shall call it a Guffleporter until I find out the correct word. Stay tuned. Our robes travel at the same speed as us, though on a non-floor based Guffleporter which is protected by a glass shield to prevent ghastly drippings. On the other side are some of the beautiful people here to share this experience in spirit and body-cleansing, I disembark first, offer hellos to all and everyone, followed Benjamin and Graham who do the same. Then there is a sort of noise. That turns into a kind of gasp, followed by the merest suggestion of a side-chuckle. This soon becomes hearty laughter and we decide to turn round and determine the cause of such mirth. To our comedic delight, and visual disgust, we see Zippy, with essential oils in his eyes, trying desperately to rub the objectionable liquids from his orbs and not noticing he had come to the end of the line. Expecting, like us, to have arrived at Terminal two. Not the genuine catalyst for such merriment that on its own, but coupled with the fact that Zippy is as the day he was born, added to the fact that the cool jets have not had a flattering effect on his largess, certainly is, as far as the staff and customers are concerned, one for the Christmas video.

Zippy immediately attempts a half-hearted form of expiation for his misdemeanour and tries, clumsily to run backwards towards the changing room, displacing two old dears who cared not for brushing of the chipolata sausage on this their special treat to themselves. Despite the fact that movement was only being undertaken at speeds of less than one kilometre per hour, Zippy still managed to fall a number of times and add a normally unseen maladroitness to the proceedings. Eventually he returns, more suitably attired and ready for the next stage. When asked why he didn't put the shorts on, he replied that he thought it was going to be just us. When asked why thought we would all want to hang around naked, he replied that that was a reasonable question which he could not accompany with a reasonable answer. Into the pools.

The thermal baths boasted a traditional Arabic decoration and subtle lighting bade the place a feeling of tranquillity and harmony. It is strange to consider that the Romans did a lot of their business in these types of baths, for me, after ten seconds in the hot pool, I could not manage a single word, let alone discuss the value of blue-chip shares in the electronics sector. Probably not a big seller in the Empiratum. When it starts to hurt is when its time to get into the cold bath, informs TK. I enter and question his parentage. How that is supposed to be good for you is beyond me. I last for less than ten seconds before fear of losing my now shrivelled and rather despondent looking espade d'amour for ever.

Into the tepid bath I re-encountered pleasure. Timmy insisted that we had to the whole routine at least three times to achieve the desired effect. I noticed that Graham is still staring at Hilary, transfixed by her two-piece swimsuit. It struck me as curious, that, considering he spent the last evening rolling round with her in a state of intimacy that some religions believe should only happen for reproductive purposes, and the fact that he has already unwrapped the parcel in question before, but put some covering on the vital areas and a whole new brand of mystique is created. This is why our generation understands the beauty of life so much better than the youth of today. Because we had to fight for everything, our outlets were your mother's catalogues and scraps on Channel Four, now Internet makes everything so accessible, there is no need to fight any more, there is no true glory in a victory because everybody wins. Possibly.

Not knowing whether to sweat or shiver, we enter the tea room. More sniggers are offered to Zippy as tea-takers remember his organ, and down we sit. I'm not sure if I feel any better yet, though do feel had TK not come up with this then the nearest boozer would be easing our pain. So well played to him. Inevitably, Benny pulls a face that he is being forced to imbibe embalming fluid when asked to drink the Arabic tea. Incapable of enjoying anything foreign to his previous knowledge, Benny cuts a worldly and windswept figure as he spits out the liquid that we are all enjoying. It's a first for me too, but the refreshing qualities of the brew are easily identified. I gulp down three cups and vow to discover more. Talking to the guy in there, and mentioning the change, he tells me that this kind of thing is much more common in Spain, obviously due to still present Moorish influence, though Granada would make a better port of call than Malaga. Noted. Big Thanks to you from the Gore. Huge yum.

Saunas just don't do it for me. At the start you think that this time it might be fun. Fighting for breath and trying to filter the steam from the available oxygen as you begin to feel uncomfortable. Scorning as some smart-arse lashes twelve gallons of water onto the rocks recently brought over from the innards of Mount Etna. I remain on the lowest level as TK stands on the top and loudly inhales, sharing his appreciation with us. Hilary and Graham are talking now, but I get the feeling that that is simply to take her mind off she hasn't had her PDA in her hand for more than one hour now. I'm tempted to eavesdrop but don't wish to faint. Let's leave the looking like a tosser to Zippy. I'm the first to leave and enjoy the Jacuzzi. The jets finding the remaining knots in my muscles and I'm finding it difficult to keep my eyes open, I imagine that I am sharing the waters with Jimi, Janis and Chris Bell from Big Star, enjoying the patter of the celestial aqua whilst scoffing the works of the Beatles after the split. Suddenly, I am being pulled out of the water by Benny and Graham who had entered this zone to find me peacefully beneath the water that was supposed to cleanse me.

Our last stop on the circuit is the massage. Benny is convinced that this action is performed with the subtlety and grace of an Amsterdam zoapsooaudai despite our attempts to assure him that it doesn't appear to be that type of place. Timmy tells him if that's what he wants nothing is too much trouble. With this Benny is first on the bed and Timmy leaves, bestowing upon us a sly wink which means that fun is in the offing. Just as Benny is commenting on this being more like it, Timmy returns and tells him to close his eyes and delight in what is coming. We try to contain our laughter as two of the burliest guys ever to leave the Kashbar begin their work with the oils and magic of the east. Benny is still none the wiser as those colossal hands worked their way along his bank. Groaning with pleasure, Benny is in a world of his own, we are painfully maintaining the laughter inside, biting our fists and feeling the tears roll down our eyes, only when the unmistakable tones of a Maghreb male request that he turn over can relief be administered as Benny realises that he is the, pardon the pun, butt of our rather infantile, yet enormously hilarious and vintage humour.

After returning to the changing rooms and promising Benny we wouldn't tell anyone about what had happened. At first we thought this was a strange request as everyone we knew was present, we had severed all ties with the past, then I realised he meant don't tell people he didn't know, ie. women. As if we would ruin your chances with a cheap trick like that. I am counting the minutes young Mr. B. With my pockets full of freebies I depart, actually feeling cleansed from last nights excesses. I could murder a pint and something from the chippy, though will have to accept a rather frugal lunch here. I can't see how this can be TK's idea. This has Hilary written all over it. This is truly pointless food. The carrot juice is OK, but salad never wins as a main for me. Maybe if it had a couple of pork chops in the middle, and the salad was replaced by chips, chips are vegetables and vegetables are the base of salads, then the appeal may be greater. So, I smile and consume, trying not to think about the donner with my name on it roaming the streets of the capital.

Timmy had one last piece of patter to liven up the colourful, yet tasteless, platter. "Your van?" Was his enquiry. We responded by requesting some information as to the nature of his enquiry. "Not exactly a comfortable ride to Scotland, is it? What you want is a nice motor. Share the driving. Have you tried the Audi, the A4 Tdi? An absolute pleasure. It just so happens that I have an excess of these type of vehicles and am looking out for a van. One like yours." TK was telling the truth. The van was no use to us really and it would be nicer to do the journey is some degree of luxury. We agreed and a minion was told to park the Audi next to our van awaiting our return. The van was top of the range but I was sure it couldn't cost more than the motor, so, once again we seemed to be one ahead of the crowd, looking over to check the peloton could not catch us as we turned into the Champs Elysee. Even the carrots start to pick up. I cant' wait to get my hands on the wheel, though Benny will go first because he (please adopt whiney voice) had the idea, phoned TK,... etc. etc.
BOOK ONE - SECTION TEN

M1 Junctions 1-44, A69 and A75

Our heroes said their goodbyes to Timmy Kinch and Hilary. A tense moment was spent between Graham and Hilary when he offered her a kiss that would leave their previous night's tomfoolery too much in evidence. Graham had deliberated for a reasonably large number of moments before launching with the lips as to how much reciprocation he would be likely to receive. Hilary did not seem the soppy sort, having made it clear that duration of their liaison would be determined by the moment when the cock crowed, still he wanted to kiss her before he left, even if her desire to be kissed was non-existent. As he sat in the front seat of the newly bequeathed Audi A4 Tdi, he pondered whether he wanted to kiss her because of what they had experienced, what he could possibly, or potentially feel for her, or simply so that Benny would know that he had been there and Benny hadn't, in the hope that that would rile him. Either way, Benny wasn't riled and Graham didn't get his kiss. The only probable by-product of the incident would be Hilary spending some rather uncomfortable moments in the office.

The seating arrangements in the vehicle were distributed thus. Front seat, driver, Benny, he had always enjoyed German engineering and was keen to compare the power and driveability of the Audi in comparison to the Beemers and VWs he had previously propelled. Next to Benny was Graham, considering his role in the organisation as logistics and organisational expert warranting him the second-best seat in the vehicle. He too, wished for the opportunity to feel the response of the steering wheel, though was considered to be a substandard driver, even by Zippy, who didn't take to driving too well as a result of the general necessity to combine sobriety with conduction. This left the back seat to be occupied by Zippy and Gore, Zippy behind Benny so he could pull faces and pick his nose in the view of the rear-view mirror, causing annoyance for the latter and pleasure for the former. Gore sat behind Graham so he would have a greater opportunity to orchestrate, though some would say manipulate, the music. Departure had been delayed a while in London as Gore could not decide on the CDs he wished to transport in the spare carry case for the car, and forced a stop just past Wembley to make some vital changes. This attitude was tolerated because they knew just how unpleasant he could become if his wishes were not granted. Not unpleasant in the sense that rudeness was an issue, merely he would detract himself even more than usual from the conversation and only grunt or tut when someone else made a selection that was an "anathema to musical history." He would also come out with extreme phrases such "How can you sleep at night knowing that Hendrix, Joplin, Cole Porter and Francis Albert gave their lives gladly so that we can grow musically whilst you encourage the musical continuance of people like Wet Cubed and Simply Red?" As has been mentioned before, Gore worried too much about these things.

The boys, now armed with a new, unknown vehicle, though new to TK is open to liberal interpretation, this vehicle had seen little action but could not be described as recently unwrapped, it had less than two thousand miles on the clock, and, despite it being about ten grand less in value than the van they had exchanged it for, they were happy to have the wheels. TK had assured them that the car was clean, or at least not hot, Timmy used it for his own transport, as part of his permanent fleet, thereby making it bad business to use a stolen car for such purposes. He did stress, however, that he frequently paid very competitive prices for these vehicles, which came as no surprise to those present. The unidentified vehicle meant immunity from Kalvin on the streets of Luton and they could not resist a wee tour down the happy lanes of their youth, now saddened by the King of the Thugs. They drove around the old estate and past Kalvin's, seeing the usual array of souped-up visual monstrosities parked outside they knew they had done the right thing. Turning round they went past Whittaker and Kelly's place and saw much less action. Zippy began to worry he might have killed them, surely he hadn't given them that much. Graham asks if the combination of the sleep drug with the others, legal and illegal may have enhanced the effects. Zippy confesses they hadn't considered that option. Once in a more salubrious area they stop to buy a local paper which does carry a story about two local lads who had been admitted to hospital after ingesting excessive quantities of a date rape style drug. That must have given the nurses and the journalists a laugh, considered Benny, two of the ugliest lads in Luton, forced against their will, the women of today.

It was considered that Kalvin must know something or would do within a very short timeframe. It was time to reduce their communications capacity. They transferred onto scraps of paper, essential numbers from their mobiles. Graham sent a message to his mum saying that they were off to Devon to chill out for a few weeks and would be in touch. He also sent the same message to Paul Simmons, apologising for being unable to provide him with merchandise for the time being, knowing that Simmons would take great delight in passing this information onto Kalvin. They then bought four pay as you go mobiles, paying cash, no information being handed over to the service operator as to the identities of the new proprietors, armed now with the capacity to communicate but not to be molested by those who should bother them with untimely questions. Whether Kalvin would fall for the Devon line was not sure, but at least he wanted his Mum to have something to offer him, should he call on her. He worried about leaving his parents to all this mess, but argued that they had talked about moving for years now, in some way, he hoped to be the catalyst for a new life for them, too.

As they got outside Luton, it became clear that the journey was going to prolong, not just for the number of miles required to be driven to reach their point of call, but for the effects of being in an enclosed space with Zippy and Gore for too long. Gore had forgotten his anger about the music and was now ready to converse freely with Zippy. When they spoke together it was like a curious new language, not because of the unfamiliarity of the chosen lexicon, rather the improbable and seemingly pointless combinations in which the pair used them. Neither did they discuss normal things, instead choosing to combine incongruities aimed only at confusing or annoying the listeners, of which there were normally very few. Most of the time they were simply ignored and left to it, but even the spacious A4 Tdi gave no respite. This annoyed Benny greatly, which meant that it amused Graham and thus created a vicious circle of anger and mockery throughout the vehicle. They were less than two hours past Luton when the following conversation took place which made it too much for Benny to cope with.

"OK. Gore. Favourite things about football?" was Zippy's opener. If you were expecting the answer to revolve around famous victories in sixty-six and the like, you are going down the wrong Boulevard.

"When they decide to change halves at the toss-up. When the ball hits the corner flag but doesn't go out of play. Orange balls in the snow. When the camera focuses on a member of the crowd who is irate who is shouting but lets out a drop of flob or snot by mistake. When Italian players have to cover their earrings with white tape, not plasters."

"Never plasters." Zippy has an opinion about the covering of jewellery with plasters and is against it. "What about floodlight failure? I like it when someone makes a player laugh in the post-match interview. I also respect the person who decided to put more whoosh noises into the game as a televisual spectacle."

This continued for a while with the pair of them trying to classify these incidents in some sort of classification when they were inevitably side-tracked into a greater topic of conversation.

"Which characters in history, could be political or social, would be best represented by biscuits. For example, I have always considered that Mussolini would be well represented by a Jammy Dodger." Offered Zippy into the forum.

"There must be reasons." Gore enquired. There were and a discussion followed about the likeness of Oreos to Michael Jackson, Blue Ribbands being like John Lennon and Penguins representing Anne Boylen. When this moved onto questions about which soap star would enjoy which type of holiday more than another (Zippy actually had a theory why Dirty Den would enjoy a cycling holiday in the Dordogne more than Curly Watts). It became too much for Benny who said he was putting the radio on. When Gore heard the suggestion of the radio he fell into a deep depression at the thought that someone could enjoy that chart fodder in deference to his selections. The inane conversation stopped and Benny suggested that Zippy, if he must talk, could tell the end of the Alan story.

"But that's not a really jolly story." Zippy remarked.

"Yes, but we have just passed a sign that says we are eighteen miles from Leicester. Which means we have shitloads to go and you will be thrown from this car if you two continue talking shite. Please tell the Alan story or say nothing." Benny was adamant. He placated Gore by saying he could drive after the next services, at the same time angering Graham. Zippy continued the story of Alan.

"Well, as you know, Alan had little or no time for the rules. He also had promised himself he would retire as a millionaire before the completion of his thirtieth spring. This was hurtling towards him and the possibility of him retiring comfortably for the remainder of his time seemed little more than a rather infuriating joke.

Alan continued to scheme towards the one great job that would net him enough to commence a new life away from Luton, somewhere sunnier, somewhere where he wouldn't need that much money and would be assured a return on his investment. He had decided on, Cuba. The reasons for this decision were none too clear. Alan did not boast an excessive knowledge of geography, he would have been hard pushed to find Birmingham on a map. Still, Cuba it was, and the dream had to be realised. Alan was getting more and more desperate, although in the bars and clubs he still remained that happy-go-lucky character that everyone lapped up, inside he felt time was running out. He didn't want to spend a Tony Matthews style life, looking over his shoulder, awaiting the young pretender to come and steal the throne, he wanted out, and quick.

That said, we continued to do the odd job together, although it was clear that Alan's motivation for sport had waned. We were on the brink of saying goodbye to the birthday jobs for good when he came to us with a plan. It was his birthday a few days after he came to us and said that he had found a place that was so poorly guarded that it was almost embarrassing how easy it was going to be. After scratching the surface it turned out that it wasn't really going to be that easy, but still, within our capabilities. Apparently, in a warehouse on the outskirts of Luton lay bags of cash frequently left unattended. Alan decided that a number of these, to be determined by the amount we could carry, were in fact his property. Graham couldn't see how it could be so easy, but the recky missions did offer the potential thief more than a modicum of good feeling. From time to time there were people who looked burly enough to cause concern, never more than three though and the five of us could surely inflicted a superior damage ratio to them. And so, despite reservations, we concluded that work with the man Matthews had lost its edge and was so dreary, mainly due to a ridiculous level of police protection, me and Benny would take clothes into the stations on special orders, at times if the sizes were wrong, a police car would take us back to the lock-up and change them, for that reason it might be a bit of a laugh to get back in with Alan, as long as things were done properly.

It was the first time we had worked together on his birthday. As soon as we met to go to the warehouse, something was different about him. He had always thrived on the energy of the pre-job ride, adrenaline rushing through his system, the camaraderie of the gang and the thought of the loot. This time we all just sat in the car in semi-silence, wondering when the fun was going to start.

It took about ten minutes to drive out of town and get to the warehouse. We parked up and, as expected, saw no other vehicles in the forecourt. We exited the vehicle and Alan told us to wait, he was changing the plans a bit. He never saw Graham as much of a battler, and wanted him behind the wheel and controlling the mobiles, should things go off. Remember these are the days of relative mobile infancy, none of the luxury features you see nowadays, just an apparatus to speak to people on, seems absolutely ludicrous in retrospect, doesn't it? Benny questioned this, suggesting that there would probably be no-one inside, therefore, more hands carry more bags of loot. Alan insisted that one never knew and opened the boot to pull out an enormous, and, what looked to be, very sharp machete. Now everyone took a step back and pulled out the old "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" lines. Alan said it was a little bit of extra insurance and was halfway in before our instincts could vainly attempt to convince our bodies not to follow suit.

To cross the hundred metres that separated the car from the door took less than a minute, as would be expected, though with the machete glimmering from the evening sun, every step appeared to be taken through a meandering stream of marmalade laced with super glue. Once inside, swift work it was to find the loot, and realise that this could be the job Alan had talked of for so long. Perhaps, for this reason his nerves were more than apparent. We grabbed a bag each and tried to do a weight cash guess, a rather tricky ask when you don't know if there are fivers, Ayrtons or snorty specials inside the bag. Actually, we didn't really know if it was money inside, maybe it was cut up bits of last night's Standard, we didn't have time to check. We just enjoyed that brief moment in the silence. Then it came to us, then we started to listen to the silence, then we started to hear it. It wasn't a normal silence, for a start there was too much of it. That much silence cannot be real, and as we stood, frozen with the bags in our hands, broken was our friend the silence. To this day, I will never understand why they, after waiting to catch us red-handed, came out of the door, brandishing baseball bats and screaming as they ran towards us. The moment has even made me contemplate religion. I have a profound desire to praise the lord, God almighty for making these villains stupid enough to run at us screaming. I thought that only happened in the films, but it gave us the ten metres we needed.

We made light with our feet which were made heavy by the bags in our hands. Decision time had knocked on our door. With the bags we would not make it to the car. We hadn't even considered the fact that there would be other goons waiting outside the door, surely that would not be cricket? Could anyone be such a bad sport? Alan was losing about a metre a second with the machete as well as the bag of cash. The call came to drop the bags and we made it to the door. I dared not look back in case I lost my footing and turned into a blonde nymphet from a straight to video horror flick. Once outside, we saw the car and Graham managed to capture the message without the need for digital communication devices. With no time for comedy, the car started first time and Graham slid over to open the doors, a nice touch indeed in such a hairy moment. In further testament to our chaser's stupidity, they stopped in their tracks as they came into the open air, realising their vehicle was on the other side of the building. We got in and sped off, still charged on the rush, but unable to contain the laughter as we saw good our escape. Triumphantly, Alan leaned out the window, brandishing the machete and offering expletives to the losers we had just left behind. Graham struggled to maintain control of the vehicle between giggles and told Alan to haul himself in, as we went through the main gate there was a little knock on the small wall seemingly put there for no good reason, but we were on the open road, and, it would appear free.

After the moment died down we went into that post euphoric moment, when the thrill of the chase has gone and you are left with your mind reminding you of how close you had come, once again, to doing your final job, the adrenaline having now departed their system, left to assimilate your accomplishment in the privacy of your domain, away from the cameras, the moment seems already etched in history and the initial feelings of ecstasy are replaced a by a confusing emptiness and the knowledge that the moment will never be repeated. Thus, we sat in the vehicle for a good couple of minutes as Graham made time. All of us unsure which words would serve to resume communications. It wasn't until Benny leaned forward to suggest a short cut that he felt a sharp pain in his knee, and we realised that the nightmare was far from over.

Somehow, as he pulled himself back into the passenger's seat, Alan did so still brandishing the machete, and in a way that could probably only be repeated one time in a million, just as we had that little knock against the wall, Alan must have slid forward and drove the machete straight through his stomach. He can't have taken long to die, as our glance switched to the floor of the motor, there was already a pool of what used to be Alan's sanguine life force covering the carpet. Our immediate dilemma was that we could not stop, this was the only road going back into town, we had to find a detour, then make a plan. We knew that the solution lay with Tony Matthews, but were none too enamoured with the idea of making that call.

The police could be called. Who would believe this was an accident? Also the press angle might have a negative impact on our non-amorous suitors. We found our way off the track that had been beaten and looked to pull over somewhere relatively safe, Alan's impaled corpse still rooted to the passenger seat. It is hard to drive with a dead friend in the car, and inevitably the moment began to take its toll.

"This is morose. I need a smoke." Gore was the first to speak as he extracted a fresh deck of lights. "Shit. Has anyone got a light?" He asked the group.

To this day I don't know why, but this seemed to be the most appropriate thing to say. "I think Alan has." At first it did not look like I would be getting any comedy awards and I tried to make amends. "Sorry, that may have been in rather poor taste." As I had almost finished the sentence the car was in laughter from all but one occupant. We got to some abandoned woods and pondered when we would next laugh as it was decided that Graham should make the call.

It is not clear that whether I, or Benny, had made that call, Tony's reaction would have been any different. It was assumed that Graham had a special bond with him, that he respected Graham more because he wasn't just a thick thief. Matthew's displeasure was registered and we knew that later we would amortise the debt, but at the time heads had to be clear to dispose of the evidence. Disposing of cadavers is not one of our fortes, so Tony's input was appreciated. The plan was rather simple, as long as it looked like suicide then the police were keen to put it down to just that. Matthews did make it quite clear that he did not like using up favours on such a joker, his feelings on Alan were well known. We could be up for the underworld equivalent of the sack, sure our work-rate was good, but we could be liabilities. Anyway, that would have to be addressed after disposal.

Tony Matthews seemed far too comfortable around death, we knew that people die in our line of work with more regularity than they do in, say, the Post Office or chartered accountancy, but shoeings were still more the order of the day than assassinations. We were never prepared for death, Death never calls ahead with his flight itinerary, and husbands are never asked by wives if they have put up the camp bed with an extra blanket for Death in that oh so cold spare room. Instinct ruled our actions as we put the fact that Alan had left this Earth from our mind. We had work to do. Matthews enquired as if to whether the implement which had caused the fatality was still in the victim. It was. He then said that we would have to get him into the driver's seat and somehow get him to drive into a tree with enough force to cause the car to explode. Keep it simple, boss. The most unpleasant part was shifting the body from the passenger's seat to the driver's. Then we had to find a way to get him to drive into a few nice birches that were on the other side of the road. All this without being seen. The first attempt didn't go too well. We got him driving towards the trees with Benny holding his leg onto the accelerator and him jumping out as a certain amount of speed was built up. Inevitably, the speed was not enough to cause an explosion as the car hit the tree, not full on as his hands had slipped from the steering wheel, and made a dull, uninspiring thud. Indeed, a louder noise came from Benny's shoulder as it was dislocated upon impact with the ground. We tried again, this time from further out and with Alan's right hand on the accelerator and his left foot tied to the steering wheel to keep it steady, (we didn't have enough string for both hands) we managed to get him up to a good twenty mph before impact. The thud was better but the naughty vehicle still refused to explode. Third time lucky was discussed before Benny thought the Dickens with this and decided to light an oily rag and dump it in the petrol tank as the motor plodded to the now heavily abused birch. This time she blew and we made it on foot, taxis verboten, to the petrol station were Matthew's boys awaited us.

The first thing we were asked was if we had completed the task as requested. We told them we had and for some strange reason looked at them like we expected some sort of commendation. The showdown with Matthews would be later, we were allowed to stay for the funeral, on condition that we say nothing about that night. All feeling ready to be swallowed into Beelzebub's lair as we tried to converse with Alan's distraught widow who held herself in some way responsible for the ultimate decision taken by her husband. After that, we had more pressing issues to worry about. Matthews would need to use up another favour as the lads we were trying to rob now knew who we were and that we worked for Matthews. This was considered a gross infringement of the code of conduct which regulated patches. We would need to disappear for a while and let things cool down, knowing that some form of community service would be required upon our return, to remedy the wrong we have done to our rivals, we will have to be at their disposal for a short while.

So, we were sent off to Greece the next day, pay suspended, on a party island with no desire to party. Waiting for the call to come back or wondering would our grave by the Aegean Sea or the Thames. So that was Alan, gallant, gracious, raconteur, comic, uncontrollable, universally adored and even in death, a conversation piece. Every thief in Luton lost a little something that day, but when we remember him, we do so fondly, reliving the continuous joy that he gave us in the brief time he was in our lives, knowing that we were blessed to have been given the moments we should now cherish in his memory for many moons will pass before we meet another of his ilk. May you rest in peace, causer of trouble, robber of items and perpetrator of joy."

As Zippy finished the tale, the dry eyes in the car were few in number as they entered the Caledonian kingdom of the Celts. At junction 16 they turned off and made for their highland retreat of Marlot, choosing the first decent place that they found in the town.
BOOK ONE - SECTION ELEVEN

M Memories of Thievery (II) Imperatum Cadit

It's now our first night in Scotland and the strange thing about an unknown place is the way when you start thinking about a story to tell, only sad ones come to mind. I'm not experiencing any negative vibes about our little stay in Scotland, London was a breeze and I've no regrets about turning Kalvin over, no-one has, it's just something about a new place, a place that never figured in the change, that brings over a solemn mood in me. Maybe even the fact that Zippy was finishing off the story in the car about Alan, sombre thought it was it made a welcome change from his patter with Gore, has had an effect on me and set the tone for the night.

Our hosts are seemingly rather fine people. Whether we will stay here is still up for discussion, we had hoped to get further into the Bonnie Land, but the drive was beginning to weigh heavy, and we'd have had to end up allowing Graham to drive. The guest house we have fallen upon reminds me of childhood holidays, I've not had a very extensive look around, though fear I shall be confronted by sailing paraphernalia on the walls at some juncture. In the same way that Irish bars feel the need to place rusty old kettles on their walls, guest house appear to worry about their possibility of steering their guests through the choppy waters of the east wing in an emergency. I'm the first one down and sitting in the bar with the idea of another night in the same company going through my head as the most repugnant form of passing the evening. I get in moods like this from time to time, maybe it's got something to do with little Kylie, I do miss her, but it's just best for me to get away from the rest of the them, especially Graham. It's a fair walk across the Glen, at least it looks like a Glen, I shan't ask just in case they answer me in Bolivian, I really need to be away from Gray, into town and I'm sure that some time to myself will help me realise my maudlin ways are unnecessary.

I leave them a note and head out into the night. I'm sure we could all do with some personal time as the change is bearing down on us and means we will be in each other's pockets, more than before. The change is now an almost reality, and that is the best situation we have been in for a while. As I tell you this I realise two things, first we need a bit of history to help understand the background, and, secondly, I wish I had a scarf, Scotland, it seems, cares not for spring. As you will know by now Kalvin is the catalyst for the change, I feel I can speak to you more candidly when I'm on my own now that Graham is out of earshot, our idyllic existence in Luton shattered by the demise of Tony Matthews. I'm sure you are on tenterhooks so I'll do the questions for you.

Just how did the demise of Tony Matthews come about?

Tony Matthews ran a tight ship. Everyone knew their place and worked towards their strengths. Apart from that everyone was happy, everyone was earning, and earning well, so there was no need to usurp the local power base. Tony rose to glory through the sixties, and, if he had a failing, it was not modernising. Probably because he didn't care for modernisation, as modernisation in that sense, the crime sense meant violence and drugs and death. He never seemed to realise that the Krays were not smart gents in handsome suits, though Luton wasn't London, they had to keep things ticking over with the odd dig. Tony thought you could be a gentleman forever, and, to an extent, by keeping everyone sweet, he did so for a long time. Also, we had to take into account the fact that no-one cared for the responsibilities of leadership during our upsurge as major players in the minor pond. Taking power from him would mean us starting effectively from zero, all and sundry loved Tony Matthews so business would be made difficult, or so we thought. The fear factor played a big part in changing people's antiquated attitudes.

By the end of the nineties Tony Matthews was getting on. His crew had been loyal, yet time was a hard enemy to escape from. The hard men that instilled fear into our hearts in our youth now seemed like old, wheezy men who now took time off for doctor's appointments, and while it was without doubt that they would still kick the shite out of all of us apart from Gore, any young pretender with enough firepower would be able to compromise his position. Matthews was aware of this and offered an olive branch to Graham Scarrasbrick and Paul Thompson, who had been his most practical of protégés, he knew they could work with us and maintain a certain amount of the old school vibe he was looking to outlive him, in a professional sense. Scazza and Thompson saw this as a great opportunity at first, but soon relented, their enthusiasm waning when they realised there could be a war around the corner. When word got out there was talk of a share flotation in the offing, people's ambition grew. For the first time, Tony Matthews appeared vulnerable, an old man ready for the scrap heap. Things carried on as usual for a while, whilst the planners and the schemers did their work behind closed doors and in dark alleyways.

By showing weakness Tony Matthews had exposed himself to the first group of loons who had sufficient balls to take him out. By the summer of '99 this was on the cards, although Kalvin did not present himself as the first pretender to the Matthew's crown. Martin Mansely walked into Matthews' office with five guys and baseball bats whilst Matthews' protectors were mainly to be found sunning themselves in Lanzarote, a quiet word was had and the reigns of power were handed over. This caused Kalvin to think twice about his role as our underling, and, from that day on war was declared.

2. What did Kalvin do to take power?

Very simple, he broke away from us, got all the scallies together and got himself tooled up, more tooled up than anyone could be to beat him, and no-one tried. We didn't even realise what was happening, Tony Matthews disappeared off the scene on a long holiday and before he'd even been through passport control, we were taking orders off Mansely. Mansley held power for two months, taking us into the final autumn of the millennium, enough time for Kalvin to observe whether there would be a Matthews return, or another coup d'êtat. Whilst many could not believe the indignity of working for Mansley, visits were paid to those who voiced their dissent, and in mid September we had a wee version of Kristalnacht in Luton. Mansley had a small crew, and on a base of promises and threats, Kalvin had got together enough bodies to outnumber them three to one, plus they had shooters. Mansley's cohorts were warned, but Mansley had to be made an example of. Whilst he could hardly be strung up with piano wire in the town square, although the police were pressuring Matthews to resolve the mess he had created, Mansley would be given a public execution.

A meeting was called between Kalvin by Mansley in an attempt to share power before it was too late. Before the meeting took place, Kalvin went to see the police department with an offer. He promised to put an end to this mess, and would up their commission. Whether the police were particularly worried about criminals destroying each other without causing the tax-paying public any harm was possibly secondary to the question of their commission. Kalvin informed them that they would need to dispose of a body, the police informed Kalvin that this would not be a problem. Kalvin listened to what Mansley had to say, and in mid sentence shot him in the face. End of mess, or so we thought, why would anyone think that? How could we have been so naïve? After analysing this issue, because we wanted it to be over or because we were too scared to think what might happen.

Kalvin's rise to power had no immediate effect on our work. We were in a pickle indeed, a moral pickle that is. We felt bad about Tony Matthews cos he was the one that had faith in us and made us what we are, sorry were. At the same time, we had to balance the fact that more than one body had been disposed of, many people could not boast the same good looks that they had under Matthews, and any amount of lip could end in disaster. This meant that Graham and Kalvin could not be in the same room together. However, for the first year and a bit we had a privileged position, Kalvin wanted us to maintain the line we were in whilst at the same time training up people to know the business. We assumed, wrongly, that our expertise and long service would save us from the fate befalling many others in the environs. Again, we did not want to think that our truth was not the real truth, and that when the first graduates from our programme were ready to take the streets, we would be categorised as superfluous.

Kalvin may seem stupid, in some ways he is, but he is the cleverest stupid person I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. He knew what he was doing all the time. Keeping the clothes business ticking over, making sure we were passing on our know-how without suspecting, and finally removing us from our speciality to be forever treated like the unclean. By 2001 we were stealing alcohol and cigarettes again, if we were lucky orchestrating raids but generally in the firing line. High risk from speed charged security guards, high risk from other bands and demanding policeman whose curiosity was purged at two hundred sheets a time. A year later we were notably down the ladder and peddling drugs on the streets. The next step was the heroin, were you came in to the story, and I don't think I need reiterate how we feel about that vibe.

3. So what became of Tony Matthews? Retirement? Golf Course?

For a while it was like that, but Tony was lying to himself. He spent nights lying awake questioning how he could give up with such ease something that he had worked so hard for. He knew the moment was coming, yet never managed to prepare himself for it. Once the focus was changed to drugs and away from fashion, things were always going to get too violent. Before Tony had the manpower to handle it, but now he had gone to seed and so had his men. He despised himself for not putting up a fight, knowing that putting up a fight would put him into a grave he had successfully spent three decades avoiding.

It was during those long nights that Tony Matthews realised that they had actually killed him when they took what was his. We didn't see it at first, Graham tried to explain that they killed the soul when they took away his driving force. Matthews did not steal for need, he stole because it was his art, his perfected trade that he had shared with his heart throughout his adult life, the scheming, the planning, the togetherness, seeing the booty split up and the looks on the faces of the culprits and the victims, that was what Matthews thrived on, and that is what they took from him, as Graham says, his soul. When a man had no soul but they leave you with the body that you used to use to transport it, you soon come to see that the need for the body is minimal now. Tony Matthews tried to lie to himself for a few months, paranoia eating him up inside at the golf club as he was seen as the ex - criminal he was, in privation of the respect that continually used to follow him around in the form of fear. He also detested the people he was forced to share his new life with, retired carpet salesmen, insurance brokers and the like. Mrs. Matthews carried on as always, enjoying the extra time with her husband to participate in her naïve brand of social elevation without seeing the aghast looks of her new friends in the upper-crust.

Tony Matthews came to the decision that his body was superfluous and should join his wandering spirit, wherever it could be found. One morning, he told his wife he was going to the driving green and that she could take the Jaguar into London if she so wished. She did so wish, and whilst she was enjoying the heady spending of the platinum, her husband mounted the stairs. Armed only with a hoover, he attached the tube to the sturdy mahogany banister and tied the other end around his neck. He considered a note, but simply offered a "SORRY" text to Graham, as if he knew that Graham could explain it better than he could in a note. As it wasn't a cry for help, Matthews had no second thoughts as he, soon to be liberated to join his thieving soul, threw himself off the banister and allowed the life that was left in his sublunary frame. Yes, some of the words from the last bit come from Graham's explanation, but how often am I gonna get to use the word sublunary? In a disco? In Luton? It was like every thief in Luton lost a Granddad when Tony died, but now I realise that we lost him when Kalvin took control. Rest In Peace, dogmatist of our dexterity.

4.. What is the change, and how did it become a possibility?

Like many things that go on to shape your life, the change came about for us in a rather unexpected way. It all dates back to Alan's funeral. Obviously, Alan's death hit us all hard, and whilst you could see it was on the cards by his modus operandi it was still little comfort for those who felt the grief. The affair was reasonably intimate in theory, but Alan's popularity meant that many people whose names did not figure on the list came to pay their last regards. As you will have seen from that drugged-up old hippy's recounting of the story that I was left somewhat indisposed for the funeral and a shoulder injury made it impossible for me to be one of the coffin bearers. This added to my general sadness on the day and forced me to take something of a back seat on the bus. It was there that I got talking to a bloke who claimed to be a former business of contact of Alan's, from way back, he was saddened by Alan's death and felt he had to come to say goodbye. Anyway, we got talking and he started to tell me all about how well he was doing on the Costa, telling us that we should give it a whirl if we ever got bored. He gave me his card, which was pocketed and then not much more was thought of it. Why would we ship up and go to Spain? We had everything we wanted at the time, things with Tony Matthews were going north of well, Alan's death had also helped us put things into perspective. In short, it was the greatest time of our lives, we were respected, admired, feared, fancied and considered celebrities, indeed, all very small pond, but we still had no desire to move on.

Thus, it stayed until the next major funeral. That of our previously gracious benefactor, Mr. Anthony Gabriel Matthews. By that time changes were in the offing, but we still maintained a somewhat privileged position in the new set-up. Our visitor reappeared for that one too, and soon acquired the moniker of The Funeral Director, this was quickly changed when we took him up on his offer as he was technically directing our future. Again, he singled me out and gave me a new version of his card and his hotmail address. When things went from bad to worse to despicable we began to consider this option as a viable one. With Tony Matthews still warm, it didn't take a genius to see what was happening, when we got our P45's, we made contact with the Funeral Director. He was keen for our move to happen as soon as possible, he claimed to have been looking into our style and thought it would take us little time to adapt to the continental game. We would have been there now were it not for the inconvenience of the Spanish authorities considering him to be responsible for some trumped up charge. From that moment on, he informed us that his organisation was lying low and that there would not be a milk round on campus for the duration of his twelve-month sentence at the pleasure of Juan Carlos the First. That meant biting the bullet, we tried to scrimp and save as much as we could whilst also taking on jobs outside the locality that gave birth to us. It was not a pleasant year, though the thought of sunnier climes helped us through. Of course, it could have easily turned out to be a pipe dream, maybe the Funeral Director would diversify upon leaving his cell, maybe he had seen the error of his ways and changed his recidivistic tendencies. Thankfully, he didn't and we were told that we would be welcome into the organisation from April onwards. Unfortunately, it is still early March and we have to do a midnight flit. So that's it, two weeks or so in the sun before the change becomes a reality.

Finally, I arrive at a place that looks acceptable for an evening meal, and, for the first time in my life, order a table for one. Restaurants are not particularly good places for a single male and this is no exception. The place is full of couples and families, there is a group of girls in the corner who appear to be on a hen night or something, which should be avoided as you'll have to buy them all drinks. I am seated by the waiter and order the most expensive thing on the menu and a bottle of white wine. The waiter is a pleasant chap, perhaps there is something true about northern hospitality, that cunt in London could learn a thing or two from this guy, but I don't think that trying to befriend him in the hope of a night on the tiles would be a good idea. To my great surprise, the wine is brought by a rather charming young filly and a conversation is struck up. It turns out she is in a serious relationship and faithfulness is a pillar of their homestead, takes all sorts, I suppose. She does inform me that her sister is at a loose end this evening and may care to join me for a civilised drink after my meal. I ask her if her sister is as beautiful as her and she laughs, telling me they consider the ugly one in the family. She extracts a photo of her sister, strange thing to carry round, but I'm glad she did. The sister is a right looker, so the waitress gets a nice tip and I get some quality company for the soir. I'm sure you don't want another tale of my prowess, so if you have no more questions I will see you tomorrow in the hotel lobby.
BOOK ONE - SECTION TWELVE

Scotland for the brave

THE ITALIAN: My brief was simple: to keep an eye on our four new recruits. Check out how they work and report back to the man they rather amusingly refer to as the Funeral Director. My stay was not supposed to be of such long duration either, the people back on the Costa were pleased with my reports and held the opinion that their new charges boasted all the pre-requisites necessary for that sector, only when the Kalvin incident occurred was I asked to maintain my vigilance. So, I have been following them around to a lesser or greater extent for the last couple of weeks. My anonymity has been guarded by the fact that I do not have the appearance of one who would trail them and certain electronic devices that facilitate my work from afar.

I have been in the employ of the Funeral Director and his consortium for a number of years now. I had retired for a peaceful life in the sun after a long lifetime of organised crime in my native Rome. Not that I was ever involved in the uglier side of the business, more due to a combination of my interest in electronics, a sanguine line that I could not choose and a liking for the Lira (in those days) got me involved in the business. By the time I hit my late forties I decided enough was enough and longed to go to a funeral where the star of the show had died of natural causes. I didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted when they let me go, hardly recognition for a lifetime's work, but let me go they did, and for a while the fishing and the golf sufficed, but then boredom joined me for a four-ball and I found myself having a nose around. It didn't take long before the pink press of crime sent shakes round the grapevine, and I received a call. I mulled it over for almost a minute and was welcomed into the fold.

Now, the boys are of the opinion that the Funeral Director is a major player in the game. This is not the case. The Funeral Director was sent over by Fat Charlie, who is the boss of the world, ostensibly, to check out these lads he had heard about. Fat Charlie was under the impression he had some form of international criminal scouting programme underway, but that did not explain the rather excessive interest he had in one of them in particular. The Funeral Director reported back, yet Fat Charlie seemed set on the idea of getting these four to the Costa del Sol, despite the Funeral Director's insistence that they were, at best, rather run of the mill. Which brings me here. They should, by rights, be over in the Costa now, but circumstances, largely caused by a new police of chief, had put a freeze on recruitment. We fed them some story and observed how they stuck out the hell that their hometown had become, it would be easy for me to criticise it, or make some sarcastic comment as I come from the eternal city, but I must comment on their endurance and their commitment to the dream. I have been observing since before the altercation with Kalvin, seeing their modus operandi and weighing up how this would translate to life on the Costa. Over the last few weeks I have seen behaviour of a devious and unscrupulous nature which has been gleefully reported back to my superiors. Plus, their ability to withstand rather disagreeable levels of social and professional humiliation should also be of benefit to them. When they knocked off Kalvin and his gear that was received as a master stroke by Fat Charlie who asked me to stay just to see how they would act in a potential war.

Of course, so far the war hasn't come. My technology allows me to spy on them, but only from a relatively close distance. With the aid of bluetooth (my new best friend) I can keep tabs on them simply by having their mobile numbers, if they change my computer can log onto any number in operation in a certain radius and with a voice synthesiser programme can tell me who is who. I also put a tag onto their van, as well as being in and out of their dwellings in the matter of a flash. All this meant that they could be monitored without raising suspicion, and meant that I didn't have to spend all my time in pubs and clubs, which, for a start would raise suspicion. Of course, them changing vehicle whilst I was still recovering from the mere observation of their shenanigans in the capital put me off track a bit, but I was sure that they had changed it for a more comfortable model of their contact in the capital's and was soon hooked up to its very convenient GPRS system.

Apart from my reports to those who pay my wages in the sunnier climes, I have compiled my own notes on the four of them, which I think helps to build some sort of composite picture of their psychological make-up. As they are at lunch now and there is little to do in this rather dull Caledonian hotel, though I shan't be complaining as it is the first time I have rested for a while, I will share with you my thoughts on the boys. You must take into account that these notes were compiled before I was wholly sure of their names and so gave them what I considered, then, fitting epithets.

We shall start with the Good-Looking one. He considers himself the leader of the group and responsible for all the major decisions. This is, naturally, not the case, though the other three see no harm in allowing for this pretence to be maintained. His motivation is largely sexual, possessing a worrying ability to charm women into amorous postures mixed with a lifelong inability to maintain a relationship or indeed love. His superficial nature forces him away from any potential serious relationship, and his constant need for self-vindication in a horizontal fashion requires him to be continually proving himself in the field of play. Possesses what the locals call the gift of the gab and could probably sell hair-gel to Buddhist monks. Was a fundamental part in the rather ingenious doing-over of Kalvin and is not shy to remind his colleagues of this. Also made the sale to TK. Can be something of a pain, untrustworthy to the point that he would betray any of the three others without the merest consideration. Enjoys, not the right word at all, a rather tumultuous relationship with the one I call the Brain, unable to see eye to eye on most matters, and often taking the contrary stance simply to annoy. Sensation that this is deep-rooted in a mutual jealousy for the prowess of the other, notably lacking in both, combined with the inability to communicate and articulate their mutual respect.

The Brain on the other hand is a more complex character, the Good-Looking one does not have much of a poker face, but the Brain is more of a neurotic and unpredictable creature. Meticulous in his work, he has almost eliminated danger from the task due to good planning. Enormously discontent with his situation and still bitter about the disappearance of his beloved, who left because he never did anything but talk about changing. Finds it difficult to form friendships and even the other two are at times none too sure of his actual feelings. Maintained a rather close relationship with the late Tony Matthews that many people saw as suspicious, possible amount of shrouded homosexuality, maybe even the possibility that he is in love with the Good-Looking one but could never announce it. Although that might be me just getting a bit carried away.

The other two on the surface seem to have no function. The idea of their Danny and Pilon lookout on life may be a veracious one. Both appear to have fallen into crime as a method to perpetuate their interests in narcotics, alcohol, music, clothes and women, hobbies in which there are varying degrees of excellence and failure. The Chemist asks little from life, and tends to get less. Consumption has been steady since schooldays and health problems cannot be far away. His purpose in the organisation is more of a foot soldier, his chemicals are not generally required for most jobs other to ward off the demon of sleep, hardly reason for being a partner. Loyalty must have been something that Tony Matthews instilled into them because as far as I can see the Chemist looks like little more than a liability. This has been communicated to the Costa, but these items come in a pack of four, so the Chemist goes to, though shall be monitored very closely.

Muscles is the hardest to assess. His ability to remain quiet makes one think of him as a rather thick thug. Though when you scratch beneath the service you can find a loyal and intelligent person. Obsessed with music and unable to comprehend people's disinterest, to whom he can become quite ambivalent. Still, his gentle ways make a welcome change from the asinine comments sprayed at each other by the others. Do not make the mistake of typecasting him as Steinbeck's Lenny, as this is not the case.

Well, that's my rather brief résumé of the four of them, and now I sit in the hotel bar, reading a rather pleasant book whilst seated two tables away from them. I have been in most of the places that they have been in for a while now, but they still do not see my presence as odd. With half an eye on the book and both ears open, I try to eavesdrop their conversation which fails to attract any passing philosophers. Bemoaning the lack of "talent", the lack of action, the lack of drugs and the lack of most things, except it would seem, lack. I'm almost wont to leave them to it, I have their flight details and passport numbers in my computer, except the Chemist's of course, though that arrives by courier tomorrow, and get an early night's sleep, when I am rudely joined.

A couple of English tourists have decided to join me at my table and make small-talk. I have no time for this and make clear my intentions to vacate the table. With that they notice my accent is not quite Robbie Burns and enquire as to my lineage. Politely, though it nearly kills me, I inform them that I am from Rome though has spent most of the recent past in Malaga and aim to bid them goodnight. However, it appears they have been to Rome. He, still yet to speak but I live in fear, insists on getting me a pint. I decline but to no avail. They begin.

"We were in Rome in '98, ooooh, it's beautiful." She embarks on a monologue of places to her gratification, mentioning the Coliseum, Trevi fountain, St. Peter's Square amongst others. My internal monologue is forcing its way out and wanting to tell her that I am from Rome and that she needn't continue this platitudinous discourse and save her plebeian thoughts for a lesser mind. I don't wish to be rude though, partly to not draw attention to myself in front of my subjects. Yet still she continues. It turns out they are from Darlington. No, I have no idea where that place is either, and now should I ever be offered the chance to visit it, I shall swiftly rebuff such invitation. Yet on they go. Have I been to Venice? I am ITALIAN, would she like it if I asked if she had ever been to Leeds? Now I can see the relief in the faces of those on other tables who have been spared this monotonous diatribe, they empathise with my pain whilst at the same time express "sorry mate" with glee in their eyes. She informs me that the Italians call it Venezia. Well really, that is news to me, but I did possess this information before you came to question the beauty of the human existence, as I am ITALIAN. I take a sip of my drink and inform them I really do have to be cracking on, as fatigue is vanquishing me.

"You what?" Asks the man. Rather disgruntled that a pint has been bought and not returned. I forgot about the unwritten law that the Anglo-Saxon male has in the pub. This behaviour is not considered, as they say, cricket.

"I am rather tired and would like to go to my room now. I bid you goodnight." It took up all my polite cells working in unison not to want to have them murdered, but he continued. "You've not touched your drink. That's rude that is. Get a pint off someone and don't drink it, let alone get me one back. That's rude that is." He repeats. Sorry, I now have to blow my cover.

"Rude." I stand up, better to be hung for stealing a delicious lasagne from my favourite little place in the Piazza de la Republica than a microwave one from Lidl. "I'll tell you what rude is. Rude is you sitting at my table, uninvited, I may add, and telling me about your dull holidays. I made it quite clear that I did not wish to share your company yet you still insisted on parking your badly fed behinds at my table and telling me about the sights of Rome. I am from there, I was born there and spent the best part of forty-five years there. What could you possibly know about Rome that I wouldn't, or would interest me? What would make you think that anyone would be interested in what you say simply because you sit at their table. If there is a problem about the beer, I did let you know that I didn't want one but will gladly refund the difference. Now, I have quite finished and wish to retire." I finished and failed to realise that I was shaking and had downed the pint I was aiming to leave. I had made my point.

"I have never been so insulted in my life." Said she.

"Well, you should have been." Said I. Off they went. I was half expecting a reproach for my outburst, but was given a verbal pat on the back for my Latin temperament. The Chemist raised a glass and said "Well done son, don't take no shit! Thick northern bastards!" To which everyone raised a glass, and I wondered whether it was my outburst or the anti-English comment which caused the toast. I smiled and made my way to my room. I'd keep the bugs on tonight but didn't expect to have to review anything till tomorrow

* * * * * * *

As expected the night was of little interest. They stayed in the hotel bar and lamented not going into to town. Just as the other night they went into town and lamented not staying in the hotel. As there was little social outlet, the four of them decided to join the rest of the guests from the hotel on a delightful little trek which was to take place in the morning. The area was quite stunning and a crisp spring morning had the effect of making one desire a closer relationship with nature. The walk was not long, round a few hills, along a path and finishing up at a lake where there was a traditional country pub, for most people the incentive of the excursion. The couple from last night were also taking part, though remained sheepishly in the background, conversely, all smiles and good mornings were sent in my direction, and gladly reciprocated. I made good on my feet whilst the rest where still at breakfast, despite the excursion being a hotel organised thing I wanted to get a good pace on so the younger boys did not get too far ahead of me, should anything of interest come up. By now I was just buying time until my own flight left, a day after theirs. As I made my way along the walk, I considered the possibility of life in such and idyllic, tranquil place though wondered if the boredom may consume me. I took things rather easily and after about thirty minutes was soon caught up by the people I was supposed to be following. Nods were offered, received and given back as I tried to keep a respectable distance without losing them, although it was difficult to lose them in real terms. They stopped for what appears to have a myriad of names in this land, and on this occasion, was referred to as a "dooby". I passed them again, and indulged in the law of the country of saying "Good Morning" to everyone you pass by, thanking God that this was not the way of the city, lest we should get now work done, and reached the lake before them. It was there that an uneventful day become quite the opposite.

Before you reached the serene picnic area at the side of the lake there was a semi-treacherous area in which bathing would not be recommended. As always in these moments, life passed to slow motion as I sat at the table, enjoying a well-earned breather, and noticed a family by the side of the rapids. Either the parents were so consumed by the moment that they failed to notice the danger of the moment, or they simply believed that such things didn't really happen. Their young daughter wandered precariously close to the edge while her producers shared an embrace. The mother half-heartedly called out to her to come back, but to no avail. The embrace continued as did the young charge's desire for curiosity, before anyone could say or do anything the young girl was in the water and being washed towards the danger zone. The father broke off from the embrace but seemed frozen to the spot, watching in impotence as the water carried his first-born away. Screams echoed around the valley as the girl was taken towards the path of my soon to be co-workers. Without thinking Benny and Gore were in the water, fighting against the force of the rapids, desperately holding on to a log supported by Graham and Zippy on the bank. It looked impossible for them to get close to the path of the incoming young specimen but somehow Benny got himself attached to a log, which allowed Gore to launch into the water, and at full stretch with Benny holding onto the log and Gore's left leg, he managed to pluck her out of the water, cold with only a few bumps and bruises as reminders of her ordeal. Benny and Gore were still in the water though, and needed the help of Zippy and Graham with a pair of logs to return to dry land. As the force of the water threatened to take all three of them downstream, Gore, in what would later turn out to be a heroic act, though at the time had all the hallmarks of stupidity, propelled the young girl out of the lake and into Graham's arms, whilst he and Benny struggled along the pole until collapsing on the bank. There they sat, exhausted with the young girl in their arms, her screaming for them to get off her, when they fell into laughter.

The parents were soon over and took the daughter back into their arms. The mother awash with tears and the father offering hearty handshakes whilst being eaten up inside for having to congratulate them for a job he should have done. Cold and spent, they took refuge in the pub were an open fire welcomed the heroes. Warm Arran knit sweaters were brought from the hotel and long with fresh, dry pants lest our heroes should catch a chill. Benny did not give off the air of being too pleased with these garments and spent a short while contemplating hypothermia as a viable option. Common sense prevailed, though had there been anyone to turn his head, he might have remained soaking wet, but with the right brands on. Hot coffees with a little something extra were brought to stave off any potential freeze as the police asked a few questions. A tense moment came and went when one officer questioned the parent's ability to tend their offspring, but this was left as merely anecdotal by the wisdom of the old, worldly sergeant stepping in to calm the situation down. The police took the boys back to the hotel and we were left with no option but to walk back, with only one topic of conversation, as every member of the party used the expression "But, did you see the way......."

Back at the hotel word had not taken long to spread beyond the forecourt and there was a reporter from BBC Scotland, a girl who had probably spent her entire professional career waiting for a moment like this, and, due to the paucity of her employers had been forced to sit it out until the big moment came. She asked immediately for an interview and this was granted. Of course, Benny would need to change first, Gore had no qualms about looking like a Norwegian fisherman but Benny wanted the public to see just how good he looked. As she was left waiting so that Benny could perform his personal grooming routine, she feared the arrival of Sky or some other media mogul who would steal her story. She informed the remaining three that if Benjamin was not swift she would interview two of the other remaining southerners as the viewing public would be none too perturbed who appeared in the item. Graham liked this, here was a woman not moved by Benny's vanity but her own ambition. One gets the impression that Graham is automatically attracted to anyone who sees through Benny's superficiality, although fails to realise that this demonstrates that his own is rather evident.

Benny eventually descends and enquires about make up and lighting. She tells him to stand there and answer the questions, no shitting about, she said. She could smell ITV coming down the lanes. The interview commenced.

"Hello. This is Sally Bradshaw in Mallot, ....... Today a young girl was plucked from a watery grave by the timely intervention of four young gallant holidaymakers, who, being at the right place at the right time, have made sure that this is one story that has a happy ending." She paused and then looked at Benny and Gore, obviously her cameraman using this moment to pan out and get them all in shot. I've always fancied myself as a bit of an amateur video aficionado. She then asked Benny and Gore to describe, in their own words, just what happened. Gore went to speak, but Benny gestured that his turn would come later.

"Thank you Sally. You know, there comes a defining moment in the life of a man where you realise that your presence on this planet is to perform one good act that will have made your life gainful. An action that will set you apart from the mere proletariat and elevate you to your just place amongst the greater denizens of our epoch. Sally, today has been that for me." He would have continued had it not been for a timely "CUT!" by Sally, who was in no mood for such baroque patter. She reminded him that the story should be told simply and accurately, to keep their defining paths on the road to their self-discovery to be just that, for themselves. Benny complained that he needed to set the scene, and, with what he claimed to be due respect, maybe her knowledge of the trade was slightly lacking in some areas. Sally had no time for this and told him he had one more chance. If this was arsed up then Gore and Zippy would do it. As she was resetting the camera and getting everyone back into place, Benny made a gesture placing together the two pieces of skin that join the thumb to the forefinger, to visually demonstrate her sexual preferences. Ah! I thought, well that would explain it. Benny knows some stuff.

Benny managed to stick to the story and even left Gore say a few things. She told us it would be broadcast on the evening news, probably story four, between twelve and sixteen minutes past nine. She thanked Benny and Gore and the police. Benny told her she was welcome, and offered her the possibility of a drink later, to celebrate. She declined and politely told him she would rather have a threesome with Pol Pot and Idi Amin, but thank you, and with that she was gone. The local celebrities were welcomed inside where it was deemed that their should be a celebration at the town's premier institution, all costs to be borne by the parents of the saved child.

The afternoon seemed to drag for all and sundry, even though it was Saturday. I enjoy my little jokes. Arrangements had been made for a seven p.m. start, which some considered a trifle late. As we awaited forms of transport, the boys were being taken in the town's only limousine, the lassie who should be rights be paddling in the shallow end of the great celestial swimming pool, came with handmade cards for her four heroes, and although I and many others find schmaltz hard to stomach, there was hardly a dry eye in the house. The celebration was largely forgettable, speeches by Mayors, local police, proud parents and a monologue by Benny which made Sinatra's at the Sands seem the work of a shy lad. No-one listened and everyone got a bit as they say, lashed. At nine the news went on and great cheers came round as the interview was broadcast. Benny appeared dissatisfied with his participation and the way Sally, he said it an over-theatrical affected voice to denote her stupidity, had clipped his theatrical wings and therefore cost him the art of flight. By a little after ten, I made my way back to the hotel, and, after checking their mobiles out of nosiness fell into a deep sleep.

This deep sleep was broken by the computer spy offering me the information that one of the phones had received a voice mail. Intrigued, I listened to the message. It was on Graham's phone and the message was from TK, it simply said. "Hey my heroes! Good work boys, only trouble is that your little heroic escapade is on national TV and there also mentioning the fact that you are in a wee Scottish town that can't have more than two hotels. Now, I know Kalvin isn't exactly au fait with the old current affairs, but someone will take it upon themselves to let him now. It was broadcast at ten here. I don't know how long he would need, but just so you know that he could be on his way. Anyway, good work. Long live the revolution, send us a postcard, oh and Gray, Hilary says...." There the message ends. It appears today was not a good day for news and the boys at Wood Lane thought it a nice little story. Our problems now were the following; Graham actually has his phone off and is not at the hotel, Kalvin could be on the road and the party had free alcohol so they could back any time and in any state. How could I get him to turn on the phone? That was beyond my technology and saying to him "this may seem strange but why don't you check your mobile just before you go to sleep" neither seemed the solution. Destiny would have to decide this one, though after today's antics, you feel they deserve a break. I waited.

BOOK ONE - SECTION THIRTEEN

The Yobakishi Murders (II) Fire

Yobakishi wanted to know about fire. He wanted the stone to tell him. Unfortunately for Yobakishi the stone was less than willing to do so. The stone had severed all communication with Yobakishi when he rather foolishly claimed the red ball was his favourite thing in the world. The stone was, understandably, disappointed with this reverse in Yobakishi's attitude, and had conferred silence upon him until repentance was evident.

Yobakishi thought the stone rather harsh. This was, after all, rather difficult for a five-year-old to comprehend. Yobakishi did not see himself ready for the complexities of human relationships on this scale just yet, even if the characters were a ball, a stone and himself. Yobakishi asked the stone why he could not like the ball and the stone at the same time, but no response was forthcoming. Only through intuition had Yobakishi realised that the ball, red as it was, played some role in this tale. He had racked his brains in order to attempt to somehow ascertain why the stone should react in such a way. The boys he knew at school did not go to such extremes should he offend them in some way, and the offence was generally forgotten within a short space of time. Sometimes he and his friends did not wish to forget with such ease, but the pressure of remembrance was too much. In some ways Yobakishi was impressed with the stone's maintenance of the silence, whilst at the same time was forced to open the dictionary and learn the new word, stubborn. This caused him to think about the last time that Yobakishi maintained a conversation with the stone, and what the topic was. He remembered the red ball.

Even asking was not enough. "Is this about the red ball?" He would ask, but to negative avail. Instinct told him it was about the red ball. Their relationship had been fine until that cursed mention of the scarlet sphere. The stone started hiding during the day. Yobakishi knew that he would start the day in his drawer, but during the completion of day, the stone would change location at will, making any attempt at reconciliation rather fruitless. Yobakishi was beginning to become tired of this behaviour and shouted to the stone that he would ask his parents about fire if the stone did not tell him. This had the sneaky effect on the stone that Yobakishi had hoped, and had made him proud of himself for thinking so much, too much. The stone still said nothing but was more readily available to ignore Yobakishi. In this way, the youngster stumbled upon the solution.

The next day he found the stone sitting by the well, reading. The stone made no attempt to acknowledge Yobakishi's presence, despite seeing the red ball in his hand. Yobakishi began to rile the stone, he threw the red ball against the wall and commented exuberantly on its bouncing capacities. Then, when the stone was about to leave, Yobakishi asked the stone. "I can kill the ball for you. You only have to tell me that is what you want. If you want, we can kill it together. Your sharp edges will be no match for the easily penetrable plastic." Yobakishi's mother was also wondering why he had stopped speaking like a five year old. She couldn't, though, tell her husband how she felt, as that would make her feel rather foolish. The stone did not respond, though the little turn it gave suggested that Yobakishi was going along the right lines. "So, I have to do it all myself?" The question did not require a response. Yobakishi understood that the ball could not feel anything, even if in some way it could, knowing about fire would more than make up for it. Yobakishi took the ball and looked for an object to end its existence with. How he wanted it to be fire, but that would have to wait. He found a bottle in the garden and broke it using as much silence as he could find. He knew the stone was watching him as he performed the act of orbicular execution, though speech was still a repressed action. The broken glass entered easily through the ball's plastic covering, causing the air contained within to be expelled, thus ending the ball as useable item. Yobakishi turned around to see that the stone had departed, but had done so whistling.

The stone returned the next day with implements that could produce various degrees of devastating burning through the art of fire. Yobakishi wanted to tell the stone that he was a trifle childish, but considered the vast irony the only thing of interest in an otherwise pointless comment. Yobakishi's heart, little as it was, started a beat that was unknown to him, as adrenaline coursed through his veins, little as they were. After the initiation, Yobakishi couldn't help but feel a little let down by fire. In theory, it seemed great but the reality appeared that it offered very few possibilities of participation on a sharing level. The stone was explicit about the width of the berth that fire should be given. The stone also said that if he went around the place making fires then his mother would lose her voice and never sing again. Yobakishi was about to tell the stone that he wished he hadn't ever destroyed the ball as it was much more fun than fire, but he knew that the stone would take offence and just thought it, quietly. He fell onto his bed and cried, lamenting the uselessness of fire. As he did so, the stone took the reading of the angle and saw where it came up on the other side of the globe. The stone thanked Yobakishi and left.

On the streets of Lima Manolo walked happily, as he did every day, to work. Despite the changes he had seen in the city, and the ongoing lack of just economic joy offered by South American cities to its residents, Manolo could not complain. He had been a civil servant since his early twenties, and despite not much changing in the two intervening decades, Manolo and his wife Dolores could consider their situation relatively enviable, or at least it could be a lot worse. Manolo always enjoyed the act that he could walk from his home to his place of work, thus avoiding the crowded smelly metro, being a fan of good and bad weather in equal turns meant he never felt distressed when the rain fell or the sun shone in his eyes. He allowed his walk to become a daily reminder of his life and memories. This, being a normal day, meant Manolo was making the daily pilgrimage past the places he had seen open, close, re-open and change their names hundreds of times over the years. The day was abnormally hot, Manolo could not remember a day so hot. He also failed to understand how the turns that he normally would take on a daily basis, today only managed to place him further from his destination. He had a dreadful thirst on him now, which had come along as quickly as the infernal heat that hindered his progress, but, the businesses that made their crust from the over-priced sale of liquids to thirsty city dwellers, had closed down their shutters and thought better of their short-term profits. Manolo felt progress impossible and decided, almost subconsciously, to use the Metro. He found himself at Manuel Iglesias metro station, unable to devise a suitable plan for his arrival at the desired location although he knew that there was a stop near his place of work that he couldn't just remember the name of right now. As soon as he saw it he would be brought back to reality and would dismount the train. His head began to ache. His thirst worsened and he felt a strange aching in his heart. He took out the photo of his family from his wallet and observed the figures in the picture. He looked and looked but could not recognise the figures, the faces seemed to smile at him but he could not fathom why. More importantly, the thirst did not dissipate, the water he had found by the seat implied refreshing qualities but brought no relief. Manolo felt himself burning up, he dropped the photo and took another gulp from the bottle and suddenly tumbled that the liquid contained therein was not refreshing water rather a more than objectionable paraffin that made him wretch. Without realising his actions, he poured some of the fluid onto the photo and took out a lighter, which he didn't comprehend why it was in his possession when his smoking days had long since past, and set fire to the photo. For a few seconds, none of the other passengers on the crowded train seemed to notice what was happening as the vehicle sped underground, only when Manolo began to spray the liquid around the carriage and light the soaked clothes of the other passengers, did their faces register the horror of their impending misfortune. With the last of the liquid, Manolo covered himself, and amidst the screaming as the train rattled on into the bowels of the city.

The stone felt happy as Yobakishi carried it back to the house. Yobakishi happy in the knowledge that fire was, indeed as good as he thought. As they returned home Yobakishi's mother and father were engrossed in the news and the horrifying story of a metro accident in South America. Yobakishi laughed and said "fire" to his mother who said there would be no songs whilst he maintained that attitude.
BOOK ONE - SECTION FOURTEEN

How fear and reason precipitated a decision, and a brief journey was made which indirectly brought reconciliation

GRAHAM: It was gone two when we got back to the hotel, and I'll be honest, we were a little the worse for wear. Glasses were not allowed to be empty for long periods, though it felt a bit strange celebrating with complete strangers and I was glad to call it a night. Things got a bit racy for a while when the father got over-emotional with us, this leading the mother to suggest he should have done something, which gave him a vision of a future of continuous references to the moment of his emasculation. Still, not a penny spent behind the bar and it was funny seeing Benny on the telly. I've just realised that there is a strange Morecambe and Wise element to our relationship. For some reason, we have taken rooms as co-habitants in Luton without even considering the possibility of single rooms. Zippy is lying on his bed, laughing at things at random, though failing to share the cause of his mirth. I can't stop thinking about Hilary, especially as Sally reminded me of her. I decide to share this with Zippy.

"Tell you what Zip. Wouldn't mind seconds with Hilary right now. Know what I mean?" He just nods, it's a nod that suggests this is not a conversational boulevard he wishes to walk down, but as I do, he'll just have to come with me. "Typical, isn't it?" I ponder and he agrees before waiting to find out what is typical. A sure sign of disinterest. I continue. "You meet someone like that at exactly the wrong moment. I mean, yes, she looks like a tough sort, but underneath that she has the same needs and desires as all of us. I just got the feeling that it could have been something special." I leave him the floor.

"Didn't seem like that when you saw her at the spa. She was, well, a bit distant." Is the best he can do. I leave him the chance to speak and all he can do is fill the room with his negative thoughts and convictions that people are never to be happy. This is not the game we expect of him.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I enquire.

"Nowt. Just that maybe you're reading too much into it. Shag's a shag. Like." He replies, once again unfailing in his ability to fail to comprehend any true beauty in life.

"Maybe it was more than that, but the circumstances were against us. What's to say she won't come out to Malaga and see me? What's to say she isn't lying in bed with the phone in her hand trying to pluck up the courage to call." Let's see how he gets out of that one.

"Would be pointless that."

"Well what more could I expect of you. Yes, of course it would be pointless. How right you are. God Zip, do you not ever feel there is something missing?" I appeal to his more romantic nature.

"It would be pointless because your phone is off." He throws me the apparatus and it is without the flashing green light which indicates it is functioning. "Switch it on, then. Call her yourself. That way you will know, and...."

"And the truth will be out. She will be mine and soon she will come for me?" All he has to say is yes to make me happy. Humour me a little boy!

"I was going to say and you can stop giving me shite, but if you prefer that, then, your vibe." He smiles a smile laden with requests for silence.

"Maybe you're right. It is a waste of time. If I spoke to her now what would I say. Anyway, I don't seem to be able to be myself when I'm around her. Sod it." I leave the phone on the side table and prepare for bed. Zippy accepts that situation and heads for slumber himself, not bothering to undress. Still, I sit on the bed and he can intercept the sighs as a marker that rest will not be taken just yet.

"Look, for your sake, and just as much, mine. Switch on the phone. Call her. Send her a message. Whatever. Please Gray. It's late."

"Maybe it's better not to know the truth."

"If you don't do it, I will, and I'll pretend to be you that way we will know whether answer is yes or no."

He's right. Anyway, she might be out. Have hers off. Or be doing a million other things. I get the phone and switch it on. A number is requested to access the networks. A number I can't remember. Zippy knows neither the number nor why I think he should know it. This could be fate trying to let me down gently. I look in various pockets but have no luck in locating the valued number. After a few minutes frantic looking, the idea of giving up is close to my mind when the number appears in Zippy's jacket pocket. When asked what it was doing there, no answer of any worth was forthcoming.

I enter the four digits that could possibly lead me to the greatest knowledge in my adult life and await connection to the network. Although we are in Scotland, some form of digital communication must be possible outside the capital. After the amount of time that had passed went from plausible to worrying, the phone managed to kick itself into gear. I held my finger on the dial button, having been in this situation before, though never got around to hearing the ringing tone. My eyes glanced at the conveniently placed clock which informed me indirectly that one would need the most unrequited of loves to accept a call at this hour in good humour. Message, then. Now the problem was the composition. If I simply put that I was thinking about her that might be too little and she'll think I'm only after one thing. If I put I love her, then she'll think I'm getting heavy and want out. Anyway, I don't love her. I don't think I do. I don't see how I can. It's just that there's no-one else to love, or think about loving. All this deliberation has caused the hands of time to work more and the phone has itself, received an incoming message. She, she, she. She has done the work for me. Tortured without sleep she could not resist the true temptations of her desires and has a left a message. I access the message, expecting its content to change my life, and, it did, but not in a way I expected.

I awoke Zippy and made him listen to the message. He was less phased by its content and suggested there was no way they could be here even before tomorrow. I awoke Benny and Gore and, at least they showed some of the interest I would expect in our impending murder.

"OK. Gray, relax." Suggested Benny. "If it went out a ten p.m., I doubt he could get much before tomorrow, which is now today. You're the logistics man. Look at the facts. He sees it at ten, probably nearer half past, cos I can't see it being the opening item. He's probably in so state to drive, first he has to be informed what and where Scotland is. Then he has to get his cronies together and come up here. He is not going to appear for a solo gig. At best if he left at twelve, it would take seven hours minimum. He would get somewhere near here round seven. Danger is not imminent." Benny looked at me expecting recognition and congratulations.

Perhaps, it was a lot to ask of Kalvin. Why did it have to go out nationally? How come the only decent act we have performed in our lives had to coincide with our greatest need for anonymity? Why did it have to happen on a day so bereft of news? Couldn't our transatlantic cousins invade some Arab nation today on the pretext of a mislaid chemistry set? Couldn't a volcano spring into life causing an amount of mayhem guaranteed to shelve our item from the play-list? All the things that happen every day on motorways and trains and planes......? Suddenly the penny dropped. "Aeroplanes." I scream.

"Oh, I love word association games." Replies Gore meaning some clarity would benefit the listeners.

"They could get a plane from Luton or Gatwick or Heathrow and be here in a matter of hours." This seemed like a genuine fear. Though all of mine did. For them to mobilise themselves to the extent of catching a plane seemed even less probable than the car option, but whilst it still existed in my head, it was still a viable possibility.

"Improbable. How can we know?" Benny interjected. "You do have to assume that it would take more intelligence than they have. Anyway, there are no guarantees that Kalvin saw the piece. Maybe he knows nothing of our whereabouts. Although we should move on, tomorrow. To be on the safe side." Benny's flippancy was not having a calming effect on me.

"Internet." Again, I failed to articulate a sentence and the single word was inadequate to providing sufficient understanding. What I meant was that we could check on the internet in the lobby and that way see when the last flights were. Reluctantly, on their part, yet, necessarily, on mine, we enter the lobby and hook up to the land of Bill. The owner of the hotel enquires if all is well and we smile. He doesn't make any further enquiries. We solicit some strong coffee and soon it is forthcoming. To work. From Luton, there is nothing after eight o'clock. There is one from Heathrow at half ten, which would be impossible for them. Gatwick, though, boasts a midnight flight. It would be a very tight squeeze to get there, though logistics suggest it could be possible. Had they caught it they would now be in their neighbouring land, road map in hand, soon to arrive at our hotel. Benny has a thought. Taking out his mobile he pretends to be waiting for a group of passengers from Gatwick as he phones Glasgow airport. He asks for a tannoy announcement to be put out but is held in his tracks by the bemused airline worker who can't comprehend why this person doesn't know that the midnight flight from Gatwick was cancelled due to technical difficulties. All passengers have been put up in a local hotel and if he holds on a minute....." The line went dead. We were in the clear. From the plane. They could still be the other side of Leicester though. We couldn't stay too long.

"Right. We ship out at six. Get in the car. Drive towards Glasgow, get some distance behind us and find a new hotel. Get closer to the airport. A town like this." This is my plan.

"I'm not driving at the moment." Replies Benny.

"Gore. You never feel the effects. Get a couple of hours kip and then we'll move off. Less than fifty miles." I suggest.

"I'm not fit to drive man. Make it nine."

"We can't let his timeframe give him the possibility of finding us. He can't have flown and needs seven hours to get here. After that he is winning. Seven hours gives us to six. We leave at six."

"You drive then." Offers Benny. My driving skills are none too appreciated at the best of times, and although sobriety came with TK's message, no doubt the demons will conspire to return when I sit behind the wheel. Also, I know Benny and his little mind games, so I accept, which has my desired effect of causing Gore to OK the idea, but he will need some sleep.

We inform the owner that we have to leave immediately and should care for our bill to be prepared as a swift manoeuvre. The owner informs us that he will not be able to present us with a bill as that would appear to be the most inappropriate of behaviour, given the circumstances. We concur with this philosophy and thank him for his inordinate kindness duling wishing him his continuance as a paradigm of hostelry. As we had to let two hours and bit pass for Gore to sleep we could afford such verbosity. Had we been in a hurry the conversation would have been more functional.

There was a suggestion of sleep for all, though for me the efforts and strain of the evening provoked fatigue, but made sleep an impossible dream. We collected our things, returned to the lobby, drank more coffee, played on the net, watched crap TV and at twenty-five to seven were awoken on the sofa by Gore, with car keys in hand, mumbling something about a timeframe. Goodbyes were quick and we were soon on the road. Driving fifty or so miles north to just outside Glasgow we checked into a new hotel that was, we were convinced, out of Kalvin's range. We took a room each and fell into a deep long slumber that would take us to within twenty-four hours of our departure for Spain. We hoped for some relaxing times to come, yet knew in our hearts that things never worked out like that. Still, in sleep Hilary and Sally became Julia and there I sat on my beautiful island engulfed by love.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the hotel the fine boys from Luton had just left hours before, three rather unpleasant looking youths have appeared in the lobby asking for the dirty, thieving scum who have ruined the empire. I single out one, the one who talks, though his locution desires an entire conference, as Kalvin, the other two are unknown to me, their looks do suggest their accompaniment of Kalvin is merely to find new forms of pain for The Brain, Muscles, The Chemist and the Good-Looking one.

The three boys are given the information that the ones they look for no longer reside at this hotel and commence the demonstration of anger. Kalvin suggested that they deserve to be hung, drawn and quartered for what they have done. This is too much for the crowd in the lobby, who had built up an enormous respect for the actions of our now departed friends, especially the father of the little one plucked from the water, who felt it impossible to contain the anger that stirred in him, and with one mighty blow on the chin of Kalvin, was released from the impotence that had haunted him since the incident. Kalvin's two colleague thought about rushing to his aid, but soon thought better of the idea when numbers were assessed.

As we were also in the company of the charming Sergeant Johnson, it was considered for the best that these three were given the lack of comfort of a cell to think over their wayward philosophies on life, and it was to great cheers that they were led away. Afterwards, the mother of the daughter saved looked tearfully at her husband, and although her vocal chords and her lips seemed at loggerheads, managed to mouth the word "Sorry" and they re-assumed the embrace, this time safe in the knowledge that their daughter could come into no harm from watching Japanese cartoons, at least in the short term.

So, I made my way up to bed, an early night for me as I return to the Costa and leave behind the warmth of the coldest place I have ever been to.

* * * * * *

Just fifteen miles from Glasgow seemed a good place to stop. We checked in and were soon making up for the hours of sleep lost now. Whether, Kalvin had the lucidity to check out the airports after what for him would have been a Homeric journey, was a fate best left to the deities.

It was now a day reputed to be Sunday. Our flight left Glasgow at two on the dot, though airport's dots are less clear than other dotters, a first-class upgrade being tomorrow's first piece of business owing to our saving a few quid on the hotel bill. We decided to fly to Alicante. This was a decision which proves the shortcomings of democracy. I had suggested Madrid, which would give us a chance to see the capital and scratch our chins at some rather major works of art. This decision was immediately rebuffed in favour the superior leisure opportunities offered in the Alicante and Benidorm areas, precipitated by the fact that Benny's loins and Zippy's nose had been neglected since leaving London. Gore seemed to maintain his usual disinterest in siding one way or the other and so the two votes were enough to see me ousted. This time we decided on single rooms and would reconvene when our bodies considered themselves rested.

I lay on my bed and tried not to think of Hilary. After about forty-three seconds I found this impossible and then reached for the mobile. I rang the number and immediately hung up before the connection could be made. I repeated this action on four occasions then decided to put the phone down and curse myself for a while. The fact that I had called her would not mean anything. I could always give an excuse that it was too dangerous to phone people from Luton, although then she would interpret that as me saying something like you were the only one I could think of. She'd say why not phone Timmy? Why not speak to your mates? But maybe she wanted me to phone her. I took the phone again and pressed redial. I prepared my opening address and then shat myself again. This time though I pressed a button which would guarantee the call would be continued rather than the rapid termination I had hoped for. I heard the first tone. Now I was trapped. If I hang up now she'll know that I'm a coward. If I don't I'll have to speak to her and that could be worse. I could feel myself gravitating to a pointless comment such as "I was bored so...·" or some other lame attempt for me to justify the call. Of course, I could just tell her that I wanted to speak to her, but were we truly ready for honesty? After three tones there is still no answer. It is little after ten on a Sunday morning. I can't see her getting ready for mass right now, more likely, if she can hear the phone she is likely to ignore it as sleep is one of her priorities. After four tones, I start to relax. She is clearly not going to answer, and six tones is acceptable. After six tones, I know that I have tried and she has not responded. I will have won. Though, if she has not heard the six tones it is akin to there not being six tones. She could still think that I hung up straight away, too fearful to talk to her. Therefore, my victory will have been for nothing. Why can't the phone inform her that there were six tones? That I did confront my fears and wanted to speak to her? But no, the phone would only indicate uncertainty between spineless and heroic. This means I will have to phone again. Then the phone would tell her that she had two missed calls. A spineless person would never phone twice. The problem was what if her phone had the capacity to inform her of the time of the calls. Then she would know that I had called once, seen there was no answer and then taken advantage of the moment to redial so that I looked good. Finally, the longer I left it the more chance she had of answering. Tiredness was overcoming me. I tried to wait ten minutes but knew it would be fruitless. I rang again and sweated my way through four tones before giving in. Now it was in her hands. Remembering The Big O, I allowed her to be mine, in dreams.

I knew it was me. I couldn't tell how old I was but it was definitely sometime in the future. I was in a square that I probably associated with Marbella, but couldn't as I had yet to visit the place. I was pushing a bicycle, and, despite the future being the background for the incident, it actually appeared like time had progressed whilst styles had returned to the forties. I caught a glimpse of myself in a dapper suit, very Cary Grant I thought as a pair of young ladies walked passed and I gave them the benefit of my Trilby tipping skills. I could hear the sea and felt the desire to walk along the beach. At first the beach was idyllic with golden sands and cool, clear, blue waters. As I walked on, though, I noticed the sand turn to jagged stones, the water became choppy and suddenly my path was blocked by a giant squid that had been washed up on the shore. The squid was still alive and gestured that I help him to open his mouth. As I did so the entire top of the head flipped back and inside was Hilary sitting in a miniature pod. She said that all the flights were full so she had come by squid. I helped her out and we walked further along the shore. The fine, golden sand returned and the waters regained the serenity seen before. We talked and laughed as we wandered along the beach. A feeling of warmth and felicity came over me like never before, and I wondered could it last? It was soon proven that it couldn't. At the end of the beach was an over-sized, at least three metres, Kalvin holding Benny, Zippy and Gore in headlocks, made possible by the fact that he had three arms. In each hand was a knife that was no doubt soon to be employed to slit the throats of my three companions. Kalvin was gesturing that if I came to him he would spare them, but Hilary had to go back into the squid. I looked at her and then at my friends, then saw Julia, old and dishevelled, but saying she would take me back. Torn between three options I heard my mother's voice repeating the same sentence again and again Haz lo que TÚ creas lo mejor (Do whatever YOU think is best) this didn't help, I wanted to go to Hilary, but couldn't look at Julia then I saw the knife start to make an incision in Zippy's neck and though my head was telling me to go to Hilary, I found myself walking towards the salvation of my friends and the rest of my life at Kalvin's disposal.

I woke up in a sweat and tried to forget the dream. Even my dreams managed to reaffirm my minimal worth as a person. Maybe it was time to think about dissolving the partnership, or at least soon. I checked the phone. You have no calls. It would appear. I didn't fancy any more sleep, although the clock suggested that four hours had been enjoyed. I didn't feel any more refreshed and ready for the world then when I had got into bed, so I opted for heading downstairs and seeing what was about. After the shower things were treating me in a more pleasant way again, by not taking the mobile into the bathroom with me, I increased the chances of it sounding as I would be unable to hear it. This theory is of some worth, but it may be that Sundays are not days for mobile theories. Using the same method, I left the phone upstairs so that when she phoned me she would not have the luxury of an immediate response. I had earned that by phoning twice. Anyway, her response time is so out that there is very little point in interpreting any call, if indeed it does come. Response time is essential for measuring a woman's interest. If you send her a message that is open, by open we mean not something like. "What time does your flight get in?" As that requires an instant response. Rather something like "Have got two tickets for the Bloomsbury on Saturday and I was wondering if you'd do me the marvellous honour of accompanying me?" The amount of time that passes before they respond indicates what can happen any terms of possible relationships. (Once any kind of contact has been initiated, response time loses its validity). In less than five minutes can be worrying, too keen. No response is not actually the worst situation. Any response that takes more than a day to arrive plays more with your head than being simply ignored. Why wait one day to respond? What does that mean? Quite often more than one day responses are accompanied with rather flimsy excuses, left mobile in office, no credit, was scaling K2, which don't help the situation. Forty-five minutes is around the best response time, it suggests interest, whilst making it clear that nothing should be taken for granted. Then again, all people are different, so four hours for Hilary could be like ten minutes for someone else. Perhaps that number was her work mobile, and she uses another for her social life, and, as she is spending this weekend helping her mother re-hang the paintings, I leave the room, unable to be located, and pleased with my work.

In the hotel bar, I am surprised to find Benny. Benny has had the same fraught attempt at sleep as myself and I fear that our endemic friction may be exacerbated. I have made a decision to try to be as affable as possible with him, though there are never successful tangos for one. He is in deep conversation with the owner of the hotel, as he has hit upon the idea of the Audi being superfluous to our needs after tomorrow. He is correct in this affirmation. I hadn't considered it. This attitude helps me be nice to Benny as it shows that his mind is focused, the only problem being that if he gets a good price for it then we will be constantly reminded of the fact that it was him who showed the nouse. The stumbling block at the moment is that we do not have the log book, or indeed any proof of ownership. This does not please the owner, for, should the car be misappropriated then the local constabulary would more than likely insist on its return to the rightful owner. I said that Timmy wouldn't use a hot vehicle for his own work, although, perhaps surprisingly the fact that I said it was OK was still not enough to convince our temporary landlord. This meant a call to TK, this meant me returning to my room and seeing the mobile again.

Upstairs in no time, I located the phone and was pleased to see the information pertaining to a missed call from Hilary. Now, I had to activate my response time. I checked my watch and set the alarm for forty-six minutes from now. From the look of the missed call it was definitely six tones minimum. I skipped down to the hotel bar and gave Benny the phone to call TK. Our man in London was confident that the car was clean. It was purchased at a reduced rate from a friend of his, but he insisted that he had the need to be sufficiently cautious these days than to ride around in a hooky jam-jar. Very London, TK. Over and out. This was still not considered enough for the hotel owner. We were beginning to think that this was simply the frugal Caledonian nature looking for a bargain when Benny offered the possibility of checking up with the rozzers. Simple process. Did he have a friend on the force? Yes, good. Phone that friend and get him to do a trace. If the car is clean then they will have no record of it. Therefore, it can be re-registered with the hotel owner as the new proprietor, the new log-book would be sent out in the first post. Our prospective client did not seem swayed by the legality of this process, but was soon brought round to our way of thinking after a conversation with his friend of the long arm. Eight grand was agreed as the price. Rather stingy in the circumstances, still where were we going to find some who would offer ten before two tomorrow? Within half an hour we had the cash in our hands. Our wily Scot preferring his own safe and a shot-gun to the untrusting hands of the local bankers. At least, I think he said bankers. Zippy and Gore, unknowingly had just made two grand whilst they slept. Placing them in the echelons of some of the greatest entrepreneurs on the planet. It was decided that a hearty curry should be enjoyed as our last supper. Da Vinci being replaced by a fun camera picked up from the hotel shop.

When the alarm went off, my palms began to sweat and a strange tingling possessed my legs. I was at my own perfect response time and had to strike. I planned to be erudite, gracious and urbane as I counted the tones. She picked up after three. Technically a good sign. However, he voice was calm which meant she had not rushed to pick up the phone from another room, rather had had the phone in her hand and allowed two tones to pass before accepting the call. My initial plans for a conversation without precedence were fruitless. At moments I was inane, and should the conversation be analysed to a greater level the word banal would appear. Still, it was a chat and I got six minutes out of her which did not seem bad for Hilary. We made no concrete plans for the future and when the line went dead neither of us had experimented any major change in their lives. It was nice though and she said she might come to Spain, and that she'd give me a call sometime.

We rallied the troops and prepared for a night's festivities. It is always better to travel by aeroplane with a hangover, that way, if you crash and die, at least you were pissed the night before. I tell Benny I'm gonna try and be less of a twat and he accepts the olive branch. Whilst waiting for the Zip and the Gore the news is viewed, and, to our delight, our previous hotel is again in the news as three young hooligans caused an altercation that was thwarted by fine, upstanding residents. The three scallywags were arrested and will face judicial charges first thing on Monday morning. I looked at Benny and laughed, fraternity filling my veins, making me believe that this time, things could just work out.
BOOK ONE - SECTION FIFTEEN

Gore opines on the miracle that is modern aviation

GORE: Glasgow Airport was a first for me. Though as every traveller knows, there are no firsts in the airports game. Whether it is intended to provide some calming effect on the traveller, or one bloke owns all the airports in the world and only wanted to hire one designer after getting a job-lot on some paint, is unclear, but airline travel has to be one the most depressing experiences on this planet of ours. I shall take you, step by step, through the points that make up my theory so you will see that I am without equivocation when I make this claim.

Whilst most academics may be unlikely to corroborate my essay writing abilities, I consider myself a keen observer on life, and, despite the long held-belief that keeping one's trap shut for long periods of time (a practice some could entertain more often) has a negative correlative relevance on one's oratory skills, this theory will also be blown out of the highland spring water. Often my reflection is mistaken for indifference or incomprehension, though I let this enigma continue for the looks on their faces when an effortless line of vintage Gore is added to the lexical stockpile of our adventures. So, relax and enjoy my pleonasm, without wishing to sound pretentious, of course.

We find ourselves in the commencement of the airport experience. One cannot consider the purchasing of tickets part of the airport experience per se, though it is another area which generally fills one with disgust and contempt. Even with the added delight of on-line purchasing we cannot suggest that our experiences have become any more of a delectation for the buyer. However, for the purposes of time, we shall limit ourselves to the ennui felt from the outward port to that of our destination.

We are approaching the access road to the airport. This means that your airport experience is about to begin. This means you can commence a pointless collection of missed-turnings, poorly assimilated road-signs and the first of many piquant comments from, and to, your travelling companion. Should you be travelling alone, you will now be converted into a horrific manifestation of the worst person you could ever be, as for the forth time you pass terminal three and try not to kill someone as the only airline you can find is that for Sri Lanka. Eventually, you find where you are going and are invited to pay a sum, often in excess of the air-fare paid, to leave your car in the long-stay car-park. That is when you realise that the train would have been a better idea, good God, maybe even the coach. It is at this point that one concurs that the airport is the most expensive place in the world. Prices have been unarbitrarily invented, plucked from a great celestial catalogue and added to products that are begrudgingly shifted for half the price in the city. Who decided one pound five pence for a bottle of Lilt? Even in the newsagent with the mind only placed in their continued emoluments would blush at the thought of asking you for eighty coins. Everything that will happen to you at the airport will have a negative effect on your budget, but you will pay, you will go back and every time they ask you will pay prices that are, at best, obscene.

Required to be at the airport two hours before departure. Who decided that? Why two hours? Why? So that they can have you in their delightful zones, where only items purchased at the airport may be consumed. Try to give your diabetic child a Milky Way you brought from home as their blood sugar levels drop to precariously low registers and they will gladly allow your child to die at departures should you not be prepared to pay ninety pence for the same bar that cost you twenty. Two hours is far too much time to anticipate anything. It leaves you with a feeling of never starting your well-earned break as airport time, it can be scientifically proven, operates at sixty-four percent the pace of time in the city. At night this goes down to forty-eight percent.

Not only are you forced to purchase the products of the airport, but they even have the audacity to attempt to convince you of the immense favour that they are doing for you. In the same way that motorway service stations are awash with posters offering you the bargain of a lifetime in the form of a breakfast for eight sheets, airports do the same with hideous slogans such as "start the day the right way with our café and croissant" and others of the same odious ilk. Constantly reiterating the value for money, they are doing themselves out of a healthy salary to provide you with as you acquiesce in doltish manner to pay three quid for a muffin. Their supercilious nature is displayed for all to see, yet you never see an empty bar, cafeteria or, what is laughingly-called a restaurant. Their detestable products raking in more of our hard-earned coins than the GDP of an African nation.

Of course, none of this joy can be undertaken before the experience of checking in is completed. Another miserable facet of the journey that occupies far too much time. The only advantage of going somewhere ugly is that there will be less people on your flight and you will take less time to check in. Still, they will probably give you a ninety seventies Lego plane which will direct itself to the first mountain it can find and scatter your remains over an area of seventy miles. Checking in is also an invitation to stupid questions, and there are many stupid people in airports to ask them. It does not require much common sense to find a numbered desk and pass your suitcases to person employed to weigh them and ask you if you packed them yourself. How many terrorists have been caught by that one? They would have got on the plane and carried out their deadly deed had they not been asked that question. Surely, when they are trained in the Afghan mountains, they do a role-play where they are asked this question, and lie. Anyway, there you are, standing in a line that has a monitor at the end which indicates the airline and destination, sometimes, for a laugh, they put the time it is supposed to leave at, and some fool comes up to you and asks you something like "Is it here for Magaluf?" They can see you so why can't they see the screen? Surely, they can read, or have the decency to learn one word before leaving home. Is illiteracy so commonplace in our world? You just nod and say it is, when inside you want to tell them that this is the queue for Vladivostok by by-plane and that their queue begins at the end of the nearest sewer. Still, we must be polite.

When finally checked in, we pass through passport control, carefully removing our mobile telephones, wallets, keys, belts, finger-nails, pancreas, memories of our grandparents and DNA structure lest it sets off the machine. Then, into the real airport zone. Into areas of what represents anti-shopping. Does anyone buy a DVD player before a get-away weekend in Rome just to save seven pound? Are there tourists walking round with power drills and special editions of Monopoly as they enter the pyramids? Too tempted by the bargain to say no. So, you do what everybody does, has a free squirt of some after shave you end up not liking and work out how much cheaper the bottle of brandy would be in Asda and then leave it. The only advantage would be the purchasing of tabs, though as every country in the world vends these at approximately a quarter of the UK asking price, this is a rather pointless activity. Get over the horror of not finding Regal Kings when you get to Crete by smoking and smoking cheap.

Spare a thought now for our friends making a stop-over here in our airport. Try London for example, you choose the airport, but maybe not Stanstead because it's virtually Sheffield. A passenger comes in from a European connecting flight and has an hour and a bit before a connecting flight to Edinburgh. They are forced into the transit zone which boasts one broken toilet, yet a sparkingly maintained over-priced coffee house pretending to offer Italian café to passengers from Milan. Do they not think they will see through this? If you had a party of Genovese clients over, would you take them to Bella Pasta in Darlington? I Think not. Anyway, our European cousins would like a coffee, they would like a nice coffee too, but they are in the land of tea now, traitors, and make their way to the licensed thievery joint to place their order. Question one is can you pay with Euros? The answer is yes, though should be yes, but. Still, that is left for later. Selections are made and the waitress tells you that the minimum order for Euros is ten of those European pound things. She will gave you change to the value of the rest but at an exchange rate that would make Amnesty International call for an embargo on Gatwick. Then come the trick questions, just to make the foreigner feel like all those Brusselian currency units spent on English classes and courses has been a waste of time. Do you want a porcelain cup or a plastic cup? The customers, obviously expecting the Royal Doulton to come out opt for the former. Transactions are completed, not happily, but successfully, until one asks for an ashtray. Reacting as if they have announced they intend to slay the first born of every woman in the land, the waitress recovers from her coronary spasm and informs them that smoking may be enjoyed (depending on your philosophy) in special zones. As the, now thirsty, passengers make their way to this special area, they are informed that the porcelain may not be taken out the coffee house jurisdiction and have to opt for the unfriendly foam cup. Finally, in the smoking zone there is no need to light up as one single breath is the equivalent of a group of naughty urchins placing nicotine patches on your arms while you sleep. Welcome to Britain, no smoking until, well, you leave.

That said, we are making the best of the experiences. Pints are in. No matter what time the flight is, us spunky Brits will say goodbye to our fair land with a pint in our hands. It is quite simple to put a little social diagram together of the background of the travellers and their destinations. Their attire and their drinks give it away. Our gate for example, is for Alicante and when we arrive, arrivals will be awash with every Premiership shirt, most not actually worn, the latest in shell-suits and tight perms, all longing to return orange, pregnant and heart-broken. Perhaps, I'm being cruel, too much snobbery, probably Graham's fault. It is difficult not to feel superior though when you are surrounded by the dregs. It is not difficult to see why we are held in such high regard when we land on foreign soil.

Miraculously, our flight is called on time. We appear to be part of the chosen few who will have a relatively trouble-free journey. Though this manna will somehow be retracted at the other end, via the gift of lost-luggage or mixed-up hotel reservations. Now comes one of the great comedy moments in airline travel. An average Airbus can transport around one-hundred and eighty passengers at an altitude of nine-thousand feet, reaching a maximum speed of around nine hundred kilometres (I'm starting to feel European) per hour. Being first one the plane does not signify that you will arrive in your destination before the other passengers on the plane. Yet, as soon as the call is made, the throng gets into a line, Samurai fights for position to sit on a plane that will not move until every passenger is accounted for. Being the Homeric character that he is, Zippy refuses to take this sign and swiftly orders four more beers for us to enjoy while we wait. As the plane is full and boarding will pass at a rate of about six passengers per minute, Zippy has shown himself an intelligent traveller and an avid adherent to my theorem.

It is a moment to enjoy indeed. Watching the passenger hustle and jostle for a vantage point. Absolutely ludicrous. We sit back and count how many of the female passengers would, in an ideal world, receive the benefit of our charms. Obviously, given the presence of Zippy this list becomes rather extensive. When there are around ten to fifteen people waiting in the queue, we decide it is time to ride the bird. After a smile from the people who take your tickets, of course they can smile, they are staying on the ground, the worst thing that could happen to them would be getting their tie stuck in the ticket machine, we board the plane. The first thing we see is that the extra thirty minutes that our other fellow passengers have had has not helped them to stow (my favourite travel word) their belongings in the overhead lockers. Indeed, many of them seem to think that their bags are much safer blocking the common passageways and contravening aviation regulations. Despite polite indications stop being enormous sheep-shaggers, many still fail to comprehend the necessity to try and prevent the aircraft from crashing, and the moment in which we should have become airborne passes with the doors still open, lamenting stewardesses and a flight crew anxious to be chosen for more salubrious destinations.

Finally, we can begin with the demonstration of what to do in an emergency. As most people are incapable of maintaining listening and comprehension levels enough to successfully negotiate the route from the living room to the gentlemen's toilets, let alone store the information on how to get from Leicester Square to Tottenham Court Road, this demonstration is at best pointless. Should we require the use of the items being meticulously ignored, our lives would more than likely be over within three minutes of them falling down conveniently from their overhead storage zone. I particularly like the whistle for attracting attention. I assume it is quite plausible for a fishing trawler to hear a whistle from three miles. From this moment on though there is no more comedy. Quite the opposite, from now on fear is the principal emotion. Now, the door is closed and your fate has been sealed. You will not be able to leave the aircraft until the journey has been complete. Should this not go according to plan then your life will be the asking price. Now I know that statistically there is no safer form of travel, but there is the possibility of me becoming President of Austria or marrying Jennifer Lopez. Therefore, I have no interest in these calculations. If you fall of a bike you graze your knee, if this beast falls from thirty thousand feet then all you have to look forward to is a very dead future.

So, we begin taxiing down the runway. Cue all the noises that no moving vehicle should ever make. The rattles begin and are complemented by sounds that can only suggest that the fuselage is now ready to snap in two. Then you have the sensation that the plane is not going fast enough for flight to be achieved. You are clearly going to overshoot the runway and become tree fodder. Yet somehow flight is achieved, and you relax. This should not occur as you are now in the most dangerous part of your journey, here so many factors can have death as your next dinner guest, so you study the faces of the cabin crew, looking for any tell-tale imminent death expressions on their faces until they remove their seatbelts (why do they always get double seatbelts?) and then you can prepare for boredom to overwhelm you during the rest of the trip.

Should you be on a flight that will attempt to take you two or three steps away from starvation during the journey, you patiently await the arrival of your meal, constantly wondering that if you are sat in the middle of the plane, how come you always get yours last? The meal comes and is generally an insult to cuisine. Peppered by brand names unknown outside the world of aviation. Where are the famous brands? You know where you are with them. Can there really be oddly named factories that produce jam and orange juice solely for the customers of airlines? I always like to order a vegetarian meal, not because of any predilection for sustenance bereft of flesh, rather simply to antagonise the cabin crew a little. I never inform them of this upon boarding the plane. This would spoil the fun, instead I let them know at check-in and expect them to pass on this information. It never gets passed on and I am allowed a few moments of pretend grievance at the inefficiency of the airline. A wee bit sad I know, but fun is often hidden on these journeys.

This being a flight full of Brits, the bar is well stocked, perhaps even more so as our outward journey began in the thirsty land of Glasgow. The drink that comes with your meal is never enough and soon retrieval of trays and the like has had to take second fiddle to the continuous servings of libations for the passengers who are loathe to spend so much time in the confines of forced sobriety. This is when another danger of airline travel, though this can happen to you on dry land too, appears. I have never had a conversation with anyone I consider valid as a member of the human race on a plane. This is because I never initiate conversations, not wanting to give the impression of being an enormous twat. People who start conversations on planes should be ejected from the aircraft immediately. The cabin crew should have a special arsehole control which allows offending travellers to enjoy the depressurised outside as they fall to their deaths. People should always maintain their dignity when they are alone. Starting a conversation simply suggests that they are lonely, or even worse, convinced of their own importance. To my left are a couple of orange tans, a colour not produced by any contact with the sun known to science, a colour that does not suggest health, rather proximity to a melt-down. Their dress could be worse, what seems to de riguer for this season is for him, a Celtic (or Rangers should you not speak Latin) top, ideally figure hugging, mixed with either track-suit bottoms or shorts, garish training shoes and white socks, branded, of course. She, on the other hand will be wearing far too little when more would please the aesthetics. Vest tops and leggings make comfortable travelling wear, it would seem. Quelle domage. My centre and aisle are rather more golf than that. He has a lime pastel La Coste sweater draped over his shoulders and the tan accentuates a row of pearly whites. Flannel pants and deck shoes complete the look that proves looking like a cunt never was in style. She is just hideous. Chanels and Dolce Gabannas thrown together haphazardly like some young girls' dressing game with a wipeable board that she be immediately scratched for things to start again. They are going to tell me about their villa, their golf handicaps, their shares, in short they are going to invite me to enter their fucking lives. Now I regret taking the seat on my own. I did so as I thought I would just have a drink, put my Discman on and snooze a bit. However, it would appear that the controls of this Airbus are unable to operate to their full extent should someone be listening to music via the power of alkaline batteries. Good job I'm not wearing glasses as that would probably offset the radar. Fearing the initiation of conversation, despite the improbability of it being bilateral, I adopt a "Do Not Disturb" position.

From the safety of my faked slumber I can enjoy the Bennyjection attempting to try to weave his magic on one of the stewardesses. She is trying to maintain a professional stance whilst Benny comes out with all the lines that would get the rest of us a slap, but gets him a phone number. She also lets him know where they are staying as the are, as he puts it "over-nighting" it (I was unaware that airlines had their own verbs, transitive, regular). This was all done under the pretence that Benny merely wanted information about accommodation, though there was a subtext for all to see. Zippy was elated at the fact that they had done well, though Benny was quick to address the fact that the work had been his, and that the prize would be too.

I manage to sleep for what feels like eighteen seconds though realise that we are actually hinting at a descent. Indeed, it is confirmed we shall shortly be landing at Alicante airport. You always think that the hard work is done when you come into land. Reality tells a very different story. Landing is when you collect your thoughts, make your mental peace with all those you have wronged, tell those you loved how you wish you had loved them more, you count all your regrets, feel your ears and stomach fall in and out of place, and, once karma is achieved, you prepare yourself for death, hoping it will be as swift as possible, ready to enter the afterlife without any of the binds that your time on out godly Earth, awaiting impact you feel as slight bump as the wheels hit the ground and you give praises to those in the celestial tower for guiding you to safety via the gift of reverse psychology. Five minutes later you wish you had actually crashed as the process that annoyed you so much before take off happens again, only this time in reverse. Welcome to your holidays.

BOOK ONE - SECTION SIXTEEN

Memories of Thievery (III) The Virgin Soldiers

Graham: Just seemed like something almost normal. Don't really know how any of it happened. It had never been spoken of much at home and I didn't know anyone who thieved, but, for some reason, one day I found myself in Mr. Cousins' shop and with wandering hands.

It felt like some inner urge controlling me. I knew that the product that was about to be pilfered was not beyond the financial reach of my parents, they may have been keen to instil in me virtues of things being earned for them to be truly appreciated, but I was in the process of misgivings, and thought better about washing the car or tidying the garage in order to earn my reward. Despite nine being my tender age at the time, I felt an uncontrollable desire to take something from Mr. Cousins, a man who had never done me any harm, nor even attempt to stay on the short side of the two-ounce mark on the Sherbet Lemons. Why did I suddenly want to take from him? What could a nine-year-old know about the failings of the capitalist system? Perhaps I just thought that he enjoyed the toys at night, upon closing the shop, with the lights out, and that, somehow, seemed unfair. Mr. Cousins was about to find out that the under-treated kids of this world were reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.

Mr. Cousins shop was your typical newsagent's, although I saw it as having delusions of grandeur, the rather pathetic collections of Lego, Hornby and other knickknack's that would cause parents into difficult moments of attempted impulse buying caused by their younger consorts. The shop was not prepared for the stealth of such a young thief as myself. In I went, already with the master-plan primed, directing myself initially towards the collections of comics that Mr. Cousins displayed proudly, knowing all of his clients tastes and never creating the distressing situation of having a young client return empty-handed. Picking up the latest Whizzer and Chips, Mr. Cousins knew nothing was suspicious in my actions, I glanced some of the other publications and enquired as to whether any new pirate ships were available in plastic brick form. Mr. Cousins informed me that on the upper plateau of the establishment were located items that may well be of my interest. I thanked him for this information and made my way up the three steps to the area that housed the pretentious glorification of capitalism. Trying to keep the corner of one eye primed for the untrusting gaze of the Gestapo style storekeeper, I reached the back of the shop and inserted the small Lego box into the pocket of my parka. How could it be so easy? How did he deserve such access? Maybe I was doing him a favour. What a foolish old man, time to retire with the rest of your bad egg colleagues. I was, truly, made for this. I descended back into the main shopping area, unaware of the tell-tale rattles of the Lego pieces in my pocket as each step was taken. I wandered nonchalantly to the counter and offered him the asking price of the comic, using ten extra pence for the luxury of a ten pee mix.

"How are your parents, Graham?" Was his opening gambit. What world did this man live in? "Such nice people. They've done a good job with you. It's such a shame how you see some young lads turn out, but I'm sure you'll do them proud. It's not been easy for them, but they've had you, and that makes up for a lot." He went on. Finally, he asked me to reimburse him for the items on view, and, whilst, I considered myself the coolest cat in the town, my shaking hands dropped the money, some into his hands, some betwixt the Mail and the Mirror and a two pee piece hit the floor. I went to collect it and heard the rattling again. Then I realised. The monologue was my chance to go back up the stair, replace the item and learn the lesson. Sweating and holding back optic lamentation, I gave him the money and made for a hasty retreat. I could see the door, but knew I would never make it with the pirate.

"Do you have anything else to say, Graham?" He asked me. I thought I was moving towards the door, but I was still, unable to move, tears in my eyes and wishing the incident had never happened. Suddenly, Mr. Cousins was standing in front of me, with a look of disappointment on his face that would become commonplace in my meetings with adults during my adolescence, he held out his hand and I gave him the Lego box. He shook his head and I left the shop. Bumping into Lucy Reid and her mother outside, who enquired as to the cause of my distress. Nothing I could say, the gaze of Mr. Cousins still catching mine from every angle as I stood embarrassed before my first love.

Walking back, I tried to compose myself as crying was not seen as a symbol of sensitivity and being in touch with one's feelings in early eighties Luton. My red eyes were commented upon in the street by the others playing out, when I put this down to hay-fever, they immediately sought refuge "off-ground" as it was declared that I had the "mange".

Would that the mange were the worst of my worries. Mr. Cousins looked like he wasn't going to tell my parents, but soon did. He beckoned my father over for a quiet word in the old Dog (when it was still good) and had just that in his shell-like. When he returned home, discipline was administered, in those days a rap on the knuckles was seen as more effective than the latter day policies of Play Station suspensions and visits to the child psychologist. Who knows if we learnt our lesson more, but it certainly made you think, if only thinking "Ouch! That hurts. Next time, I won't get caught." Mother prayed to all the saints on the walk from Northern France to her beloved Cathedral of Santiago for my soul, and for a while, the saints listened to her prayers. Though, as I have tried to explain to her on a number of occasions, the saints have a lot on, mum.

Benny: There had to be a girl involved didn't there? Well, I think I was about eight and suddenly remember a lass in the next road. She was the first girl I had ever really spoken to. Contrary to my feelings now, as a child I had very little time for the fairer sex. I only saw them in the form of my mother, whose sole purpose on this planet was to curb any enjoyment had by her sons. If that wasn't bad enough, the rest were school teachers who smelt of bleach and cheap talc, or pretend aunts who smelt of gin and gave crap presents. Maybe, I thought that children could only become women later on in life, that as children we were all united in the common goal of playing out as much and as late as we could. I'm sure her name was Sarah, I'm sure she existed, but the memory has been replayed in my head so many times that the edges have become a blur and additional features as well as necessary edits have changed the story so much from its original format that I cannot distinguish between what is memory and what is fantasy.

She told me that her family could not stretch to the luxury of the green iced biscuits that were ever-present in our household. Hers was a single-parent affair that were still in their infancy, so to speak, at the time of writing. I could not comprehend why she could not give me a satisfactory answer when I questioned the whereabouts of her father, but soon learned not to insist. Although there were many things different about her, she was more interesting than the other boys in the street, in some ways glamorous. Her mother referred to us as "The Little Lovers" which I neither understood nor commended. Many of the boys of the street began to label me as a gay for hanging around with a girl. When people talk of the innocence of children, are they not missing the point and meaning the stupidity? Our friendship blossomed, yet she was always desiring a never-ending supply of green iced biscuits. These biscuits did not curry great favour in our dwelling, I fear they were purchased by my mother only to annoy the other members of the family who craved a chocolatier affair.

It didn't take long for mother to notice the produce was weaning, she began to concern herself for the disappearance and soon saw my share was greater than that of the lion. By simply assuming that my enjoyment of the biscuits was the only reason for their hearty consumption, she cut off provisions. Not expecting this to be a major barrier in our newly flourishing friendship, I informed her of the new state of play and she let me know in no uncertain terms that without the biscuits I could forget the lot. Should I be able to procure the said delights, there would be kisses in it for me. This seemed like a good a reason as any to severe relations, but something obliged to me to seek advice on this matter.

As it was of a nature requiring a certain amount of tact and maturity, I went and asked a thirteen-year-old lad losing a battle with puberty. Though he had been seen kissing a girl at a disco and was the oldest in the street and its nearby environs, if you didn't count the adults. He informed me that I would have to get her these biscuits. The biscuits were the currency of our relationship and could be exchanged for a lie-down. I was in no mood to lie down with her but liked doing penalty shoot-outs with her, although sometimes she had the rudeness to welly the thing at my head. Neither did she cry when I punched her, although on more than one occasion I had to bite my lip as she reciprocated the dig. Why would I want to lie down with her? What games can you play lying down? Who ever played war lying down? I was confused. We went to the market stall where the fabled foodstuff was vended. Checking my weekly allowance, I was soon made aware of the fact that there was a fiscal shortcoming and the biscuits would not be able to be purchased for another eleven days. The spotty one said that that would not do and the items would have to be appropriated by other means. His technique was already perfected, at times he seemed fourteen, or even fifteen. He told me to tell the wifey behind the counter that I was lost and couldn't find my mummy, as the oestrogen in her body caused her to feel enormous pity for me, my cohort shovelled packets of the ambrosia of our, innocent, love into his rucksack. We made good with our haul and returned to the street, convinced that some form of rights of passage ritual had occurred.

With more than two weeks supply of biscuits, I found my friend and we shared the delights. She asked me if I wanted to kiss her. I was sure I said not much but there seems to be some vague memory of an embrace. I managed to prevent any more of these strange clinches, but saw her attitude change once more as the supply dwindled and those left became the texture of two-week-old biscuits. I needed more, I had squandered my allowance, not considering that this moment would ever come, and asked the spotty thief to return to the market. He refused unless I gave him a five-pound note from my mother's purse. When a pickle becomes a quandary is unclear, but my situation was not enviable. With my mother's unsuspecting eyes averted I got my nimble little fingers and discovered to my horror how bereft of blueys she was and took a tenner for my, now less of a, friend.

He was pleased with that and said he would not need me to cause a distraction that time. A day passed. She was in cold turkey for the biscuits and would not speak to me. I sought out the thief, but was brushed off. Later, he found me and furnished me with explicit information about how admonishing him in public was an ill-advised plan. He would now require another ten pounds to do the deed or would tell my mother what I had done. How could he tell her? That would stitch him up too, wouldn't it? I couldn't risk it though another tenner went, and this time not from a roll, but a single note in the purse, soon to be missed. Handed on, I waited another two days and sought him out again despite the consequences. Imagine my surprise, when I find him in an embrace with my Sarah, surrounded by iced-green biscuits and other delights that a thirteen-year-old could buy in late seventies Luton. Later that night my mother looked quizzically into her purse as she tried to pay the milkman. Despite my red face in the corner, my brother was tried and found guilty before he could even call his lawyer. I went to bed feeling like the worst person in the world. At times, I wish I'd felt only that bad as I did that night. Years later I bumped into the spotty thief again, who had turned into an ugly-brainless twenty-something and took delight in testing the fidelity of his fiancée. Scant reward though.

Zippy: Inevitably, my first theft could be described as my thirst theft. Even at the tender age of five I was motivated by inebriation rather than economic gain as an outlet for my larceny. With only world cup having been played in my lifetime, I was already a keen anthropologist, fascinated by the difference in behaviour perpetrated by the peoples of differing stature in the local area. I had made, as my greatest observation, that they were able to succumb to the charms of various liquids that caused them to abandon, amongst other things, the common sense that characterised them during daylight hours. During my investigations, I discovered that the neighbours became rather warm, even in winter, with these joyous libations, and jumpers did not seem compatible with consumption.

I soon made it my life's work to imbibe a beverage of this sort. Initial attempts proved fruitless as the mere smell of the stuff had quite the opposite effect of my favoured refreshing squash after playing out (backyard those days). Working on the principle that smell is a rough indicator of taste (see cabbage, sprouts and turnip) I wondered if my dream would ever be realised. I remained determined and acquired a pack of Wrigley's should the occasion present itself. Through thorough research I discovered a drink called Mead, which was based around a substance I enjoyed on a daily basis as a toast-sweetener. Surely the mellifluent Mead would be little more than a glass-based form of my fast-breaking favourite. Now all I had to do was procure the key to the drinks cabinet and choose my date.

The date chose itself, as my parents had been invited to a swanky do in the capital and my behaviour would be the tenure of young Sandra on Friday evening. Young Sandra who was also a partaker of the drink and suffered from the same rises in temperature only to be cooled down by the current beau, be it Kevin, Gary or Darren. Whilst pretending to be an angel, I was tucked up in bed when the bell went and clumsy fumblings could commence, providing the suitor had secured the necessary bottle of Woodpecker required to open the gates of Elysium or Hades, however you looked at it. Without supervision, I opened the drinks cabinet and poured myself a wee drop of the bees' booze. Down it slid with ease unprecedented, and whilst I felt no need to remove pyjamas, I did fancy another. After the second, I quite fancied one of those fire-sticks that the adults accompanied their drinks with. After the third, I could feel the music coming from the living room, Dr. Feelgood, I believe, and fear, cursing through my veins more than I ever have on an Ecstasy rush. I can almost recall taking a forth and then recall nothing, until I was awoken by my mother enquiring as to why there was a pool of sick on the six by six snooker table and where was Sandra. She was found in the master bedroom, in no better state than myself and left being told she would never work in this town again.

Gore: I was a late developer in the field. Though like other things, I believe I have made up sufficiently for any time lost. Stealing had never really needed to be an act I was directly involved in with the brother already making inroads into most local shops. If I needed new trainees, he would appear with a pair worth fifty quid and I would pocket five of the fifteen that she had given me to purchase them. Ten went to my brother, but I had a fiver and the best trainees in school. At thirteen that was a lot. That meant free music and that suited me. I was still something of a loner at school, not hassled because of my size and surname, but not integrated into any social group. An invitation from the nerds was eschewed with a polite rejection letter. Nobody in the school seemed to have any musical innovation. The only group I had any respect for were the new Romantics, although not sharing their euphonious enjoyment I could still appreciate that they loved their choons, enough to take digs for, and that, was worthy as a mark of respect.

As school provided little social outlet for me, I hanged around with my older cousin Tanya. She shared a love for similar rock based music whilst at the same time detested the metaller tag that had been forced on her, as well as me. She was a rather striking girl, had she been a sloane, modelling would have been suggested, as it was she just looked like a naughty vampiress from an Aerosmith video. We used to hang out at a record store in town and she would use her wiles to entice the over-weight owner, your typical metal fan in his forties who refused to keep his record collection indoors and insists on the clothing that was acceptable until your late twenties. After that it's time to allow grace to take over and ignore the temptation to don leather-tasselled jackets and Led Zep t-shirts, though it is not so much the clothing, rather the receding hairline, the glasses and the pot-belly from too many open-air festivals that cause more optical distress. That said, he would always be good for a few through-away flexis, tapes free from Sounds, NME or the Maker, from time to time a deluxe gatefold edition would be handed out as he attempted to resuscitate the Ziggy within to charm the young groupie.

Tanya knew how to play him, but wanted more free records. She hit upon the idea of simply changing the price stickers over from the singles to the albums and seeing what he did. She was sure if I went up to the cash desk with the changed prices and she showed enough chest, she had more than enough, then he would probably not notice. Nervously, I changed the prices over from a couple of singles, how I yearn for the glorious, halcyon days of price-stickers and those visa-machines that made that horrible clicking noise that told you that the misappropriated card would not be discovered for days, how the spoilsports have ruined things now, and jittered up to the cash-desk. Whilst trying not to laugh at Tanya's over-the-top response to Old Metal Man's story about how he was thrown out of a hotel room in New York whilst touring with Black Sabbath (not his story I later found out from a bio), he asked me for five pounds and I left with five long-players. Badfinger, Big Star's First, Stevie Wonder's Innervisions, Country Life by Roxy Music and the Man Machine by Kraftwerk (I wanted the German edition but they didn't have it) for the record, and they had me down as a metaller! The price of being eclectic.

The plan worked so well that we took orders and repeated the same action the following Saturday. As the danger levels were raised, Tanya said she was prepared to let him cop a feel and a mini-snog, but that I was to appear at the counter before the squeeze on the breast became too longing. I assumed, in my innocence, that she was just getting into character and admired her method acting, but later learnt that she had a penchant for scruffy, past-it metallers. I felt bad this time, not about changing the price-tags, but at some of the requests that we had been given. I wasn't happy at having to touch Genesis records, and was tempted to shelve the request for Tina Turner and give them Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division or The Bunnymen's Heaven Up Here, surely, I would be doing them a favour in the long run. Still, work was work. We would pay ten pounds for them and punt them out for three each. What I like to call a three-hundred percent profit.

On this went for another couple of Saturdays. Until greasy, old perv realised he wasn't getting inside the bra and called a halt to proceedings. We were banned from his shop, though not before he let us know that he was au courant with our little game and had been supplementing the loss from his own pocket, what he saw as an investment. Now that the stock market had closed and his shares had not soared in value, he pulled out and left us with nowhere to trade. Still, we had made fifty quid and had some great new records.

Later that day, Tanya asked me if I really felt like her cousin and we investigated the bloodline to discover that there were enough divorces and unclaimed offspring to virtually eliminate any possibility of incest. So there, to the recently pilfered sounds of Marvin, we, so to speak, got it on. In little over a month, I had crossed two things off my list of things to do as a teenager. I hoped to continue enjoying this new-found form of aural pleasure with Tanya, but it was not to be, there would be the odd repetition over the years, but she was soon in a band and at University.

Years later, I would befriend the owner of the shop when we formed a music appreciation society, and every Christmas fill his stocking with a rare Japanese import, or a limited edition or some item of pop memorabilia to repay the debt.
BOOK ONE - SECTION SEVENTEEN

Betwixt dos mundos

The immigration office at Alicante airport was not a particularly overused place. Despite the endless influx of planes from the Islands full of disembarking young, and not so young passengers keen to enjoy the liquid refreshments the city has to offer, the very fact that the city had built its reputation on being a bastion of affordable leisure perpetuated a bilateral agreement which seemed to have as its main clause; you bring the drinkers and we'll take the money. Graham, Benny, Zippy and Gore have been brought to this place, not for a rummaging over or the plastic glove treatment, but merely as a stop-gap between the world they have left behind and the new one which they are about to enter. Questions will be asked, though it should be pointed out that these questions are ostensibly for the benefit of the questioner and the reader so that these elements in the story can allow themselves to complete the mental picture they have constructed of the four main characters of this text. As they have been quaffing heartily aboard the plane we shall continue to supply them with beverages for the duration of this interrogation. Some have come close to dozing during the journey and removing the incentive of alcohol from them could be counter-productive in terms of the expectation we have for their answers. By the use of this ingenious literary vehicle, the writer also avoids having to do a scene at baggage reclaim. The boys' bags will be brought directly to the room, and a hired vehicle shall take them to their five star lodgings.

ENTER GRAHAM, BENNY, ZIPPY and GORE accompanied by TWO BRITISH AIRWAYS GROUND STAFF and an EMPLOYEE OF ALICANTE AIRPORT. Four reasonably comfortable looking chairs are placed before a trestle table that has three less comfortable ones behind it. The airline staff indicate to the four that they be seated, and the employee pours them the same drinks that they were enjoying on the plane, only in a colder larger form. One of the TWO BRITISH AIRWAYS STAFF is a good friend of the young ladies recently befriended by BENNY aboard flight BA 718, though this is unknown to him and his answers may well be related to her friends should their good reputation be put in doubt. The other is simply a rather renowned gossip in the area. Once seated, our heroes are informed of their situation in no way corresponding to a lack of desire on behalf of the Community of Valencia not to extend to the warmest of welcomes, as all would concur that they have seen a lot worse over the years. Once their levels of comfort have been ascertained as those acceptable for the commencement of questioning, it is decided that there is no better thing to do than crack on.

LADY B.A. GROUND STAFF

Gentlemen, as you are aware, we have brought you here with no desire to cast aspersions on the nature of your business or indeed to what we owe your presence here. We simply thought that it may be beneficial for all involved to get a deeper insight of what "The Change" signifies for you individually and what you consider your own personal expectations to be in both the short and long term. We would like you to answer candidly, and in turn, focusing on your feelings now and where you see yourself in, say, five years. With that, we shall leave you the floor, safe in the knowledge that your responses are merely for informative purposes. Whenever you are ready, we would be delighted to listen to you.

(She gestures that one of them begin)

BENNY

Well. (Benny barely finishes vocalising the useful utterance we know as well when he takes a big gulp of his drink. Making it clear that he is to go first, and that interruptions from now on would be in the very worst of taste). From my own personal point of view, I consider the change to represent both a culmination and a return. By that I mean that I feel confident that our talents have been misemployed in our previous habitat and here we will be able to use these well honed skills to a greater extent. In this case for the benefit of our new employers instead of to their detriment as was happening in Luton. I firmly believe this to be a land of opportunity, both inside and outside the framework of legality. We are ambitious and accomplished and I, for one, expect that to be recognised in the remuneration of our services. From what we have been told by the Funeral Director, the opportunities are here. It is well known that he and his employers are content with our modus operandi yet at the same time recognise that life does not always deal you the prefect hand, therefore, you have to have a few spare cards lying about. They have seen that we have had our setbacks, though I do feel, that these setbacks have been taken on board, and, in the majority of the cases, we have learnt from them and improved. (He takes another big gulp, and, seeing his audience beckons him to continue, does just that). When you get to your mid-thirties it is important to have a clear focus, that was what was lacking in Luton, not due to our inability to focus on the task in hand, rather that our working situation made it impossible for us to continue. By removing the ambition that was for so long our driving force, by forcing us to work in areas where our cultivated minds were superfluous it was inevitable that laziness would creep in. I have always believed that the secret of being a good boss is not in how loud you shout rather you loud you praise and how well you make the people below you see that their mistakes form part of their own personal learning curve. I know I have things to learn and am anxious to learn, to perfect the craft, the idealistic art-form that is our work.

I would not be telling you the whole truth either if I omitted the fact that the area does have something of a reputation for having a rather enjoyable social scene, and as perhaps has been documented hitherto in the text, we do like a drink, and hope to find other people who like a drink too. Added to that is the fact that the birds should have better tans round here and I've always liked that. So, short term, fun, fanny and a fair few quid.

Long term is not my forte. Who knows what could happen in five years. We will have to accept that we will be forty then and maybe it will be times for the values to change. Perhaps, settling down may be an issue, perhaps even young Kylie and her mother might come over. Then again, I've missed so much of that so far that it might just be simpler to start again from the beginning. (Benny makes it clear that he has finished, and lighting a cigarette, offers the floor to the next taker. GRAHAM sees it as a chance to out-articulate BENNY even though he does admit that he did do a good job until the final two outbursts which left his personality rather in evidence. Whilst thinking of witty opening to make it clear to the LADY B.A. GROUND STAFF that she should in no way consider any other member of the party than him, he remembered Hilary and the moment was lost to ZIPPY.

ZIPPY

In many ways I agree with the majority of what Benny has just said. The Change represents the ideal of what our lives could be, and now there is a real feeling that this could come true. I am also enticed here by the leisure possibilities which I see as more in fitting with my continued evolution through the third decade of my life. Work could be a blast. I'm not really sure how it will all work out, I've seen so many changes that I'm just going to take each day as it comes, but hope in the future that I will be able to have something going of my own. I think I speak for all us when I say that the Change also represents a possibility for all of us to find our separate routes towards what will reveal itself as our own, true personal destiny. This, I believe, does not necessarily require the four of us to be shackled together continuously, and while my heart's desire is for the social element to remain an ever-present guest at our dinner table, I genuinely believe that as we head towards forty that we will feel less and less need to be four. This I do not see a negative thing or any rebuff on the character of my colleagues, simply something that should be seen as a natural progression. Perhaps there are even those who believe we should have done this before. I can only say that now we need to be together and to feed off this positive energy that surrounds us. We have been fortunate. We are lucky to be here. We have had too many lucky escapes. Too many have fallen by the wayside that could have been us. It is our duty to the memory of Alan, Tony and all the others that we should not, and I do not wish to use profanity in front of you, but feel the emotion of the moment warrants it, fuck it up.

I'd also quite like to learn Spanish, though that could prove difficult, marry a dark and sultry princess and try out the coke round here. Hopefully in the next few hours, the coke not the language and princess bit. He took a drink from the glass that was now required to be filled again. Both the B.A GROUND STAFF compared their notes so far which would constitute the minutes of the meeting. Both had been pleasantly surprised by the two monologues they had heard, if not in their entirety. Both had showed their true colours at the end, and thereby suggested what they had given had been nothing more than a rather spontaneous yet well played rubric that they had had floating round in their heads. On their papers, they made little notes about how long these two would survive the turgid waters of the Costa del Sol. Neither were given very long, a major footnote stating that their attitudes, too closely linked to their mouths, would get them into too much trouble. Breaking protocol, they suggested that GORE go next.

GORE

I am not surprised by the remarks made so far, though had hoped a word would appear that might one day become and equally important driving force, and that word is, legality. I believe we have spent to much time on the wrong side of the law, and whilst it is an irrefutable fact that we shall need to spend some time, I would like for the aim to be, one day, leaving this behind and being able to hold our heads up high as law-abiding citizens, or, at least as your average chap. The country we inhabit as thieves and cheaters is akin to Sierra Leone in terms of life expectancy, replace the killer diseases with the danger and misfortune that can stalk you on every corner and you realise you are lucky to get past thirty. Kalvin could so easily have been our Cholera. For me, then, I would like to approach, and reach, the forth decade of my life with a new vision, with the chance to do something that fulfils my needs and rewards me. To get to this stage it is inevitable that the change will play apart, and ideally between then and now, the possibility to accrue sufficient funds to be able to partake in such a venture is paramount. What I would like to do, is own a record shop or something involved with music. Not, you will understand, a simple top forty vendor of throwaway meaning less music, rather a chance for minds to meet and discuss the merits, or lack of, of musical output. Not particularly worrying about such mundane facts as profits or sales, just pushing enough to tick over and pay the bills. Whether this establishment be in Spain or anywhere else is yet to be seen, but that is what I would like to achieve from the change, to go straight.

From a personal point of view, I have never had a great deal of success with relationships, perhaps this is inter-linked to my insecurity about the future as the work we are involved in does not inspire people to take out more than one library book, let alone involve oneself in such things as parenting. Therefore, for this to change the legal aspect of our work must be something to be considered if I am to embark on this, desired road. I've always seen myself annoying my offspring by criticising their music and attempting to change their tastes. I consider myself to have the qualities needed to be a good father, though, I must insist that this can only become an option when the shackles of our labour have been removed.

As to whether we will stay together is an incognito. Hopefully, yes, though with time comprehending the need to move apart. Still, this is a new dawn and we should look towards it as such.

GORE makes an optical gesture that his turn has finished. His words have surprised those present. Legality is not something mentioned too often in these circles. The boundaries have become blurred after so much time on the wrong side of the law that now no-one really knows which side is which, well they do, but they don't think about it. This only leaves GRAHAM to speak. He had hoped to be the one leaving all the eloquence in the room, but as he prepared his own monologue, realised that his colleagues had made generally articulate points, and that there was nothing really that he could add. He thought about making some comment about the need to discover part of his ancestry or replace Julia or some other point that would no doubt only provide Benny with an excuse to have a jolly old laugh at his expense. He poured some more beer into the glass and took a deep breath. As he did so, their bags arrived, and there was a general feeling that people should be getting on with the taxi ride to the hotel. He had missed the opportunity and now everyone was anxious to get one with the days tasks. It was gone five in the afternoon, the ground staff had work to do, the other three were keen to get to the hotel, freshen up and enjoy a night on the tiles, though GRAHAM was determined to have his say.

GRAHAM

Indeed some interesting points have been made. I'm not sure how much I can add to them without wallowing in the domain of repetition, though I shall try. Ideally,

With that the LADY B.A GROUND STAFF gave a rather apologetic look and informed the boys that a taxi was waiting to take them a nice hotel on the Promenade which had been organised by the good people at the airport. She assured Graham that he would have the opportunity to speak at a later juncture, but that most of their questions had been answered. GRAHAM felt aggrieved, but made a modest attempt not to show it, indeed thanking them for the opportunity to express themselves and hoping that their answers had given them some food for thought. All got up to leave, hands were shook, goodbyes were made as the four were led out into the airport car park, taking in for the first time the bright sunlight that was beating down upon them. As they crossed the road and had their first beep off a Spanish driver for not looking the right way as they crossed, they entered the taxi and were soon heading into town. The Change had begun.

End of Book One
BOOK TWO SECTION EIGHTEEN

Noche alicantina

BENNY: So, Graham had already managed to see his arse about something or other. Apparently, it is down to the fact that this temporary home of ours seems to be unable to provide the cultural requirements that our learned friend craves. Curious, because he has spent the past three decades in the cultural abyss that is Luton. So, off he has gone to explore, somewhat like a dad determined to be the most knowledgeable on the holiday. I'm devastated at his lack of presence. Ever since we decided, unanimously, not to go to Madrid in favour of a bit of fun in the sun, he has been as intolerable as I can remember. Maybe, instead of wandering round with a face like his on him, he should show a bit more gratitude towards my rather notable brilliance which has got us on this rather healthy footing in the land the Romans called Hispania. We, the remaining three are sitting at the hotel bar. With the drinks nearly finished I suggest that the town has more to offer than this.

Inevitably, Gore and Zippy decide to side with Graham. They suggest we wait a while longer or perhaps text him to let him know of our plans. I insist that he has known where we are all along and that had he the remotest desire to enjoy our company, then here he would be. The forum did not consider it thus and the message was sent. To our immense joy the miserable freak was merely a hop, skip and a jump (and ideally a nasty fall) away from the hotel, where he would soon join us. Strong emotions of delight surge through me. The others suggest we need another drink for the wait, and I concur. Gore does the honours and Zippy invites me to ponder over the fact that I am maybe being a bit hard on Graham. Maybe I am, we'll see how much of a twat he is during the evening before deciding to let up or not. Casting a glance around the hotel bar, I am reminded of Graham's idea that hotel bars are amongst the numerous places where it would be impossible to become inebriated, this makes me think more fondly of him as I share this view. There are the usual groups of dull holiday makers with their crap patter and boring drinks, dying to get you into their hooks to show you their snaps and other treats that bear testament to their continued quest for leisure. A group of Germans on the other side of the lounge drink in silence to a rigid timetable. The only acquiescence to the idea of femininity are two rather orange-looking ladies in their thirties, not wholly unacceptable but still uninviting at seven in the afternoon and with a town full of lithe tanned bodies to work through. I hope to be out of here as soon as possible and into the melee, but Graham's arrival is combined with the information that he will also require a shower, I curse his personal hygiene as we are looking forced into another drink here. After poo-poohing the siesta on our first day in Spain, we also run the risk of being rather oiled by the time the beautiful people hit the streets.

Graham is taking his time and Zippy is bending my ear about phoning the air-stewardesses. I try to explain to him that that would leave a dreadful impression with so much field to play, but he fails to grasp the concept. Should we invite them as our companions now we would have to buy them dinner, then put up with them all night, purchasing them drinks and smiling as they slowly bored me into bed. Far better to let some other muppets do that and then steam in when their defences are weakened. Also, what would happen if we turned up with them and were given some better offer during the night? They don't take to kindly to that and then the girls get a despicable spirit of camaraderie and you could end up with nothing. That can't be good for the old ego, not pulling in the Benidorm / Alicante area. Zippy soon changes tack and remembers his true love. He is convinced that scoring should be the play of the child, though has a niggling doubt that it could feasibly not happen. We don't know anyone in this town and that is not going to change sitting in this place. However, we shall become patrons of the locations favoured by holiday makers in search of the essential of the modern British package; booze, sex, drugs and fighting, all with decent weather. We should be well catered for. Still Zippy insists, what if? The answer is simple but he can't comprehend it. I try to have a laugh at his expense about the fact he may have to stay clean though in my heart know that a snort would be more than welcome already, so by the time we get to twelve bells we know what the buffet will be serving.

Graham finally deigns to join us, and before we can inform he does not care for a drink we are outside. Our hotel is on the Promenade, or the Paseo Maritimo as Graham seems to insist on calling it. He, it turns out, has been for a walk round the old town and found some nice little places. Well done Graham, you utter prick. Oops, was going to be nice to him wasn't I? When he earns it. We see a place across the road that looks just the ticket. It is named the Red Lion which must be some reference to the local fauna. I was not aware that JCB had a machine for transplanting English boozers across Europe, but it appears that they do. Here is more like it, as we enter the doors we feel sure that the night will begin here. How wrong can you be? Inside there is merely darkness and little else, bereft of custom, our first instinct is to do one-hundred and eighty and return from whence we came, had it not been for the look on the barman's face. He radiated joy at having customers, four of them as well, that's almost a clientele, and guilt prevented us from leaving, so we stayed, for one.

We would have to find out where the places that offered the Red Lion juxtaposition in an enjoyment sense where, as soon as possible, but did not wish to offend the lord of the land. This meant I should do the talking. Drinks were procured and I began.

"Still early I suppose? We've only just arrived but saw the place from the street. Is this your gaff?" Clever, indeed. Giving him a ready made excuse for the fact that Russ Abbot would not be happy here and offering him the chance to furnish him with the information we may need. As I hand over the European Currency Unit I add that he should take one himself, and he does.

"This place? Mine? You're joking, aren't you? Thank God! It's always like this, everywhere else on this street is always packed but we never do any business. Anyway, I get paid for doing nothing, I read and watch films, now and again I open a bottle or pour a pint. I'm really a painter but works a bit thin on the ground." Replied our host whose name, it transpires, is John.

"Really, what style?" Pipes in Graham without an invitation.

"Er, the style and Decorator" replies John. Tally-ho John! Good response says I to myself and make it known that Graham's input in this conversation should be aural.

"So if you don't recommend your place of work. Where could some young, good-looking lads have fun in this town?" I enquire. The look on Zippy's face is begging me to ask him where can we buy drugs, the boy really has no sense of decorum, these things do not merely happen in such a way. Patience is not in his custom dictionary.

"Across the road. London's. Banging every night. Full of fanny, decent choons and not too expensive. Can get a bit racy, but hey, you are Brits abroad. Even now the vibes should be good, by midnight it will be on fire. " John informs us. Zippy now has the puppy look on his face. I shan't ask directly though will infer just to appease him.

"Ha! By midnight I fear we shall be nodding off, unless there were something to, say, help us into the night." It's hard to measure subtlety on these occasions, you can end up being too cryptic and confusing or too obvious and insulting. John knows the score.

"More or less like sugar bowls full of it in there. You'll be up all night. I'll be in after my shift, might see you for a drink." Retorts John.

We finish our drinks and express our desire for his last statement to be true. Leaving the premises we are reminded that John has done us a favour and we should not jump to conclusions in the future, and then laugh as we know this is not true.

Across the road is London's. A mammoth testament to boozing, dancing, cavorting and, sporadically, fighting. Despite the early hour the place has a healthy base of customers, things looking still rather civilised as the sun begins to fade. Zippy immediately begins to scout for dealers, when I tell him to relax he sets his heart on sitting on a table near a group of girls clearly not blessed with Latin blood. I inform him that with standards, not hurry, that he should occupy himself with a task within his capabilities at the bar. Visually cruising the bar for a vantage point, I find the ideal location and am questioned. Theirs is not to reason why, rather to follow and learn. We know this place is going to be wall to wall later, that is given, so now we need to address the fine restaurant and class A drugs situation. Therefore, our need is to strike up a convivial parlance with people who, ideally live here, and essentially, have an educated palate. These are thin on the ground in here, but a group of three lads sat at a table near the door could be of use to us. I can also see the tell-tale shaking of the knee which suggests either extreme nervousness or the presence of Cocaine Hydrochlorate in their circulatory system.

They possibly did not wish to have their party spoilt by some unknown holiday-makers so we would have to convince them of our worth within a very short frame time. I would have to summon all my powers to achieve this aim. I have to come out with something that is south of gay, not overly trying to be cool and yet not seem dull either. I ask one of them if they could give me a light and am furnished with one. Time to steam in. "Sorry to bother you boys again, but we've just arrived and have our hearts set on a decent meal this evening. We've seen the menu here and it doesn't look up to much, so I though maybe if we asked a knowing looking person maybe we could get the name of a decent place. Inevitably, you boys seemed the most likely to be able to help us." I left it there and felt how good I was. That was better even than the line we hoped to snaffle from them by the end of the next paragraph. They took the bait and we were invited to join their social circle.

Introductions were made. They were very much surname people, Campbell, MacFarland and Connor, although we were assured that these were their prenoms. Them hailing from north of the border gave us the opportunity to give them further congratulatory felatio at the quality of the people of their homeland whilst recounting our minor adventure with me cast, justly, in the role of hero. I offered them the chance to be our quaffing guests, and they accepted. You could tell by the way they were blabbering that they were cruising through their first line of the night, always the best, in love with life, Zippy was suffering watching them high while he only wished, but as I preferred to wait till after dinner for such tomfoolery, I decided to let him sweat. I returned with the drinks and they informed us that they were planning to dine at a rather nice fish restaurant and would be delighted to share a table with company on the same social and intellectual level. A superb result.

As we made our way to the door, Zippy was tugging on my sleeve like the world's most annoying junky. It was fun watching him sweat but it would soon become tiresome if he were to be on my case forever. I had a quiet word with Campbell and he said it was the work of a mere phone call. In the meantime as guests we were more than welcome to partake. Zippy had already rolled a note and was in the gents before Campbell could finish the sentence, reminding the boys of local hero Alan Wells out of the blocks. The rest of us decided we would prefer to maintain an appetite before indulging, though we thanked him.

We subdivided the groups in order to assure arrival at the restaurant without amusing getting lost incidents. I shared with Campbell, Zippy and Gore whilst Graham went with the other two. We had in many ways struck gold with these boys, they were more or less our age, they knew the place and the language, something that not too many punters in London's could boast. Once in the lavish eatery by the sea, the boys attempted to translate the menu for us in a way that made some kind of sense, though the fact that our island nation seems to only produce four kinds of fish which are quickly transformed into shapes bearing no or little resemblance to their original design, their lexicon made little sense. When we are now forced to comprehend four different types of squid cooked in five different ways, we have to just trust in our new friends and hope all comes out well on the other side. I'm not really that fussed about all this, to be honest a steak would do me just fine, but we do need to show willing as to guarantee the night's entertainment. Once our need for them has been utilised, should they not have proved themselves worthy, they will be discarded and on our merry journey will continue. Of course, we could need them so best be nice and go along with them as the daddies of this scenario.

We wine and dine and are then introduced to liquors that have the effect of aiding digestion, or so the rumour goes. The food is not bad, in all honesty, though I fail to see why it causes a semi-erect state in most of those present at the table. Obviously Graham is being a ghastly bore, rabbiting on about Galicia and fish and other topics that no-one wants to listen to. All this before he has a line as well. Maybe they should give him some Prozac and send him home on the drone train. It's not long before the toilets are called for and our tiredness a mere memory. We also wipe from the memory card the various pints and glasses of wine that have passed by the lips during the day, and effectively start again. Feeling new, we order long drinks from the bar. Long drinks here are long indeed. I've never been a big spirits drinker, possibly because the pitiful measure offered on the shores and shires of Blighty fails to create a positive drinking experience. Twenty-five millilitres of the chosen beverage with a splash of flat soft drink and ice that melts on contact with the serving tongs is not apropos of pleasure. Here, on the other hand, three cubes of ice that could survive a nuclear blast, a slice of lemon, real lemon juice and the rind rubbed around the rim of the glass, all occur before the Cuban rum is added, and when it is, I realise that I could get quite into this. The patter around the table is befitting the quality of its occupants, everyone is in the talking shite mode, recounting past glories, offering eulogies to those present for past triumphs and generally seconding the clear fact that we are the finest human beings in the entire existence of the planet. After the second visit to the loos, Campbell gets the bell that his supplier (his camel as he calls him) is twenty minutes away from London's. These are dealer minutes, not minutes that contain sixty seconds and form hours that complete days. These are minutes that can contain an ever-changing number of seconds that you have to stand whilst, like Lou said, waiting for your man.

The drinks are polished off and taxis hailed. Campbell freely admits that he does not expect his man to be early, yet would not like to risk his arrival at London's to see the face of the dealer, begrudgingly looking at his watch and letting you know that he is working. This is his nine to five, and just like you don't like being kept waiting by a rep from Solihull who is stuck in traffic with the new bolts for the M.32 model, he doesn't like being made to wait. He has the night to ride into. This stuff is good. With the windows down in the taxi the cool air breezes through my hair, removing the beads of sweat that the combination of toxins had produced. We were soon in London's again and the mood was clearly fiesta. Zippy hung close to Campbell for hope of an intro to the dromedary, even though we were only going to be here a few days and he expresses a desire to clean the guy out. Zippy wants five wraps, this doesn't delight the exponent of supply side economics as this would mean having to return to his lair to acquire further narcotics, with Graham, the Scots and Gore also keen to purchase, little remains in the cupboard, yet, rather than be pleased at this beneficial sale, the man becomes irate at having to earn easy money. I leave them to it and hang back at the bar. I think about getting a round but can't remember what everyone is drinking. With the super-glue taste still dominant in my mouth I opt for a soft drink and down it. After that I go for a sparkling water as some of the fish appears to want to check out the bar. With the stomach now under control I gesture to the shoppers if they should care to imbibe, a rhetorical question if ever there was one. Now, with all the requirements of the night satisfied, I can remove my generous head and dedicate myself to recuperating some of the more than one hundred Euros that I had shelled out in order to guarantee the night. This would be easy with my friends, simply holding onto notes used as charlie transporters, it would be trickier to get my share back from our new friends, maybe we would have to leave it as a necessary expense, I shall begin though by not chipping in for the drug. I mean, if it weren't for me, then, and they know that and can't take issue.

The place is on fire, we see John from the Red Lion and he joins me for a line in the gents. I don't like such obvious consumption when the place is so full, but it is clear that the night is being fuelled just as much by the over-priced, sweet, sickly liquids behind the bar as the powders and pills unsubtly being touted to anyone with the readies. John and Campbell introduce me to the Cuban classic, the "Mojito" and with everything working in harmony, I think it's time to seek out some female company to help me through the comedown. That said, for some reason, the bait is not being taken, maybe I was never meant to play on the continent, surely it was just a case of adapting to the game, so when Campbell and the other surnames suggested that we go to a little place they knew where such resistance was unheard of, I pondered and decided that, from an anthropological point of view, it may be an interesting experience. Gore was up for the ride, so to speak, but Graham's political sensibility and Zippy's forgetting that he had genitalia meant that they were stopping in the bar. I gave Zip the number of the stewardesses' mobile in a moment of normally unseen altruism, and in a flash was in another taxi heading out of town.

During the ride the boys assured me that the place to where we were headed was indeed classy and not the sort of scruffy hole that lined the motorways of Spain with green and pink neon lights as a testament to anti-subtlety. They seemed quite keen to make this point and differentiate themselves from potentially sad people who frequented such places to pay for sexual relations with exploited young things systematically having their dreams of better life torn from them, but let this point go in deference to my hosts and not to seem too much like a Graham.

Upon arrival, the place did have quite a nice feel to it and the decor was more than acceptable. It would have made quite a nice disco, though I fear the owners were loathe to reduce profits so that kids could buy bottled water and pop pills. I was clear of mind as I entered, I Benny, would not be paying for the act under no circumstances. Some things just go against the philosophy, though I will admit I allowed a little fantasy of having one of the girls, too besotted with the quality I offer to accept money from me, and offer me one, on the house. At the bar we order drinks and I immediately realise that they are not giving them away. I take a rum and so does Gore, in the battle of the slow wallets I win and Gore is left to pay the twenty Euro bill for two drinks. Now, we are making the cash back. The Scots take a beer, down it and with the click of the fingers of those who are not new to this are suddenly in scantily clad company and informing me of a rendezvous in about an hour. Gore is still dithering, though I reckon this could be more out of fear of losing his tenner scoop rather than a bout of indecision. He looks at me and says "When in Rome" then disappears with the sort of girl you only see cheering when Falco scores in the world cup.

That leaves me at the bar on my own. Of course, I'm not on my own as I am approached on various occasions. It does feel rather disconcerting, I am not after anything other than the fluids in my glass or the powder in my pocket, so I don't see why they can't just leave me be. Yet, insistent they are. My instincts tell me that if I buy one of them a drink and chew the fat with her then I might get a bit or peace. Why can't they understand that I'm simply here with some friends having a drink? When one comes over who can speak almost decent English I offer her a drink and she gratefully accepts. The barman pours her a third of a glass and then lets me know, without the by nor the leave one would expect that I am debt to the bar to the tune of thirty Euros. I question this, but his stance is firm. How can a third of a drink cost three times as much? Her explanation is simple, it's nice to buy the girls a drink, but they can't be pissed on the job. This has put me in a bad mood and I don't even wish for her conversation now. She tells me I am handsome. My dear, I am aware of the existence of mirrors. She grabs my crotch and suggests we go upstairs. I inform her that I have no intention of putting my hand in pockets for carnal pleasure and she asks me why I am here. This is a good question. I wish I wasn't. I ponder the idea of a disappearing act but don't want to bump into the Scots later and have a scene. Plus we have Gore to consider. She grabs me again and I invite her to fuck off with great haste. She calls me a name that I assume does not fall under the umbrella term of compliment and a few people glance around. She leaves me, taking her thirty bill pot, and goes to join another group of girls, obviously badmouthing me. I now have my solution, she scowls over at me, I raise my glass to her and a peaceful forty-five minutes before we can head back to the reassuring world of pub prices, ropy lasses and Columbia's finest.

I am still on my own though. With the coke in my system I feel the need to converse, to share my wisdom with the minions and to make this world a better place. I spy a group of lads who look English and provide them with an intensive course in erudition. They have been over here on holiday for a week and have a week left. They have done the same thing every night, few pints in London's, dinner at a burger and ribs place and then here. I start talking to one about the ethics of the situation. He says that this place is the best place on Earth. He then informs me that he has pulled every night in here. I beg him to rewind. Did he say pull? I let him know I do not consider him sagacious to the situation in which he is in. He looks at me as I would expect. I simplify. "How can you pull? This is a whorehouse, a knocking shop, a place of business. This is not you in Asda giving furtive glances over the quiches, then dropping some well chosen conditioner at the check-out and initiating a conversation. That is pulling. That is work. This is business. You come in, put your money on the table and they have sex with you. It is as difficult as buying a lawn mower, something that may give you more use and pleasure. I don't mean to be terse but I don't see how you can equate this transaction to the art of seduction." To be fair to the lad he doesn't take offence and tells it the way he sees it.

"Yeah but you have to take into account the fact that if you come here the first night, there are some, the top range, that won't even look at you. You've got to earn it. It's not just about the money, you've got to do the work. Therefore, you do have to pull them. It's like a challenge." Is his response.

I let it go. I say nothing but doff my cap to thee, mighty one amongst the ladies. You really do have something special. I offer him a line of coke, in the hope that he manages to go "top range" (what is this guy on?) and then can't perform, thus ruining his night. He accepts as we go to the toilets. No-one appears the slightest bit arsed about consumption, though prostitution and drugs have always been twin towns. As the powder hits him he starts to tell me about his life. I'm just watching the clock, with a little luck in twenty we can feel the breeze of the night air as the taxi powers down the motorway, back to Alicante and the sanctity of Graham and Zippy. God, I actually miss them. That is a tender moment. Softlad buys me a drink to say thanks for the line, I want to give the long drinks a rest for a while, but have a spreadsheet to balance. I give you Columbia you give me Cuba, I inform him. He gives me that look again so I just say rum and coke. His patter is no better with the drug, just faster and more voluminous. There are piss-taking opportunities here but I can't really be bothered.

The clock strikes and Gore is first down. The ching and the mojitos meant that his performance was not Albert Hall standard so they called down for some more drinks, took some fat lines and chewed the fat about Brazilian music. How delightful, and me here as guest speaker in the Nerd Conference. A few minutes later our party is complete and we would seem to be ready to move. However, Connor suggest that the work is thirsty and a beer would aid. I take another rum as it's offered though make sure the barman doesn't go too mad this time with the bottle. They ask me if I've had a good time and I lie. I only wanted to see the set-up, I tell them. They say I don't know what I'm missing. Great sex with no paperwork according to Campbell. Still, to reward me he passes me a pill and says get ready to groove. Gore takes one too and we wash them down asap so that they don't start hitting us whilst still in the taxi.

Feeling beyond good, we hit the forecourt and look for friendly taxi man. Though for some reason friendly taxi man is not so now. Campbell says that they get a cut of any punters that come into the place. Perhaps a drive down into town is just too much of a pain in the arse for him. He is adamant that his shift is over and only a ton will get us back. It cost twenty-five coming so obviously nobody is keen to play twenties Germany pricing. We furnish him with the knowledge that he may indulge in self-fornication, and initiate the pursuit of another handsome cabby, a big ask in this town. We soon realise that the Monopolies and Mergers Commission should be informed of our taxi friend's activities and have to return to him cap in hand. The price is ludicrous but we do have to get back to Alicante. Now the funny bastard says he can't be bothered and is going in for a drink. This is all too much a drag as the first waves of the pill begin the fight with the liquor. We ask him to reconsider but in he goes. This is now shit. To add fuel to the fire, Connor has displaced the resident car-parker, an old man employed to guide horny vehicles into tight spaces, and is having a laugh with an Audi that has just entered. He deliberately guides them into the bumper of a parked vehicle, much to his own amusement, though not shared by the occupants of the stylish German motor, now missing a tail-light. They voice their displeasure and MacFarland appears to enquire about the nature of the problems. Insults are exchanged in the tongue of our hosts as Connor's fist flies through the window, making contact with the driver's nose. Within seconds the other occupant is out of the car and towards Connor. This causes Campbell to spring into action with boots and fists flying in all directions. Inevitably, security come to investigate and delight in indiscriminately administering blows to anyone near enough. I look at Gore and we shake our heads. God I wish we had some ruby slippers. We attempt to aid our new friends though feel that it might help us more if we stick the boot in on them. The love drug cursing through our veins doesn't aid the desire to whack people we would rather hug. In one moment of unexpected lucidity I can see Connor about to lay a boot onto the head of the driver who lays stunned on the floor. Before he can place the probably fatal blow, I catch him on the chin and knock him back fortunately causing him to fall and bang his head. That's him out for a while. MacFarland admonishes me for this but the prick was going to kill him. A few seconds later we would have to put this argument to the back burner.

In the melee, the owners of the Audi had left the doors open and the engine running. As the police sirens in the distance became louder, Campbell decided he had no time for lawyers and the like. He got into the driver's seat and hit the accelerator, speeding out of the car park with the passenger doors still open. Despite a minor thud against the wall he was soon on the road down to the town and free. We watched incredulously as this unfolded and when we lost track of the red lights, the fight began again. Yet somehow, me and Gore were not really party to it. The lads from the car were taking revenge on MacFarland and the stunned Connor, it appeared that the security boys were just fighting themselves, or anyone close enough. We hung back, lit a tab and thanked God when the black Maria pulled into the club to arrest us. Less than twelve hours in Spain and we were going to see a cell.

We were bundled into the van. That word only tends to be used in that context, but here it was necessary. We shared with the two lads from the Audi who were probably expecting to leave the establishment with different tender areas to the ones they were nursing at the time. With great relief we saw the lights of the city. We assumed that it was going to be a night in the cells for us so I texted Graham to let him know not to wait for us. I tried phoning but there was no answer, he was probably dancing like a spaz, loving the world and all its inhabitants, like we should be. Still, the cops were good sports. As the pill hit full power they banged on the radio with some fair tunes. Conversation was not flowing in the back, yet I got the idea that they did not hold us responsible for the altercation, and, indeed, perhaps owed me a debt of gratitude for being in possession of two heads. We offered them fags and they accepted. We would have offered them a line to chill their nerves but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. I fiddled around in my pocket and felt the wrap, at best their were crumbs, that was a relief. Gore did the same and realised that his Brazilian friend had snaffled it. God bless her. All we had to do now was call the Embassy and we would have a full English in no time.

Gore was not too sure. He didn't believe that drugged-up, pissed English louts who caused fights outside brothels were treated with great kindness in the cells of JC the first. He kept saying the word "deported". I reassured him that this would not be the case and we had done nothing wrong. We were taken inside the station and given tea. Nice touch. Must get a few Brits in. Chocolate digestives as well. I was beginning to think this place was better than our hotel. We kept our story straight and simple. We met them that evening, started talking and they suggested we went to that place. We had no idea it was a brothel and were keen to leave as soon as possible. The next thing we knew, well, you can guess the rest, officer. We regret the incident with all our hearts, but were really in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad fortune, officer. They took our statement and left us. In came in more tea and English newspapers. I could spend every Saturday night here. I wonder if there is a saucy lady cop knocking off soon. I quite like the idea of a woman in a uniform.

We wait for a further half hour before Los Detectives return and inform us we are free to go. It transpires that the lads in the Audi said that we had helped them and security when the Scots went wild. Fair play to them. The Scots would be up in court on Monday, and we could be in London's within thirty. It was nearly four when we breathed the sea air like free men again. We saw the Audi boys on the way out and gave them the nod. Reciprocated. A cop told us to stay out of trouble and the minute he was out of earshot we fell to the ground, consumed by a fit of the giggles that would last for some time. We regained control and found a taxi. London's was still kicking and there, in the middle of the dance-floor we clocked Gray and Zippy circled by the air-stewardesses, pilling and dancing the night away. We didn't look our best, but we welcomed into the circle. Graham asked what had happened and I told him to check the mobile. He started to laugh and gave me and Gore a pill as the big man returned with two well-earned and very well-chilled bottles of San Miguel. I asked Graham and Zippy if they had their eyes on anyone in particular, so not to tread on their toes, magnanimity fighting the E to control my viens, and I glided towards the leftovers. So happy with life. Everything had now been saved to "My Anecdotes" and I looked forward to the laughs we would have recounting this story. I danced and looked round at my friends, and, before I knew it, I was in the arms of a pretty young thing, but in reality, I was in everyone's arms.

BOOK TWO - SECTION NINETEEN

Hangover Cures (II) Standards

ZIPPY: Woke up this morning feeling good. No, I try but can't feel as happy as Herman and his mates. Lipstick, powder and pills was more the song on the jukey before some bizarre form of rest managed a coup d'êtat on my body. Must be bad today cos not even the circumflex is helping. The first action is to cleanse the outside. That might convince the inside to follow the same lead. After that, a bit of wild exploration and a bite will be in order, as I know full well that sleep is out of the question. The shower brings a gleam to the chassis and the toothpaste manages to disguise the noxious vapours my mouth is emitting for a moment, until it transpires that Aquafresh have launched a Cuba Libre flavour of their three-stripe special.

I have already taken it upon myself to spend the day alone. Other people with hangovers can be a drag. I need all my power to get myself feeling human again, and people groaning and sighing are just not on the agenda. My head feels both fuzzy and alluring to any spare pain floating around. Ibuprofen, the Greek God of relief, would help with that but pills should not be taken on an empty stomach. A rather hypocritical view, you may think, but one only adhered to because the effect is reduced. Therefore, we need some nosebag, the nutritious kind. However, when I feel like this my palate is reduced and my standards fall short of the rather intelligent young sophisticate that I am trying to engender. The delightful poisson that made the evening's feast last night would be wasted on me and so I resign myself to crossing through the arches of gold for calories and additives.

This standard thing has a knock-on effect on other areas of life too. When feeling like this, your intellectual capacity cannot sustain a plot more complex than that of Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, though sometimes even this can cause difficulties. Should you get the pills in your system whilst being able to remain in bed, you will also notice another manifestation of the standards reduction. When pills are taken, you have between twenty and thirty minutes before any effect will produce joy in your body. This period of time can be spent writhing in agony and cursing your weak will, or one can employ one's initiative to make the time pass as fast as possible. As we are more than acquainted now, I do not expect you to be shocked by candid talk. Ideally, in this situation there may be a companion to help you through this limbo period, though often the old adage that it is better to DIY than have a half-hearted hand pull aimlessly, causing you more pain than the headache you're trying to alleviate. Therefore, one must employ what doctors refer to as the Tactical Wank, a practice devised to occupy the exact period from medicine taking to relief from the pharmaceutical products. Try as you might though, you mind will wander from supermodels and actresses to the rather scruffy looking lass with greasy hair who works at the local Spar. Her causing your attention and work rate to be more productive than the idea of Cameron, Beyonce and Kidman with a large bottle of Radox and a Jacuzzi. More appetising is the store room, rippling rolls of fat between tins of Spaghetti hoops and Golden Grahams. In the same way that your tongue could not recognise the subtle nuances of the fine cuisine on offer, and somehow a Pot Noodle seems to have more mystical appeal than oysters, caviar and even Potato Waffles, your desire levels regret to inform you that you are not deserving of quality, and should pay penance until the cleansing process is complete.

With that, I throw on the shades and am in the lift. I hope no-one else is about and desires to tag along because this for me is a side project, Revenge or Electronic, and I don't want to see the other three, of course, I can't wait to hook up with the rest of them and get back in the studio again, but today is my time. Luckily, none of my party is entertaining the planet Earth today, and after a very warm good morning to the receptionist, I am in Spain again. I have no idea where I am going, though consider my instincts capable of bringing me my needs. I decide to buy a map and paper from the first establishment that I encounter. Feeling mad, a buy a Spanish daily as well as the Guardian. The Spanish daily to look windswept as I scan the pictures and the Guardian to annoy any people annoyed by the Guardian, which amuses me. I have no desire to open the map in the street and look like a tourist, so fold the bad boy into my back pocket and carry on, what I assume is north. I soon find out north is west but leads to the same place. My own personal Rome of one hundred percent prime beef and only the finest ingredients, whatever, stodge me up.

Overdoing things I order far too much for a stomach addled by a night on the non-liquid leisure. Scoops were big too, but by the time the proper dancing kicked in, the idea of imbibing more whisky didn't appeal, so I should be thankful to my good common sense, imagine how I could feel. Consumption is achieved with the maximum amount of force and the minimum amount of pleasure. I begin to ponder the act of childbirth and consider this as an inverse form, then I begin to ponder not having any more fucked up thoughts as I polish of the last of the liquid and realise that the Nurofen are still in my pocket, and, unless a curious form of osmosis takes place, they shall not ease my pain. I feel and smell like what I have just eaten and head to the loos to scrub down. The mouth needs mint but at least the fingers smell of soap. I have a glance in the mirror and can see the beads of sweat caused by the exertion of the meal. I go for some cold water, dry off and then feel better. I conclude that I look gold. With my shades back on I congratulate myself on my good work. Now I can begin to enjoy the world.

After procuring mints, I opt for a coffee and, always a test, the first tab of the day. I find a nice place by the sea front which I consider very me, and embark on a mission of linguistic clumsiness. Mr. Barman has seen this before and brings me a coffee with milk, even stretching to a little chocolate noir by the side. The coffee is good and more. A solar system away from the washing up water served on her majesty's isle. So good it is that I have another one and a side sparkling water as the McVomit seems to want to play out. I catch my reflection again as a bus goes by and consider that I must act immediately to get the best out of the day. As the waiter brings me the drinks, I feel a sudden desire to learn the language of the nation, and decide that I shall commence forthwith. I give out a small "olé" to myself and then realise there are others about. I care not a jot.

Removing my sandals to walk along the beach I delight as the cool water laps against my feet. I truly was born for this world. Luton seems wiped from the hard drive now. Life is so good that my body has decided to give me a treat and completely bypass the comedown. I'm ready for a beer now. I pick up a phrase-book and begin to formulate my plan. I sit down at a bar, next to some sweet young treats and flash them a couple of lines (of Spanish). Then it is merely a case of tying up some elementary paperwork before they invite me over to their table and our great nations become closer together.

The book has all the information one would need for more or less any situation that life could throw upon you. Also, it has over the top phonetic spelling to help with your pronunciation which actually turns out to be more confusing than the real sentences as I learn that Spanish is a phonetic language, and if there is an "E" in the word, then, pronounced it shall be. I find a rather pricey looking joint and plonk my cute, soon to be, bilingual butt on the chair. On the next table are took examples of fine local quality. Now the evil has been expelled from the body, we can begin to embrace quality at all levels. Say goodnight Spar slapper. I carefully learn my first sentence and lay it on the astounded waiter. He clearly has enjoyed my ability as he wishes to hear it again, and a third time. After that he asks me if I should care for a beer. To the distress of the British holiday-maker whose desire extends to speaking the lingo (a clear minority in these parts) the word for beer provides those who attempt it with a minefield of foreign sounds, huddled together in such a way that the word gets muddled in the mouth, on paper it seems easy "th-air-bay-th-ah" but the pressure of white shirt and moustache complicate things beyond imagination. Undeterred, I sit with the book and read the sentences aloud, unfazed by the others on the terrace, quite the opposite, that was part of my plan. As soon as my gorgeous, soon to be companions, heard my attempts to utilise their mother tongue they would immediately become enticed by this new type of tourist, and offer me their tutoring skills. The beer came and went, still they had to take the bait. It was becoming clear that I would have to be the catalyst for their desire. Despite having learnt the introductory sentence of "Do you speak English?" by heart, I was still rather nervous at this type of entry. I dipped my hand in my pocket to fish out some confidence. Rather trustingly, I left my belongings on the table and entered the gents. Assuming that a Spanish phrase book and a pack of lights with two left would be safe in Alicante, I took the note to my nose and broke the promises I made to myself when I went to bed last night. If it was any consolation to me, there would be many more opportunities to break them again.

Back at the table I felt Spanish as hell, went to light a tab, they had gone, but the book remained. A rather sad reflection on our times. In again to buy some more, I saw a chap leave the gents and decided that I needed to be a little more Spanish. I was probably a little too Spanish as I left as all and sundry in the bar was given a "Hola" on my way to the table. With my two friends still in residence, I venture over, whilst remaining seated, not easy, and hit them with a "¿Habla inglés?" You would not believe how difficult it is to pronounce the first upside-down question mark. Their response was simply a negation and then they returned to their incomprehensible chittle-chattle. That wasn't in the script. They were supposed to be enticed by my multinational patter and glide over to my table. Now I had to look for a new question. I wanted to tell them that I was studying Spanish, though this may appear an over-estimation on my part and cause offence to people immersed in PhDs and the like. I find the ideal question and lay it on them, giving them one last chance to better themselves as people. "¿Quieres una cerveza?" Who could turn down a beer with such a specimen. These two, it would seem. Well, the Dickens with them. Maybe I should enter into a more realistic scenario. I'm not Benny. In equal doses, I am thankful and jealous of this fact. I pay for my drinks and offer to pay for theirs as well. They say that is beyond necessary though I am intent. I hit them with a final "Adiós" and leave them to reflect on how stupid they will feel tomorrow. Bad luck, chicas.

Further down the road is a similar place. I take a seat near two girls. Not quite the over-made up, sunglasses and Pimms pair we left before yet still more than pleasing to the eye. With power levels dissipating, I venture inside before entertaining the idea of my attack. The same question is greeted with the same response. It would appear these girls who can't stop talking don't care much for chat. A minute or so later they launch a question to the forum and I ask the book for help. Help is not forthcoming. She repeats the question to further lack of response on my part. None of the words have any significance for me. Finally, she points to herself and says Carmen, then she points to her friend and says Laura. The penny doth drop. I point at myself and say Zippy. This doesn't help matters, and it would appear that that name is none too common in the Comunitat Valenciana. This girl is a fighter though, after a few aeroplanes impressions and a makeshift map of the Iberian Peninsula on the table we ascertain that they are not local. Either they are from the Canary Islands or Sudan. If we assume the map is not to scale then we shall accept Tenerife. I respond Luton like Bedfordshire geography was an essential part of the curriculum here. They've not heard of the place. I also pour a drop of beer onto the table and make a little map showing London and Luton, the latter now appears to be firmly ensconced in Zone 2 of the Underground. I offer them a drink and they accept. They join me at my table and cheek kisses are exchanged. I raise my glass to which they reply "Chin, Chin" and we commence our friendship. After a few more fumbled sentences they announce that they can speak English but were enjoying watching me squirm. I inform them of their gift for hilarity, but showing myself to be amiable and forgiving, get more beers in.

The girls are here on holiday. I've often wondered what people who were born in holiday locations actually do when their fortnight's paid leave comes around. Do people from the Dominican Republic spend two weeks in Bradford? What would you be looking for? Like these girls. Did they get off the plane and say "Oh I can't wait to get on that beach?" Of course not, they probably don't want to see another beach as long as they live. Yet, they must do because they are here. They ask me what brings me to these climes and I reply that we are to initiate a business venture in Malaga. This causes raising of the eyebrows and a giggle as these two mistake the stereotype. I tell them that our business will be legitimate though so half-heartedly that I almost bore myself and can't finish the sentence.

The girls call me chico, which I like. Then, not being backwards in coming forwards, they ask me if they can have a sniff of ching. I enquire what makes them think I am in possession of such a thing and they just look at me. Enough said, it's true girls I hand them the bag and they are off to the ladies. I allow them the pleasure on their own first, though later plan to be party to future visits. As I sit and sip on the ice-cold beer in front of me I realise my extreme happiness turn into panic as I have entrusted the remainder of my supply to two strangers. All they would have to do would be disappear and I would be without drugs and all this good work would have been for nothing. I am tempted to go in and check whether they are still in residence, but decide to wait seated. With every passing minute I convince myself that they have ripped me off, dwelling in my own stupidity and paranoia. Even returning to my friends would have no effect as only misery at my own idiocy would accompany me for the rest of the night. The beer began to taste warm and flat, even the liquid was punishing me being a fool. I tried to find the expression for thieving junky whores in the phrase-book when they came back to the table, placed the bag back in my hand and furnished me with two more kisses each. They suggested we go somewhere a bit livelier and I concurred. Informing me that they would consider it of the greatest rudeness for them not be allowed to cover the bill, I raised my hands and Manuel took the notes. We got into their convertible Beetle and were soon racing through the later afternoon air. Sometimes this world can be a beautiful place. I knew never to doubt these angels, the two most beautiful women I have ever met in my life.

We drove for a short while to a place that may have been an afters though looked more like a befores or possibly durings. It was hard to tell. What did strike me was that although it was evident that people had been partying hard for an unknown amount of time, they still looked intact, not like when you go to a wedding or twenty-first back home and the guests become gradually more and more dishevelled during the night. The girls looked like they had just stepped out of a salon, and their male counterparts refused to sweat. I had fallen in love with the place despite knowing only two people very briefly. The music was on fire, I was tempted to get Gore involved, but knew that would mean all four of them, and I wasn't in the mood for sharing. With the beer and the coke surging in time with the music it was difficult to find a suitable break where the music wasn't perfect to leave the dancing arena for a freshen-up. Laura let me know they were playing catch-up, and we were soon in a cubicle, clumsily chopping and dancing at the same time. We flew back onto the dance-floor, immediately ordering more beers to vanquish the thirst and the taste that were in the post. Just when I thought the music couldn't get any better, one of the finest exponents of the wheels of steel started to do his thang as the crowd went even wilder. Carmen said she was going shopping, in the meantime I continued dancing with Laura, allowing my hands to wander up and down her now perfect curves, pleased to receive encouragement instead of admonishment, others were cutting in with her, but I didn't mind, especially as others came behind me and whisked me further into dancing paradise. Carmen came back ten minutes later with three pills, instantly washed down with the San Miguel. Able to enjoy the substances to their near full effect as only a handful of ales had passed my lips, the first waves of the magic ride were not long in appearing, as God chose the greatest records in history, only to be lost tomorrow when the memory of it all began to fade. I knew I would never hear these tracks again, or if I did that it somehow wouldn't be the same, it was like the perfect soundtrack devised only for this moment, and when our organs regained control of our bodies, all would be lost apart from the small portion allowed to be carried around in our hearts forever.

Night fell and we were still dancing. I tried to envisage what this place would be like at peak hour on a Saturday night, but then realised that that was missing the point so much. I checked the mobile to see if they cared about me, though past experience must have taught them that these sorts of disappearances were commonplace. Eventually we decided that enough was enough and we were back in the car again, on the road to their apartment for a well-earned smoke to prevent a crash-landing. Sitting on the terrace and taking a long draw, I considered the beauty of my two new friends. I wasn't sure if this was a sexual feeling or pure, drug-fuelled love. That said, I was clearly not averse to the idea of whatever else that was going. Breaching the issue, they regretted to inform me that they were an item, and that men did not irrigate the terrain horizontally. In a moment of clarity I understood the true beauty of the day and the fate of us meeting and disappearing from each other's lives almost as quickly. Some indefinable force had brought us together to spend this quality time together, platonically, simply enjoying the beauty of each other's company without the encumbrance of sex blocking the aim of true pleasure. Passing on the joint, I manifested this idea and thanked them for their honesty, telling them that I would not allow anything to impede the perfection of this moment, after, obviously, I had asked them if they would mind doing a wee floorshow as a going away present.

I awoke on the sofa to blaring sunlight to find that they had shipped out. On the table there was a letter, which contained inside a photograph of them on the beach, their phone numbers and a pill, to be enjoyed in their memory. I splashed my face with cold water and abandoned the building. Straight into a taxi like I'd lived around here for ever, I gave the driver a Hola, the name of the hotel and a por favor. I'd lost the phrase book during the night, but there would be others. I fancied a swim and a day on the beach, then some beers in the evening with the boys. I held the photo in my hand all the way back to the hotel and promised to see my angels once more.

BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY

Gore and Zippy's Road Movie

a) Preparations

The rest of the sojourn in Alicante was predictable fare. Benny slid swiftly through the air-stewardesses, whether that term is antiquated or not pales into insignificance when they all fall under the cheese-based spell of the Bennyjection. It is now time to make the big move to Malaga. For this journey there were two options, stay on for a while here with Benny and take a plane, an option which will end in our continued and extended bickering, which would mean we were effectively alone, and I don't care much for solo travelling.

The other option was to travel by car with Zippy and Gore. Somehow Zippy had managed to get hold of a Buick 1954 Convertible with an electric blue paint job. The paint only really covered the rust; the car looked good from a far but had all the amenities that you would expect of a car that had survived half a century of motoring, stiff steering, no air con, noisy engine and springs coming through the back seat. The reason this vehicle was considered worth three thousand of the current in vogue European currency unit was that Gore and Zippy had apparently harboured a dream for many years of making a road movie. Gore had acquired a Super 8 camera and put together an itinerary and something of a script. This on its own sounded like a ghastly way to spend three days, but the low point of the idea was that we were to go in character, Gore as Lou Reed, Zippy as Alain Delon and myself, should I go, as Francis Albert Sinatra.

Going in character did not mean just trying to look like the person that we were going as, in fact that was not the idea at all, looking and sounding like the characters was not the true ideal of the mission, rather to exude the essence of the characters being portrayed. I, neither, have any idea what that means. I have, though, been invited on the trip on the understanding that any failure to participate at an acceptable level will be punished and I will be left behind. We weren't leaving for another two hours, so I decided to get some provisions and pick up the suit that Gore had set aside for me.

I would have to learn how to be Frank Sinatra in the next two hours. I do not doubt the capacity of those two to leave me dumped on the motorway somewhere for failing to be Ol' Blue Eyes. I was not sure what they expected from me or even how to do it, there is no way I could raise the same enthusiasm for the journey, the only motivation I had was to avoid spending time with Benny. With that in mind I would try to be as good a Frank as possible, though feared I would be admonished by Lou and Alain. To make things worse they had constructed a penalty system whereby I would receive financial and physical punishments should my performance not be up to scratch. Maybe I should have gone to Madrid on my own, look at a few nice paintings and maybe take in a game at the Calderon, obviously as a decent human being there is no way I would set foot in the Bernabeu, too much like voting Tory. The truth is that I didn't much like travelling solo so I decided to grit my teeth and ride along in the back seat of the Buick. Hopefully, the noisy engine would mean I would miss out on their ever so pertinent points on the future of humanity.

I return to the hotel and put my suit on. Gore has had his hair cut short and dyed jet black, his all black outfit, reminiscent of the front cover of Transformer, certainly has an air of Lou Reed, though his facial structure would not get him past the early stages of Stars in Your Eyes, he would never say the phrase "Tonight Matthew, I will be Lou Reed." I consider all this before seeing Zippy's attempt at being Alain Delon, the only point of reference he had was trying to remember the inner gatefold sleeve of the Smiths' "The Queen Is Dead". I asked him why he didn't google the lad and he confessed to that being a good idea. Zippy indicated that the essence of the person was of far more importance for this trip than the accuracy of the attire. I am beginning to have more than serious reservations about this trip. This meant I looked like Frank but wasn't Sinatraing to their standards. Gore checked the camera and we were ready to go. What happens in the following pages I can neither justify nor explain.

b): The Road Movie

FADE IN:

EXTERIOR: HOTEL SPA PORTA MARIS, ALICANTE – AFTERNOON

CAMERA follows three characters as they walk in SLOW MOTION towards a BLUE, CONVERTIBLE 1954 BUICK. All THREE are smoking, and extinguish their cigarettes before entering the vehicle. MUSIC starts, fierce kettle drums with screeching brass suggest the heroes are on screen.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: BUICK

CAMERA focuses on LOU REED, taking a cigarette from a packet and taps it on the dashboard. He puts the cigarette in his mouth and asks ALAIN DELON (driving) a question:

LOU REED

The road to Sergio Leone World is this.

When we arrive in Almeria we will see the

world of one of the Greatest Directors in

history. We are headed for Tabernas, in

the desert of Almeria.

CAMERA shifts to ALAIN DELON (nodding). DELON AND REED begin an interchange of questions. The question is filmed OFF CAMERA, the person who is going to respond to the question is focused on and then the focus changes with the next question.

ALAIN DELON

To what extent has American alternative

Rock been affected by the western?

LOU REED

Inevitably, the relationship is a close one

,the inability towards the realisation of

both dreams.

French cinema seems to have followed a

Similar path. Maybe you wood agree?

ALAIN DELON

I think every aspect has taken the similar path.

We soon shall see just how much when

we arrive.

FRANK SINATRA (OFF CAMERA)

Are we going to converse in this non-sensical

manner for the entire journey? If so, I will

have a snooze.

CAMERA shifts to LOU REED turning around to face FRANK SINATRA. Visibly angered by his outburst, REED threatens him with a pointing finger and makes it clear that the first of probably many punishments is about to fall on SINATRA.

LOU REED

This is our fucking film. You are an extra and

Can be axed at any moment. At the first stop

You will stay in the car and miss coffee.

I hope we understand each other.

CAMERA shifts to outside. We see SINATRA through the glass who out of eyeshot of the other two shakes his head and mouths: JESUS FUCKING WEPT.

CAMERA uses a wide shot of the A-7 motorway which links Alicante with Almeria. We see the car drive past with dust coming up from the tyres.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: SERVICE STATION, OUTSKIRTS, LORCA, MURCIA

ESTABLISHING SHOT OF BUILDING, Late afternoon. We see various builders entering and leaving the building.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: SERVICE STATION

REED AND DELON sit at the counter. Both are smoking and drinking strong coffee. REED runs a finger over the rim of the cup and looks about to speak. WAITRESS lurks in background, occasionally serving the few customers in there.

LOU REED

Shame there is not a writer in our party

With the literary nature of the town

Where we find ourselves.

ALAIN DELON

I hear he was an able guitarist as well.

Like yourself.

LOU REED

Kind words. Have you ever had the pleasure

Of interpreting his work?

ALAIN DELON

To be honest I don't really care much for

His work. Repressed homosexuality on

Every page.

LOU REED

Maybe that repression corresponded to

the native Andalusia in which he lived

rather than an affirmation of his own

desires.

ALAIN DELON

A well-made point. One that should be

Pondered with another coffee. Raise the

Glass to Yerma.

LOU REED

He was from Granada anyway.

HE TURNS TO THE WAITRESS AND ASKS:

How far to Sergio Leone World?

WAITRESS

Just over an hour I guess. It's not

actually called Sergio Leone World,

you know.

ALAIN DELON

In our world, it is.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: SERVICE STATION

CAMERA close up on front windscreen of BUICK. SINATRA sits between the two front seats. We hear the door of the cafeteria open OFF CAMERA and he speaks.

FRANK SINATRA

What on earth have I got myself into.

The car doors open and REED and DELON get in. DELON flicks his butt-end out of the window as they dramatically allow the roof to slide back. REED turns to DELON and says:

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: BUICK

LOU REED

We have a date with the Wild West. Let's

see Sergio.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: SERVICE STATION

CAMERA, at hubcap level is covered in dust as the wheels spin and the car drives off out of shot.

EXTERIOR: A-349 ROAD LATE AFTERNOON

CAMERA shows the BUICK coming towards us and coming swiftly to a halt. REED AND DELON EXIT the vehicle and look down the road.

CUT TO:

SAME LOCATION from behind REED AND DELON we see MINI HOLLYWOOD THEME PARK, TABERNAS, ALMERIA. MUSIC from before appears again and both extinguish their cigarettes.

CUT TO:

CAMERA focuses on BOOT of DELON, cowboy style as he steps on the butt-end.

ALAIN DELON

I guess the west will be that way.

THEY re-enter the car and drive towards MINI HOLLYWOOD

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: "TYPICAL WILD WEST BAR" MINI HOLLYWOOD

ALL THREE sit at the bar and drink neat whiskey. In the background we can hear the sound of fists flying and occasionally CAMERA captures a person being thoroughly whacked for the benefit of the drinkers. ALL THREE are in pensive mood after what can only be described as a disappointing visit.

CUE: VIDEO MOMTAGE: MUSIC "DEAD OR ALIVE" BY BON JOVI, interspersed with images of ALL THREE traipsing round the park looking bored. CLIMAX with WILD WEST STYLE SHOOT OUT as all three fall to the ground.

ALAIN DELON

A cowboy is the only noble profession left

These days.

LOU REED

Maybe it was the only noble profession ever.

ALAIN DELON

When the last cowboy dies that will be the end.

LOU REED

Maybe we are already at the end and we don't

Know it.

ALAIN DELON

We will know when we are at the end.

SINATRA continually looks like he is going to participate in the conversation but never actually says anything. HE gestures to the barmaid who brings more whisky.

ENTER BARMAID

BARMAID

Cowboys never die.

LOU REED

I know.

REED holds her gaze for a moment and then lets her return to her work. REED and DELON drink their whisky in one and slam the glasses on the table.

ALAIN DELON

Let's drive through the night. We can get

to Granada along the back roads. Have some

more drinks somewhere else. Or sleep in the car.

FRANK SINATRA

I thought we were staying here. The hotel looks

Fine, it has been a long day.

ALAIN DELON

I don't know where you got that funny way of

Talkin par'ner but you sure ain't from round here.

FRANK SINATRA

For fuck's sakes Zip can't we just have a meal

And stay in a hotel. This is bollocks.

CAMERA is placed on the bar and continues running, although we can not see any of THE THREE, only a continuous shot of the bottles behind the bar. BARMAID walks past and cleans a glass, unaware that she is in shot. OFF CAMERA we hear a muffled discussion, though the individual words are hard to make out. Finally, the voices are lowered and we hear an apology from SINATRA. CAMERA resumes its position.

FRANK SINATRA

Wha duz a guy huff te do te gerra whiskey around here?

BARMAID RETURNS

CUT TO:

BARMAID

Just ask cowboy.

SHE pours the drinks. SINATRA takes her hand.

CUT TO:

FRANK SINATRA

You can leave dat boddle here shugar. Maybe. I'll

wanna bit more later. Capisce?

BARMAID

Cowboys know where the cowgirls are. Hunny

ALAIN DELON (FROM BARMAID CAMERA POV)

Make that three cowgirls then. To go.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: A-92 MOTORWAY, NIGHT

CAMERA focuses on the occupants of the vehicle, now six, as the speed along the hiway. Whisky flows merrily and the noise is raucous. On the radio we can hear "VIVA LAS VEGAS" by Elvis Presley. All sing along. Then the track changes to KENNY ROGERS "The Coward of the County". Tears replace the laughter. Suddenly the car stops and all exit.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: FIELD, GUADIX (approx 70kms to GRANADA): NIGHT

CAMERA focuses on a fire. The BARMAID and two unnamed friends are dancing around the fire.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: SAME FIELD: NIGHT

ALAIN DELON

Right cowgirls, it's time to do what you do.

CAMERA, from POV of DELON focuses on the girls as they begin to strip and then returns to the fire as the OFF CAMERA action becomes obvious.

FADE OUT:

EXTERIOR: SAME FIELD, EARLY MORNING

Mist is visible as the fire slowly dies out. CAMERA focuses on FRANK SINATRA and a semi-dressed YOUNG GIRL.

YOUNG GIRL

How do I make you feel?

FRANK SINATRA

So young.

LOU REED (OFF CAMERA)

Good work cowboy.

FADE OUT:

FADE IN:

EXTERIOR: PARADOR, GRANADA: MORNING

CAMERA focuses on the ALHAMBRA, magnificent centre-piece of the former Moorish city of GRANADA. We see DELON looking through a blue telescope, looking down on the building.

ALAIN DELON

I guess the east will be that way

CUT TO:

ESTABLISHING SHOT: THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA

CAMERA shows the palace from the vantage of point of the MIRADOR at the top of a hill on the outskirts of town. CAMERA zooms towards the building as the image fades out.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA

CAMERA, from behind, shows DELON, REED AND SINATRA climbing the hill to the entrance. The place is crammed with tourists but these three fail to notice their presence, too under the muse of the building's splendour.

ALAIN DELON

Oh thing of beauty. Crimson castle. Silver

by morning, golden by night. Arabian palace,

place of dreams. Former home of the Nasrite

emirs, allow us into your heart.

LOU REED

Muhammed Al-Ahmar creator of dwelling for

your offspring till the Catholic Kings

relieved you of it. We salute your work.

FRANK SINATRA

(Reading from pamphlet)

Pity the shameful neglect of the 19th century.

The glorious work converted into dung heaps

and taverns for idle layabouts. The vagabonds

that dwelled in these walls should count their

fortune as good. For now, we wallow in the

mystic place that only dreams can envision.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA, The Lion's Chamber

CAMERA focuses on the detail of the chamber, highlighting the variety seen within the chamber. We hear voices commenting on the room, but their knowledge are comments are visibly rebuffed from the DEFINING shot of DELON, REED and SINATRA.

CUT TO:

SINATRA CAMERA POV:

ALAIN DELON

Oh. Harmonious meeting of East and West.

Sinatra! Please count the palm trees and

Make sure there are 124.

LOU REED

I see we have 12 lions as well. All

Present and correct.

CUT TO:

EXTERIOR: CHAMBER OF LIONS

SINATRA running towards camera with a piece of paper. SINATRA clears his throat and prepares to speak.

FRANK SINATRA

(From DELON CAMERA POV)

The trees are here. The fountain is a twelve-

Sided affair, the water, so often used as a

Decorative element, comes to the forefront

Here. We can see......

ALAIN DELON

(Interrupting)

I'm bored, let's eat.

CAMERA focuses DELON and REED leaving SINATRA in mid-sentence as the bemused tourists give him a funny look. He slopes off in the direction of the other two.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: HOTEL PALACIO DE SANTA PAULA, GRANADA

CAMERA focuses on the splendid interior of the old convent now reformed into a luxury hotel. DELON, REED and SINATRA drinks Arabic tea at a table as belly dancers glide past. The MUSIC is traditional Arabic as well and increases in volume as the dancers congregate around the table, soon followed by the band. All three are looking at a road map. In come the vocals which inform them of the motorway they need to take for the final part of their journey to Malaga.

CUT TO

INTERIOR: HOTEL

ALAIN DELON

Tonight then we feast. Tomorrow the final

Leg of the journey.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: HOTEL FROM DELON CAMERA POV:

LOU REED

Decided it is then. We will travel at six

in the morning. That way we will be

able to collect our winged friend from the

port of the Air. No alcohol, only tea.

CUT TO:

ALAIN DELON

More tea.

DELON slams his cup down on the table and more tea is brought to the table.

CUT TO:

INTERIOR: HOTEL PALACIO SANTA PAULA: NOCHE

CAMERA shows an Arabic banquet from which DELON, REED and SINATRA feast. Lamb, couscous and other traditional delicacies are brought to their mouths by the belly dancers.

ALAIN DELON

It may not be politically correct, but this

Is our film and we can end it as we please.

LOU REED

How do you evaluate Sinatra? Has he passed

The test?

ALAIN DELON

For me he has failed. His spirit was not up

To the job. Moments of adequate performance

Littered with apathy.

LOU REED

My feelings echo yours. Some form of punishment

Is required for the final leg.

ALAIN DELON

This hearty repost will aid our thoughts.

FRANK SINATRA

Congratulations, you have made me actually

miss Benny. I can't wait to get to Malaga.

Fuck the tea. Princess (He gestures to a

dancer) Make it one for my baby and one more

for the road. (She brings him two whiskeys)

now that was Sinatra.

ALAIN DELON

Too little too late

LOU REED

Like the 1867 Reform Act.

FADE OUT:

CUT TO:

ESTABLISHING SHOT: BUICK, DRIVING DOWN A-92 MOTORWAY AT GREAT SPEED: DAY

CAMERA shows DELON and REED in the car. A type of FAST FLAMENCO FUSION makes it impossible to hear what they are saying though we can tell the conversation is animated. CAMERA leaves the focus from the two in the car and travels outside the car where we see SINATRA, sat huddled against the cold in a small open trailer connected to the car.

CUT TO:

SIGNPOST ON A-92 MOTORWAY: MORNING

CAMERA focuses on signpost which informs us that there are still 73 kms. To Malaga.

FADE OUT:

CREDITS: (Accompanied by brass and kettle drum music)

CREDITS FINISH

CUT TO:

MALAGA AIRPORT: ARRIVALS TERMINAL, EXTERIOR: DAY

BUICK parks erratically at the door of ARRIVALS and DELON and REED hastily exit and run inside.

CUT TO:

MALAGA AIRPORT: ARRIVALS TERMINAL, INTERIOR: DAY

REED and DELON locate their friend BENNY who is talking on a mobile phone and does not seem pleased to see them.

CUT TO:

DELON CAMERA POV:

LOU REED

Hey! We've come to pick you up.

CUT TO:

REED CAMERA POV:

BENNY

Are you still in that road movie?

ALAIN DELON

Of course, you can be in the last scene.

BENNY

Fuck that then. We'll get a taxi.

ALAIN DELON

We'll?

CAMERA stops and film goes black. For a moment, there is some sound but that soon goes too.

c) To the hotel and towards the change.

I didn't cry at all when Gore dropped the camera and that was the end of that. It hard been a hard slog on the road with this idea of a film. Gore thinks that the work can be salvaged though I wouldn't bother if I were him. Maybe if we were first year Media students you could get away with this type of thing, but at our age? Still, we think it's fine to act like first year Media students every time someone opens a bottle, strange how maturity is appropriate in certain cases and actively rebuffed when it gets in the way of having fun.

We get to the hotel and I run myself a hot bath. After three hours in the trailer at morning temperatures I could easily be looking at a nasty bout of the sneezes, not that that is particularly worrying to Zippy and Gore, who wish to hold a seminar about their road movie this evening. Why didn't I spend a few days in Madrid on my own? It's an hour flight from Alicante and another hour from the capital to the Costa. I could have had two days traipsing round the Prado and Reina Sofia and Thyssen at my own pace, avoiding people and preparing myself mentally for the next stage of my life. Maybe in the future I will laugh about this, though I can't see that for a good long while.

Tomorrow we are meeting with the Funeral Director at ten. We are having breakfast together and are then off to meet our new employers. Well, we asked for this, it has been our wish for what seems forever and now it looks like it is going to come true. As I soak in the bath, I decide that I will do whatever it takes to make a go of this. If that means betrayal then so be it. As far as I can see Benny is the only one I would have to betray, and that would not present me with any sleepless nights. Gore will do good work, I am sure of that. Zippy, is Zippy, if he gets to forty then he will get his own conference at a renowned university to discuss his ability to defy science. Therefore, I fear not, rather look forward to the opportunity. For the first time in a long while, I feel at home, strange as I am in a hotel in a city I have yet to see.

d) Meeting the Funeral Director

We had arranged to meet the Funeral Director in a central Malagan hotel. Not the one we were staying in but one that seemed somewhere superior. We took a taxi to the Malaga Tryp Alameda, suited and booted and looking the genuine article. Thankfully most of our attire was more Nigel Havers in linen than Reservoir Dogs, so we didn't look like out of place gangsters. Only Gore can really do that gangster look anyway, so we felt on top of our game with smart casual.

The Funeral Director was there waiting for us, he seemed a little older and a lot less powerful than I remember him from years back. When he first appeared at Alan's funeral he cut quite a figure, now after googling the Marbella crime history, I wonder how he could keep some of these fearful figures at bay. There was small-talk for a bit and then we got down to business. The Funeral Director gave us a run-down of the roles that they had pencilled in for us, which were, in many ways, a continuation of our glory period in Luton. This gave Benny the chance to verify that he is indeed King of the Castle, and no-one else could do the good work that he does. He dismisses my role as the simple, pointless, brain who does nothing more than organise everything so that the idiot with the chiselled chin and the smile can sell the gear to the gullible public. Zippy does not seem to have a clear role in the set-up, but then did he in the old days? I doubt it. Gore is required to be nails and strong, something that is always well received in the mobster game.

After this we were told that we were to embark on a training programme that could feasibly send this text into an interest limbo state, thankfully the Funeral Director has revealed that his position in the company may have been exaggerated in order to procure our interest. It appears that the organisation is run by two rather nasty types known as Fat Charlie and Ruben Shuffle, and also the last month of our stay in Luton, London and Scotland was monitored by an Italian surveillance expert who will apparently now take over the story until we are considered to be of a sufficient standard to operate on a salary. As a going away present, I will leave you with another snippet from our hilarious Memories of Thievery series, and more barmy adventures by that little Japanese kid. See you in a few chapters.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-ONE

Memories of Thievery (IV) Military Misappropriation

GORE: As has been mentioned previously, our good mates Carl Reed and Alan Theobald were always welcome injections of fun when a job came up with them. Unfortunately, as the decade wore on we were left with the taste in our mouths, as on more than one occasion as Theo's army career took him to Germany, and Reedy's missus had started to keep a tighter reign on him. Maybe it would have stayed like that had Theo not stumbled upon a nice little number at the expense of Her Majesty's forces in Deutchsland.

There is an argument that there is always a victim in theft. This may be true, but no-one lost any sleep about ripping off an army. What was an army anyway? Merely a bunch of overpaid, overgrown public school tossers who went around the world bombing the shit out of places we couldn't spell for reasons we couldn't fathom or weren't told. Of course, that didn't count for Theo, he went to further his gift for falling upon much sought-after items. Theo hated most of the people he had to deal with, especially as his gift of the gab, good looks and brains meant that he was surprisingly rising up the ranks despite the archaic set up. This required spending more time with officers, and, as a result, all Theo wanted to do was screw them over.

Reedy did not worry so much about the political aspect of Theo's ideology, he just wanted in on any good scams. Mrs. Reed did get in the way from time to time, she just didn't want him spending too much time with us, in a business or a social context. Must be one of the down sides of being a bit dodgy, mates' girlfriends and wives tend to want you to emigrate. I'm sure Graham's ex Julia had a voodoo doll of me, Zip and the Gore and was forever begging the seamstress for more needles. Some professions just aren't compatible with serious relationships.

Anyway, Theo was always on the lookout for a scam to keep him entertained and supplement the salary he considered meagre in comparison to the life he was putting on the line for his nation. Not that Theo ever saw much action in a war sense, nor would he let himself get into such a bellicose pickle, his vision of the army was one in which he had no volition to participate in trenches and such like, warfare had changed and it was his duty to adapt to it.

What happened was this. Theo got wind of a certain fleet of luxury vehicles that were given to the British Army by their German patrons in thanks for their sterling work. Anyone who believed that was naive enough to rise through the ranks with great speed. Theo also saw that from time to time the efficiency of the German free market to deliver a vehicle without much to do was not matched by the British Army, and items tended to disappear for no apparent reason, only to be replaced by an exact model in a matter of days. Theo wondered what happened to these misappropriated vehicles and when he broached the issue to a colleague, was left aghast by the response that no-one had ever asked. This meant someone was getting their hands on these motors, and as it wasn't Theo, this riled him and he decided to change that state of affairs.

After careful investigation, Theo discovered that these vehicles were left in a rather unattended warehouse on the outskirts of Dusseldorf until the charge of an inbred officer came to collect it. It wasn't the work of genius to get the information of the destined owner, especially as a young and rather gifted boy in computers had a soft spot for Theo and would gladly sell secrets to initiate Armageddon for a night with Theo, so losing a few Mercs heavy did not hang on his conscience. That is when we got the phone call. It came just after the definitive split with Julia. I was not particularly good company, I will admit, so that coupled with the fact that summer is something of a dull period in the Matthews set up, it was considered that I should be chosen to commence this little scam. At best, I had become something of a moaper, and worse than that I had been overtaken by the delusion that I was hard and like to cause a ruckus or two. Added to that the fact that every possible situation in which human interaction was commonplace was somehow related to my split with Julia. I could even manage to give culpability to Angel Delight for the state of affairs. They told me then that I needed some time alone. I now know that meant they did not want me around. Not because they don't feel a fraternal, loving bond, just because I was a complete arse.

The process was simple, I would take an old banger from the UK to Germany and return with a top of the range specimen from the pride of Herr Benz and his mate. I enjoyed the rides over there. Depending on my mood the journey was doused in pleasure or torture. On the days when reality was not able to be located on the vehicle's GRPS system I would happily drive from Luton to Hull, taking the ferry over to Rotterdam, accompanied by the delightful, yet virtual Julia, as we laughed at wrong turnings, missed exits, shared moments of musical enjoyment, or I could have a go at her for putting something I didn't like on. We would drive down through Holland and Belgium and on to Dusseldorf that way, a ludicrous route in the eyes of Herr Michelin, but it allowed us the chance to stay in our favourite places along the route, and it gave Julia the chance to practice her French.

We would take the trusty old E19 and stop for coffee in Leuven, the well-known home of the delightful Stella, a place that seems to see as many pilgrims as Santiago de Compostela, depending on who was driving, the passenger would be allowed to savour the local brew before moving on to Brussels. I have always preferred Brussels to Paris, though this may be, as with many places, I associate it with the moments we spent together, Julia and I, on our way to Germany to steal from the army, her conscience completely placated by my unfailing argument of the legitimate claim that we had to government property for their failing to care for us adequately. On the road from Brussels to Dusseldorf we would sometimes stop at Liege and all the other places that evoked memories of getting the European cup results off Sportsnight when you were a nipper. The night before the pick-up we would stay in the historic city of Köln, checking into the hotel, making sure the room had a double bed so we had enough room to move around, before enjoying a cold Kölsch in view of Germany's largest Cathedral. After a delightful meal on the banks of the Rhine, we would return to the hotel and drink the mini bar dry and fall asleep drunk in each others' arms. At around four o'clock in the morning I would awake, switch off the lights, clear up a bit, and then return to my huge, empty bed, awaiting the hangover that would mockingly exacerbate the misery that would come with the alarm call. The ride from Köln to Dusseldorf was always done in silence, nursing the sore heads until we found Theo's contact.

Of course, there were other days when the journey was not a pleasurable experience. From Rotterdam to Dusseldorf was by far the quickest route, but the road up to Hull was not something that could be undertaken in a negative frame of mind, so it was straight down to Dover, lunch on the ferry from Dover to Calais, eschewing the Channel Tunnel, I've got cable, I know what goes on, and then the straight run across the north coast up to Bruges, then down to Antwerp and into Germany. It could be done in six hours depending on traffic, usually this side, at times I thought the German authorities were rubbing it in somewhat by leaving me the entire Autobahn, I was glad of the space, and being left the room to chastise myself to the point of verbal flagellation for my complete and utter failure as a human being. I would arrive at the hotel in Dusseldorf, how could I stay in a our hotel in Köln? Tired, tearful and looking equally as sane as I did when I was supposedly happy. After drinking whatever bottle was first at hand in the local supermarket, wailing and balling enough to put fear into the hearts of younger guests, I would fall into a deep and unsatisfying sleep that was no more than I deserved.

As soon as I got hold of the new car I became a different person, more in tune with the reality of my situation and realising that I was a recidivist fuck up, too late to change now, yet it felt good bombing round Germany in a fifty-grand vehicle recently borrowed without permission from the British Army. It was never much of a worry getting the car back to the UK. The British Army had a reputation for being forgetful and no-one wanted to look responsible as it may seem disrespectful in front of the German hosts. None of Theo's colleagues wanted to take the wrap for losing the car so the issue was hushed away until inevitably necessary and then knuckles were wrapped and tuts were tutted.

Once back in the UK the car would get the Reedy treatment with serial numbers being filed away and replaced in the twinkling of an eye. After that the vehicle was punted on for just over half its market value. Normally about thirty-grand, three each for us for Reedy and Theo with the other seven grand covering sundry costs such as bribes, hotels and my Teutonic fantasies. A week after the first ride Theo had another one. Benny got a bit arsey with the fact that I was going again but as soon as I became a dreadful bore about Julia he was glad to see the back of me. I know it's not fair to use the situation to my advantage, but, well fuck it and fuck him. I made three trips on my own in about ten days as Theo had luxury vehicles coming out of his ears. It wasn't long before we had to double up and Zippy or Gore would accompany me in the banger and we would take a car back each. By the end of the summer, we would squeeze all four of us into the car going over and form a convoy back to Blighty. Those later summer nights in German bars with my partners in crime helping me erase the memory of Julia and return for the upcoming season a more focused member of the team.

I never saw Julia again after that summer in Northern Europe, though she appeared on the face of every passer-by on the streets of Luton, she was gone. I amazed myself with how soon I got bored with my mourning, and soon became engrossed again in the life that drove her away. Of course, with a drink in my hand and a drug in my vein I would occasionally allow for maudlin to become wallowing and stupidly ask myself why she went when I couldn't even answer the question why she stayed so long.

As with every chicken we have encountered that laid golden eggs, we just had to give it fertility treatment so that the bad boy would bounce out a few more. The army were not the quickest boys in town, but they soon discovered something was amiss and it wasn't just bad luck. Someone on the inside was tipping off some utter cads about the cars and the just wasn't cricket. They knew Theo was a man of the people, liked by the cannon fodder and offered a wee dram by the officers, so he it was who was given the task of investigating this ghastly behaviour. After organising two lucrative last trips for all four of us, he pinned the blame on some shifty scally from Liverpool whom everyone agreed was at the fulcrum of the ill-doing.

It was a shame that the little scam came to an end, but it was probably best that it did when it did. It was only supposed to be a summer thing, a way to keep the cash rolling in whilst crime in Luton stood still. We had some good times away and were all over twenty-grand up before the big push to Christmas started. It was gonna be a good year, oh and Julia, well..........

BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-TWO

The Yobakishi Murders (III) Water

Yobakishi sat in the garden and looked for the stone. His mother had been talking about fate and destiny but his father didn't believe. His mother cried a lot at night, Yobakishi worried that the stone had spoken to his mother and told her of his powers. He also worried that his mother may not be able to comprehend the wisdom of a talking stone. One thing that Yobakishi knew about adults from the little experience he had had of them was that they failed to comprehend simple things that children can see and understand, such as a talking stone that can provide you with all the knowledge that world can hold. Yobakishi hadn't spoken to the stone for a couple of days, the stone always liked some time to himself after a major revelation.

Finally, the stone called to Yobakishi two nights later, and out he slipped once again to the garden. Yobakishi felt that he should demonstrate his anger with the stone, but realised it was just the same as with the adults, they never listened to the children, even when they knew the answers. He didn't know what mood to expect the stone in, but was pleased to find it was a pleasant one. The stone said that he had something for Yobakishi. Neither did he understand that, why did they always give him presents when they had been ignoring him? It was like when his father was in Tokyo all the time. Why go to Tokyo? And why bring back silly presents when the word he was trying to express to his father was presence. The stone showed him a book that had the names of all the bodies of water in the world. Yobakishi lived by the sea, but he didn't know what it was and what it did.

The stone told him everything that was contained in the book and the power that the water had. Yobakishi didn't understand how the glass in his hand could contain such power. It was just a drink, he told the stone. You ate a biscuit and then you drank the water. There was no power that he could see, but the stone told him he was wrong very wrong. The stone wanted Yobakishi to think very hard about a place he had never been to. He wanted Yobakishi to draw him a picture of it and put the first letter of its name. Yobakishi wanted to cry, he didn't like this game. He didn't trust the stone any more, he thought if he drew a picture of a place that was important the stone would make it rain and all the nice things would be washed away. He thought of all the nice people eating the dinner in the park and having fun when the nasty stone made it rain and ruined their day. He remembered how he had fallen over in the rain on the way home from school, he slipped and hurt his ankle, maybe that was what the stone meant when he talked about the power of the water. He didn't want to think of people, not only with wet sandwiched but also with twisted ankles. He asked for some time to think about his drawing. The stone said that that would be fine.

He went back into his house and took out his paints. These had yet to be used officially, they were a present from his father from his last visit to Tokyo. He took out a piece of white card and realised, rather cleverly he thought, that the stone was giving him a form of test. The stone wanted to see if he could appreciate water as power yet with beauty. He began work on his picture. He drew a beautiful tropical island with palm trees and the sun shining brightly in the blue sky. On the beach he drew a little girl walking with her daddy, a daddy who never went to Tokyo. When he finished his painting he left it to dry and went to find his mothers book of names and land-shapes. He wanted to find a name that he would like and one that would make him proud. For some reason he decided on the island of Suqutra, off the coast of Saudi Arabia, not that he knew where this place was, it just seemed like the right name. He finished the picture with a capital "S" and retired for the night.

The next day he showed the stone his picture and he was thanked for his good work. The stone said nothing but gestured that he would like to watch television. As Yobakishi's mother was working in the garden, Yobakishi took the stone inside and they switched on the set. An amusing cartoon made Yobakishi laugh, until the broadcast was interrupted by a special announcement. The news guy wept and told them, that the island of Suqutra had been effectively destroyed earlier in the morning by a colossal tidal wave. The tsunami had been unexpected and seismologists were unable to locate the reason for the disaster, all their evidence pointing to a small Japanese village. Yobakishi watched in horror as the water swept through the island, how people, houses and cars were washed away by the power of the water. He looked at the stone, and asked how he knew. The stone claimed that he didn't know, that it was not possible to know, or that Yobakishi was too young to understand the truth. That was a typical stone / adult response to something that they couldn't explain him or something that they didn't want to. Yobakishi ignored the stone and carried on watching. The cameras continued along the shoreline, desperately trying to find survivors, they were with a businessman who was frantically looking for his lost daughter. He had only just returned from a business meeting in Tokyo and had no idea of what had happened till it was too late. He was followed by the camera crew into his house, and out into the garden where he saw the lifeless body of his daughter as he fell to the ground and wept.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-THREE

A brief explanation as to the nature of the set-up

THE ITALIAN: The Funeral Director may have led the boys somewhat up the garden path in so much as his personal consideration of his role in the organisation. Of course, he will argue that this rather generous personal description was to create an air of confidence so that the new recruits would feel they were being head-hunted by someone special. Others would say that he likes to play the big man but doesn't quite have the role learnt. My job is not to opine, merely to clarify. For this reason, it may be best for me to give you a brief run-down of the staff so that confusion is kept to a minimum.

After Scotland, I am glad to be back in sunnier climes and look forward to defrosting in the Marbella micro-climate. Maybe my Latin blood means I am allergic to Scottish weather, maybe I am being an old drama queen, but the thought of not seeing the sun for eleven and a half months of the year does not put a smile on my face. It's also nice to be back in the office and see more familiar faces again, I like the surveillance work but it can get a bit lonesome, plus you feel like you are intruding somewhat, possibly this feeling is caused by snooping on every single move your subject makes. Indeed, food for thought. Well, our offices are in Marbella, near a place called the Alameda, I can't tell you exactly where as that is not cricket, as we don't say in Sardinia. The leader of the organisation is called Fat Charlie, not to his face mind as you will lose yours, his second in command is Ruben Shuffle, a former Flamenco legend and now linguistic hybrid. I will go into more details about how these two came together in a chapter dedicated to a minor biography of each one, I am sure you simply cannot wait.

Many other people work for the organisation, amongst those of the highest renowned are Dave and John, two very unpleasant thugs who do the work that you would expect of them. Fat Charlie does not believe in playing a midfielder at left-back. He likes everyone to play in their strongest position. Therefore, people like Dave and John are not required, whether they are capable is neither for me to say, think, there area is muscle. Of course, we have to let them believe that they are not simply here to crack skulls, so they have carefully devised teams of well-equipped thugs and brains to organise everything, then, all they have to do is take the credit.

The Funeral Director is actually a fully-qualified chartered accountant who has turned his skills to the dark side, as so many of us have. He used to work for the local council, and as anyone who knows the slightest about Marbella councils and Ateltico Madrid will be aware, the difference is minimal. Keeping the accounts clean in a large ask, so he also has a team behind him. Most people who work in the organisation are not really aware what is going on, by that I mean, of course they know, but things are structured in such a way that it would be difficult for one person to bring the entire place down, which is nice because I have no desire to live in a John Grisham novel.

I have the role of co-ordinating the IT department which is becoming ever so essential these days in making crime more efficient. We have a splendid team of hackers who do excellent things to accounts that are believed to be safe. It is interesting work, it keeps me abreast with modern technology and the chance to play around like Q with exploding pens and the like. There is a good international mix in the teams, a lot of British based crims eschew the idea of their Spanish counterpart, but, as you will soon see, the organisation is, at the top, more Spanish than English. It will all become clear. Also, it is better for the Western Europeans to stick together in the face of the influx of Russians, Romanians and Ukrainians whose interpretation of the game suggest they have no idea where silly mid-off would stand.

We also have people on the street, setting up fake deals and generally con people in a ghastly, cad-type way that demonstrate a scruple transplant. Well then let's a play a little game. You have read the first section of this tale. Where shall we put Graham? And Benny? What about Gore? Obviously, there is only Zippy who doesn't fit nicely into a department as he is seemingly bereft of talent, but we'll find something for him to do. So, now, without further ado, I offer you my nicely prepared condensed, and vetted Bios of the big two.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-FOUR

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, your very own, inimitable, Ruben Shuffle

With our new employees engaged in a seemingly never-ending task of learning the ropes, the possibilities of something happening that could be deemed worthy of recounting are hovering around, and below, the nil mark. Therefore, and given that you, as a reader, are now aware that the Funeral Director is not the man who pulls the strings around these parts, we within the organisation thought it might be nice to give you a selected biography of the two real head honchos, in reverse order of honchosity, right hand man, Ruben Shuffle and, the one close friends get to call him TC, Fat Charlie.

Ruben Shuffle was born sometime in the early sixties. He's pretty sure when but won't tell you so don't ask. Anyway, lacking an element of punctilio helps Ruben further perpetuate the myth that is the big man. He was born in a village some fifteen kilometres to the north of Cordoba, from whence his father hailed. Ruben was an ordinary child, rather nondescript at an early age and conveniently non-described by his openly disinterested parents. Despite being born into rather healthy stock during what economists would refer to as "The Spanish Miracle", a period of economic regeneration spearheaded by religious maniacs and foreign investment which managed to bread back on the tables after decades of despotic abuse, Ruben was not a happy child.

Ruben's father was a Colonel in the army, and an acquaintance of the Generalisimo himself. They lived on a barracks in the village, the only children there sharing the doctrine of their fathers, and longing for the day when they could convert themselves in their idols. The Shuffle household was run along the same lines of military discipline that did no harm to the rank and file of the guardians of the Patria, and this was enough of a starting point for the failure of the relationship between Ruben and his father. Ruben was only happy with a guitar in his hand, effortlessly strumming Classical and Flamenco guitar from an early age. This talent was not considered of the same importance as learning how to be a soldier and guitars were continually confiscated and re-appropriated. Ruben's mother was more interested in any forthcoming social events that would require a hat to be purchased for. As his father was often away doing the dictator's good work, and his mother was away with the fairies, young Ruben was left in the hands of the staff, who, once assuring themselves that he was not dead at the end of the day, considered their task completed. Ruben had no brothers and sisters due to the fact that both his parents were so disappointed with how he had turned out that they feared continued breeding.

As Ruben ended the first decade of his life, he began to develop a hatred for all things related to the dictatorship, and one day, proudly announced at the dinner table that he was a communist. Obviously, this news caused a small amount of indigestion for his father, already tired of the jibes he had to withstand from his peers, and the ones from behind his back from lower ranking officers, about his son's inability to ride, shoot, and, presumably, torture Catalans and Basques for speaking their native tongue. General Shuffle, this was not his real name, but we shall arrive at that juncture later, was sure that this was just a passing phase, that his young urchin could not comprehend the deviant dangers of the doctrine of Marx, and would one day adopt the ideas of Franco, as he and so many had done. He was, though, concerned about this little snippet of information going around the barracks, and let the staff know in no uncertain terms that they would think Stalin's Russia was paradise in comparison to where he would send them if any of this got out. Of course, anyone with the slightest inkling of child psychology would recognise this as a cry for help and head straight to Portugal for a comfort blanket.

The impertinence did not end, and, although Ruben could see he was riling his father, he knew deep down that as long as his image was maintained within the hierarchy of the barracks, all he would receive would be bruises. As he scrawled "Freedom to the workers" and "The proletariat has the strength" in Russian, a gesture somewhat lost on the infantry, whose knowledge of Russian was not considered of paramount importance on their training programme, Ruben realised that he would have to leave the barracks sooner rather than later. In order to prepare his escape, the cunning Ruben seemed to fall more in line than he had been recently, initially to the pleasure of his father who soon returned to indifference. Ruben prepared his things and opted to perform a little experiment to see just what his parents felt for him. He left the parental home, for wont of a better world, and spent three days in an outhouse less than one kilometre away. From there he could observe his parents going about their daily business, unaware of their son's departure, consumed by the visit of none other than the big man himself to the fair city of Cordoba. Hats must be bought and parades must be painstakingly choreographed, not even the staff had time to check on the Colonel's young charge. Convinced that the big wide world could treat him no worse than what he had already been subjected to, he returned to get a good night's sleep, steal some money and fend for himself.

His parting gesture was to drape a Russian flag from his window with the legend "¡Viva Lenin!" scrawled in three foot letters for all the barracks to see. He made it to Cordoba on foot, his father too well-known in the local environs to risk hitching or even, please don't laugh, a bus. Once in Cordoba he embarked on the task of living his new life. This, for a thirteen-year-old boy, was not an easy task as job opportunities where few and far between during the period. He was left little option but a life in delinquency and the street for a bed, often fearing to peek out from his hideaway as soldiers or policeman may be on a reward for his recapture and re-education. He needn't have feared though as his parents simply told everyone that the errant embarrassment has been sent away to a frightfully strict military school where he would learn the error of his Bolshy ways. With everyone in Ruben's anti-social circle acceptant of this answer, the young boy was soon forgotten. Back on the streets he tried to make ends meet without dipping into the five-hundred pesetas that he had misappropriated from his parents. His main worry about this money was that when he bought something he would be given the change that would be harder to hide than one single note. At first, he was fortunate, and befriended by some old tramps who let him share their meagre gains with them, but it soon became clear that his fresh, young looks were the main catalyst of their magnanimity. Ruben wished he had paid more attention to the military defence classes as he managed to escape to the relative safety of the unknown streets.

Ruben felt free and independent, but far from happy. He missed the music, and, convinced that the large note would last him a lifetime, broke into it to purchase a second-hand guitar. He moved down to the banks of the river, where he thought there would be more chance of hiding the cumbersome collection of coins and notes that represented his future. This would have been an excellent idea had he not been spotted buying the guitar and had the shopkeeper not had the slightness of scruples to inform two local hoods that the young chap carrying the guitar was holding change of five ton. Before Ruben could request a clarification to the situation he found himself in, he was bundled to the floor and prepared to continue his day sans guitar and change. The other hood stayed at the shop to remove the shopkeeper of his prized note, thus proving and disproving at the same time that crime doesn't pay.

Ruben made an important life decision there and then. That was, never to have nothing again. At that time, he found himself with an abundance of nothing, once he had rid himself of it, no-one would ever recreate this scenario for him. Even when the news came from of the death of Franco (Historians, have you managed to work out a date of birth for young Ruben yet? If so, well done) not much changed for the boy on the street. He began working with other groups, pilfering here and there, every day seeing the thief who stole his future, how he smiled at Ruben as he offered a paltry amount for goods of a high standard. Every now and again, Ruben acquired a guitar, played it and returned home to find it had changed hands without him knowing. Even if he thought about going home, it would have been pointless as the transition to democracy was not giving out prizes to people like Ruben's father. Still, Ruben lived in hope that one day something would come to change all this.

On one occasion when he had a guitar for more than a day, Ruben was sitting playing by a makeshift oil-drum fire for the entertainment of those hoping to escape from the cold November night, when his strumming fell upon the ears of one El Farruqín, who had a habit of wandering the less salubrious parts of town with the hope that one day he would unearth some raw talent and polish it. El Farruqín was a famous player in the flamenco game in those days and his travelling troupe were regular favourites all across Andalusia. When he heard Ruben play he noticed immediately that the lad had that special something that's not for sale, he had it running through his blood, that most prized ingredient that they call Arte.

El Farruqín took Ruben with him and offered to be his mentor. He told him that when he was ready he would form part of his troupe, but for the meantime he would practice and practice until he perfected his art. So, for the first time in far too long, Ruben spent the night in a bed, the next day he washed and put clean clothes on, before taking breakfast by the open fire. Ruben rushed to these simple pleasures as he practised with the maestro every day, thankful of being taken from the streets but always left feeling empty as the troupe departed for their moment of glory without him. After the initial shock of home comforts wore off, Ruben soon realised that he had spent too much time worrying about staying alive to be aware of the fact that he was in the throes of puberty. Ruben became transfixed by the beauty of the girls, dancing in full regalia to the music he played, he also saw how the other artists would leave the stage with these beauties whilst he was left with the washing up. Ruben wanted a piece of the action as he feared his guitar playing hand may be jeopardised. There was though, one slight problem, Ruben was the only Payo in the group, and his presence their was due to El Farruqín's say so and appreciation of his talents. Up to now they had not been overly-convinced by Ruben, at least no more than any other of the protégés that had passed through the building. Ruben was soon scourged for his attempted wanderings and informed that his hands had been invited to that place to touch wood, plastic strings, plectrums and dirty dishes.

El Farruqín noticed little progress in Ruben. He could smell the art in his blood, so to speak, but somehow it wasn't being harnessed. El Farruqín hit upon the idea that maybe if Ruben could satisfy his urges, though in a way that he would not become besotted and fall in love, rather in a way that might make him think that sex wasn't all that, he would concentrate on his music once again. And so, one night Ruben was left with a plump, yet fun, lady in her early forties who proceeded to deflower him. Within a week even the biggest doubters were left in awe by his playing. As soon as he hit sixteen he would join the troupe. For some reason the local authorities were inordinately strict when it came to under-age pluckers, but, despite his youthful looks that would only manage to have him described as thirteen, two months shy of his sixteenth spring, Ruben took the stage for the first time.

The combination of Ruben and El Farruqín produced the required passion for all in the house to stomp heels and decree that something special had been unearthed. All agreed that the young Ruben had what he needed flowing through his veins and that was a product certainly not for sale. Throughout the Cordoba region, Ruben, El Farruqín and the troupe began to make quite a name for themselves, even though the mentor himself cut a more than respected figure in the game. Soon they outgrew their hometown and were on the major flamenco spots of the rest of Andalusia. Not the German tourist inducing, watered-down imitation bars, but the serious, traditional core of the unlearnable art. Ruben enjoyed the adulation, the money and had now discovered that flesh slightly older than his own was more than enticing. Ruben soon became everything a young genius should be in his spare time, arrogant, conceited and, his favourite, self-obsessed, in short, a wanker.

Despite the trappings of success, the troupe remained in their original living quarters with the majority of the financial extras trickling down to the non-performing members of the social circle, and other family members in a way that would make Sir Thomas and Karl doff their, period, caps. El Farruqín tried to keep Ruben in line, his predilection for gypsy dancers was causing some amount of potential raucous everywhere they went, even threatening bookings. Once again, El Farruqín intervened to help Ruben back with the cause, his fingers were losing the passion for the guitar in favour of other passions, Ruben was transfixed by a young dancer who was proving none too forthcoming to his amorous advances, possibly something that spurred him to maintain the interest. The young girl's father was a notorious local sort who wielded a certain amount of fear in all those he conversed with. The father let Ruben know that should one hair of his pride and joy's head be touched, etc. etc. Ruben was soon practising six hours a day even the days that they had performances. El Farruqín was pleased to see Ruben was now an arsehole rather than a womanising arsehole.

Fame and adulation also caused Ruben to remember certain moments in his past. He discovered that his father had taken his army issue pistol to his head shortly after democracy threatened to ruin his good work. The mother was there somewhere, but with Ruben's name in the paper she knew where to find him. He didn't feel anything upon hearing the news, but remembered the incident with the first guitar and the five hundred peseta note. He vowed to claim his revenge on those villains, and set about hiring the firepower to have them removed. With too much honour amongst thieves in his adopted community Ruben had to look elsewhere for his revenge to be complete. He found this in a pair of burly bouncers who worked a famous place in Malaga. For the going rate they were prepared to rough up the two thieves. Unfortunately, one of the pair took to this work with rather too much exuberance, and as the guitar thief's head cracked against the pavement with that distinctive sound of fatal injury on concrete, little augury was needed to see what awaited the locals.

The police did little to discover the identity of the killers, and so it was left to the amateur detectives in the group to find out the truth. As these assassins had come from out of town and disappeared into the night, coupled with the fact that late seventies Cordoban forensic science without the aid of the local police was not like that found in modern day Las Vegas, it was difficult to find a lead. El Farruqín asked around but no-one knew anything. The only member of the group who showed any sort of character change was Ruben, but as far as El Farruqín could see, there was absolutely no relationship between the deceased and Ruben. El Farruqín did not trust Ruben's actions, he confronted him and Ruben nervously, and poorly, lied that he knew not of this matter. El Farruqín accepted Ruben's pitiful lie and vowed to stay close to him until he gave himself away.

Ruben also harboured another secret, one that was even more potentially threatening for his continuance in the troupe. El Farruqín had a daughter, a very beautiful daughter that captivated Ruben. He tried to contain himself but found the task Herculean, and so her advances were eventually met with little defence from the wayward strumster. Unbeknown to the pair, El Farruqín's new-found proximity to Ruben led him to the revelation of both secrets. El Farruqín stood by the doorway and listened as the roaring drunk Ruben boasted of his crimes before the naked daughter of El Farruqín. Much as it hurt him, El Farruqín knew that he had to make preparations for Ruben's exit from the troupe. It would be flamenco's loss but Ruben had abused their hospitality one too many times.

El Farruqín called Ruben into his quarters and asked him to sit. Ruben sat. Before announcing what he knew, El Farruqín implored Ruben not to attempt to deny of the accusations. Ruben looked at the floor, unable to look El Farruqín in the eye. His former mentor offered him two options. First, Ruben would leave that very night, minus his index finger so that he could never play again, he would leave forever, go very far and never return, or he could take his chances with the angry mob. Ruben offered his finger up and it was removed. After careful bandaging and provisions for the journey, Ruben was given the money corresponding to him from the last performances and with that he went into the night. Despite the fact that he had shot himself in the foot, his hands didn't half hurt.

The only people that Ruben knew outside Cordoba were the goons who killed the guitar thief. He figured they owed him one, so he made his way to Malaga. Occasionally, people in the know gave him a look as if to say "Aren't you?" but when they saw his missing digit, they carried on with their business. With Ruben left to administer his funds for the first time, he soon realised that far they would not go. He checked into a hotel at first, gradually losing a star on a weekly basis and eventually having to jump from a second-floor window in the dark of the night when things got too tricky. Ruben remembered the promise to himself about never having nothing again and, reluctantly, embarked on a life of crime.

He had certainly chosen the right place. The former Athletico Madrid president may have made things harder for petty criminals in Ruben's new home in Marbella, anyone with a bit of knowledge and tenacity was able to make a healthy crust by the sea. The initial months were not times of plenty but as Ruben learnt the language of thievery in his new home, English, he was able to make contacts and begin business ventures. From time to time he was forced back to the street when times were hard. Ruben soon became well versed in the art of English in the sense that he could speak it non-stop, whether any sense was made was often a matter of debate for scholars. As Ruben never studied the language per se, his grammar was at times wayward and his lexicon a mishmash of his native and adopted tongues. It is from here we get the name Ruben Shuffle which is now accepted as his official moniker. In those days, it was simply Ruben Baraja, but given Ruben's love of nonsensical translations, he took the Baraja of his surname as being the informal imperative of the verb Barajar which means to shuffle, hence Ruben Shuffle.

For Ruben, the pickings were easy. He hung around the salubrious Puerto Banus area where the jet-set fooled around fuelled by gins and more and leaving their memories and expensive cameras for very light and unscrupulous fingers to help themselves to. Should force need to be employed that was never an issue for concern. Ruben detested his victims, glad to see their loss, then feeling empty inside when their loss meant the difference between eating or not to him, and simply an unfortunate inconvenience to his victims. From time to time the police would need to be appeased, this having an effect on the profits, but still, money was easy. The problem was that Ruben had acquired a taste for the better things in life, or at least, not the rubbish. As he couldn't guarantee an income, his life remained precarious, as did his living conditions, most places where he stayed demanded an upfront payment, especially as Ruben didn't look like he was good for it afterwards. Ruben wanted to guarantee an income but without the encumbrance of what could be defined as traditional employment. The guitar had to be forgotten but he soon hit upon an idea that would reduce his work-rate and increase his income.

He shared the terrain of thievery with a number of other, lesser intelligent beings who occasionally got a piece that Ruben felt belonged to him and always meant that the days takings were down due to their presence. Ruben's idea was to form a thieves' guild, with everyone working together for what was perceived as the common good, but was really just the filling of Ruben's pocket. Within no time, he had acquired some friends to help him and informed the other thieves on the row of the new conditions, which may be liked or lumped. Renouncing the Puerto would be folly, so everyone accepted the new despot. Soon Ruben was enjoying the fruits of his entrepreneurial vision, all the thieves paid him a daily fee which included protection from any other chancers, though not from Ruben, plus a percentage on their "estimated" takings per day. Estimations were normally generous as the purloiners couldn't be seen all the time. Suddenly Ruben was on ten times what was before, living the high life and looking out for new scams.

The protection racket with the thieves in the Puerto soon became superfluous, although Ruben and his friends kept an eye on their larcenists, their own desire to remain on the block and dissuade potential suitors onto the turf meant Ruben rarely did anything and was left to switch his attention to other business dealings. Ruben was aware that people seemed almost desiring theft to fall upon them. In some cases they were, Ruben acquired something of a reputation in the zone for doing quite a good job. He was soon called upon to organise robberies and fires for their owner's insurance claims to coincide with the information given. Of course, Ruben sub-contracted these jobs out to his thieves despite the large fee from the owner. Everywhere he looked he was making money from doing nothing, he tried to enjoy the highlife with La Jet, though could not enjoy life wasting so much time. Ruben missed the ducking and the diving of the old days and longed for a return to some form of fun in his life, everything was too easy. Ruben missed the life on the streets, the thrill of the chase, Bombay Sapphire was no replacement for adrenaline. And so, one fateful day, Ruben set out to calm his nerves in thee Puerto, taking from those who came by.

After a dull wait, he saw an ideal target struggling across the road with his large frame and what he expected would be a large wallet inside the elasticated pants. He was well-dressed yet Ruben could tell that it was expensive clothing but without conviction and direction, new money, he thought, and he hated that. Conveniently, the large figure went off the main thoroughfare and into a favourite alley-way of Ruben's. The exchange was brief, though long-lasting. Ruben pushed him and let him know what was about to happen. The other character offered Ruben a moment to reflect before making the greatest mistake of his short life. Ruben began to laugh as two of the biggest lads he had ever seen in his life appeared from the blinding sunlight, desperately trying to combat the heat caused by the weather and the suits their boss forced them to wear by munching on Cornettos, the laughter soon stopped.

Under normal circumstances that first meeting between Ruben Shuffle and Fat Charlie would have been the last. However, Fat Charlie had recently undergone something of a transformation. Only weeks before he had met the delightful Sandra, and his outlook on life had changed somewhat. She was responsible for the clothing, and although he felt comfortable with his old look, he was not keen to return to a style she thought was unattractive as he didn't have much room to play with in this aspect. He was also looking for a person to become his right hand, even if this person was a finger short, he considered that Anne Boylen had one too many, and it didn't do her much good, so Ruben appealed to him. He had also recently seen Return of the Jedi and was quite taken by the scene when Leia appears dressed as a bounty hunter with a thermal detonator to bargain for the reward on Cheewie. The line "This bounty hunter is my kind of scum" stuck with him and, finally, it looked like he had appeared in person before him. He envisaged Sandra as Leia in the palace, without the unilateral affection of the relationship, of course, with Ruben as a kind of clever version of the guy with the funny head. Fat Charlie then decided to bin the allegorical and cinematic references and offer Ruben the second ultimatum of his life. It did not take Ruben long to accept.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-FIVE

Fat Charlie stank

Because he could. Fat Charlie came from a very different background to Ruben Shuffle. The lack of direction in Ruben's childhood led him to a life of crime, whereas the failings of a near perfect youth caused Fat Charlie to go down the same road.

Fat Charlie doesn't give much away, from time to time snippets of his past are thrown out to selected members of the audience, so this attempted biography is the work of nearly a decade's compiling titbits from the man himself. As with Ruben, an exact date of birth has not been forthcoming, but we assume that Fat Charlie is now on the wrong side of fifty. It may be harder to judge an exact age due to the obese nature of his frame, though most people concur on the idea of between fifty and sixty.

The story begins, not surprisingly, in his childhood, an idyllic period for the boy, and the family. The then thin Charlie was a model student in the peaceful northern village where he was brought up. No concrete information has been given as to the name of this village, or even the province where it was located, so technically it could be anywhere north of Jaen up to where the mountains give way to the Cantabrian Sea. With Fat Charlie, you take the information you get and don't ask for more. When he realises he is giving you information is when he stops. Charlie was a bright, young lad, raised in a traditional and devout, Catholic family. His beliefs were strong even from a young age, and delighted in bible reading with his parents, even going as far as putting on little plays in the garden with his friends to recount the good work of the lord. His work at school was excellent too, with tutors recommending him for scholarships in mathematics or any sphere he wished to excel in. Charlie though, was convinced and drawn towards theology. He referred to it as his calling and his parents were the proudest people around when he finished his exams with top marks and entered the seminary.

Charlie was only seventeen when he entered, though already boasted a formidable reputation based on his extensive knowledge of all things godly. As was typical in the place, he was assigned a mentor, Padre Gregorio. PG was a rather forward-thinking member of the clergy for the time, believing that exclusion wasn't helping anyone and that the church would have to modernise if it wanted to remain a relevant voice in the latter part of the twentieth century. Charlie and El Padre formed an instant rapport, with the trivial matter of Charlie's scholastic education needing to be terminated soon dealt with, Charlie was ready to embark on the next level of his theological training, culminating in writing a thesis with his mentor.

Padre Gregorio was a tough task master, wizened and hardened by continually receiving young charges below the standard he expected. He had become tired of the sycophants that wandered into his sphere of learning, eagerly agreeing and heartily nodding to ant utterance that passed his lips whilst PG grew more and more bored at the desperate situation that the church seemed to be heading towards. Gregorio believed that all this was for some greater cause and wanted his apprentices not only to see this vision, but to share and live it. The fact that they all claimed to was not enough for the big man, who instantly knew from the looks on their faces that the positive signals emitted vocally were disguising the confusion held within. With Charlie things were different, he had a thirst for knowledge, that was unquestionable, but was also prepared to quench that thirst alone, and, despite his young age, hold the occasional theological cocktail party were thirsty clergy could drink at the table of wisdom.

From this work together there developed a friendship based around mutual respect and competitive challenging. El Padre was continually testing Charlie with his own vision of the big picture, to which he responded equally, and at times beyond. PG had seen many potential young hopefuls break down and cry at this point, but Charlie relished the opportunity. As he progressed through his education, achieving awards and fame for the seminary that called for the services of the engraver on more than occasion, Charlie and Padre Gregorio began work on what was to be their ground-breaking project, Charlie's thesis on the role of the church in the latter part of the bloodiest and most violent century in our history and how to make the next one a little less so. Charlie was an idealistic, young priest, but he was not naïve, far from it. He caused a lot of chin-rubbing within the more conservative section of the cloister, yet always managed to formulate arguments with sufficient verbosity and conviction that those in the doubting corner would always give him that essential "Hmmm yes" at the end. In the parish his work was equally above the call of duty, always finding time for the many causes that found their way to his doorstep. Their work was groundbreaking in attracting the disillusioned youth to the church, organising programmes of community aid so that all members of the old as far as the eye could see were involved. Charlie saw that people did not always like the overly in-your-face aspect that the church sometimes, albeit unwillingly, thrust upon people, Charlie was quick to realise that people quite often disliked Christians, especially young ones with acoustic guitars and smiles, the world wasn't about happiness, Charlie knew that and knew how to make people see his vision without having the word cheese appear in their subconscious. Charlie put in long days and fell into bed exhausted, yet content every night.

When not helping the community, Padre Gregorio and Charlie worked on the thesis. It was taking longer than expected due to their commitments in the parish, as well as having to go to neighbouring parishes to oversee projects initiated and inspired by their good work. It became something like an ecclesiastical supermarket opening ceremony as the pair became famous all over the north. At every stop on the Camino de Santiago everyone knew the good work done by these two saints-in waiting. Charlie tried to delegate work to others so that he would have more time for the thesis, but he couldn't stay away, it wasn't that he didn't trust others to do his work, rather that he found the successful execution of his duties an irresistible narcotic, though perfectly legal and more fun, surely, than any synthetic drug. So the thesis dragged on. Finding time to work together was proving even more complicated and chapters were re-written individually with the idea bring finding some time together in the summer in order to put everything together.

Charlie found it hard to contain himself when he was inspired in his writing, especially now that he was writing alone, and after one particularly fine moment of religious pondering, Charlie felt he had to share it with the man who, he considered, had converted him into an apostle of goodness, and closer to God. Not that Charlie was doing this for some sort of recognition, but it filled him with pride to know that when he finished he would have been in many ways an important cog in the wheel that had turned Padre Gregorio's life's work into reality. He had had the opportunity to work with one of the finest in the game, and had learnt so much from him whilst at the same time Charlie knew that this was not mere adoration, rather a partnership based on mutual respect and the motivation to do the best for this wretched world. Charlie thought about the look on Gregorio's face as the awards came flooding in, the good that could be done with the cash prizes, how the vision could be extended. Their material sacrifice was more than compensated by the closeness of the realisation of their dream. Maybe that summer everything could be tied up, then only having to confirm the visits of archbishops. Charlie began to feel bad about letting his mind wander thus, that was not the idea behind their force. Was this another form of materialism? He decided to discuss this matter with el Parde. He was headed in that direction anyway with what he felt was a rather impressive second draft of the last chapter.

Padre Gregorio had always made it clear that he did not like to be disturbed in his private chambers. It was were he could reflect on his work, rest and gain strength to continue his mission. He said that he needed this space in order expand his vision and find the means to put it into practice. Charlie had always respected this but felt that this moment warranted a minor infraction of the rules. He also had a rather fine bottle of Ribera del Duero that he had been saving for such an occasion, and knew that PG, the good catholic that he was, would accept the grape as a form of appeasement. Charlie prepared his excuses as he entered the building, knowing that he would nervously trip his tongue over every word as eloquence deserted him in favour of haste. There would be time for such word-play, now it was their moment, the master and the pupil, but now the pupil was a master too, the culmination of a life's work. As he got closer to the quarters he noticed the door ajar and could not resist surprising the old master, whom he expected to be engrossed in some medieval manuscript, disproving theories and righting wrongs. Charlie gave the door a push and shouted, elatedly, "I have it!". Before his eyes was something that would prove something of a contretemps in the pair's working relationship. Charlie observed speechless as the man who had given him the strength to believe in all the good work they had done was upright, eyes-closed whilst being fellated by an alter-boy who could not have seen more than twelve summers. The look on his eyes told the story of a boy who had come to meet God but unfortunately got the wrong door. Charlie saw two other boys lined up, and knew he would not need the services of Larry's Detectives to ascertain their fate. In slow motion he dropped the bottle, causing PG to stir. He just looked at Charlie and shrugged his shoulders before asking him what he expected. Charlie was asked if he would mind closing the door upon his swift exit.

For moments time stood still. Charlie was outside El Padre's quarters trying to make sense of the situation that he had just discovered. He wanted to vomit but the contents of his stomach remained in place. He wanted to end the crestfallen and deplorable life of his now former mentor. He tried to comprehend things within the sphere of the big picture. He couldn't. Everything meant nothing. He had been fooled and was sure that if he scratched the surface he would open more doors and find more old cocks in young mouths. He did what people do when they don't know what to do. He ran. In no specific direction, just away.

He ran for hours, then realised he would need to plan a trifle more. All his beliefs had been proven to be nothing more than a masquerade. Everything he had worked for was a farce because the people he was about to give the speech of recognition to would prefer something he was now too old to give. He would find a new way to live his life, a way that would please him and if this had the effect of displeasing the rest of the world, then that was a small price to pay. He would need funds. This would require a visit to PG. Charlie offered him the possibility of a lump sum, he soon regretted using the word lump, to pay for his silence. El Padre responded by claiming no-one would believe him and that the door was over there, insinuating it was time to stop being a silly prude and to visit the real world. Charlie had expected to PG to be repentant, this was not the case. Finances would not be forthcoming.

Charlie pondered. He could not stay around for too long as he knew it was all a lie. That said, he assumed that if Gregorio was prepared to renounce his chastity vows in favour of being a hideous, lying pervert then perhaps his views on materialism were also equally venal. Obviously, he could not hoard money in a bank, so his quarters must have some sort of secret stash. They were both due at a conference in Santander the next day, though Charlie stayed home, claiming to be unwell. Gregorio was happy to go alone, informing Charlie that he expected him back to his old ways upon his return. Charlie told him not to worry, biting his tongue as the words caused him heartburn.

With PG away and assuming Charlie has accepted the situation, all Charlie needed to do was break into the filthy swine's quarters and misappropriate the loot. Access was gained without force as the key-keeper believed Charlie had to collect some important documents. Charlie looked under the mattress, inside the teapot, in other places that a comedy thief might find their reward, but to no avail. Charlie sat in the swivel chair, suddenly everything in the room had perverse sexual connotations, and saw a picture of Padre Gregorio on the wall, proudly standing with his prize winning, what was the prize though?, group of choirboys. He removed the picture and found a secret cupboard behind it. Inside were bundles of notes and deeds for a property in the Caribbean. It seemed that PG was waiting for the cash from the thesis to pay it off and then retire in the sun. Charlie decided on a change of plan. He took the money and left the deeds on the table with a note saying "One day I'll come back and kill you." He left. He claimed he was going for a walk. Caught a bus to A Coruña on the Galician coast, entered an outfitters and said goodbye to the collar for the last time. He opened a bank account, no questions were asked. He purchased a ticket to Madrid and set about becoming Fat Charlie. Before leaving, he decided to try the pleasures of the flesh himself with the first willing companion. He made no qualms about his intentions and offered a bundle of notes to a young local in exchange for him being able to cross another thing off his list. The experience was brief, confusing and somewhat disappointing for both. Fat Charlie cleaned himself off and made his way to the bus station. A new life awaited.

Madrid did little to please Fat Charlie. He ate, drank, screwed and engaged in various unsavoury business dealings with predictable results. He was still new to the real world and lessons had to be learnt quickly. One of his associates talked of a life of opportunities on the Costa del Sol, and Charlie, not keen to spend another Madrid winter, made the move south to further his education.

The money from PG was running short by the time he started up in Malaga. He was asked to contribute something of the lion's share towards the costs of starting up the company. His partner's argument being that Charlie had been let in on the idea and his partner had done all the thinking. Charlie soon realised he was about to be unceremoniously ripped off, and sought advice to prevent this from happening. He found advice from a customer of theirs who made it clear that people thought Fat Charlie was an easy touch. The name Daft Charlie was even suggested by his partner, who delighted on the urine extraction possibilities of his partner. Charlie asked what he should do to address the situation, the answer coming as no surprise to him. The next time he saw his partner Fat Charlie told him he wished to address certain matters that had been troubling. He then saw the return on the best investment he had made thus far, hiring two bouncers to help him prove his point. With the partner weeping all the way to the bank to return every last peseta, Charlie had learnt another important lesson in life, it can help if you are an utter cunt.

Charlie spared the partner his life, though not his bad looks, and took the clientele. The bouncers came to work for him, now Charlie was established. In no time, established would become revered than feared, finally admired. Charlie knew that this admiration was false, fuelled by fear, but it guaranteed that no-one gave him any more shit. It was easy for Fat Charlie to build up his empire. The original Costa del Sol businessman, dealing in nothing in particular and everything in reality. He eventually got over the hatred and hangups he had with the rest of the world for PG's guilt. The only remnant being his aversion to personal hygiene as a result of the incident. Charlie knew the rules and limitations of the world he now inhabited, and, as a result, was soon integrated into the upper echelons of that society, fear of a huge, smelly man with enormous friends working wonders for your social standing.

Fat Charlie was into a little bit of everything, his favourite business dealings were in property as there were more opportunities to be cunning, although the way he acted at times you may think that there was a "t" missing from the description. Drugs, theft, prostitution and extortion were also entertained, though Charlie preferred to think of himself of a business magnate rather than a common thief. Despite the social stigma of the less glamorous ends of the criminal scale, it was folly to suggest that the money was never welcome. Fat Charlie though did not enjoy dealing with the people involved in these rackets, he had delusions grandeur in the social scene, one day hoping his personality would match the vastness of his gut. Not that he particularly had an excessive amount of time for those whom he tried to impress, yet felt drawn towards their world, however, false it may be. One of the problems of not belonging anywhere, he supposed. He needed to find someone who would do all the work he didn't like, perhaps even enjoying it, so that he could concentrate on properties and the acquisition of that item synonymous with ambiguity on the Costa, businesses.

It wasn't like Fat Charlie could put an ad in the Malaga Gazette, he had to be patient and wait for the right person to come to him. Fat Charlie believed that things happened for a reason and was ridiculously superstitious about pointless things. For example, if he woke up feeling good he would not defecate until all his business dealings had been completed for the day, for fear that the good omens may slide from his frame along with the faeces. When Ruben came to him, he took this as a sign and, despite looking back on a few occasions, never looked back.

A quick newsflash from our current affairs department informs me that you will now have the chance to see Fat Charlie in action. He has read my report and is none too convinced that Kalvin and his delightful little scum-bucket friends will stay on the shores of the United Kingdom and Great Britain and our benefactor himself has decided to appear there in person to outline the possible consequences of the folly of revenge. Being on the ball, he knows Luton has an airport and wants to be in and out as fast as possible. I tell him that the airline that operates the Malaga – Luton run may not be of the comfort levels he has become accustomed, but he is insistent, which means I am wrong, and we are booked on the next flight to Luton. It leaves in three hours.

We arrive at that most Cubist of airports, catalyst to so many enjoyable suntans and gratefully ended summer flings with hairdressers from Wakefield, our very own Pablo Picasso International, with just hand luggage and are ushered through by a gentleman we know who works there into the departure lounge. They look like gangsters in their suits and I look like Richard Attenborough after a nasty bout of gastroenteritis. Despite the airlines first come, first serve policy, we are first on the plane. Then the problems begin. Fat Charlie travels in a Helmut Köhl style and normally a standard airline seat is insufficient. The seats on this difficult, for him, jet are too small. We manage to struggle him into two and I am left with a sort of unexpected child seat near the back of the plane, still means I can read in peace and not have to listen to their conversation, which can, at times, become tedious.

We arrive at Luton and are greeted by a waiting driver, thus avoiding the ignominy of passport control. Given the rushed nature of this job we have had to provide our own equipment. This may be seen as problematic for meddlesome officers of customs so it is best to get out of their airport with the least of fuss. Do not think that travelling on aeroplanes with guns makes us dangerous, we have no intention of any type of hijacking, we are not animals. Anyway, if someone did try to hijack the plane then we would be there to sort out a potentially nasty situation. They should pay us to travel. I say we, but I mean they. We make a temporary base camp near the airport. Fat Charlie is not known for his hygiene but that flight makes him desire a quick shower, even though he will put the same clothes back on. We stop at a hotel and check in using Kalvin's name with some handy fake ID. We thank the driver and acquire a hired Espace with the same ID. I get my map out and we are soon on the road to Kalvin's hovel.

My photographic memory helps us there in no time and, with a look of disgust, we prepare to enter. Dave knocks on the door, and, after an ungentlemanly wait, someone who failed to appear as Eminem on Stars in Their Eyes opens the door. This chap, it appears, has ready wit.

"No insurance today gents!" He says and begins laughing, pleased at his comic genius. The laughter stops when Dave, in a very swift movement for a big guy, takes him by the neck and lifts him off the ground. He pushes him into the house and we follow, a heft blow with his left boot on the door means that we are in the living room. Theirs is a look of surprise as Dave releases his grip on the youngster and Fat Charlie begins the pleasantries.

"Good Morning. You will probably have no idea who we are. That is by the by. We are the new employers of a certain quartet for whom you probably would be interested in a modicum of revenge. We are here to implore you not to pursue this line of action. Should you accept this situation no harm will come to you." Fat Charlie smiled at Kalvin and awaited a retort.

"You know where those fuckers are? They owe me. So that means you owe me. I want what's mine" Foolish words, from a fool.

"Forget about them. Whatever you learn about them will go in one ear and out the other, or I will kill you all." Still smiling, the big man.

"Balls. You don't have the bollocks for it, I can see you have the guts though."

"Very good. Tell me Kalvin, of these idiots you associate yourself with would it pain you least to never see again?" Fat Charlie was clearly no longer in the mood for debate.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, of the people here there must be one that you care for less, one that you don't really like, or at least as much as the others. For example, my associates here are fine people and I have great respect for them, but at a push I could put them in order of how much I liked them. That would mean I liked one less. So, which of the people here do you like less? I'm not saying that you don't like them, but that in the relative scheme of things you must have one, if you like, opposite of the teacher's pet. Do you get my drift?" You could tell by now that Kalvin was worried and wanted Fat Charlie out of the place. He would go along with this to hurry things up. He pointed to a rather unpleasant looking thing on the couch, trying to make a bong from a Coke can.

"Good!" said Charlie. "Now we understand each other." He gestured to Ruben who extracted a pistol with a silencer, God! I love silencers, who shot the runt in the face, killing him instantly. Now Kalvin was scared. "Do we have an agreement?" He repeated his enquiry. Kalvin was not overly capable of speech, but the body language suggested they had an agreement. "Now, I want to know I can trust you, so stand up." Kalvin did so. Ruben and Dave stood behind him while John put his gun to the head of the nearest cronie. "OK Kalvin, what I want you to do for me is prove that you are not lying." He walked behind him and held the gun to his side. None of the other cronies moved. "If I can trust you, you will do something for me, won't you?" Kalvin nodded, tears were forming. "If you do this for me then I will leave you with this little shit-hole to do with as you wish, though I can't see you lasting long, maybe a group of schoolgirls will come and take your empire from you, I don't really care. All you have to do is one little thing for me. Shoot our little friend here in the leg. Then I will know I can trust you." Kalvin pleaded but knew deep down it was shoot a friend, hell, this was business people change from friends to acquaintances and back every five minutes, or be shot. He was still begging when his finger pulled on the trigger and the bullet entered the lad's leg just above the knee. The victim demonstrated signs of smarting in the area and began to make a terrible noise. Kalvin fell to the floor shaking as we prepared to leave. The lad was now howling and it was most off-putting. Dave had a word with him.

"What's the matter son?" He enquired with an almost fatherly nature.

"It fucking hurts so much" The lad said through gritted teeth.

"Well, maybe if you had something else to think about, then that would take your mind off the pain in your left leg?"

"Oh God! Yes." He seemed to agree. With that, Dave shot him in the other leg.

"Now you can think about which leg hurts you more. You don't have to thank me. Bye ladies!" And then we were outside, in the car, and soon on the motorway to London, reasonably clear in the knowledge that we would never have to return to Luton. Racing down the motorway we were soon in London. London with Fat Charlie means that certain things are required of his travelling company. He decides the itinerary and there is no debate on the topic. The route is always, first to Saville Row, by underground, which you are not allowed to call the Metro, then we are all fitted for a new suit, the style and cloth for which he chooses, he also pays for it so things are not so bad. After that we take tea at the Ritz and hit Harrods. I buy very little, a knick-knack or two for the wife and kids, though I have never really seen the attraction of Harrods. Must be me I suppose, because the rest go mad and purchase pheasant soup and other delicacies in some Sloane apocalyptical shopping mission before the meteorite strikes the Earth.

After that we check into the Savoy for the night and pick up the suits, which are to be worn as we attend that horrid restaurant in London where the waiters are deliberately rude to you and the service is poor, something that causes endless hilarity for Fat Charlie. Then it is off to the West End to see Cats (again) or something similar. It's not too unpleasant really, and I shouldn't complain. Usually work nights out are rather less cultured than this. Of course, all this culture cannot last forever and as they spend the rest of the night in a Soho watering-hole, I make my way back to the Savoy and phone my wife before retiring to a sleeping quarter of silly dimension given that I am alone, still, that is only until tomorrow when I shall enjoy the home fires again. I confirm the flights for tomorrow, first class on BA, special seat for Charlie. The only way to travel. I have a look around the TV channels and the entertainment is easily evaluated by the fact that I was soon asleep.

BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-SIX

European Debut

GRAHAM: After about two weeks of meeting people, visiting places, memorising routines and then repeating the process, it was considered that we were ready to begin earning the coins that would help us remain well fed and that rather strange colour that most people here favour till the end of our days. Even I had not considered the amount of minuscule details that were required to be in place for us to operate on the Costa. In many ways it appeared rather unusual that we have various bits of paper and cards in order. The reason for this was simple enough, we had to appear like genuine, decent citizens simply over here for the good of our two nations' respective tax departments. Then, when the mierda hit the ventilador, alibis would be two a penny. Nice idea in practice, but I really think they just wanted to see how much trouble Zippy's nose and Benny's pecker could get us into in a fortnight. Hence the decision to appear rather dull thirty-somethings, for a while.

One of the most time-consuming activities was to find us a suitable abode. We, wrongly, assumed that the organisation would have an array of little places that would be just up our street. This was not the case, or at least, not our case. We were told that links like that between people involved were just too risky, and one of the founding principles for those welcomed this close into the circle was that no trade should be undertaken between members. We don't know how far this could be taken as read, but there was one story of a guy who sold his video to another for fifty sheets and both were called up to Fat Charlie's office when word got round about a receipt. The argument went that for things like that there were a number of other outlets, all unrelated to Fat Charlie. So, here we were, working for a man with numerous properties in Marbella and unable to find a place to live.

Rent was another issue. We couldn't afford to buy, and the banks were never going to give us a mortgage. We were not on the pay-roll still and anywhere half decent with enough space for four of us was going for at least three grand a month. We had to be located reasonably close to the hub of the operation, which meant the most expensive part of an un-cheap town. Still, the pool was nice and you can't beat breakfasting with views over the Med. Benny was not happy about shelling out so much, we were larging it in bars and restaurants, picking up tabs and saying, please let me, far too much for his tastes. I saw it as an investment. Our financial situation was certainly healthy to sustain these temporary costs, and when we began to work, no pinch would be felt. Still, life was expensive, and with the rent, deposits, car hire and other expenses, our first fortnight has set us back more than twelve K, rather an expensive training programme.

It became clear from early doors what they wanted us for. What we did best in Luton. They didn't see me as the muscleman I wasn't and I was glad of that, so that was me behind the computer with the other nerdy guys who always seem to befall a horrid fate in the scenarios when evil doctor with a decent hard drive capacity takes over the world type films. They seemed more than impressed with Gore and his ability to handle himself. A number of situations had "arisen", all under the watchful eye of Fat Charlie and Ruben Shuffle. Gore handled himself well, digging when he needed to dig, but also convincing people that the best thing to do was to leave the building. I knew deep down that Gore didn't like having to use that aspect of his persona to gain credit, but his organisational skills, if you don't count finding a myriad of ways to categorise your record collection, were up to about as much as my fighting. Zippy kept his nose clean, and stayed out of trouble, as well. As usual, it was Benny who caused the most aggravation. Benny still wanted credit for everything, he found the change, he fucked over Kalvin, he phoned Timmy Kinch, he rescued the girl from the water, the list goes on. You could tell that Fat Charlie was not too taken with him and his attitude, whereas the big man took something of a shine to me. In the interests of the group, when I got the chance I mentioned to Fat Charlie that Benny was indeed an arse of some repute, but once he was in character he would do a good job for him. The big man said he expected nothing less, from him, and all of us. Perhaps I had crossed the boundary too soon. Why was I thinking we were suddenly friends? Why would a big-time gangster want to befriend me on day two? Wake up! Gray. When will you remember that Tony Matthews is dead?

One of the amusing by-products of our initial period in Marbella was that Benny was being rather unfortunate in terms of spreading the Gospel according to Narcissus around the bay. Maybe they had all seen to many of his type before, or the fact that we were surrounded by fierce-looking murderers, probably what they were, but none of this helped Benny. Of course, we had had a house meeting in which it was stipulated that should any female enter the social circle whilst we were "training" then it was clearly hands off. The last thing you want is to wake up with someone called Angie who has been married to a face for far too long. If you want films, go to Blockbuster, this is work. In the environs of our new posts very few women were to be found. Fat Charlie maintained an office, with an old dear approaching sixty acting as secretary. He trusted her implicitly and no-one else was involved. Inside the organisation the mood was equally male. Perhaps women were considered not up to the task over here, or, what is more than likely, is that they have too much common sense to take a running launch down a Boulevard named certain death or prison.

We didn't know when we would be called into action, so our leisure activities were also curtailed. Not that I minded too much, after what seemed like weeks with a three-ended candle, it was nice to get an early night, or at least repost being able to remove your own shoes. As we left Ruben on a Friday night he informed us that our first job would start Monday, and to enjoy the weekend. Well, he was our boss, wasn't he? So if he wanted us to enjoy the weekend we had better do just that. I assumed that there was to be a night of Burton shirts down at Sinatra's followed by some ghastly rave causing you to love the world. When I got back to the pad, the boys had been talking.

We sat around the pool for a bit, drinking cold beers and taking a dip when the mood took us when Gore pronounced an idea.

"Instead of getting absolutely rat-arsed, consuming illegal substances and attempting to copulate with anything with a pulse why don't we?"

He stopped there. He had our attention, that was for sure, but after two weeks of beatific behaviour certain hairs required letting down. We waited in awe of what he could possibly suggest that could rival the shallow entertainment that had kept our relationship so strong for almost two decades.

"Take it easy tonight, get a good night's kip, then hire some mountain bikes tomorrow and ride up the mountain. It's quite straightforward, something of climb, but we've been working out these last two weeks, it should be no bother. You see, if we go from Marbella to San Pedro then we can take the mountain pass up to Ronda. It's only forty-five kilometres, quite tough going in places, but imagine how you feel when you get there. If we set off at nine we could be there by lunchtime no bother, taking it very slowly. Dave's got a van and he said he'd pick up the bikes and take them back if anyone didn't fancy the return journey. I've phoned a place and they open at half eight tomorrow. The bikes are booked. What do you think?" Gore finished with the look on his face like a child who has just suggested something that he or she considers wisdom beyond compare whilst the parents prepare to gently inform of the utter folly. Then I remembered Benny was likely to speak first.

"Are you fucking tapped son? What has got into you? Cycle forty-five miles up a fucking hill to have lunch? The only hills I want to see come with two cherry nipples on top and after a few long drinks. Go on your fucking own, you big prick." Benny made it clear that he did not care for this plan.

"It's forty-five K. Didn't you go metric? And it's not a hill it's a mountain. Dave said that it would be good character building, but he also said who would be the first to say no." Gore just gave Benny a look and a hand gesture that seemed somewhat out of place literally yet enormously correct in its modern usage. Gore had done well. Dave was an associate of Fat Charlie, he and John ran most of the operations and we wanted to put on a good show for them. Gore's use of very nasty psychology has got Benny in a tangle. He can't go up to Dave and ask if it was true what Gore said, but Gore could be lying. Also, Benny didn't like the idea of Gore getting acquainted with people before him. So Benny, that great champion of democracy made the decision that we were all going.

"And by the way, tell your excellent friend Dave not to bother with the van. Think about it, up a mountain arrive, down a mountain home. What would you do without me?" Benny told the group.

"Once again your knowledge of geography astounds me. Of course we shall be cycling directly up. You are such a philistine. I bet you a ton you're crying before twenty K." Gore responded. The tense atmosphere unusual when Gore and Benny were at the centre. Benny accepted the bet and returned the insult. Only Zippy eased the tension.

"I'll give it a go, but I don't think I'll make it. Sounds nice though. I hope there are no problems with performance enhancing drugs?" The look on his face was one of absolute sincerity as laughter filled the pool. Excitedly, Gore got out the map and marked the route. A minute later Benny announced the route like it was his plan. We pushed him into the water. Dinner was taken in a nice Italian place down the road and by midnight we were in bed dreaming of our little Tour de France tomorrow.

We were up and dressed at a very decent time allowing us to take the car to the hire shop and pick up the bikes. They gave us a look like we hadn't thought things through too clearly as they checked our knowledge of the vehicles. We assured them that we had been working out in the gym and planned to take the leisurely route so their worry was warming from a public relations point of view, but wholly unnecessary as we knew the game inside out. This wasn't entirely true, but they had the credit card number just in case we all died on the mountain and they never saw the bikes again.

The road from Marbella up to San Pedro de Alcántara was no struggle at all, the odd hilly part, especially as we came up to our turn off. Then fear hit us as we realised that we hadn't breakfasted and the mountain did not appear keen to offer toast and coffee. This required entering San Pedro itself and find a nice chap to line our stomachs. Finding a place with tables outside so that we could leave the bikes in safety, you can't trust the people round here, we ordered the heartiest of morn feasts and were soon raring to go up that mountain. Zippy looked at me and asked if I was going to brave a fag. It was strange to see someone who has worn through his nasal bone acting like a teenage girl wondering whether to try her first menthol or not. I said I feared it might be my last so why not? Restocking on water and Aquarius, we glided down the road that would lead us to the mountain.

As we went past a road sign that indicated that Marbella was only four kms away, Benny proudly noted that Ronda lay only forty-one in front of us. Gore interjected with the information that the distance between San Pedro and Ronda was forty-five, that he had told us that last night and we were still the same distance away from our prize. Benny did not take kindly to this and called him an accursed liar. Gore insisted that Benny was an inept companion and that was more or less they had strength for as we cycled past the last remnants of San Pedro at sea level and saw the mountain ahead of us. Were we really about to embark on this lunacy? Why? Because we had been to the gym every day for two weeks? Still it is only forty-five kilometres. What's a Tour de France stage? Nearly two hundred? How hard could this be? Very, but we were doing it to prove to ourselves that the change existed.

Was that what this represented? Some two-wheeled manifestation of the change and its significance for us. The fact that we have been two weeks running round like good, little boys, working out, watching the booze, off the drugs, was all this leading up to us riding ourselves into the mountain on a warm spring morning? I worried myself by having such lateral thoughts but was then pleased when I realised I had passed two kilometres of the journey with such mindless pondering. This was still the relatively easy part. The slope was not too great and the road enjoyed a straightness that would soon be lacking as the curves completed their dominance of the roadway. Once I got into a comfortable position I didn't find the going too rough. The bikes were of a high standard and every time I got to that hideous stage of feeling all the blood in my legs was going to explode outwards through the veins, destiny clubbed together with God to provide a little drop that allowed all the levels to fall and pleasure to course through my body until the next climb, but by the time that came around I would be a stronger, better cyclist.

Benny was not enjoying the enlightenment of the experience. As Gore tried to keep up a decent pace, Benny was losing his place in the peloton. He called out to Gore, much to his own amusement, "Oy Lance Zeppelin. Where's the fire?" He tried to laugh as well at his own great mirth, but realised that he was not in possession of enough breath for all these actions. Gore just shouted back that Benny could phone Dave any time he wanted, and Benny soon found some more energy.

We had decided to make the first stop at ten k. Gore read on the map that there was a natural spring around there and would make a good point to evaluate progress. After eight I didn't feel anything, though did note that I didn't feel any worse, despite a particularly cruel stretch and the surprise of seeing the bus from Seville occupying both lanes. As drivers went past us, the passengers in the cars gave us looks that expressed only bemusement at our activity. Some looked like they even wanted to stop and end our suffering. Yet on we plodded making ten kilometres at just after half past ten. Not bad going, rather the same pace as those charming old Grandads who do the London marathon in six hours, though Gore insisted there would be opportunities to make time further on.

At the ten k mark we allowed our heads to dangle under the spring, inspected our feet and bottoms and all agreed that it was onwards and upwards. Gore did warn us that ten to twenty could be perceived by some as the worst part. Zippy enquired whether the residents of Ronda were fond of late lunches, then we saw what was in his hand. Puffing on a King Size with thirty-five kilometres still to go, claiming that it opened the air-passages. At eleven we were off again, the first two kilometres were amongst the worst moments of my adult life, I pondered places were I would prefer to be, the Tory Party conference, working for Vodafone, Anfield, all seemed like heaven in comparison to this fucking bastard mountain bitch. Then a car passed and we got a cheer from the boys and girls inside, swiftly followed by happy hooting from a trucky, and then everything was just so right. The fifteen mark came up and offered us some downhill moments which Benny still failed to comprehend.

Even though we considered that we were merely a third of the way through the journey we still felt proud. We were only thinking of the finishing tape, we hit twenty at quarter past twelve, recognising that lunch was out of the question we fell onto a grass verge, trying to make sense of the visions of virgins and demons that we had hallucinated due to exhaustion, dehydration and generally being close to death. It was nearly one when we rose to move. Rather depressing that we would have been at twelve k now if we had come on foot. Zippy and Benny took a line despite the medical contingent advising the opposite. Off they raced whilst Gore and I took a more modest pace. I don't know what was keeping us going but twenty to thirty were done in less than an hour, with somewhere after thirty someone having the good sense to put a wee tavern in the middle of nowhere. I had never wanted to kiss someone as much as the old man bearing ice cold jugs of water. Pepe at the bar was a former cyclist himself and refused to serve us anything our stomachs may not care for. None of the steaks and chips that were on the menu, Pepe got his wife to knock up some soup and insisted on bananas. I told him we were none too pleased at taking four hours to reach this point but he told me not to be despondent, that next time I'd do it in three and a half, then three. His words "If you did everything perfect the first time where would be the motivation to improve?" It was worth cycling to this point for that level of wisdom.

I felt new as we hit the road again, already two in the afternoon. The sun didn't seem particularly kind to us but we were spurred on by the words of Pepe and made the climb to thirty-five without incident. We were getting full respect from almost every vehicle that passed us. They could see that we were here for a reason, and that even if we weren't doing it that well now, that we would get better and that was what it was all about. Every smile and klaxon pushing us that little bit further towards Ronda. Inevitably, my head was filled with the Beach Boys "Help Me Rondha" and with every signpost we saw the distance left to Ronda in single figures. There was now no talk of turning back. The idea that we had felt all the pain that was possible to feel was put to the test as we took one last brutal climb, then, almost without realising it we were over the top and coming down the other side of the mountain. The moment was close to orgasmic as we could stop peddling and let the blood decide on its own where it was needed in our bodies. A couple of little more pushes and we were on the outskirts of Ronda. Just gone half three. Six and a half hours, an average of six point nine kms per hour, little more than a jog, but fuck it and fuck the world, we had done it. We found a Venta and sat down. We belled Dave who was in Ronda with the van anyway. He would be the smallest of jiffies, to order him a beer and a steak.

The guy in the Venta was less excited about our adventure, he wanted to close the kitchen at four, that meant swift ordering. We all ordered the same, when we ordered one more meal than the number of people seated he called us into question. He made it clear that he wasn't about to cook for someone who may not appear, we told him the meal would be paid for appearance or not, he said that was not the issue. Luckily, in his haste to close early, he had argued for long enough for Dave to arrive and confirm the order.

"You actually did it? Well done boys, I'm impressed! Hope you've not picked up any injuries that will stop you running away from a crime scene in the next few days." Dave joked and raised his beer to us. It was strange to see him thus, in town he was cautious with this words. I just suppose here he could wander about with plans for a job and no-one would notice. Dave spoke like you would expect from a Costa villain. He arrived here about ten years ago to help a mate shift some stuff and never got round to leaving. We weren't sure how much of what was happening to us was our own doing though realised that we had only one option, to go with the flow. Dave began giving praise to Gore, much to the continued annoyance of Benny who was forced to bite his tongue to prevent his oversize braggadocio from creating tension for all of us. Gore was gracious in the light of the kudos from our new dogmatist. Many people think Gore can be an anally retentive rock nerd who is obsessed with back-catalogues and Japanese imports, but when you put all that to one side and remember that his favourite song is "Uptown Girl" and his fave tv programme is "Changing Rooms", it's hard not to love him.

As the food appears and loses the fight against our contracted stomachs, though we feel the need to force feed to avoid glaring looks from the owner, Dave offers us the chance to cut our teeth.

"Jewellers, are commonplace in Marbella. Of course, there are some that are secure beyond the needs of an over-the-top Hollywood blockbuster, like those favoured by our most favourite patron, King Fahd of Saudi Arabia geezer capable of leaving six kilos behind the tills of this town every day and driving round the town with an entourage of never less than three-hundred. How could you rob places that cater for blokes like that? It goes against our philosophy. Crime can be an art-form as well, can't it? Plus, when he is in town, there is so much spare money floating around, begging to be stolen that they should all be on a commission. On with the tale, there is a little place just of the Alemada which we would like you to rob. Not just go in there with sawn-offs and scare seven types of shite out of the old dear behind the counter. If we wanted that we wouldn't have wasted the Funeral Director's airfare. No, we want you all to participate using your various skills." He took a swig of his beer, made a hissing sound to the owner and held five digits in the air to clarify our continued thirst.

"Graham, you will organise the robbery. It would be good for you to spend some time with the computer department, get you au courrant with programmes for over-riding safes, locks, and other things that sound all very glamorous if you're a specky virgin. It shouldn't prove too much of an ask, any transport and vigilance needs you may have will be gladly supplied. Benny, as the owner is a lady, your role will be to wine and dine her into a state of letting go her rather violent grasp on the information regarding what is held in the shop and any other places that may be of interest. She's a bit past her prime but I'm sure you can lie back and think of Luton. Not that that would be much of an aphrodisiac for me, still I don't have to shag the old hag, do I? Gore and Zippy will be the hands on, on the merchandise I refer to, inside the shop, so the information procured by Benny and Graham had better be first rate. The police can be friendly here, but they don't like jewellers being done over, looks bad on the town. A good job will need to be done. Then we will discuss future tasks." He handed us an envelope in a sufficiently clandestine was to make even the sheep on the hills suspect and we finished our meal in silence. Thoughts racing through our heads about our first mission. As we finished we stood up, then we remembered the pain in our legs. Dave got the van round the front, it was a squeeze and me and Zippy inevitably ended up on the uncomfortable floor as we twisted through the mountain path, fighting off the desire to redecorate the inside with every curve until we embarked pale, yet content, outside Dave's.

Dave had a jacuzzi and said that it might help our aching legs. We sat around with cold beers feeling the jets on our skin and thanking the God we didn't believe in for something he probably hadn't done. After the jacuzzi we lay on the tumbonas until sleep inevitably took us. I awoke two hours later with a red face and a sore head. They were making plans for a night out whilst I noticed that Lethal Weapon III was on the box that night, that would do me, a bit of personal time. I picked up some ham and cheese from the Deli, got home and opened a bottle of wine, waiting for Mel and Danny's capers to entertain me, taking a sip as sleep possessed me again.

* * * * *

We were at Dave's office at nine on the bell, Monday morning. The envelope still unopened from Saturday afternoon. The others arrived late on Saturday night and most of Sunday was a washout. I woke up at about ten and walked down to the beach, bought a book and then realised why people drank, so they had something to do on a Sunday. I bought the paper and had a long breakfast before despondently accepting defeat and returning to the comfort of the remote control. All we have are the terrestrial channels, entertainment which doesn't involve the hilarity of a large man dressed up as a granny and shouting being a long way off their programming agenda. The only social contact was when Benny came past on the way to the kitchen to share with me his view that what I was watching was shite. I never thought I'd miss Sky, but as I desperately flicked through all five channels, FIVE? I yearned for a repeat of Family Fortunes or Porridge.

When Dave arrived at ten we opened the envelope and went for breakfast. Breakfast is of paramount importance in this country, and most people are loathe to perform the act in their homes. There are bars in every town in Spain that make their crust from, ironically, toast and coffee, shutting up at just after twelve with the coffers full. Not a bad life if you can get it. You could be in the bookies for the first race with tons of coins. I was to spend two days with the geeks, as Dave called them learning how to use programmes and other fascinating stuff. As you can imagine nothing of the slightest literary interest happened and the moment shan't be recorded for the benefit of Mr. Sdadhoihas.

Benny had to use his charms on the owner of the shop. She was no oil painting, whether she had been hung as one in the mid-sixties in some minor village museum was a possibility. She may have been a cracker back in the days of the milk bar, but now she was more sun-raped than sun-kissed, applying fluorescent make-up to further exacerbate her unattractiveness. When Benny saw the photo for the first time there was understandable laughter. Benny said that he hoped she looked better in real life, and Dave fought off the tears. Apparently she had a thing for young, good-looking men, though I'm sure most members of the Bingley Liberal Club have a penchant for young, good-looking girls too, the fulcrum of the matter is in the reciprocation.

Benny entered her shop one day on the pretext of wanting to open a jeweller's himself, or was it that he intended to open a jeweller? His patter was transparent and barely plausible as we listened in in true A Team style in the van, but the old dear bought it, even when he told her that he simply must invite her to dinner to thank her for her most helpful information. Over the next couple of days they became inseparable, Benny actually getting away with the line that he had too much respect for her to take her to bed so soon and that way managed to avoid having to immerse himself in her ancient flesh, making us realise that by the same token he was avoiding doing the only thing asked of him. Still he made amends for this by getting his hands on the password to her computer which we were soon into. How generous of her to store all her safe combinations there and not change them with the stipulated regularity that the company recommend. After a week of planning with false doors and boxes we we more than ready. We could have done the job in less than twenty-four hours but knew we were being observed, in the future we'd have to be a bit swifter, but this one was to be done well, this was the coursework part of the exam.

On the Thursday Benny anounced he was whisking her away to an expensive hotel for a slap-up feast, and, he admitted that he was now curious to see what the horizontal experience would be like. Perhaps this had something to do with the tumultuous relationship that Benny had with his mother and he now wants explore these feelings of rejection, in some way taking revenge on her. Capable of anything that lad, best not to interfere. With Benny away in swankland, I punch in the digits and saw the liberation of the jewels and alarms. On the nod, Zippy and Gore, dressed in true Milk Tray man style, were inside and filling bags at their leisure. After ninety-seconds, they were out and the van was driven half a mile down the road before they transferred into a hire car and returned to base. It all seemed so easy, but then again crime is easy if you plan it. There were pats on the back for all of us, Fat Charlie and Ruben gave that crumpled faced nod that can only mean recognition and respect.

That might we went to a restaurant and told old stories, got shit-faced and passed through every stage of male bonding, belly-laughter tales, tear-jerking memories, pent-up hatred unleashed and, inevitably, culminating in eternal love and vibes to all those present. The change was now our lives. We felt like we belonged, all the fuck-ups of the past behind us, looking forward to a new dawn eager to please our new benefactors, convinced that this time, more than any other time...... As I thought this, I looked around the table at the assortment of jokers that had been an ever-present in my life, and knew that with such quality on offer, we could never fail.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-SEVEN

Memories of Thievery (IV) Utter Bankers

GORE: Innocuous comments can change your life in the most unexpected of ways. Take one time for example, Zippy was going out with this girl, I know it seems incredible but bear with me, she also was rather head over heels with him, takes all sorts I suppose, at least I found out what Graham meant when he kept saying oxymoron. She was a bright girl too, who worked in a local bank and making quite a name for herself within the company. She could have been quite good for the Zip merchant had she not opened her mouth one time after a night of pills and dancing.

On the road to the comedown she commented that it was a matter of great ease to swindle the banks out of a rather healthy sum of money, in principle anyway. Her point was that most people feared banks, treated them with undue respect as most people enjoyed living on the right side of the law. Most people would never dream of taking on the banks at their game and even more loathed being in debt. Yet banks loved people to be in debt, then they had them, debt was their Christmas cake (you get comments like these on a comedown). She claimed that anyone could go and open an account providing you had the right documentation. That, she feared was the main problem, but if you had someone inside the bank that need not be an issue.

I'm not sure if the same thing happens when a group of football scouts hear about a promising young lad, or if a group of English teachers hear about a new dictionary, but the four of us all looked in unison at each other and implored her to divulge more, as we cut her a line and made her a refreshing brew. It transpired that the banks allowed people to open accounts with great ease, especially if you went on about changing from one bank due to displeasure. All this, providing you had the identity of a well-respected member of society. None of us fitted into that category. We could hardly walk into Barclays and ask for a gold card with no fixed income and criminal records. If only you could find a way round it, were her parting words.

As with the army, we had no qualms with robbing from banks. Banks represented the institution that failed to cater for our talents. Banks would not feel the pinch due to the capers we would pull on them. It was not like robbing from a real person, a real person who would feel the loss, a real person who would have their privacy trodden on and whose sense of loss would make them feel violated, this was a bank we were robbing. We were going to do society a favour, banks are the biggest thieves in the land, so in the name of all the so-called clients abused by banks up and down the land, we were taking something back. Still, if you put your mind to it you can justify raping leopards as giving something back to society. I couldn't see much of our windfall landing at the feet of Pudsey bear.

The main problem was the identities. The solution was staring us in the face. There was a bit of a weird guy, hideously overweight, disappointing looks, the kind of lad who emitted odours left right and centre, all this coupled with a quite hideous personality. It wasn't hard to see why he was still single. However, his trade handle was the Passport Controller, and he was shit hot. For our project, he would select well-to-do members of society and make them a new passport, placing one of our photographs on the back page. Of course, holding a passport was not simply enough, we had to have proof of address. That little problem was solved when the master forger came upon some blank British Telecom headed notepaper and put together a standard letter about service upgrades in which the name and address of our now friend figured.

It was just so easy. We walked into a branch, we started in Luton then moved outwards soon, asking to see and accounts manager, our work would not be done at a mere counter, and let them know of our intentions to entrust our fiscal existence to their financial entity. Once the details had been fed through the computer and our identities were seen to be clear of anomalies, our credit ratings found to be exemplary and our fiscal profile in line with the ideas of the bank in question. Should any difficult questions appear we simply pulled out a line about how we were looking for a change because we were dissatisfied with the intrusive nature of our previous bank and had hoped that the branch we were in may be able to match our standards, finishing with a, well that's obviously not the case, and how disappointed we were, they were soon falling over themselves with apologies and please Sirs. I loved fucking them over. Now, I know you're thinking that the bank may not lose out but the little people who work there may lose their jobs as a result of our actions, but that is neither true nor founded, downsizing occurs in banks due to their own greed from top brass downwards, if I am in Tesco and buy a packet of cherry bakewells, I don't get a paranoid dilemma on because I may be taking the bread off of the table from a Safeway check-out girl. That's just the way it is, if you don't believe me, Google Adam Smith.

Why open accounts? We would do so with one thousand of her majesty's finest tokens. Surely, you are thinking this seems folly, we are simply giving the banks money. Pas de tout, mes amis, by opening an account with that amount and evidence of a salary going in every month, only verbal, but why would anyone lie about that? We were entitled to a free three-thousand pound overdraft and the option to apply for an instant personal loan, without the encumbrance of questions, for the same amount. As we were walking out of the door with the account information, we were only waiting half an hour to come back in and draw out the lot in cash. A few days later the loan would be in the account as well. We would have six grand plus our grand back for little more than an hour's work and a few days waiting. Truly the easiest money going.

As possession of cash is always considered something of a bonus, Tony Matthews fell in love with the plan and got us to organise it for his cash flow. Plus we were doing a couple of accounts on our own every couple of weeks, just to keep the gold in the coffers. Once we had finished with the passports we gave them back to the Passport Controller, along with his thousand pound cut and he could punt them on for about six grand. He appeared to work simply for the admiration and gratitude rather than the money. His place was squalid, even though he must have been clearing a six-figure salary. He ate poorly, crusty Pot Noodle containers bearing testament to the education of his pallate. I said to him, you'd think if you're gonna get that fat, you'd at least do it on decent food instead of the muck you eat, but he took it the wrong way.

Soon we had to move further a field, we had been taking the piss in Luton and its environs. It could be too risky, yet Zippy's ex, he soon got over her and returned to his true Colombian mistress, also let us in on a piece of information that put our minds at rest. The last thing the banks wanted was people knowing just how easy it was to fuck them over, therefore anything like this would be kept internally, an investigation would be undertaken but priority would be sweeping the issue under the carpet, the general public had to fear the banks, not the other way around. All the same we decided to play it safe for a while. If you still have the need to remain on your high horse with regard to the morality of our actions and are now going to say that the poor person whose identity we robbed will have to pay out or be blacklisted, you are wrong again. The bank sends them a letter after missing a couple of repayments to which the good client responds, what the Dickens are you talking about? The bank shows them the paperwork. The client questions it and the bank says but you opened the account with your passport, look at the copy, to which the client responds, but my good man this is not me. At that moment, the bank would make some noise about a terrible mistake and no more would be mentioned of the issue. Red faced, the manager would beg for forgiveness to the enraged client, whilst wondering what in the name of God he was going to say to his superiors. Now, if you are about to ask me to feel sorry for bank managers then I shall have to confiscate this book from you. They are the greatest perpetrators of crime in this nation, someone said.

Even though we were creaming six grand from major high street banks whenever we wanted that soon got boring. We also knew it could not last for ever. So we got greedy, we shot ourselves in the foot. As valued clients, we were also invited to apply for home improvement or whatever loans to do anything one would want for between ten and twenty grand. We knew this was taking things to the next level, but at least it got the heart beating again. We decided that for this venture we would test the water with people we had hired so that they could make a quick couple of grand while we hoped to make twenty. It started to look like more trouble than it was worth when the Passport Collector started asking for double as a little bird had had a word is his eczema ridden aural receptor and informed him of how much we were making, so the fat cunt thinks he can get greedy and double his price, no wonder this country is in the state it is, small businesses are bled dry. We agree to this criminal behaviour and pay him double, getting a girl to do the first job, surely the police had twigged that all the accounts had been opened by fellers and a lady might not be what they are looking out for.

We observed the situation from afar but near enough to hear. As soon as these loans were mentioned, the bank staff became suspicious and questions that proved difficult to answer were thrown into the forum. After a few moments when Hannibal would have called the boys out, smiles were exchanged and everyone went on their way. Two days later the three people we had hired for this experiment were arrested and the judge and the banks had no qualms about giving them fourteen years and would have liked to give them more but for the bloody law.

We had been fortunate and we knew it. The three claimed their innocence and protested that they knew nothing about other accounts, even the fact that the photographs were different on the passports didn't seem to sway the banks very much, in any case they couldn't find the photocopies of the passports from other accounts. They had their villains and safely behind bars they went. I almost felt sorry for them at the time, but was soon far too busy breathing a sigh of relief. We managed to blag Tony by saying we initiated the use of others as we thought the banks were on to us, thus looking good in the bosses' eyes. He said that these things cannot last forever and patted us on the back, everyone had made a few quid and didn't we deserve a holiday. Just that we did and two weeks in Crete soon helped us forget about those poor idiots doing nearly half a century between them. Still, that's the game.

BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-EIGHT

End of year appraisals

THE ITALIAN: Even though it is not technically my role to do so, the task has been thrust upon me and so I will try to do so with the best ability bestowed upon me from above. A year has passed us by and we have to take a closer look on how the boys have fared in their first year with the organisation. Has it really been a year since they arrived? According to today's paper it is. Hard to think, though for the first couple of months they were more or less off-stage, so they have only had ten months of actual work. Doesn't time fly when you're robbing everyone?

Fat Charlie should be doing this, ah, the downside of being the right hand man, still it's nice to write in English from time to time, obviously the final draft will be checked over by a charming young friend for the "i"s to be dotted and the "t"s to be crossed. Just to make it more exciting, if you can actually envisage such a thing, we shall do the rundown in descending order, in a kind of nice Top of the Pops way. I, also, have satellite.

Staying firm at number four this week is Benny. Benny has not done well. He has not pleased people at any level of the organisation, and spent a majority of the time under the impression that the others were only here because of him. This was clearly not the case, though caused amusement in the office for a while. It would appear that Benny's time has passed, that he belongs to a different world, and has not managed to translate his obvious experience to the shores of this fine coast. He is also lazy, expects people to do his work for him. Benny, basically, has failed in every area. I can't see him fitting in, plus he seems to be off his trolley more often than not (an expression that I learnt just last week), though we all need to have our outlets after a hard day at the office, there is the suggestion that first you have the hard day at the office. Benny creates a bad atmosphere in the workplace as he doesn't muck in. That's unacceptable.

Benny's major faux pas this year was his failure to organise an evening of leisure for Fat Charlie. The big man likes his free time to involve a Jacuzzi, two or three girls whose remuneration is conducive to the amount of pleasure they bestow on the large chap, champagne and some MDMA. Not too much information is required as to what happens once the party begins, and one time Benny was given the role of providing the girls for the occasion. This normally is not a problem, Fat Charlie is quite strict about the type of girls he wants, they mustn't work for him, because that increases the possibilities of one of his colleagues having tried the merchandise before him, although I tried to explain to him that these lasses were about as pure as the snow we were selling and that he shouldn't worry too much about that score, above all they mustn't work for any of his rivals.

This still leaves a hell of a lot of pretty young things in the local environ who would gladly lie back and think of Columbia, Rumania or Senegal (delete as appropriate) so Benny only had to get three to a certain hotel by a certain time. Despite the ease of this task, Benny managed to put it off until the last minute, then he got drunk, then he panicked so he filled his nose with false confidence, made a few desperate phone calls and was finally put through to Charlie's, not arch, but still quite, enemy, Terry Stephens. Terry knew who Benny was and took delight in personally presenting the girls to Fat Charlie's suite. FC could do little, and the victory was only appreciated by a select few, still Charlie had lost face and Benny had put him in a compromising position. Even worse for Benny is the fact that Charlie is not the forgiving type.

Non-mover at number three is Zippy. Another no hoper who is failing to make a mark at the highest level. He is likeable, though rather dim, he is good fun, though rather unreliable. It is hard to have anything against him, though he has made something of a botch job and anything more complicated than taking a large parcel of drugs to a person and coming back with money. He will have his uses, though, will never aspire to much. In some ways I feel sorry for him, he takes far too much as well, and when he does he has a tendency to open his mouth too much. This means that if he knew anything too valuable then he could cause some problems. Therefore, the recommended course of action with Zippy would be to keep him away from potential story-telling opportunities and keep him for the jobs that people don't want to do. People will always need mules. Benny could be more of a problem, his attitude is poor and he will end up annoying someone too much if he carries on, if that someone is Fat Charlie or me, or even Dave or John, then he could find himself clumsily falling off the nearest quayside. Add to this the fact Fat Charlie dislikes him. On the plus side he has some nice shirts.

But it's not all bad news. The other two have done very well. This can be seen by their early participation in our rewards programme. If someone is doing well, we like to reward them with a flat, there are lots of these going spare in the area, so to thank them for their good work, the next one that comes free is theirs. Then they are free to sell or keep it as they wish. Most people sell their first and then buy a place a bit cheaper in cash thereby making a profit. There is no structure to these transactions, as one comes up, it is taken, this could be a flat worth half a million or a little over one hundred thousand. There is no competitive element to this, as being part of this circle means that your financial future is more than assured, the next one might be worth a lot more. Gore has got his head down this year and done some good work. For a big lad, he shows initiative and plays well in a team. He is definitely a prospect for the future, a leader of men. We decided he deserved a bonus flat unanimously, I'm not sure how much he got for it but I would suggest over three hundred grand, not bad for a bonus, taking that with his six figure salary corresponding to the quality of his work.

He is also taking an active role socially, though in a healthier way than certain others. He has become a passionate follower of Flamenco, something which pleases me and makes me remember my lost digit. He has started classes and can play a bit, he doesn't have it in his veins though, still you can't really expect him to, can you? I mean he is from Luton, hardly a traditional Flamenco breeding ground, about as likely as a Cadiz local being an expert exponent of that ever-so-dangerous slower ball. He also has found a rather charming Brazilian partner whose moves are of the highest quality. This has helped him keep his feet on the ground. I am sure she is not of the opinion that he is working for Oxfam, but still they make a good couple and it's nice to see a Brit with a classical guitar in his hand.

From my point of view, at the top they are tied on points, but as the real ringmaster is Fat Charlie and he has the final say, top of the tree is Graham. Graham, like Gore has done well, diligent, less popular than Gore but then again in that sphere he hasn't made much of effort, still if more people put less hours in at playtime and more during the classes maybe more problems would be ironed out. Fat Charlie is keeping a close eye on Graham, I'm not too sure why, and won't get told the answer so shan't be asking. Graham is good at his job and was rewarded almost at the same time with a flat in a very salubrious part of a very salubrious town. There isn't really much more you can say about him. He could probably do with a girlfriend, maybe that's unfair. He seems an unlikely choice for a criminal though again it's nice to have a change and mix it up a bit. Too many here look like goons from a fifties cartoon, and, I'm afraid to say, are as easily outwitted. Well, I think I've earned a nice cuppa, so I'm sure we'll meet again next time someone needs killing, the silly sausage. Bye. RS.
BOOK TWO - SECTION TWENTY-NINE

Saturday afternoons were always a big deal

ZIPPY: Our work was never set to a rigid timetable, if there was nothing happening most people wouldn't hang around. One thing that was set in stone though was Saturday afternoons. The organisation liked to have everyone around on a Saturday afternoon for a lunch and a general get together. We were, I suppose, lucky to be included, being so new to the set-up and things, many people who had been around for a long while never got to be invited to Saturday afternoons. Still, most of the time it was a drag.

The structure was the same. We would be required to meet at the Marlborough at one p.m. The latest people were allowed to appear was quarter past. The Marley was a pub that Charlie owned in the centre of Marbella, it was nothing special but was the chosen meeting point of the organisation. I'd normally go with Graham, we would meet up for breakfast around eleven, buy a paper and generally lounge around before hitting the boozer. Generally, these early starts meant that one had to behave well on a Friday night, Fat Charlie liked things to be taken seriously on Saturday and a fuzzy head didn't help things. Not that much business was ever done; Charlie trusted the Marlborough but was generally there for not very long. By a little after two we would be in a restaurant and there silence was the order of the day as the Big Man was of the impression that walls have ears.

The restaurant was decided on Wednesday or Thursday by a strange form of protocol. Should no-one's birthday fall during the week then alternately Fat Charlie or Ruben Shuffle would decide on a place. No place was to be used on more than three occasions in the same year, and there should be a minimum period of three months before returning. If someone's birthday should fall during the week, they would be allowed to choose the restaurant, subject to approval from the top two. If there was a collision of birthdays then the second one to fall would be passed on to the following week, or, should they prefer they could take the translation of their name into Spanish, should it exist, then they could transfer it to their saint's day. It was a complicated system that the Italian organised via a series of spreadsheets that held everything together.

After the first drinks, we would all take taxis to the restaurant. Irrespective of distance from the Marley to the restaurant there would always be at least six taxis waiting outside, all Mercs, at two p.m. The table would be booked for half past. You never knew who was in the area and often counterparts and enemies would be on the next table. This meant that conversation about work was limited, if not non-existent. Even though this was well known, attendance was compulsory. Saturday was expected of all of the top members of the organisation. For absence to be permitted, extenuating circumstances would have to be provided with at least a week's notice. Illness would only be tolerated if it came accompanied by hospitalisation. People had been seen arriving on crutches or with weeping wounds, preferring to suffer through the pain of a meal rather than risk the wrath of Fat Charlie. Dave even got his brother to change the starting time of his wedding so that Saturday afternoon could be fitted in.

If there was a birthday boy at the table, he would be able to select the main course from the menu. No women were ever present, wives and partners were not embraced into the organisation, but expected to put up with its rules and obligations. The idea was that the financial rewards were such that that they wouldn't complain. That was the theory but many had problems balancing the role of a husband whilst forming part of an international crime cartel. Many was the time that people would have no fear walking into a situation that could result in a life or death outcome, yet had a look of pure dread and fear when they realised they were twenty minutes late for an anniversary meal. The meal would generally be of excellent quality, sometimes beyond compare, the best chefs in town wanted to make an impression on FC, it also gave you an extra impetus to be a good boy on Friday so that your palate was up to the challenge on Saturday. Still, Friday was often quiet as Thursday was a big work night in the Marley, me and Benny non-stop till midnight, barely having a chance to get a drink in peace, let alone partake in the famous quiz night. Still it was nice to be in a work arena of leisure and business. After midnight most things were set up so that the minions could take on things from there. Then they were sent off to the clubs with supply to last to Saturday when we could struggle to do another couple of hours work out of the Marley office. Things were kept moving more or less on their own, we didn't have to worry about things too much, so didn't. Our work didn't coincide with that of Graham and Gore, and it was something of a bind to have to listen to Benny's moaning that Graham was being given preferential treatment. It was easy not to listen to him, if he went on I would walk around and return saying there was some fit downstairs. Then I wouldn't see him for a while.

Liquors followed the meal as the taxis arrived to take us back to the Marley. Here was where some people jumped ship, not always, but some of the married lads with kids would gracefully decline the invitation to go top shelf at the boozer. Most realised that it was simply easier to go along to the Marlborough and then make your exit, seen or unseen, when the party inevitably split up into different groups. By the time the coverage of the Premiership commenced numbers from the lunch crew had dwindled, only to be replaced by hangers on from inside and outside the organisation. Two of the people that Benny and I used were Handclaps and Reader's. These were not their real names, Handclaps was a moniker I bestowed on him as he is always claiming to have a musical past, claiming to have played bongos on a Flowered Up single amongst other claims to fame, my favourite being second engineer on the B-side of a Bridewell Taxis forty-five. He is full of bullshit but loves to feel part of things, so we let him play, he takes the risks and does half my work for me. I just have to count the money, and as no-one seems to realise, the situation suits all of us. Reader's is a different kettle of fish indeed, Benny would suggest that the fish is rancid. He christened her Reader's due to his conviction that she would not look out of place in the Reader's Wives section of a top shelf one handed read. He used her for the same purposes as I did with Handclaps, and, due to recently being unable to guarantee the team twenty-five goals a season, he was frequently consoled by her after a night's work. She also had another friend who was even less affectionately known as Goatee Spice, due to the proliferation of facial hair that she made no attempt to remedy. From time to time Gore's lover, lovingly known as Rivaldo, despite the complete lack of similarity, but more often than not her arrival only signalled Gore's departure to the land of twiddling guitars and shrieking women.

The football was another issue to take into account. There was a large screen and normal size television. A birthday boy could choose, if his team were on, though this would mean foregoing the right to choose the main course. Should this not be the case then the decision would be made democratically, more often than not most people were Man U, Arsenal or Liverpool, a sad reflection of our times as most of them never spent their formative years on the terraces of their supposed beloved clubs. Still, Luton were yet to emerge from their period of transition and take the Champion's League by storm. Spanish Digital TV had a better offering than their British counterparts and could offer three or four games on a Saturday afternoon, by the third you were incapable of consuming any more football. Though by then, the liquids had been flowing for a good few hours, patter was evident, stories and glories were all around, everyone was the top guy, until the chalice of conversational genius was handed over to the next participant in the parlance relay, and the spectacle could begin again.

The Marley became my office from then on. Handclaps and Reader's would make a few phone calls and then pop off on scooters to supply the hungry young creatures of the night while Benny and I stayed behind for our special customers. It was a nice set-up, reminiscent of the glory days in Luton but with a sunnier backdrop. By the time the evening took hold of things most people were in rather a mess, that could be solved by the merest of winks as all manner of chemicals were on hand to return the patient to temporary lucidity, pending feeling ten times worse the next day, but, hey, there really are no free lunches in this game. Quite a few of the lads are strictly booze only, so by the time nine or ten comes along they are no use to anyone, slurring their words and struggling though meaningless, unstructured conversations, their drug clearly losing the battle of cool. Anyway, most of the time I am on duty, so have to maintain social veneer, except of course if a lady customer wants to show her appreciation.

One of the Marley's highlights is an upstairs musical treat that happens on rare occasions. These tend to be moments such as England qualifying for the world cup, beating Argentina, or less frequently, winning the five and a half nations. Some lads who have been knocking around for a good while come out of retirement and dust down their rocking axes. Their set list hasn't changed in a good few years they say and make very few allowances for the tastes of anyone listening. The effect is feedback based and if you don't like it then for an hour that is your problem, then just when you think they are too cool for school, a major jam sessions ends the show as they fly from "Suspicious Minds" to "Don't You Want Me, Baby" back to "Louie Louie" with effortless genius. Gore insists that I include the set list, but I think that I will leave that for his own personal appendix when we reach the end of this tale.

The last thing to note from the Marley is the occasional presence of one or more of an infamous group known as the "Holiday-Breakers" these are a group of four originally from Gibraltar and so vocally dance between guttural Andaluz and asking Jonathan if he is in possession of a new motorised vehicle Cockney. They got their name when, after forced to leave their homes as children due to the precarious nature of the hostelry trade in which their parents were engaged, they were forced to relocate to Malaga. Not liking what they saw as the city, in their eyes, "prostituted itself for the foreign cock". They aimed to take matters into their own hands. Of course, this was going back more than twenty years, they were young scallywags, naïve and badly organised. They started by simply robbing and violently abusing holiday-makers, with the hope that they wouldn't come back. With time they soon realised that this could be achieved by the greater use of psychology.

As they got older they targeted the same type of holiday-maker, couple in their mid-fifties, well-off, German (preferably), though Americans were also welcome, and odious-looking. Ideally their stay would be of four weeks duration, to allow time for the mind games that they liked to play to set in. They would start with little things, strange phone calls or moving their hire car two spaces down the road. They liked to leave messages that made no sense with the concierge and cause calamitous accidents at nearby tables. After that they would get into the apartment, move things around, general horseplay, but definitely worrying. On the next visit they would move things into places that a normal person would never put them, toothpaste in the fridge, milk in the microwave. Then, they would leave a tape recorder with a timer that would go off in the middle of the night with readings from the Old Testament done by a friend of theirs who was Albanian. Now they were really worried. Little things would be left in the car and then four or five rather studious looking children would follow them round for the rest of the trip. There was no money in it for the "Holiday-Breakers", only the satisfaction that they were, doing their bit. It is impossible to know how many people have never returned to Spain or have persuaded friends to go to other places, clearly their work has failed in terms of the big picture as nearly sixty-million people visit Spain every year, check it with Eurostats, that said they are true to their beliefs and you don't see that very often. Word has it that they are training up the next generation, but you should never listen to pub rumours when the sun has gone down. So, whether it's a socio-political statement to preserve the natural beauty of the local area, or just four vindictive nasty fuckers who should know better, its always good patter and they do tell a good story. Well, one of my favourite customers has just walked in and the upstairs office doth call.
BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY

Just another Friday night

GRAHAM: It was getting past tour in the afternoon on Friday, and I am still in the office. This is no great surprise as my weekends don't tend to be the most particularly exciting part of my week. Of course, they should be extreme fun given that our empire comprises a myriad of leisure arenas that would maintain any self-respecting youngster with a wandering nose and a raging thirst knee deep in pleasure till sun-up on Monday. Somehow, though, Marbella isn't doing it for me. It's hard to think that a year has passed, and that the four inseparable cavaliers from Luton are continually now pleased when flimsy plans fall to pieces and once again they would not have to see each other.

Maybe that is a bit cruel. I consider retracting it. I know I simply mean Benny, though he has been, on the brief occasions we come into contact, less of an arsehole than usual. Though, in my usual paranoid way, I manage to take this the wrong way, convincing myself that he is only doing this as Fat Charlie seems to have taken a shine to me. I hope that this is only because I am a good worker and he appreciates diligence, though, somehow I fear that this is not the case, he seems to want to be like a sort of friend, but then flees when we are left alone, either that or he is with Ruben et al. and then it is just a competition to see who can be the biggest gangster in the world.

I was enjoying having the office to myself, I put on some music and just, I believe the current argot is, fannied around. Even though I had no plans for the evening that did not particularly concern me. I would stop off in Puerto Banus shopping centre and buy myself a nice big steak, a couple of bottles of red and a box of milk tray. My theory is that in lieu of a life, if I have chocolate, wine and red meat, that would seem like an adequate substitute for meaningful, human contact. Anyway, I had almost downloaded "WIthnail and I", though the last ten percent is coming in at about at twelfth the speed of the rest of the film, just to annoy me and prolong my stay, so in this way, I have an outlet and a view on the way life is. Don't ask me to justify that last sentence as I can't. Just as I was becoming quite happy with the idea of dullness and loneliness as dinner guests, Fat Charlie pops his head round the corner and enquires as to my actions this late on a Friday. I could have told him that I had plans, I doubt he would believe me, though I could say that I was going to the cinema with a friend of Gore's Brazilian temptress, that would sound plausible, he felt sorry for me so pestered his love into an embarrassing pickle until one of her friend's deigned to waste three hours of her life with me. Once I had that little scenario in my head, I was pleased to go with the no plans thing. Charlie was off for a late lunch with Ruben and Dave. He asked me if I had eaten. I hadn't taken lunch, wasn't eating something you do with people, a form of reunion? A meeting of loved ones? For that reason, I waited till I was truly hungry to eat. It may seem that I was desperate for company, I was, but at the same time I was so in such a way that did not consider Fat Charlie, Ruben and Dave to be the solution.

Over the time that I had been here my social outings had been limited. The Marlborough was always an option, but inevitably overused, and often an extension of work. People had a go at me for staying late when they were in the pub looking for snippets of jobs or just trying to raise their social standing. Quite simply, after a while the pub just got a bit boring, people seemed less themselves there, undergoing a metamorphosis upon entering the place when they could be bags of fun across the road in the restaurant. Apart from that, Hilary came to visit one weekend though never made it out of Malaga airport, she got off the plane, felt she was doing the wrong thing, made enquiries about return flights and did everything without even having to go through passport control, or turn her mobile on, so I watched everyone off her flight come through the arrivals gate, only to receive a message from her when she arrived at Stanstead three hours later and signed off with an emoticon. Difficult as it was to have my final amorous moment in my life to be the combination of a semi-colon, comma and hyphen, it didn't cause me too much stress. Hilary was never the one anyway. More traumatic was the visit of my parents. Reluctantly, relations have been maintained and they decided they would love to see my new home. With the pretence of my promise to them in my mind, I continued with the minor mistruths and had them under the idea that I was a big player in an estate agent's. That meant for the weekend I had to move out of my Puerto Banus apartment and into a place via a contact in Estepona, playing through a charade with a guy called Marcos who pretended to be my boss. That was worrying, even in my fantasies someone is still in control of me. Maybe I should donate my psyche to a bored psychiatrist. My parents believed the farce, or at least they had been through enough disappointment not to bother scratching the surface.

After they went I fell back into a work scenario, obviously I had to do Saturdays at the Marley but that was more work than work. I had planned to do nothing more than that this weekend, the Saturday meeting and then making my excuses as soon as possible. Now with Fat Charlie making me feel uncomfortable I decide to accept the offer. At least we are spared the delightful John, so things could be worse.

Fat Charlie had a table ready at some place I had still yet to find, though he claimed it to be one of the best places in town. The fact that it had already gone half four by the time we got in the car wouldn't bother anyone, if Fat Charlie wanted a table then that was just the way it was going to be. In the car, Dave phones John and gets him to join us. That just makes things even better. There is champagne in the car, I suppose car is a rather insufficient term for this vehicle, but I can't really see myself jetting round the Puerto in a limo. I feel out of place and as I feel more like that, I drink more and the bubbles make me feel capable of saying something that I stifle before the words leave my lips as the paranoia of my company prevents me from relaxing.

We get to the restaurant and food is brought. Fat Charlie says that menus are for fools. I question the wisdom of this statement, though, of course, only mentally. Fat Charlie is also in some sort of pain. This, it turns out to be because he believes in a certain form of karma. Depending on his dreams the previous night and a bizarre interpretation of astrology, Fat Charlie would not allow things to depart from his rectum before five in the afternoon the following day, some days the karma was wrong and defecation could be enjoyed at any time of the day. Today was a good karma day and beads of sweat formed on his brow as he fought off the urge for, as Ruben called it, the little turtle's head to pop out, perhaps in Spanish this term had more glamour, but really, not much.

As we ate I felt less and less of an appetite which made me drink more than usual. This combined with the empty stomach made me feel even more uncomfortable, especially as the conversation was centred around favourite ways to violently dispose of unpleasant youths who get too big for their boots. John seems to think the best thing to do is to get hold of doctor's scalpel and make small incisions in the base of the feet, into this he liked to pour some rubbing alcohol, or if it weren't too expensive then he would use after shave, given the afternoon sun could be sometimes rather cruel, he would then take them to the roof of his office and make then run on the on the floor causing the dirt that had accumulated to become engrained into the wounds, after that he would lock them up overnight so the wounds would become infected. What a delightful after dinner speaker this goon would make. Ruben, likes the idea of a simple vice and a simple head, either that or a chisel making small incisions into the brain, enough to cause hideous damage but not enough to end a life.

As the afters arrive my stomach and head are the worst of friends. I go to the toilets and try to vomit, realising that I have not really eaten anything, and only a hideous pink, bubbly liquid trickles out. I feel slightly better and manage to consume the cheesecake, I could even manage the meal now but it is too late. The waiter brings liquors and some healthy lines which mean the least of my worries is hunger. As we get ready to depart I wonder for how long I will have to stay in such salubrious company when they inform me that they have to see a man about a dog. I wish this were true, but fear that it would be much more unpleasant than that. Probably if they were going to see a man about a dog they would say that they are off to batter some poor sod.

Stan Black, it turns out, had been up to no good. Stan was a well known face from the Marley, not particularly likeable, but considering the not particularly likeable company that was frequently on offer, he was far from the worst. He had overstepped some boundaries and got a little greedy, not only that but he had been dealing with the Russians. Fat Charlie didn't like the Russians getting involved, he didn't consider them trustworthy, Fat Charlie had this rather antiquated idea of honour amongst thieves, he thought Cary Grant would have played him well in a film. The Russians were brutal, they didn't have rules, and, according to Charlie, they were short on scruples. Their way of doing things simply wasn't the Marbella way, quite frankly, they didn't play cricket, though you could hardly imagine a seam blower tearing down Red Square looking for that all important line and length. The Russians wanted a piece of Fat Charlie's action, though they couldn't get in due to Charlie's police connections. Of course, they could always offer the police more than Charlie was paying them, though the police would be loathe to accept that as there would probably be warfare on the Paseo Maritimo. Fat Charlie wanted to point out to him unequivocally that his actions had been close to folly, but that he had time to recover his lost position by severing links with the Russians.

This would be enormously exciting if it weren't for the fact that I would be providing very little of the hardness on offer. I would probably stand around looking embarrassed whilst they did their, as some might say, their gangster shit. Stan has an office conveniently nearby, so they obligatory shades are donned and we are across the road. As we enter he is there with two of his guys. The guys make no effort to look hard, they knew the protocol, here theirs was to do whatever fat Charlie said. You did not get a visit from Fat Charlie for employee of the month, and if you were up to very little good with the Ruskies then his visit could be even more of a disquietude. Stan was now expected to go deep into repent mode and we could be out of here. Stan, it would seem was not in the mood to play the game. His opening gambit proved that.

"I have been expecting you. Surprised you took so long to get hear. Still waddling always slows a person down."

"Stan, I know you wish to look hard in front of your lady-boys, but I implore you not to go down this boulevard" Fat Charlie responded.

"At least mine are not as ugly as yours. This is the situation Charlie, I am in with the Russians, you have had the reigns too long and it's time for a change. So, you can like it or lump it. Either way, make your decision outside whilst you are fucking off. You saw the door upon entry, get reacquainted." Stan was resolute.

"Would it make any difference if I said I had always liked you Stan?"

"Not really."

"Well then, I won't lie and shan't miss you." With that he pulled out a pistol and shot Stan three times. I couldn't believe it, it was just supposed to be a scare mission. The other two looked fearful for their lives, lives which they assumed would soon be over. Fat Charlie checked that Stan was dead and gave one of the guys a look. "Tell the Russians." Were his words, with that they left the building. That was why Fat Charlie spared them, he could have killed all three, but the stuff of legend is only made when someone survives to tell the tale. Tonight, the pubs would be awash with "did you hear about Stan Black?" whilst Fat Charlie's reputation would be stronger than ever, and the Russians would know that and look for other areas into which they should employ their talents.

With that we were in the limousine again. I tried to get my head round what I had just seen, but the image was too shocking. I lost control and failed to realise that I was dribbling vomit onto my shirt. The upside of this, I though, was that I didn't look dressed for what they had in mind for the rest of the night, which essentially boiled down to casino and whoring. They thought my dishevelled attire was far from an encumbrance and dropped by a boutique that Fat Charlie owned and a new shirt was on my back in no time. Listerine was even on hand so my breath smelt better than my rancid conscience.

We arrived at the casino and I was surprised that it was one. Obviously, it wasn't, that was the way of things. From the outside it didn't look like a casino though inside was very Monaco. I felt terrible; I was starting to shake and looked generally rough. I asked John for some help and he gave me two blue pills. What the fuck? Was this 1962 or what? What kind of help was this? I gulped them down with a double whiskey and then ordered another. I wasn't sure what I was taking but thought it best to get away from reality and that this might help do the trick. I will also have to make a bigger effort with the others, I may consider myself the possessor of a special relationship with Fat Charlie, but the rest pull rank on me and could beat me to a pulp if they wished. So, time to put things to the back of my mind. I find myself alone at the bar and have a glance round. This is all quite glamorous, maybe it was a good job I spewed on the old shirt as it may have been substandard for this event. I begin to relax at the bar, the barman and I have the pleasure to ourselves. It appears curious, to say the least, but I somehow recognise the fellow. I can't think how as I have never been here before, but he is smiling back at me through the mirror. I desperately try to place him before he comes over and the situation is even more embarrassing. Then as I see his eerie smile through the mirror I suddenly realise who he is. How can this be? Stan Black, here at the bar? Didn't we shoot him less than an hour ago? He says nothing, he just stares at me as he polishes a glass, then starts to laugh, a piercing and horrific laugh that I will never forget. Then he tells me in Russian that this will not be the end of it and I fall off my chair. I am in a clumsy mess in the floor when the barman leans over and I see his blond, curly hair and glasses which make him look so little like Stan Black that I am somehow relieved to discover myself in little more than the inexplicable hallucination stage.

I am not making a hell of an impression. Dave joins me at the bar and I assure the barman I am fine, overworked, is what we decide on. I take my drink firmly in the hand and attempt to focus on my conversation with Dave, never a huge ask as his topics range from the latest female pudenda he has entertained to the latest collarbone he has broken. I try to steer him on to the neutral ground of football, not a topic I am particularly well versed in though can hold my own thanks to the various web pages that inform me of the toings and froings in the world of what our transatlantic friends shouldn't call soccer. We are deeply immersed in a futile attempt to remember the name of the new lad who has just signed for Newcastle, when there is only one name that enters my head, how can this be? The lad the Toon signed was from Senegal wasn't he? How could he be called Stan Black? How was I seeing him in the black and white colours? I closed this topic from my mind and made up some name apropos of a hideous and perhaps politically incorrect seventies sitcom and Dave said that sounded about right. Thankfully, Fat Charlie came and gave me two grand's worth of chips, he said it was a bonus and not to lose it all at once. This could still be fun, I lied to myself as we hit the black jack.

I have never been much of a gambler. This was seen as evident as I frittered away part of the money that Fat Charlie had given me. It would be seen as terrible form not to play so I though the best thing was to do was lose as quickly as possible. I still had hopes of being allowed home before having to invest any winnings in the oldest profession. I moved onto pontoon and to my horror came into a run of good luck that rather mortifyingly caused people to stand over me and cheer as the aces appeared. I was now back over two grand and had attracted the attention of a rather stunning young thing, considering the previous opportunities my life had given me to be James Bond I thought that this one should be embraced as much as possible. I remembered the blue Quadrophenia pills and suddenly felt incapable of anything but victory. I asked the charm-pot to choose the cards for me, saying her beauty would bring me luck, I probably had dried vomit still round the corners of my mouth but the crowd was loving it. Up came another ace and we ordered champagne, indeed champagne for all my followers. Ruben raised a glass from the poker table and the night seemed more than salvageable. We drank the champagne and placed another bet, this time losing, but that was just as much fun. I decided to go large, for me that is, and put a big G on the next hand. On doing so, the croupier asked me if I knew what I was gambling with? What did that mean? What right did a seventy-year old, bald, Spanish guy have to ask questions to a major player like me? I gave him a hard look so that he would know his place, but he wasn't a seventy year old Spanish guy, he was Stan Black again. I shouted at him "Stan you are dead now. Leave me in peace." He just laughed at me. My new found friend squeezed my wrist and told me not to worry. At least there would be some comfort in her, but, what sort of voice was that? I looked over to her and surveyed her from her red dress upwards, everything seemed in order until we got to the face, then Stan reappeared. The laughter was all around, everybody had Stan Black's face, everywhere I went, and they were all pointing and laughing. I managed to make my way to the toilets and splashed my face with cold water as I was sick once again. After a few moments, I regained my composure, only to be confronted by Stan's face in the mirror and then, I fainted.

I came round with Dave and Ruben looking both worried and none too pleased. That was enough Jacob's Ladder for me. Ruben gave me a pill and I was back out for the count. By the time I had my next dalliance with consciousness we had left the Casino and were in a place of minimal repute. I felt better, that was true, sober and lucid. That could be seen as a plus, but in my current state of embracing weirdness, it just made things worse. No more funny pills, just coke and whiskey, the things that treat me right treat me right. I found the toilets again and made good use of them. No liquids or solids had had time to partake in the process of digestion so it was just the nose and a splash of water.

Upon my exit I ordered a glass on fine whiskey and awaited my natural charms to work their magic. Naturally, it wasn't longer before my enticing nature proved irresistible and negotiations were opened on a verbal contract. She looked too nice to be in this game but then again they all did, though for me too nice was not a flimsy bikini with Stan Black's face on the top. We went upstairs and were soon down to the principal clauses of the aforementioned contract. I was in no way enjoying the experience, but at least it gave me some privacy in the sense that I would be free of the others for a while. I wanted her to stop. Why couldn't we just talk about something? About anything? A way of passing the time without this? Still, what would I talk to her about? What would I talk to anyone about? I found myself on top of her, half-heartedly racing backwards towards an invisible goalpost, filled with drugs and fear so much that there was no chance of ejaculation. I close my eyes and hope this will all stop, that I can return to my office, or my flat and not have to see people again, not have to take part in murders, not have to destroy lives for a living, then as I open my eyes and see Stan Black underneath me, I roll off and cower in the corner, screaming "I didn't kill him" as Russian voices shout "Killer" at me.

Not surprisingly my lady of the night is, I believe the medical term is, scared fucking shitless by this response to the tools of her trade, and security are in in no time. Only when it transpires that I am with Fat Charlie are they a little less brusque with me. They allow me to dress, while an Eastern European tongue, it's not Russian, my intermediate level now recognises that parlance (thought intercourse was a bad lexical choice there), suggests that I am not the finest client she has ever had. How superb, I can't even please people who I pay for them to please me. Fat Charlie and Ruben are in the Jacuzzi suite, Dave comes to collect me and puts me in a taxi. He makes it clear that his hitherto miniscule levels of respect for me have now become almost non-existent, I say nothing and enter the cab. Hopefully, soon, Dave will end up like Stan Black, who, not surprisingly, is driving my taxi.

Thankfully, the taxi driver was the last vision of Stan that I had. When I got home there was a bar open across the road and I had a coffee. I phoned Gore, not to talk to him about what had happened, but because he was Gore, he was excellent for not talking to about things yet still made you feel better. He was going to be playing at a bar in the old town later and told me to come along. So I went, and I'm glad I did, it was a funny mix, Flamenco people, Brazilians, Gore and another lad from Sheffield and some thick Payos like myself, all mesmerised as the music went from Traditional Flamenco to Samba culminating in a hilarious version of the Beatles' "All My Loving" which had about nine extra verses in Spanish and Portuguese. Everyone danced and sang along, irrespective of talent, birthplace and upbringing, Gore finished with a Deep Purple style solo while two gypsy girls danced frantically around two lads tapping boxes until, somehow, they seemed to know that that was the end. We cheered and I realised I had buried Stan. I saw a friend of Gore's girlfriend whom I had spoken to on a couple of occasions. I got her a drink and asked her if she fancied the cinema on Saturday, she said that would be nice. I tried hard for a moment but then burst out laughing. She didn't know why I was laughing but smiled and lead me to the dancing area, where finally uninhibited, I felt part of something, something I couldn't explain yet something that felt better than what had gone before. From now on my work would be exclusively office based, I would be the most boring thief in the world, and I was loving the idea.

BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-ONE

Bennyvision

There was a local television station in Malaga whose broadcasting output defied both belief and taste. For those who had the misfortune to view the channel were left perplexed by the lack of mental challenge in its programming. Local television had entered a boom period with municipal areas of less than forty-thousand inhabitants, not a population large enough to warrant a Zara or a MacDonald's, yet enough to have the most pertinent aspects of local interest to be read by someone with questionable oratory skills, badly focused by a cameraman who just never got round to reading the instructions.

The station in Malaga was based around four, very, basic programming options. The day would start with the most inane young lady ever to walk the streets with the pretext of finding out just what Juan Q. Público thought of various issues at the heart of current affairs. The highlight of her interviewing skills was seen when rushing from senior citizen's residency to residency desperate to inform the hungry Malagan public what the average septuagenarian had for breakfast. This may be of interest had it not been for the fact that everyone responded coffee and toast, in many ways the answer to be expected from the average Spaniard. Maybe this analysis is cruel, some did opt for that delightfully former racist hot chocolate drink Cola Cao but in general the answers were predictable. So, most mornings are spent watching this abomination to hairdressing race around town asking people irrelevant questions. Another classic was her annual jaunt round the Malaga Fair asking people if they were having a good time and liked it. As a local fair in this part of the world is based around continuous drinking, eating and dancing, most people said yes, they were. As painful as this broadcast sounds, it was the only item on the daily agenda that showed any thought.

After the information of people's breakfasting habits and levels of satisfaction at local fêtes, we are then treated to four hours, they seem longer, of contacts from the spirit world, as various modern-day witches defy fashion and logic with their credit-less outpourings. No qualifications seemed required to trumpet the future joys of desperately lonely grandmothers who feared for their young, tracksuit wearing, scooter driving grandchildren who had been left to rack and ruin by parents obsessed by the rat race. These were soon placated by the reassuring news that everything would work out fine after the cards were turned. Maybe this can be seen as a social service, the ethics of the delivery were questionable at best, yet people slept soundly at night, until, of course, when the phone call came to inform them that the tracksuit and scooter had been involved in a modern-art montage effect with a brick wall.

The reason for this programme was not one of social altruism, quite the opposite, the old dears were phoning at one Euro fifty a minute, they would be left on hold, or asked to describe their query to a number of people before being placed through to whatever the Spanish for Doris is. Another trick was to accidentally cut people off, pretending it was their fault for pressing the wrong button, this initiating the process again and charging that all important call set-up again. This meant that to get on air for a period of three minutes a twenty minute call was required, effectively costing thirty Euros per piece of worthless advice, and the bonus was that they had people on hold for a good long while. This was quite a money spinner for the station and although the presenters occasionally became local celebrities and demanded what was called a wage, the cash kept rolling in.

After the all-seeing witches left the station free, from time to time, they hooked onto an internet feed, totally illegal, which allowed them to broadcast pop videos with a hideously pointless SMS chat where told the how much they loved someone or wanted to say a big hello to all their friends in a way that explained spelling standards in local schools. This was occasionally switched off, or unavailable, so they simply repeated the Tarot programme, soon learning that this not being live didn't prevent people from phoning and wasting even more money whilst the witch lunched in quality restaurants.

The early evening slot was briefly interrupted by a brief news broadcast without pictures. The studio gave the impression that from the Georgian capital news of the crushing of the rebel uprising was about to be announced proving the glorious power of the union. Graphics were of a quality that someone who had read the first page of the Photoshop manual would be capable of, continuity and production standards similar to that of a fresher's week media student. Any items of real news where stolen from the web and no attempt was made to cover up their source.

The main evening programming was by far the most inane part of the day. A phone in quiz show ran from seven pm to midnight, the offer of incredible prizes making people call in and hope to win a plasma TV for answering such tricky teasers as; What do you wear on your head? Incredibly, the viewer would be astounded as people phoned, failing to respond correctly to these simple dubieties, to the apparent desperation of the presenter, who just happened to have the most annoying voice in Spain. So why were people incapable of answering such questions? How could the viewers be so think as not to know what people wear on their heads? The answer was simple. As viewers tried to fathom the stupidity of their fellow Malagueños they thought, one moment, I could win this TV or PS2, I know what people wear on their heads, and so they phoned. When they phoned they had to answer some sample questions, ranging in difficulty from what animal has a long neck and eats leaves? To give another name for bifurcation as a system of branching in which the main axis forks repeatedly into two branches. Then, they were told they had been accepted to participate and were kept on hold until their time came. This time would never come, no member of the public would ever get as far as the presenter, that would spoil the fun. Instead, the people whose voices sounded on the show were employees of the station who had the amazing capacity to do for or five different voices. Thereby, the presenter would be continually occupied by people pretending to be daft. What would be the point of doing this? So that the callers would be paying premium rates to never appear on television. This was not strictly legal in any sense, but certainly a money-spinner. Morals were not an issue for this television station.

Eventually the phones would stop and the news would be repeated again. After the news, a highly respected local journalist would impart his witty and incisive comments on Malagan society and the state of the team that plied its trade at the Roselada stadium. He would waffle on for a few moments whilst no-one listened. No-one listened for the reason that within a minute of his disappearance, four hours of continuous hard-core porn was fed from the Net, people flicked between the channels until his moustache bade goodnight and prepared the Kleenex and creams. To the delight of every thirteen-year-old boy who had convinced their parents to allow them to put a portable TV in their room, and some boys who were more than a jot older, these biological documentaries, which also featured some of the best acting seen on the channel, ran for about four hours, more than enough time for even the pickiest wanker to, well, one gets the drift. After the porn, back to pop videos until the roving mike was once again sent round the streets of Malaga to discover if people liked the beach.

The station made money, but a lot of it was a short-term plan, and, with the consumer association looking to get them closed down for the SMS scams, the station realised that they had to increase quality to replace this money with advertising. Ideas were few on the ground at brainstorming meetings on how to achieve this increase in quality without spending too much money, and this where Silvia came in.

Silvia sat on a stool in the bar populated by media types just around the corner from the TV station's offices. There she looked at pile of CVs that failed at mustard cutting and took solace in her Bombay Sapphire and tonic. Silvia has been hired to create a more varied programming schedule and her brainchild was a programme which capitalised on the healthy ex-pat community, good for advertising money, yet offered something more, something practical, helpful, and maybe one day educational. Silvia was a dreamer, but a realistic dreamer, her ideas for a show were simple enough to work very cheaply, yet her drive and enthusiasm meant that there would be something different about her show. She wanted to prove that you could make good, worthwhile television on a cheap budget.

The plan for her simple programme which offered community information, interviews with local players, useful bits and bobs as well as providing a sharing base for a large section of the Malagan community, into which she hoped to integrate the locals into one big, happy family., had run aground with her failure to find a suitable presenter. Of course, there were options, two a penny has beens who wanted salaries beyond the annual budget of the station and would run off to a cruise ship the minute someone said "Port outward". Then there were the jokers who thought that TV was just so easy, and that they were made for it. They had done some modelling and some work in night clubs. Silvia simply looked at these pointless specimens and told them that her younger brother was quite good at making model aircraft but that didn't afford him a vital role on the European fighter project. Silvia was tiring of good, looking empty-headed, walking male cosmetics departments, she needed someone with stage presence but someone who could portray a connection with the audience whilst being false and conceited enough to be easily maleable. Surely it would not be that hard to find a self-obsessed native that would love the chance to work in television for a minimal salary. She was amazed at how hard it was proving.

The pile of CVs in front of her bore testament to the fact. Anyone decent, decent in the fact that they were a name, irrespective of the talent they possessed, which was generally little, these shiny, orange fore-headed, Chernobyl teethed slime-bags where all outside the budget of the station. They all made it clear that they could get double that on cruises anyway. The rest were a bunch of talentless yet worryingly good-looking, under-experienced young men who loved the camera, that was sure, but they were not right for the job. She tried to just take one and mould him into the presenter she wanted, but she knew it was bound for disaster. She flicked through one more time just in case there was a vain, megalomaniac in the pile that she had missed.

Benny was sat at the other end of the bar, nursing a drink and waiting for Dave. Dave had summoned him to this bar, in Benny's eyes, simply to rile him, it was hardly Dave either, but it was so not Benny. The place was outside Benny's intellectual pull, which roughly translates as; it was full of women who saw Benny for what he was. Therefore, his pulling chances were between minimal and null. Therefore, why would he want to be in the place? Dave had told him to be there, though Dave could easily be late, or not turn up, Benny's reduced purchase in the being able to say anything market meant he had to grin, not that he could, and bear it. He flicked through a Spanish copy of FHM magazine, though principally only enjoying the pictures. He looked up, hoping to give disdain with that look to the rest of the bar, who went on about their business without noticing him.

Although one person did not notice him. As she sat there with her Bombay Sapphire and tonic, Silvia caught a glimpse of Benny and thought that this was possibly some form of divine inspiration. Of course, she hadn't heard him speak yet and knew nothing about him or whether he had any vocation for the task. However, she had a gut feeling, a feeling that mixed with the gin left her feeling almost gasping for breath. Intent, she struggled with her belongings and made her way over to Benny.

Benny's initial response was to glance her over before offering her a place on that elite list of birds he would shag. Of course, she was a bit too studenty and he would never speak to her, though, should she feel the need. As she was about to introduce herself, Benny received a message from Dave cancelling the meeting. He uttered a "fucking brilliant" which Silvia tried to comprehend. Undeterred, and a firm believer in execution for sheep theft, Silvia began her spiel.

"Hello there. I assume you are English?" Benny indicated that her assumptions gravitated towards the correct. "My name is Silvia, I represent a local television channel here in Malaga and am currently looking for a presenter. A search which has given me more sleepless nights than I had anticipated. I saw you from across the bar and I thought you had a good face for TV, if I don't find someone by today, we will lose the contract, and I, my job. So I thought, why not ask him?" When she finished she seemed physically drained by the outpouring, nervously expecting some form of lisp or cleft palette that would impede him performing on the box.

At first Benny was taken aback by the question, assuming that a jolly character would pop through the doorway and revel in the hilarity of the daft English lad who fell for the big joke. She insisted that she was for real and that calmed him down a bit. He took a big gulp of his G&T and opened his mouth, placing all his faith in the words that would leave it. "It's is, in many ways, quite curious that you should ask me that question, and that fate should have drawn you to me. Only recently, I was involved in quite a heroic action in Bonny Scotland, where afterwards I was called on to do a television interview, during the realisation of which I felt a special calling that I have been, until this moment, been unable to define and clarify as its relationship to my life, though now feel that this is what it has all been leading to."

Benny continued but Silvia had already stopped listening. She dumped the pile of CVs in the bin and got Benny another drink. Hastily she phoned her boss and told him that she had found the right person, he wouldn't be let down, the project could go ahead. The mobile nearly flew out of her hand on two occasions due to the nerves that caused her hand to shake violently. She returned to Benny and said he would need to be at the studios at eight on Monday morning. Benny mentioned that he did his best work after lunch, but soon left that avenue of his artistic conditions for fear of antagonising her. She told him to bring a CV as well. He regretfully informed her that he had never found time to compile has life and labour experience in paper form, ostensibly due to the fact that most of his experience could not be corroborated by anyone who would be considered valid as an employer, or a potential future one. Silvia said this was not a problem, and extracted a lap-top from its holder. She assured him it would be the work of a minute. Whilst Benny drank and offered her a selection of truths, she converted them into a presentable CV that showed flirtation with business and the need to express himself artistically. She made sure that he had all the details and said she looked forward to seeing him on Monday. Normally, Benny would have insisted she stayed for another drink, but this woman scared him a little. He assumed, quite magnanimously, that he drive and ambition were due to the fact she was undervalued sexually by someone, but that he wasn't going to be the one to help her out.

For the rest of the weekend Benny was quiet. He sat around the flat practicing being a TV presenter, though he was none too sure what that entailed. He ploughed his way through the rest of the Bombay Sapphire that was at home, whilst holding mock interviews with Sir Michael Caine and Dudley Moore. Afterwards the three of them just decided to chill and get a pizza. Benny wanted an early night, plus if he was to enter the new arena of television it may be best to give the drugs a wide berth. Michael told him he was wise to do so, and Dudley agreed with more than one frightening story about talent lost to narcotics. With that, Benny bade goodnight to his guests and drifted into the land of dreams, an easy task as he had spent the previous few hours there.

Sunday was a drag for Benny, and for Silvia too. Sunday took a long time to fill for Benny if he didn't have a hangover or a comedown to contend with. He wanted to be as fresh as possible for the following morning so eschewed all liquids that we're not fruit juice and even thought twice about coffee. The afternoon was spent watching any chat show he could find, he was so glad he got Sky in at the end. Repeats a plenty gave him a bit of a focus, but he really wanted to phone Silvia and get some pointers, that, though, may be taken as sign of weakness. He convinced himself he would be fine. Parky would show him how.

Silvia also struggled to make the hours pass. She co-ran a cinema club and Sunday afternoons and that usually gave her something to pass the time. Today's offering was "Fahrenheit 511", not a choice she would have made herself though it did give the group the possibility of a lively discussion on the Orwellian nature of the world in which we inhabit. Her interest was low as she wanted today to be tomorrow. She wanted to start her project, she wanted to be proven right, and, more importantly, she wanted to make sure that Benny showed. She thought that he had the look of someone not to be trusted, and yet she had trusted all her hopes and dreams in him, this started to cause the inevitable appearance of paranoia in her. Everything now depended on Benny, first, if he turned up, he was caning the G&T's in the bar so he obviously likes a drink, what if he turned up pissed? Or with such a hangover he couldn't read? Or even if, he got through the screen test but later turned out to be useless? That would hurt even more, to get so close and fail. It would be better to never know. She calmed herself down, got in the car and drove to a nice vegetarian restaurant she knew just outside town. At times she thought about an image change, she checked herself in the mirror and confirmed that she was just the sort of person that one would expect to see in a vegetarian restaurant, she wasn't veggie, she just liked lots of different types of food and today she fancied a lack of meat. Was there anything wrong with that? And, by the way, where had all this self-analysis come from? This wasn't like her. She knew it was nerves. It was out of her hands now. Tomorrow, everything would continue to fall into place. Or that would be the end of it.

The afternoon dragged into the evening. Silvia actually hoped that the film would be dubbed into Spanish, an anathema for the group, but she really couldn't face listening to German, especially as some of the purists in the group renounced subtitles as a greater threat to happiness and understanding than a fleet of Stealth bombers. One even considered that a film could be understood in any language, whether you spoke it or not, without the need for subtitles, Silvia did not share this view and said something less polite than lorks-a-lordy upon its suggestion. She managed to control her fears that all her hopes and dreams would be a distant memory that could only be solved by internally bathing in Gin, and even convinced herself that Benny could do good work, then she thought about her other projects, her dreams, especially her idea to make football more attractive to a wider audience, by combining the idea of a football game with guest presenters, ideally from a world outside sport, say, a singer and an actress, what about Jarvis Cocker and Patsy Palmer commentating on Real Sociedad vs. Atletico Madrid? However, there would be more to the programme than that, before the game the pair would travel to San Sebastian, offering a cultural and gastronomic, and maybe even, providing local musical talent wasn't too ghastly, maybe a few tunes. In this way the programme would combine various elements and be informative as well as interesting, thus bringing the game to a wider audience. Maybe even the football would take on a secondary level of importance, though wasn't this what she had observed when forced to go round to people's houses for a barbecue to watch Spain be unceremoniously dumped from the world cup in the quarters? How they organised all the details before, debated the starting eleven, argued about the sweeper system et al. Then when the football actually started, faces changed and reality took hold, on the rare occasions there was anything to celebrate, the Euphoria lasted minutes as explosions of joy soon turned into groans of apathy as people realised that it was, actually, quite late. Silvia aimed to return TV to the days of its role as an educator, ideally with the football programme covering the Champions League and becoming the perfect travel, sports, cooking and entertainment show, teaching and pleasing at the same time. She had gone into complete daydream mode and failed to hear a question that compared working in television to Nazi Germany, she was required to respond. She wanted to tell him to grow up, but thought it would be more fun to throw him a morsel, that way she could get back to her daydream. Anyway, before he could launch into an attack, Benny phoned her. She simply had to take it.

Benny was slightly nervous. She told him to simply be himself. This was a test, if his response was based around arrogance then she feared he would bring her problems, if he let the opportunity go then he would prove himself to be human, capable of failure, just like the rest of us, mouldable and malleable towards the perfect presenter that Silvia required. She knew from his response that he needed her, and she would make him into the person she wanted, without him even realising that her very future hung on his ability to present the show. Silvia didn't even go back to the film club, they would probably be looking for grammatical errors in the original German screenplay by now, and she was, quite frankly, rather too busy for such tomfoolery. She had an ice-cream on the way home and nervously tossed and turned in bed before sleep took her from daydreams to real ones.

Silvia arrived at the studio at just before seven. Of course, she was the first in, that gave her fantasy even more fuel, as she wandered around imagining the studio was hers. She printed off Benny's CV and made coffee for her and the studio boss, whose BMW pulled into the forecourt just after half past. He seemed pleased with Benny on paper, though he told Silvia that there was no more time for waiting around, it was up to her to get him into shape if the lad worked well on camera. He underlined the importance of doing something important in television, though Silvia knew that this just meant that if we do something half decent, the scams may be overlooked or we have something to bargain the judge with.

Benny was there at five to. Exiting the taxi as Silvia glanced out of the window. He carried himself well. He looked good. Good in the sense of good for the role. Silvia did admit to herself that he was a very attractive male, but somehow, too attractive, everything seemed planned, she didn't like that in a man. She liked men who strived for intellectual perfection, even though numbers were dwindling, rather than the physical. She wanted to great him with two kisses in the traditional Spanish way, not due to any affection, but rather to get close enough to sniff out any Bombay Sapphire left on his breath from weekend indulgence. To her great relief, he smelt like a comedy battle between Hugo Boss and Listerine. As the camera crew and make up came in, Silvia told him to relax and everything would be fine. She squeezed his hand, not worried about the fact that she may have appeared to be flirting, she wasn't, but she was sure that she knew how Benny's mind worked, and this little bit of psychology wouldn't hurt.

The plateau was arranged and two chairs were placed in the middle, as the studio would be set-up more or less on day one. One of the studio engineers took the role of an important member of the Malagan society, whilst Benny read his part from the auto-cue. The crew analysed his work, not from a point of view of whether he could read the lines, that could be mastered in no time, but rather how he carried himself on camera, and, all importantly, how the camera treated him. The studio man gave her the nod, Benny fluffed most of his lines at the beginning but got better, now it was up to Silvia to polish him into shape. Benny had the gig. They went into the main office and a contract was signed. Money-wise it was a pittance in comparison to the offerings from Fat Charlie, but Benny knew that this was a profession that you started at the bottom on, and moved up.

Now he had to inform Fat Charlie of his new post. This filled him with dread as their relationship was not one based on mutual respect and love. Still, Benny thought it best to ride the vibe he was on and tell him straight away. After the party disaster, he hadn't spoken face to face with Fat Charlie, and was worried how this bombshell would be taken. To Benny's surprise, Fat Charlie considered this plan to be more than interesting, and urged Benny to take the opportunity presented to him. Something could always be worked out with his role in the organisation. Fat Charlie mentioned that TV has always been an area that had interested him and so he would be very grateful if Benny could keep him informed. Benny left the office, filled with a genuine happiness and optimism that he couldn't remember feeling in a long while. How good was life?

Fat Charlie though, as he later commented to Ruben Shuffle, cared not for a local TV station, but was keen to get Benny out of the picture. His constant fumbling and fondness for nose-candy were beginning to annoy him. His value as a great salesman was only necessary for those products over which potential clients deliberate, Fat Charlie didn't have such a selective clientele. He saw this as a good opportunity to have Benny as far away from him as possible, whilst severing his work ties with the organisation. Ruben Shuffle concurred that this was for the best, that Graham and Gore had been excellent finds, now Benny was out the equation, what could they do about Zippy? Fat Charlie, thought it best to just leave Zippy in potentially dangerous situations, and see what happens. There seemed to be no point in bumping off on of their own when rivals would gladly do it. In his inimitable way, Ruben responded by saying "You have reason, uncle." With that they went about their business.

Benny had the best part of a month for rehearsals, and was in no time getting into the role of the consummate TV presenter. Meanwhile, Silvia continued to put together the necessary elements of the show, she did not wish for it to be entirely Benny based, quite the opposite, there would be link people, sections in Spanish, relevant information for local residents and ex-pats, a language section, the more she thought about it, the more ideas she had. The opening show was to be an hour and a half. Despite efforts, the best local dignitary that would acquiesce to appearing on the show was the trainer of a bi-lingual rowing team in the area. Still, Silvia managed to focus the interview at a grass roots level, showing just how much could be done with a little desire. As the start date got closer, Silvia had them doing two entire run-throughs of the show per day. Acquiring something of a reputation as a task master, the studio's owner was delighted, Silvia was doing all the work, whilst he lunched with potential advertising clients. He already had two promises of real adverts, with actors and everything! Before that the adverts on his station had always been static, cheap graphics and photos of furniture shops, now things were moving forward. The day before the show was aired, he took Benny and Silvia out for lunch and said he was ever so pleased with their work. Silvia didn't need such approbation, but revelled in the fact that she had created some kind of monster, a well-groomed, inquisitive, chin-stroking, shiny-toothed walking suit, but nonetheless, a monster. Still, he was her monster, and he was taking her up.

The show went out live on Saturday morning, and excitedly everyone huddled into the upstairs of the Marlborough for the half past twelve start. That day, a special exception was made for the Saturday lunch, with people being allowed to rebuff protocol as lunch was held near the pub at just after two. Benny had taken some stick for his role as a TV presenter, but everyone, even Graham, wanted it to be a success, it had been good focus for the lad, and had got him off the sauce and sniff. And so, with the words; "Channel 36 Malaga is proud to announce its new show. Malaga – Mine and Yours" Benny embarked on a new career. The title did cause some laughter, as did the opening shot of Benny greeting the viewer and offering a taster of what was to come on the show. There were areas to work on, and moments when certain people forgot what they were doing, but in general most people were impressed with how the show had turned out quite well. Even Fat Charlie had to admit that it was the best thing that had happened to Benny, and Benny within the context of the organisation. Ruben Shuffle simply said, something probably meaningless.

When Benny arrived at the Marlborough he was treated to a hero's welcome. Everyone cheered as Benny meandered through the crowd, shaking hands and taking thanks. Benny was quite inured to the reception of these compliments and proceeded to be rather annoying by explaining the ins and outs of just how the magic of television was made. Most people said, "well done" and gave him a wide-birth, only Handclaps and Reader's, both failed celebrities in their own wrong, pestered him in an attempt to relive their past glories. Benny invited the rest of the lads out for dinner that evening, and even got to sign an autograph outside Sinatra's. It seemed that Benny was back on the tracks, he had a couple of G&T's but claimed he had to work on next week's show, so called it a night a little after two bells.

Benny put most of his energy into the show, so did Silvia, as the shows progressed so did the quality of the product. The guests improved and so did the items offered on the show. Benny seemed a natural and the show was extended to two and a half hours. The local council even gave the programme a special commendation for services to cultural integration in the community. Viewing figures were amongst the highest for a local TV home-production, not just in Spain, but in Europe. Advertising revenue was pouring in and the SMS scams were a thing of the past, the Tarot witches still remained as they were also seen as a public service, but the station's general image had been cleaned up. Things were going well, Benny's salary had risen, Fat Charlie was pleased that Benny was out of his hair and had, as time went on, less relation with his organisation. There was laughter, parties, joy and smiles all over town, on the day that the news came through that a Madrid based national TV station were thinking of taking on the show, Silvia saw the first part of her plan coming together very nicely. She would have her own national show without sucking a single penis, and she raised a glass to herself as the crew took down the equipment after another successful show.

Behind the smiles though, there is always a downside. Benny had fed off the adulation for weeks, and needed nothing more. After things started to become mechanical, the adulation wasn't enough, but, worse than that, Benny was consumed by the fear of failure, by the idea that all this was coming down around him. He was petrified of losing the show, and felt wholly uncertain of his future. Inevitably, he combated this in the old way, taking a taxi down Dean Martin Boulevard and back into the consoling arms of Bombay Sapphire. However, any good doctor will tell you that alcohol is a mood-enhancer, turning anger into rage and potential violence, so in a very short timeframe Benny decided that he required a stimulant that would have a positive effect on his self-esteem. From then on his timetable changed. He would start on the gin and coke, though tonic was the mixer, as soon as he hit the studio on Saturday, and more often than not, on the Friday for the main rehearsal. Benny managed to hide it well, all he needed was the confidence to get through the day, he didn't want to be plastered and knew that that could bring the negative consequences that he was hoping to avoid. Silvia guessed what was up, though she let things pass as it wasn't having a negative effect on his work. After the show Benny would continue on his binge, unable to live without the attention, now his appearances in the Marlborough were not treated with any reverie, rather indifference as Benny became that bloke off the telly. The pub offered him little in the way of pleasure, and so, by late afternoon he would be back home, necking Valium to help him to sleep to be in the studio on time for the next day's work.

This situation could not go on for ever, and was made worse when the announcement of the following Saturday's guest was none other than Terry Stephens. Stephens was a rival of Fat Charlie, not one to be feared, he was really on the fringe of small time and big time, but there had always been tension between him and FC. Things were made worse by Benny's faux pas with the party, he had contracted girls under the employ of Stephens and that caused an embarrassing loss of face for Charlie. Stephens was on the show as he was seen as a bastion of industry, he was everything that Fat Charlie wasn't, tall, attractive and popular, he emanated style and class, this was, in reality, his smarmy nature coming out, but he was convincing, and people lapped him up. Benny knew who he was, and knew he had to stop Fat Charlie from finding out about the interview. However, Marbella was a small town, the chances of keeping a secret like this were indeed slim.

Benny began to worry more than usual about his performance, and found the solution once again in excessive consumption of the three food groups which formed his diet recently, gin, cocaine and valium. During the moments of clarity induced by the cocktail, Benny convinced himself that Stephens would be on the show simply to talk about his legitimate business interests, of which there were many, and that he wouldn't even put two and two together and remember who Benny was, though on other occasions when the tranquilliser was not enough to get him through the night, he would awake convinced that Stephens was his executioner, sent to make him pronounce something that would cause Fat Charlie's empire to be only a memory.

Fat Charlie found out about the interview, he wasn't pleased. He considered having a word with Benny, but thought that that would probably make things worse. Stephens didn't want and couldn't embark upon a war, he might try to make the situation incommodious for Fat Charlie but would have to be reasonably as Machiavellian as only a slimy, grease ball could manage to pull off effortlessly, that was what worried Charlie. As Benny had been effectively "off the scene" for a while, Charlie was also unaware of his consumption levels and rather over-estimated his capacity to handle the situation in the way he had become famous for on the box.

The day of the interview Silvia noticed that Benny was rather more fidgety than he normally was. She asked if everything was alright and he just smiled. She introduced him to Stephens and they spoke for a moment. Part of Benny's technique was to take the interviewee to one side and make them feel at ease. In his spare time he watched classic Parkinson, and traipsed over to London to pick up DVDs of everything from Weekend World to Jonathon Ross. This time the onus was not on Benny as a calmer, Stephens flashed him a smile and informed him, out of earshot of the others, that he knew who Benny was, and he had made sure he got on the programme due to the excellent opportunity it presented to embarrass Fat Charlie and hopefully get Benny killed, in his own words, one less scumbag in Marbella.

Benny tried to pull it round after this reverse, but his nerves were shot. He retired to his dressing room and proceeded to consume an ungodly amount that still failed to calm him completely. As he was in the middle of this action, Silvia walked in to make sure he really was alright. She knew words would have to be had on Monday, but for now it was best to leave him. As she left, she thought to herself that it didn't matter now if Benny self-destructed, the programme was a success, Benny was part of that but people have short memories, Benny could be replaced, just like what happened to Todd Landers, and people got over that. Benny could clean up or say goodbye. Silvia was no longer prepared to baby-sit.

The interview was the final part of the show, Benny got through his other parts, with a less self-assured tone than he was noted for, but still in a way that kept the programme running. Everyone noted a look of fear on his face upon commencing the interview with Stephens, forcing the questions out and failing to give the camera the old eye that was so essential in his game. Upstairs in the Marlborough office, Fat Charlie watched expecting disaster, he was pleasantly relieved when Stephens managed to behave himself for the first ten minutes of the twenty minute interview. Then Stephens latched onto an innocuous comment from Benny, and, smiling all the way, gave Benny the shovel with which to dig his grave. Stephens had managed to turn the conversation round into a discussion about crime figures, and whilst Stephens made sure that Benny said nothing admissible, he managed to make it clear to anyone reading between the lines that Fat Charlie was up to his chubby elbows in messy deeds. Most people would have failed to pick up on these comments, or be able to assimilate their true meaning, though this performance was for the exclusive benefit of Fat Charlie and the organisation, clearly rubbing his face in it, enjoying the thought of him squirming, his impeccable reputation brought down a peg or two. By the end of the interview Benny had no idea where he was going, only that he knew that it had all been a disaster and the next time he spoke to Fat Charlie then the parlance would not be as convivial as the last time. The interview finished and as the credits rolled everyone agreed that the show had been a success. Terry Stephens said he would be delighted to return, whilst Benny ran towards the gin bottle while he still could.

BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-TWO

Severe moments with the civilians

ZIPPY: It was strange for me to get a call from Fat Charlie, maybe he's got me in mind for a promotion. Normally Graham would be the link between Fat Charlie and the group, but he has been tetchy since he returned from a rather heavy night out with the big man himself and Ruben. He told me that it would be good for the four of us to spend some time together, he felt that our friendship had suffered in the year or so we had spent in Malaga, I suspected that he wanted Benny off the scene after his latest dénouement recorded live on television and maybe wanted to put a smile back on Gray's face. Funny old relationship those two have. Benny has a theory but I don't concur, still who knows what goes on people's heads? Gore probably just deserves a holiday, he certainly has discovered some kind of Teutonic work ethic which is impressing all and sundry. I feel that my work has been good and that people are pleased with my affable nature, business is going well, although occasionally the cheap speed and Ajax falls in the wrong pot and the pure, uncut stuff goes in my pocket. Though, that can be seen as me helping them, the purer the shite that I take the less rubbish is in my body and the more fixed I would be on my work. They had probably noticed this and thought it was also a most viable plan.

So the idea was for us to a nice, simple job in Seville, just up the motorway and always a pleasure to enjoy the winding streets and eating opportunities. What no-one had bothered to mention was that a trip to Seville, was less pleasant in mid-July. Normally, temperatures could soar to forty five degrees without people getting overly worried, normally they didn't get worried because they were passing us on the motorway in an attempt to brace the coast and temperatures under thirty degrees. When we arrived we were greeted by that oven door feeling, a rush of heat hit us as we left the car, it took us a good few seconds to get our breath, the air burning its way down the oesophagus, our bodies not knowing whether the air would help or hurt our bodies. The other people in the area seemed to be quite pleased with the fact that it was a mere thirty eight degrees in the shade and those who had renounced their time at the beach were able to enjoy a cool summer.

The reason we were in Seville was because Fat Charlie's man had passed away. This was a rather strange situation in our business. Death, of course, was all around the game, part and parcel, people were bumped off, removed, got into a pickle that turned out picklier than anyone had envisaged, that form of death was an ever-present, stories that begin with "did you hear about so and so?" normally ended with so and so being presented with a bullet or an opportunity to clumsily exit a building from a point that would not be considered appropriate by Health and Safety, that kind of death we saw all the time. Back in the days of Tony Matthews people sometimes overstepped the mark and words were had. Kalvin also removed people with alarming frequency, funerals were even seen as good places to do business. However, the death of a business partner from natural causes was something of a rarity. Retirement presents were not normally a concern for over-worked secretaries in the organisation, whereas an account with Interflora was essential.

Fat Charlie's man in Seville had passed away at the age of thirty-nine from heart problems. He had looked after the business in Seville, most parts of Cordoba and even parts of Granada. Fat Charlie didn't like having things that far away from his control, he always wondered just how much control the Romans had in their colonies, how far did Romanisation go in Gaul and Scotland? Fat Charlie didn't believe that in these colonies were able to hold their supremacy in these regions when power was centred so far away. He applied this philosophy to the running of his organisation and didn't like things to be far from his control. In the days of Bruno, this wasn't a problem as he managed to keep things ticking over without the local scene getting too heated, now that Bruno was gone there was a potential situation in the zone. Bruno was well liked in the area, he did his job well though he was a loner. Perhaps this was one of the reasons that Fat Charlie liked him, they had a lot in common, for those bad boys love just wasn't all around. People seemed surprised by his passing despite the fact that he was around two hundred kilos and consumed in the bar he chose as his office with equal lasciviousness through the mouth and the nose thus putting extra pressure on the old cardiovascular muscle.

Fat Charlie had a successor in mind, so our task was to make sure he was aware of the rules and paid the necessary amount to take up Bruno's former position. Bruno's successor was of a similar frame but much younger, and this was hoped that at least the next decade could be assured to be relatively trouble free. Bruno's passing had caused ripples and many suitors were ready to offer their services, though preferably by by-passing Fat Charlie. This was seen as an unacceptable situation from the Malaga hub's point of view, Seville was a large market but not one that anyone from the organisation would want to come and control, it was much simpler to have a person in charge of everything, paying a percentage and keeping things sweet. If there was a problem then there were no shortage of thugs who would love a nice run up the motorway, kick seven types of shit out of anyone who caused problems, but the idea of living in Seville didn't appeal to those in the organisation happily ensconced in Malaga, life up there was too much like living in Spain.

We met up with the new guy at ten in the morning. To the others he didn't inspire much confidence, but I thought he seemed to know the game. His name was João and was half Portuguese half Irish, Fat Charlie liked this as it meant he could get a hold on the ever so important foreign consumption market. Seville liked to sniff but most dealers had not entered into the bilingual spirit that was prevalent in Malaga. João had been out all night, he had sold most of his MDMA stash but decided that the store was closed around four and necked the last of it. He still had one headphone of his iPod connected as he waltzed in, still with the dancing grains sharing the last beats with his body. Graham didn't like this as it seemed unprofessional, but as the coffee came the guy underwent a Jekyll and Hyde transformation and put on his business head. He liked a night out, but wanted the Seville job more than anything. Before the sugar had even been stirred João had spreadsheets on the table and CVs of people who had lined up to make sure that any problems would be solved swiftly and without the need for the Malaga dialling code to be requested. He added that he wished to thank Fat Charlie for this opportunity and extracted an envelope which contained two hundred and fifty two hundred Euro notes with which he confirmed his gratefulness. That seemed all in order. We had a brief meeting to see if this fellow measured up and all agreed it was worth a try. He signed the conditions as Graham checked the notes with the little machine that was unfortunately a necessary travelling companion in these precarious times.

João was given a three month trial period and we said goodbye. We went to the bank to deposit the money. It was nice for things to go well after recent events. In a moment of genuine altruism, Graham allowed Benny to be the one who informed Fat Charlie of the successful completion of the task. Fat Charlie seemed pleased with this and said he had another little job for us to do. In the brief period since Bruno's death, another chancer had tried to take the terrain for himself. This was unacceptable and would be nice, in Charlie's eyes, to be nipped in the bud on the same day. He asked Gore to break something and implement a fine of one hundred thousand Euros for the inconvenience. He had to understand that his actions had not been well received in Malaga, and the word should be spread around that João was the man.

The guy's place was near the centre, luckily air-conditioned taxis took us from one air-conditioned place to another. Otherwise the heat would have done for us before we finished the job. As the afternoon wore on the temperature seemed to get hotter, by five in the afternoon, even the walk from the taxi to the pavement was a tough test. We had a key for Adolfo's place so we didn't have to go through the rigmarole of knocking and people scurrying away. We surprised Adolfo and his, I suppose you should call him, special friend, enjoying the air-con whilst Seville sweltered. A bit like Nero's friend fiddling while Rome sunburnt, if you get my drift. He didn't know who we were but knew that we were not bearing gifts. Gore quickly adopted his role and broke something close to Adolfo, his lover's wrist, if he wasn't ambidextrous then the situation we walked in wouldn't be repeating itself soon. Our point was made and Adolfo opened a safe in the living room, hastily counting the notes so that our exit would be of equal haste. We made sure he was aware that we were not the hard committee, if he tried anything like this again, the real hard people would be up the road and pain would be felt. He confirmed that João was the man. Our work here was done. It was too late for banks so Benny and Gore took the money back to Charlie's flat in Seville. We had spotted an Irish pub on the corner and decided thirst needed quenching, it looked like a nice enough place to regroup. We would await them there. Of course, Benny would cheat and have a shower before changing clothes, ourselves having to allow the sweat to dry and hope the odour of lager disguised the dry body odour later.

The bar was on the corner of a sleepy street. I don't know if the street was sleepy due to the time of year, it was clearly no time to be on the mean streets of Seville, or whether this was a slow part of town. We rushed inside, as much as you can rush in this heat, and immediately enjoyed a blast of cool air. Our expectations were not high, it was mid-summer and the town was dead, a nice cold beer and the odd stream of cool air would do me. I moved to the bar with the smile beaming from ear to ear. There were about ten people in, all male, mostly pasty looking, yet enjoying the afternoon beverages. The barman welcomed me to his establishment with a very correct "What can I get for you, gents." I immediately felt that our work would be good here. Not being insane I hopped at the chance to take two bottles of Stella for four European currency units. We hung by the bar, the barman, who it soon transpired was one of the owners, knew his role well, he went away for a moment to perform some minor tasks before returning and enquiring, yet notably not in a nosey way, what brought us to Seville at this time of year. We told him that a client of ours in Malaga was looking to buy a place here. That normally quietens them, they would like to ask more but usually keep their mouths shut. We compliment him on the quality of his watering hole and offer him a beverage as our guests. He declines for the present as he is still working, but promises that as soon as the staff arrives he would be overjoyed to take us up on the offer. We retire to a table and finger the press.

Looking around the place we notice that there is a Tottenham – Barcelona fixture, a pre-season friendly, brought to reduce the pain and emptiness felt by football fans in the summers of years that end in odd numbers. The place was full of quality suppers. This wasn't the holiday style drinking you saw in Malaga, these lads knew that this wasn't a sprint, there was still three hours to kick off, drinks were leisurely entertained, time was not of concern, simply avoiding the heat and the dryness of mouth was victory in itself. I was worried that Graham would turn into a conversation free zone, or spend the time slating Benny. Thankfully, we got with the programme early doors and we discussed the possibility of a Roses reunion tour. The barman, seeing the crucial less then thirteen-point eight percent of the beer remained caught our eye and made gestures that two more cold ones should come our way. All this without words. Quality work.

Not long after this two rather attractive, and surprisingly unaffected by the heat, young girls walked in and took up residence behind the bar. Our host pulled out a cold one for himself and lit a cigar, this place had gone from office to playground in minutes. We chinked in the cheers fashion and were invited to the main body of the bar. Names were offered and further chinking was done, but most people offered little more than a semi-audible grunt. No-one gave much away too soon. I liked this place. I got chatting to a guy in a Roses T Shirt as we had just mentioned them, and had a good natter about tunes. Graham got involved with another English lad whose ma was Galician. Small world, but I wouldn't like to paint it. Being highly prized social acolytes we offered a round which was duly noted amidst promises of one back later, mate. The owner was soon joined by his partner who entered with none other than João and a tall guy with glasses who went straight to the amenities before introductions could take place. João seemed pleased to see us, again. He probably wondered if we were spying on him. We put his mind at rest by saying that it was pure chance we arrived here. Of course, people asked how we knew each other and João simply said that he was friends of a business contact in Malaga, trying to be so vague he didn't arouse suspicion, yet managing quite the opposite. No-one seemed to care, there were no rozzers here. More drinks, followed by a phone call from a lost Gore and Benny. One of the lads spoke to the taxi driver and they were here in the shake of the lamb to used in the kebab I have just seen on the menu's tail, Dinner time.

Not long after the drinks had been flowing nicely and we were all ready for some football. The pub's resident Spurs fan proceeded to berate a Gunner, you got the feeling this happened on a weekly basis, which caused rival Scousers to discuss whether the toffees or the reds were shite. We fancied hanging around Seville for a while, or at least coming back when it was cooler. Especially when João got some stuff out and one of the owners insisted in us using his office rather than a common toilet. By the end of the game the place was rocking, tunes were on and animated conversations were bouncing off the walls. We were recommended places to go for lunch that simply had to be tried, and as I splashed a tab to a guy sitting in front of me I was treated to a rare vision of life in Seville. They say the boy was called Woody. I offered an opening gambit of if he enjoyed the city in which we found ourselves.

"Do I like Seville? Well I like the theory but the practice is a bit of a disappointment these days. See, the arse is being ripped out of all these historical European cities. Heartbreaking it is. And for what? So that every place in the world can look the same. Just like back home. You know what? I was in Ely the other year. Cathedral City. Proper fackin' England and what's in the high street? A fackin' Starbucks. Same here. Next to the fackin' cathedral. One of the largest in the world, the cathedral I mean. That's it for me. I always said when they put one of them cunting things in this town that was me off. You gotta downsize your cities these days. Find somewhere smaller, as yet without the architectural rape that is Starbuck's and any other fackin chain. Try it on your PC write Starbuck's with the apostrophe. No red line. Accepted word, they're all in this to-fackin-gether. Use your windows and your iPods while you drink that despicable dishwater. We live in Southern Europe, some of the best coffee in the world at your feet, but still they come here and try and force us to drink their putrid shite. They say it's an experience. That it is, a shite experience. Oh woopie fackin do if they've got chairs. Do they want a fackin' medal? Do they think they invented them? Don't talk to me about chairs. Cunts, the lot of them. First step towards the end. Full of septics doing their fackin homework and talking their annoying gobs off for everyone to hear. I don't eat meat and I don't drink the devil's rape coffee. Principles, init?"

"So, you lot aren't stopping around then?" I ask.

"Well, you get settled, don't ya? I like this place. Fancy a top up?" And with that, he was gone.

We decided that it was best to call things to a halt. We were unsure whether we would be needed tomorrow and it is never advisable to outdo one's stay with new company. Plus, we knew we would be back, to partake in more of this. With out Portuguese Irish host pulling the strings fun was sure to be had, and it made a change from Malaga, Outside, we were reminded that the sun has some nocturnal powers here. The temperature was still in the mid twenties despite the passing of the witching hour. We found a taxi in no time and took a nightcap on the balcony of the flat Fat Charlie has in the town, before making our excuses and heading for bed. As I drifted into quite a pleasant sleep I mused over the fact that this had been the first time in a good long while that we felt like a group again. Maybe the good old days were coming back. Maybe.

BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-THREE

The Tuna Diaries

GRAHAM: After the successful completion of the Seville job we were reasonably pleased with our performance, especially after the rather unsatisfactory termination to recent events that did not require much organisation. At least we felt we could lie back and enjoy the moment for a while, though without allowing the guard to drop. One doesn't expect rewards for the completion of simple tasks, so it was with some surprise when we received a phone call from Fat Charlie, delighted with our work and offering us the use of a chalet of his in a place called Zahara de los Atunes, in the province of Cadiz.

Perhaps to many people, the word chalet will evoke ideas of dreadful family holidays in Butlins, all crammed into a small cell with a very Dachau feel to the decor. In this part of the world though, a chalet is in many ways a mansion, in this case plonked on the side of a mini-mountain with access to a secluded private beach. The place had four bedrooms, its own pool and garden as well as a couple of spacious living areas. We had the use of the place for two weeks as Fat Charlie's guests, in his words, it would do us good to have a break for a bit.

My thankful state didn't last very long. Paranoia attacking as the fingertips let go of the telephone and sending surges of double-crossing philandering straight to my brain. Why would Fat Charlie give us a free luxury holiday? Benny and Zippy's track record has been beyond poor in recent times. The fuck up with the ladies of the night accidentally hired from FC's biggest competitor gave more than a few blushes to the group, but that pales into insignificance when compared to the Bennyvision debacle. Plus, him and Zippy have been caning the white lady in more than just a recreational way. Maybe Fat Charlie's plan was to get them out of Malaga and clean up for a while, yeah, of course, and what better solution than sending to the beach for two weeks in summer. My liver winces at the thought of the drinking that will be involved, the drugs that will inevitably appear, the fights, the rows and the laughs to be had. For some strange reason, I also have the strange feeling that this is the last time we will all be together. Jesus, I have been more or less off the Charlie for a while and my paranoia's the worst ever.

Maybe Fat Charlie is giving Benny and Zippy another chance. Myself and Gore are getting along fine in the organisation due to the fact we are intent on not being wankers. Zippy snorts more than he sells, added to that is the fact that his peers consider him in very low regard, which suggests that his days at this level are numbered. We have all heard stories of people wearing concrete Clarks for less than his crimes. I know I have spoken to Fat Charlie more than once on their behalf, but I am sure that the last time even they knew that there was a reason for the lack of conviction in my voice. I wanted to help my friends but couldn't keep putting my neck on the line for them, by the same token, I wanted to distance myself from their behaviour, to show myself of a higher calibre than those jokers. It was a queer old time for all of us, right enough. I had spoken to Gore about it and he also professed to fearing for their future in the organisation, but insisted that not getting killed himself remained his number one priority. Maybe I'm reading too much into all this. There are other idiots in the organisation, and most are better rewarded than us, it's just that you never get a free lunch. Anyway, Fat Charlie is going to phone me again at eleven, no doubt that call will come with some clear holiday reduction plan.

A reasonable night was had by all last night, but not enough to impede the desire for continued vacational enjoyment upon hearing the news. Of course, Benny took this to mean a new beginning for us all, and I let it go. We had to move quickly, they would need to be showered, breakfasted and ready before the phone call came from Charlie. We were residing in a stylish flat near the area of Nervion, just outside the centre and named in homage to the river that flows through Bilbao, it would seem. Charlie called at ten to and had my slipping and sliding out of the shower, desperate not to make him call twice. The conversation was brief, yet startling. It transpires that Fat Charlie has written a book on the local fauna and flora of his Malagan home. A book which is, by his own admission, rather basic in terms of its construction, as he makes a reference to the way he learnt to write being somewhat inappropriate for today's literary climate, which I failed to comprehend. What he would like me to do is go over the text and make any changes necessary. He said that he trusted me and wouldn't have anyone else in the organisation do the job. I felt flattered but slightly worried as I didn't want to take the red pen to the big man's work and incur his wrath, we all know what happened to C3P0 when he directly translated in Jabba's palace. I asked him what the others were to do, and he said that Gore needed a holiday too, and that Benny and Zippy out of the equation for a while was like a holiday for his brain. He told me to buy a laptop, and said to take ten grand from the Seville job for sundry expenses. He would sort out sending me the text by email. We were to meet his contact Antonio at 6pm so we may need to get our skates on. He also advised us to do a big shop before we got to Zahara as the markets did not dare refer to themselves as super there.

I informed the others of the plan and there was hearty delight all round the camp fire. Looking back, most of our holidays had been forced due to some prison fear, death of a group member, or the suggestion that a villainous sort may wish to terminate our own existence. So, in many ways, it was fitting that this holiday was also unplanned. Everyone seemed very pleased with the ten grand bonus. It was decided that we would buy the necessary clothing across the road as Seville's premier shopping zone was located there, whilst I organised the lap top and other items that would surely slip the minds of my colleagues. Sometimes I liked being mum. I phoned the car hire company and got an earful of Spanish customer service, until I told him I would be requiring a BMW touring vehicle, minimum 520 preferably the 535d M Sport. I knew the chances of the Sport were slim, but his attitude soon changed when he smelt the commission. I asked him if he would mind driving it to our place of residence and he was quick to let me know that this was not standard policy in his company, the mention of his competitor's name soon caused an immediate rethink of this policy, and I was assured the vehicle would be in our possession before half past one. Good work, I applaud myself.

I cross the road, only fearing for my life on two occasions, good old summer traffic, and head towards that bastion of Spanish consumerism, the Corte Inglés, a shop which tends to be always proceeded by the question, Where can you buy? Though the question should be where can you buy ____ at an excessive price? Still maybe the extra pence on every item gives people a sense of assurance, allowing their snobbery to be exhibited with the distinctive carrier bags, flaunting their purchases in the faces of those less fortunate. Sometimes, I should be banned from thinking, I enter and locate the electronics department. I find a nice Sony e book that is to my liking and style and suggest to the south of friendly assistant that it may be time to wrap it up. Nothing fancy, I'm in a hurry. Then my good mood is put in jeopardy. It appears that you can't just go and buy a computer. It could be delivered by Tuesday. That is four days away, and no good to me. I furnish him with the knowledge that it is illegal to display items that cannot be purchased unless such as situation is indicated explicitly. I have just made this law up but it sounds right, probably why it will never be passed. I opt for making a fuss so that the poor guy capitulates and wants to die asap as soon as his boss comes over to check out the said fuss. He offers me the same story as the lad who must be hating his first day as I decide to change tack, I inform him that I wish to have one of these today, by one o'clock and I know that they have them so that if I don't have one by the stipulated time, I shall have him killed. I'm not quite sure where that death threat came from but it somehow came out with such authenticity that the fellow actually bought it. So there I was, with a semi-on, as is the vernacular, and the promise of my computer in time for lunch. I took his name and gave him a hard look as I departed, in need of a coffee and a tab before the shakes came for me.

And that seemed all there was to being hard, conviction, who seems hard? The little bonehead loonies who are five-eight but you know they don't give a flying shit and have full belief in themselves. If you threatened someone you knew you could fight then they will probably acquiesce to your wishes, if you do the same to someone you clearly can't then they think something must be amiss for your judgement to be so fallacious. Then they just want you out of their face. Of course, I'm crap at it, I just understand the theory and have put the shits up a fifty year old ponce. Fuck me, I truly am nails. Time for a coffee. I do some light shopping before getting three lots of toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, deodorant, shower get, flannels and mouthwash for my companions who will not have thought much about the hygienic necessities of our trip.

The car is delivered to the door outside which I leisurely stand, as promised before half past one. It does look an impressive vehicle both from the inside and out, I climb aboard cautiously and flip the beast into action, prepared to enjoy the Teutonic workmanship to the full for the journey from our apartment to the car park near where we have met, possibly less than three hundred metres, as I know that once they see the car there is no way that they will let me behind the wheel again, even in an emergency. I somehow manage to negotiate the tight squeeze and creep down two levels to the easiest parking space I can find, foregoing about ten that appeared too tricky for one that was straight ahead. There were only four cars on level two, this would provide ample opportunity for the taking of the piss as my driving skills are well known, so put me behind the wheel of a forty-grand monster and I am even more useless.

I take the lift up to the third floor and am pleased to see them where they said they would be and drinking coffee. We briefly discuss the purchases that we have made, from which we can see just who is good at this shopping lark. Zippy has managed to buy very little after being put off by a very delightful young sales assistant, he spent a good while following her round and hiding at the same time before she finally asked him if he wanted any help, when he said yes his mind went blank and he bought two t shirts that he didn't like and didn't fit him. After that experience he felt too weak to enter another shop, anyway that would be betrayal. So Zippy, has next to nothing which means he will borrow other people's stuff without permission, soiling it beyond repair so that the original owner has no wish to see the offensive article ever again. Benny has done well, taking into account climate, leisure and possible social engagements, though he has gone slightly over-budget. Gore seems to think that Cadiz has the same climate as Finland, purchasing black jeans other items of Gore-wear. Benny despairs and I laugh, finishing the coffee, I land the keys on the table and am told I have done well. They assume the car is a BMW saloon, so I await the looks on their faces when they see the off-road passion wagon. Benny takes the keys and informs that he will take the wheel, only until Cadiz, interjects Gore, whose knowledge of the local Geography suggests there will be more driving to be done in the province of Cadiz than Seville. Benny has not seen through this and gladly accepts.

As we make our way down to the car lunch is mentioned. Our memories return to the place that was mentioned last night, located just outside Seville. According to the map I now have in my possession but once resided in the flat where we had been staying, it appears to be more or less on the road to Cadiz, well, for the other three's purposes it is. After hearing such good things about the place it would be a shame not to give it a go for the sake of a minor detour. I phoned ahead and asked them to keep a fine table for four. The waiter seemed less than convinced that this was feasible as there tables were all accounted for. I let him be aware of the fact that I had been given the name of their restaurant by a certain well-known character in the area and suddenly there were cancellations left, right and centre. We would be there shortly, he was told and shortly, we were. After arriving the detour was well worth it and then some more. We were shown to a table close enough to the kitchens to ensure swift service but far away enough to avoid having our eyelids become like grease filters.

The waiter appears with a large menu that we are not hugely interested in seeing. Benny tells him he has no time for menus and wholly trusts the judgement of the staff, and they should be so kind as to begin bringing items that they consider representative of the establishment. Benny delighted in drinking only mineral water as he considered alcohol disrespectful to the motor. It appears to me to be very curious how people like to drive, actually like it, I can't get my head round it. I hate it, it means you can't listen to the music or the banter and you can't drink, because every ounce of concentration is required to maintain the four wheels on the curves. Gore has a beer because he shan't be required to take the wheel for a good while yet. I delight in accepting the red offered by the waiter, and when this is accompanied by the cheese and ham that they regard to be worthy of our standards, it would be considered rude if we weren't to have a case of the vino, and the nibbles boxed up for our trip to Cadiz. Lunch is an entirely pleasurable experience, namedropping our associate didn't seem to have too much effect on the bill, as another three-ton disappeared from the ten g total which was already beginning to suffer.

We got the stuff into the car and were making our way out of the car-park, when we saw one of the waiters racing towards us brandishing a knife. For one brief moment I thought that there had been some problem with the credit card and the staff fancied chancing their arm with the blade, when they informed us that it would be probable that our temporary dwelling did not boast the correct equipment for cutting ham, and as such distinguished customers they we would be honoured if we would accept a token of their gratitude. Nice work, we threw the blade and the wooden thing for holding the ham upright, perhaps our fine language has a word for this item, but it does not hold a place in any of the lexical sets in my mind. It would be nice to find out that these things like these had a name like scrotchtriffler or something other than ham-holder, but that must be the wine invading the text.

The comfort levels in the back seat are of an excellent standard, and I get ready for a rather pleasant siesta so that I will be in top form for our arrival. Unfortunately, Benny does not see the route as simply as I do. We are on the express road from Seville to Cadiz, I have told him at that at kilometre one hundred and two we turn off towards El Puerto de Santa Maria and then follow the road to Algeciras. It is not the stuff of NASA. He complains that how is he going to know where this point in the road is. In his words it is a ludicrous idea that anyone should have to approximate the distance of their turn-offs. As we pass a kilometre marker I explain to him how the system works and he gives it his approval, the Ministry of Transport can sleep soundly tonight, and begins to extol the virtues of the system, like he invented it. I share with him the knowledge that probably every European country uses this system except our own beloved island, and Benny makes plans to introduce the idea on his return. This means that I can get some rest as the initial fear has left. After about three k we are awoken by the latest magnificent idea that Benny has had. He is going to slow down at ninety-eight so we don't miss the turn off. Delighted, we tell him, and make another attempt. No joy. Zippy knocks up a big one and the smoke soon has us in the land of dream as Benny zooms down the motorway.

I awake with Benny having already negotiated the turn off and making haste towards Algeciras. We will have to find a supermarket soon, I lost the battle of going near Cadiz or Seville, still it makes more sense to go round here as we will more than likely purchase chilled products. Just before we reach this bastion of consumer joy, I have the marvellous idea of excelling my travel writing experience by compiling our adventures in diary form. I have still yet to pass the knowledge of my new career to my less than learned colleagues for fear that there may be some form verbal beratement for my failure to live in the real world. It'll make it more fun anyway, keeping the diary and Fat Charlie's text secret from them, so here goes.

Friday 17th July 2003

After turning off correctly and heading towards Algeciras, Benny soon found the road to Zahara and the hypermarket. We realised that our meeting with Antonio, the landlord, was looking increasingly difficult to be held on tine, so I belled the man and he said that the original meeting time was at best optimistic within the framework of his own agenda. He would meet us in the Cafeteria of Hotel Doña Maria, just over the bridge and the first thing you see when entering the village from that side. We couldn't go wrong, he didn't want us to try and find the chalet because we simply wouldn't, possibly ever.

The hypermarket attracted the nerdiness in myself and Gore. We have always been great fans of supermarkets for some reason, and whenever foreign soil has permitted, we have been quick to compare with the ones we know from home. Benny has no wish to enter a supermarket, I remind him that it is hyper, but he cares not, and says he will have a snooze and mind the car. Gore does not bother him with the information that Benny's turn is over at the wheel and lets him rest as we, perhaps over-excitedly, collect two trolleys.

It is clear that the ten-grand will do well to last the weekend. Well, maybe a bit longer. Fat Charlie advised a big shop up before we arrived as the village did not contain a decent supermarket. We would have staff on hand in the chalet to attend to our immediate needs as well as keeping the place both spick and span. I'm glad I didn't mention this word for word as the comedy opportunities would just be too overwhelming for my oh! so witty colleagues. It would be ever so simple for me to go into great detail about the building, its layout and the offers for the shopper, though I fear I would lose you before we even arrive. I will stick strictly to the details and highlight the shopping's major points.

2 CASES OF MARQUES DE CACERES RESERVE RIOJA 156€

2 CASES OF ANTONIO BARBADILLO WHITE WINE 42€

1 SANCHEZ ROMATE BRANDY 20€

2 BOTTLES OF BOMBAY SAPPHIRE 32€

2 BOTTLES OF CAPTAIN MORGAN SPECIAL RESERVE 24€

2 BOTTLES ABSOLUT (MANDARIN AND CITRON) 25€

2 BOTTLES OF JAMESON IRISH WHISKEY 23€

A CASE EACH OF QUILMES, URQUELL, SOL AND

GUINNESS IN BOTTLES 87€

POP, JUICE AND SHITE 15€

1 PLAYSTATION 2 240€

3 GAMES (FIFA, GOLF, FORMULA 1) 165€

1 DVD PLAYER (IN CASE) 69€

3 FILMS (STAR WARS TRILOGY, ALFIE, LIFE OF BRIAN) 75€

BORING DAY TO DAY THINGS

MILK, BUTTER, BREAD, BITS AND BOBS IN TINS 36€

SHORTS FOR GORE (2 PAIRS) 40€

PORTABLE BLUETOOTH USB MEMORY (1MB) 56€

HARD TO CATEGORISE BITS AND BOBS 84€

A FAIR STACK OF TOP NOTCH STEAKS ETC 32€

RECOMMENDATIONS FROM THE FISH COUNTER 61€

SWEETS, CHOCKIES, BICKIES AND THE LIKE 58€

Total 1,340€

Clearly the shop of my adult life. We paid in cash as well, whilst looking completely un-phased by the transaction. The girl behind the counter gave us a simply nod to say "Good shopping, boys". As we struggled to bag everything. This was noted by the staff who sent some young charges to do this work for us. As we prepare to leave Gore announces he has forgotten something and returns to buy one packet of chewing gum. The lads take the trolleys to the car, where Benny awakes and immediately enquires to the cost of these items. He is under the impression that they will be of no use to us, I try to explain that we shall be in the chalet for two weeks and it is unlikely that this will suffice. Whoever wants the Play or the DVD afterwards can simply pay the others, same as for the games and films. The beer won't last the first week. He can't see it. Waste of money he says. He doesn't see the foolishness of eating out or drinking in a bar and claims buying in is folly. He can be something of a prick, when he speaks.

In less than half an hour we enter Zahara de los Atunes and saw the place where we were to meet Antonio. Benny had complained about the quality, or lack of it, as he saw it, in Gore's driving, despite Benny's stretch being ostensibly a straight road. Gore takes these things on the chin, up to a point, then he'll chin you. Benny knows when this point is close. We exited the vehicle and received a hearty well-done from all those in view. Benny managed to take this as a personal compliment as he closed the door. He was going to have to seriously chill-out at some point. What with his TV show and the drugs taking him further away from the real world, it was only going to be a matter of time before the next time I spoke to Fat Charlie, my words would fall on deaf ears

Antonio seemed like a nice fellow, his English was good and he had roped in his two sons to help us unload. He also had a couple of litre bottles of beer that were of an optimum temperature for immediate consumption so that we could sit by the pool whilst his lads did their backs in. Antonio was particularly impressed by the ham and told the boys to start slicing, woe be tide any thick slices being served, he wanted it cut the way he had taught them and they obey., The beer was a pleasure by the pool, but the lads knew well enough that it was wine with ham, so out came some wine glasses and olives as the bottle breathed indoors. The poor kids had a look of trepidation that soon turned to relief as the ham passed the test and was eagerly consumed. Antonio told us that he had a restaurant in the town and would be delighted if we would be the guests of him and his wife this evening. That fitted in nicely with our plans. The four rooms were almost exactly the same so we managed to avoid a room discussion. We were all in our trunks in no time as Antonio pottered around doing things involved with the water and gas supply. After the dip all the beer was cold so we allowed etiquette time to arrange its sleeping quarters and mixed and matched as we saw fit.

Antonio gave us the address of his restaurant and said that he would be in about ten. With the time just past eight, Gore did something with the music and the rest of us showered and prepared for the evening. As is often the case, myself and Zippy were first to be ready, Gore not paying much attention to his sartorial elegance, rather he was engrossed in the music and pleased how well his compilation cds complemented the wine. I sat on the veranda and breathed in the view for the first time. Holding the wine glass to my lips, me eyes followed the coast road down to the village, which twenty years ago boasted only the simplest of fisherman's dwellings and now had its cliff side lined with some of the most exclusive property in the area. The place had undergone a revolution, that was clear, but it had done so whilst managing to avoid the tacky trappings that had been the case closer to our new home. This was clearly select, so whether the neighbours would be pleased about our sojourn was yet to be seen, Zippy had Jimmy Cliff on loud as a sort of statement of intent. Benny came out with another bottle of wine looking like he had just spent hours in a salon, the twat! He filled up my glass and said he would try be nice. I raised my glass to that and wondered how long he would remember, obviously nice would not count if he had a hangover or was getting one, so only the times in-between would appear to qualify.

We finished the wine and declared ourselves ready for the stomp into the village. It was about twenty minutes according to Antonio, downhill going so we could expect a wider timeframe on the way back, should taxis not be an option. Half-way down the hill was a bar, not the place you would chose for your holidays but it broke up the walk. As we walked in it was obvious that the locals had just seen a news report about a Martian invasion and thought we were the culprits. Inanely they stared at us for the entire duration of our beer. As we left, Gore stood by a wall and began to scream before leaving with the words "Allah es grande". That gave them something to think about. Maybe we could hire a chauffeur.

It was never twenty minutes into town, more like double that and even the presence of similar bars to the delightful establishment at the bottom of the hill didn't make it any less painful. When we got to the first place that looked reasonable and explained our plight they laughed and said we should have brought the car, when we said we planned to drink they laughed even louder. It would appear the law is somewhat lax in these parts. It was half nine before our thirst was quenched from the walk. We found a nice place with a view of the beach and ordered refreshing red wine and Fanta drinks that went down like pure pop. Benny muttered something about the sea air, I bit my tongue and let it slip that oceans could not give off sea air, if he was going to make an effort, then so would I. So, we sat and drank and nibbled on the terrace, waiting for half ten to come along and present ourselves across the road in Antonio's restaurant.

The day caught up with us as we sat down in Antonio's place. The decoration was similar to the majority of restaurants we had been in. Tasteful, yet so common you almost forgot to look at it, and clearly forgot to remember. Still, Antonio and his lovely, over-made up wife made us feel more than comfortable as they brought us some delectable "entremeses" (coldcuts) and invited us to wash it down with some fine wine. Then they brought out fish and meat courses which left the stomach arguing with the chosen belt hole. Liquors were brought after the plates were cleared away, with Antonio asking if we should care for a coffee as a pick me up. Zippy laughed that that wouldn't be necessary and began rooting in his pocket. A root that would turn out to be fruitless, as the boy had only left it in the house, or, even worse, mislaid it. He remembered changing into his summer wardrobe, further investigation concluded that he didn't have any money, forms of identification nor anything other than a lighter in his pockets. That put him in a bad mood, no-one wanted to go up the hill again just to come back down, so it was decided that we would enjoy a couple of long drinks and then head back. Anyone who wanted a line and a nightcap, thought not normally what happens after a wee sherbet, could do so in the lap of luxury bequeathed on us.

To show ourselves players of the game we offer Antonio and his wife a drink, though not in their own place somewhere where they could relax and enjoy the liquid, but they declined as they had things to do, which roughly translated as her telling him that he was not playing out with these potential cads and leaving her with the dishes. We tried, amidst the embarrassment of continuous rebuffs to pay the bill, but Antonio would hear none of it. He insisted we let Fat Charlie know if we had enjoyed the food, and that information may be better than any bill he could ever present us with. We left a fifty sheet for the staff as a mark of respect and said that we would have to invite them for a meal one day, not taking no for an answer whilst everyone knew it would never happen.

Antonio had a cousin who drove a taxi, but made it clear that these things didn't happen instantly, he made the call and we crossed the road to a lively place that we would have enjoyed more without the encumbrance of Zippy's frail memory, still we took a table by the doorway, ordered long drinks and enjoyed them whilst waiting for Antonio's cousin. When he arrived we were glad of it, the walk up the hill did not seem inviting, certainly not as much as the driver's uncle's restaurant. He drove us up the hill for 10€ and we were well pleased with that. We asked him if he would like to be our driver of choice and he said he would consider it, when we told him what vehicle he would be behind the wheel of he professed there were few problems. We offered him 200€ a week to drive us round at the drop of a hat, within reason, whilst he could continue his taxiing whenever we were firmly ensconced in a place where transport would be the least of our worries.

When we got home a drink was poured and the coke looked at but only half a heart could be mustered, so back it went for a more felicitous moment. What strength of character had been shown as we disinterestedly sipped our drinks before making our excuses.

Saturday 18th July 200

I was first up. Despite the rather tame ending to our first night here, people are still opting for a lie in. I want to seem keen and check the Internet connection but nothing is happening. It is then when I hear a noise in the kitchen that causes a feeling of surprise and fear within me, Cautiously, I make my way to across the room and find in the kitchen a rather slender, early - twenties girl in an outfit that would suggest she has a rightful place in this residence. I slip her a "Hola!" and wait for a response. She asks me what time I think it is. I tell her that I can do better than just thinking what time it is and tell her I know it is ten to twelve. It would appear that she does not care for this example of effortless, off the cuff humour, and enquires as to why we were not present for breakfast, which, by the way, took her more than an hour to prepare, and, even more by the way, is that any way to leave the living room? She certainly had character, maybe she could do with renting some out. I told her that we were staying here and assumed that if she was contracted to maintain the place "magazine-like" then that was her role. She mumbled something that I doubt even she understood and resumed her tasks. I told her not to worry about breakfast and said I would make myself a coffee.

I was sure that she wouldn't let me make my own coffee for too long, and pretended to have no idea how the machine that was exactly the same as the one I had could possibly be used to bring forth hot coffee. After seeing my fumbling, she tutted and, came to my aid. I was quite taken with her, and enjoyed the fact that she seemed to resent everything that had happened to her since we met. I probed and got monosyllabic responses. She was from Argentina, I asked her where and she asked me if I knew it, I said no, so she said why tell me then? It wouldn't mean anything after all. I asked her her name, that, after deliberation was Filemina. I said it was a beautiful name. A total lie. Deciding to have her detest me before lunch, I ask her what she likes doing in her free time. She says nothing, so I say that she must like walking on the beach with her boyfriend. She gives me a look of disgust and says she has no time for a boyfriend. I ask her if she would honour me as a dinner guest one evening and she says that sleeping with the staff is not included in the rent contract. I look aghast and take out my phone. She asks who I am phoning and I tell her Antonio as he promised me that was a condition of taking the place. She tells me I am not as funny as I consider myself to be, but smiles. A matter of time, no doubt.

Peace is shattered by Zippy and Benny heading for the pool. They do not bother with introductions, only enquiring if there is fresh coffee or not. She lets them know, or rather fails to, these two have little or no Spanish and will instinctively turn off when it looks like someone is having a go, that if they think a similar debacle will be acceptable around the lunch table, then they should think again. Numbers should be given in advance for place settings and failure to attend will be treated with, at best, disgust. I asked them about plans for lunch and there were none on the flimsy agenda in their hands. I tell her best not to bother, and she asks me what she should eat then, as she generally lunches the same as the guests. I suggest she makes enough for two helpings and off she goes, muttering again, this time, no smile.

I have a look at the computer and there is no chance of forming part of the world's largest community. I ask her is she could be so kind as to phone the telephone company in a bid to ascertain the nature of the problem. She does not consider this to be part of her job. I ask her if I couldn't speak Spanish what would she do about the problem, and she replied that if I couldn't speak Spanish then she wouldn't know the problem existed. I found the number, dialled, waited for the vast majority of my holiday and was then told that everything would be in the finest of order by that very afternoon. I made sure I took the name and number of the operator, so that when this promise was seen to be lacking, I would be able to have her sent to some Turkish jail where she would duly rot.

I don't fancy the beach with the lads, nor do I fancy more verbal acidity from my soon to be wife, so I'm about to take a book and get a stomp on when she announces that she has business in the town and heads off on her scooter. I fight off the urge to begin sentences with I wish I was that.... , and take up my spec at the pool. Covering myself in sun-tan lotion, a product that rarely lives up to its name, on very few occasions has it proven itself to be a lotion that gives me a tan, more so a liquid that induces blotching and unattractiveness in contact with our solar system's top star. The heat is intense and frequent dips are needed. By the side of the pool there is a fridge with cold drinks and some very inviting crisp white wine from the local area. Being strong of nature, I open a bottle of water and continue with my book, a rather throw-away thing called "Secrets" of very little worth, until the exertions of my hectic morning cause sleep to take me away for twenty minutes. I awake in wonderment of where I could possibly be until my brain retraces the steps and I realise I am allowed to be here. With a sweaty head causing an unpleasant feeling, I step into the shower by the pool, receiving third degree burns as the water in the pipes has been slowly heated during the morning. That activates the areas that were burnt by the sun and I scream with the pain. All this is a small price to pay when the cool waters of the pool caress my body and remind me that this is the life I have loved the most.

Not bothering to towel off, I head to the fridge and open the white, pouring myself a healthy glass I realise that some form of nibble would give me even more pleasure. Inside I find some anchovies from the Cantabrian coast and decide that would make an excellent companion, and, pleased with myself, I take my good work back out to the pool. I treat myself to the first Marlboro Light of the day and hear a voice in the background which I would swear was saying Hello in my mother tongue. It would be fair to assume that the Hello! was directed at me, so I threw one back. A head popped over the fence from the neighbours' house and followed up the Hello! with a customary How Are You? Which was also returned. Soon tiring of this fence communication I asked him if he should care to join me for a glass of something.

My new friend was a well-groomed fellow of about forty Spanish summers with a nice Bob Monkhouse style shine to his skin. He gives me a glimpse of his pearlies that almost had me reaching for the Ray Bans. I poured him a glass of white and he congratulated me on my choice. It was too pointless to tell him it had been nothing. He was my neighbour, Carlos, he worked in television and he and his wife were having an informal get together that would be nothing short of incomplete without our presence. Before he had the chance to discover what he had let himself in for, I accepted the invitation in the name of our party and looked forward to the tenth hour after the noon when the party would commence. I bade him farewell and poured myself a top up, pleased with the consistency of my good work.

Filemena returned and made lunch. She made it for the two of us and I tried to annoy her as much as possible while she worked. As no-one could hear or understand us, I decided to be rather bold, and asked her if she would prefer Tuesday or Wednesday for our dinner date, she was not an easy nut to crack and swiftly let me know that no such occurrence was on the horizon. She laid a place for me at the dining table, I tried to take mine with her in the kitchen but it was not to be. I finished the bottle on my own and went upstairs for a siesta.

Hoping the rest were not in too bad a state when they returned from the beach. Though feared that their limited dictionary would now feature the word "Chiringüito" . I pottered round on my own in the house, waiting for them to return whilst I watched South American soap operas in which an astonished bride is saved from the ignominy of marrying her brother as a long disappeared priest calls the wedding a sham at the vital moment. To my utter relief, I hear the patter of well-known clumsy feet that meant the return of our friends.

They had behaved themselves reasonably well during the day and looked capable of behaving themselves in the way that they were famed for. I was quite looking forward to seeing them in action, things had got a little left by the wayside recently so a good do would benefit us all. It would be fun to see how they handle, and of course Carlos being from the telly, shit! It hadn't crossed my mind, oh my God, Benny, and the telly link. He will be so unbearable. I will just have to get close enough to listen till I get bored and then make new friends. Hopefully they will only speak Spanish and his piffle will go unnoticed. It is nearly six now so the idea of a siesta had passed and it would be clearly be necessary for us to dig deep in our reserves of strength and call on our past experience to get us through the day. Either that, or Zippy could get the ching out.

With more than enough time to get ready, we lazed around by the pool. Once again Gore kept the music going and the drinks came steadily. We didn't want to be anything more than warmed up by the time ten came along, knowing full well that the starting time and when things got swinging were not likely to be close friends. Nonetheless, the afternoon flew by and it was soon half past eight and no-one had entertained the idea of the wardrobe. Gradually we got ready, proud of the fact that we had managed to avoid drugs at this stage. We didn't want to appear to chinged up and so decided that we would have a line before the party, then leave the stuff here and wait until the vibe was checked out. It did seem unusual given the fact that people used car roofs as if they were private cubicles and yet we were worried about taking stuff to a TV party, but I suppose it's just the Fat Charlie and neighbours' thing, we assume his reputation round here is built on the same foundations, though feel some distance should be kept.

Anyway, by ten we are all ready and the rolled up fifty had been passed round. Benny poured some G&T's, despite the fact that had anyone in the group been asked, none would have chosen that particular one, and we retired to the pool again, feeling new and ready to enlighten the world with our magnificence. By half past we heard cars arriving and agreed it was time to grace the party with our presence. Putting the finishing touches to attire and general glamour, we slid over there.

There were already a few people in there. Carlos and the Missus, still no name, updates to follow, had done out the place in a more modern style than Fat Charlie, still maybe they actually participated in the decoration of the place. Somehow I can't see Fat Charlie traipsing round furniture shops discussing curtain colours. The place did have the look of the perfect scenery for the lads from Clockwork Orange to run amok with sticks, all odd-shaped chairs and triangular mirrors. Everyone was very nice though looked rather sedated. Various introductions were made, but they were those uncomfortable ones when you are left with a person, only given the information of their name and some other innocuous link that may be the seed of a conversation. As they don't know much about us (though probably do about Charlie) they limit the introductions to simply that we are staying next door. The great problem with meeting people who are involved in what could be described as real work means that you don't have much to say about yourself. It is given that if you say that you work in imports and exports for a British company out of Malaga that you are really admitting to every unsolved crime in the local area. Still, after a few uncomfortable seconds some common ground is found. I am in the midst of a conversation with a couple of TV producers and two girls who appear to find every word they say to be enormously fascinating whilst failing to assimilate even the simplest of my utterances. The lads are trying to bring me in to the zone but I say I have to ask Carlos something. The girls are deeply gutted as I depart. I begin to chat with Carlos, noticing that in my nervousness, largely induced by lack of attention, I am drinking rather quickly, and, as I have nothing else to think about but how pissed I am getting, I am getting pissed. This means I am on the defensive and paranoid about anything I say. Carlos wants to introduce me to everyone but again I wriggle free and return to our house, as far as I can see, unseen by my companions.

I pour myself a pint of sparkling water and head towards the table for refreshment. In the living room I am greeted by the smiles of Zippy and Gore, who were also finding the going a bit tough. They assure me they were just waiting for things to heat up before returning. Zippy has cut two huge lines which soon become three large ones as I sit and feel relaxed again, a feeling that won't last. It transpires that Benny is holding court and imparting his knowledge of broadcasting to people who have worked in the industry all their lives. He actually said that he didn't need any drugs as he was with other artists and that was enough for him. Just when you think he can't say anything dafter, he goes and surprises you like that. After about forty minutes of relative calm and the best part of a gram, we feel confident enough to return and do work of the standards expected of us.

In the time that we had been away the place had really got into swing, in fact swing was definitely a word that came to mind. While we had been up the road making our reproductive organs smaller, the ones who had stayed behind were busy enlarging theirs. The three of us looked at each other and, stepping over bare flesh, we made our way to the drinks table. I got myself a beer and forced a vol-au-vant down before being told of the no clothes policy by the lady married to Carlos, still no introduction but now I wouldn't need to remember her face. On one sofa were three girls and a feller, Zippy asked if there was room for a little one, and I spat my beer out over a copulating pair who had landed at my feet. I apologised and she said that I would have to lick it off for her to accept my apology. Not wishing to seem a prude, I got down on the floor and began to lick from her back, whilst doing this her man tried to wriggle his hand down the back of my pants. Prude or not, that was time for the yellow card, and I rose to my feet and looked for a more liberal section of the room.

It wasn't an easy task but I eventually found people who were dressed and enjoying a smoke in the conservatory and complaining about the endemic promiscuity in Carlos' parties. I introduce myself and get a dirty look. I'm tempted to chance my arm again with the ring searcher when I'm at least asked my name. I throw out a few off the cuff lines but get only a pained smile in return. I offer some questions of my own but they are not put anywhere near the top of the soon to be answered questions list, so, after four minutes, which seem much longer, of hanging round like an unwanted sexually transmitted disease at an orgy, I leave and am once again in the main parlour, confronted by Gore's arse sweating and pumping in my line of vision. I decide to head back to the chalet and see if I can't get Luton to the FA Cup final on the Playstation. In the distance, I could hear the testimony to hedonism as we lost to Brighton and Hove Albion in the third round and we're left to lament another trophiless season.

Sunday 19th July 2003

The problem with Sunday is that there is a lot of it to fill. My good friends appear to be still knee-deep in human flesh across the way. I can't believe I binned an orgy for a last minute victory in extra-time against Brentford, but it was a little too in your face for my tastes. I'll enjoy the anecdotes when they arrive but will always believe I made the right decision.

The problem is now. I feel absolutely fine after nearly ten hours sleep. I have nobody to play with and there is a lot of today still left to try to enjoy. I, ever hopeful of minor miracles, try the Internet connection and to my great surprise am presented with an error message. Thinking that time could be utilised in some purposeful way, I get in the car and head for the town, convinced there will be a cyber cafe that will allow me to print off at least the first ten pages so that I could make a start. Although it wasn't my fault, I felt bad about not having cracked on with Fat Charlie's text, and I had to admit to a certain amount of interest in seeing what the work was like. In Zahara itself the bustle of restaurants and bars was evident, people were leaving the beach and preparing for their drawn-out lunches and afternoon naps before returning to the beach in the afternoon, almost fearful that something may have changed during their absence. Should I care for any type of fish known to the National Geographic Channel I was in the right place, but the capacity to print black and white Times New Roman was something beyond the collective power of the municipality. I pondered the idea of driving over to Barbate when I saw what could be, in many ways, described as an Internet Shop. It gave the impression of being open for business, though this was my error, work was being done and the place would be closed until tomorrow. I asked them nicely if they could do me a favour for which I would pay over the odds, but they looked at me as if I had just asked which one wanted to be violently raped first. Assuming my request would not be granted, I bade them good afternoon in the tongue of Shakespeare suggesting at the nearest possible juncture, they go fuck themselves with a sharp implement.

I could not be bothered with the trek into Barbate despite enjoying the vehicle. I felt like I had robbed it and as if everyone who drove past me held their hands to their eyes as if they were about to witness calamity on the scale of Norman Wisdom with a plank of wood near a swimming pool. I decided to treat myself to lunch. I found the most expensive place in town and allowed them to serve me I ordered a bottle of wine to accompany an over-priced and under-excellent meal, though felt guilty about drinking it as I would have to get the beast up the hill. Thoroughly not enjoying myself, I returned to our dwelling and found no more life than when I left it. Feeling at my lowest ebb for literally days, I could think of nothing better to do than drink myself into oblivion, play the songs I liked without fear of recrimination and cry until tomorrow brought itself upon me with hope for the future screaming at my in the morning sun.

Monday 20th July 2003

I know I drank most of a bottle of Jameson and had a couple of Zippy's emergency vallium when the booze actually started to make me feel alive and wanton of company. That wasn't the plan. I can't have lasted much more beyond the early evening. Despite getting up during the night with a furry gob, most systems seem to be in working order. I am downstairs for ten and see Filemina for the first time in too long and ask if there is an outside possibility of breakfast. One would expect so, and one is never truly prepared for disappointment at that level. I attack the orange juice and make some toast. I know she drinks about twelve coffees a day, though I know not for what she requires so much caffeine when most of her tasks go undone.

Once again there is no Internet. I ask her to please phone the telephone company and she shrugs. I tell her that this is not a request and she eventually acquiesces. It does look like she is actually being quite pleasant to me when I hear her in action with the guys from the telephone company. It is more than inferred that they are a disgrace and the levels of shame should be some of the highest in the region. Either way they will be round within the next two hours. I somehow believe they will, but refuse to sit around waiting only to experience more disappointment.

Before the others can tell me I can't I take the car and drive over to the Internet shop. Sunday has become Monday for the workmen and there is still no service of note. I decide to bite the bullet and make the trip to Barbate to purchase the printer. Little more than ten metres inside the town I find an Internet shop which is open. I enter and am amazed to see that there are a full array of services on offer, beyond that, I explain my requirements to the delightfully helpful assistant and she offers to print off the first ten pages for me as if it were her job. Ecstatic at this development, I make use of their coffee facilities whilst idly glancing the press. In the time it took me to burn my mouth on the coffee my work was ready. For the sum of three European pounds I was now able to start work.

Believing that positive energy should be fed upon, I head straight for an out of town place and pick up the printer. I opt for a model around one hundred pounds as I shall only need b&w. The shopping experience is made stranger by the presence of a young girl behind the counter who is giving me a look which is almost saying, if you ask me to marry you now, I will say yes. It is tempting but there are so many logistic problems that the amalgamation is called off. Pity, though on the bright-side I do have a lovely new printer. I hold it close to me but it is somehow not the same. Undeterred, I make for the car and am intent on a swift return to Zahara when I see some young lads fishing.

Not that I am the sort of person who changes their plans because they see young lads fishing, rather that the scene seemed so idyllic that it captivated me for a moment. So, I parked the car and wandered on to the beach with my printouts and my printer. There I sit, lazily glancing over the text in such a way that had I not known the subject matter I would not have been able to tell you what it was about, when suddenly the tranquil scene got the better of me and my eyes closed. I don't think much time had passed when I awoke, dribbling into the sand and minus the printer. They thought better of the first ten pages of Fat Charlie's masterpiece, and, thankfully, thought it too risky to try to take the car keys from my pocket. I'm surprised I didn't leave them in a nice stone with a few tips on handling in their native tongue. Unfettered, I return to the shop, see my lover again and purchase the exact same printer from her. Now she thinks I am some type of weird stalker and this time the look is less warming. I can't be bothered explaining what has happened so allow her to think like this. I may even return in the next couple of days to buy another.

Heading straight back to the chalet I find little evidence of my colleagues who appear to have taken their pain to the beach. I brew up and start to have a proper look at page one I am now completely sure that optimism has entered my timeframe in the amount I hope to get through per day. It didn't flow or make any sense; indeed, one gets the impression that the whole thing is put together via a series of copy and paste actions that are interspersed with snippets of text that lay claim to a spiritual link between the plants and a celestial being. It didn't make any sense nor was it clear what the point was at any time, on the rare occasions that any conclusions were reached were immediately rebuffed within a page. After reading five pages I was in need of Nuerofen. I hadn't actually done any physical work and had no idea on how to turn this meaningless piffle into a well-constructed argument to detail the flora and fauna of the province of Malaga. The only way seemed to bin Charlie's effort and start again, that boulevard appeared to offer the chance of certain death and was immediately discarded. My plan, was then, to offer changes whilst maintaining the essence of the essence-less text.

The news that we were online spread rapidly round the edifice. Suddenly, Benny simply had to send an email. Followed by Zippy and Gore, the latter wanting to do a transfer on his fantasy football team. I offered them my mobile to phone to phone Fat Charlie and ask if it was ok for me to stop my work. Within seconds they were moaning about there being no need for that kind of attitude. Despite not doing much, I had read a good section of the first part and believed I was capable of getting something out of it. I was sure that the others would soon bore of the homestead and hear the call of the beach. How incorrect was I? Filemina is in fine fettle and has offered to prepare a paella for all and sundry, and has them in the kitchen chopping and cutting things. When the noise level from the kitchen finally permits me to think, they take up residence by the pool, discovering the enormously hilarious game of standing by the window, knocking and ducking quickly whilst I investigate the strange noise. This causes hitherto unseen levels of mirth in the minds of my friends, clearly comic genii and I fail to appreciate it.

After thirty minutes of this I suggest that their time might be better spent fucking off and dying. A grave mistake as now their hilarity knows no bounds. Bits of shell fish appear mysteriously in the air and the laughter is, deservedly, deafening. After seven pages, I decide to give up, hoping they will be deported or something in the late afternoon sun, which will help me continue. I take my miserable arse to the pool area and pour myself a glass of sparkling water and smile as Benny explains, in bad enough Spanish to make it hard to understand, yet in such a way that maximum pain is derived, that I drank a bottle of whiskey and took valium yesterday due to the unrequited nature of our love. Our love refers to mine and Filemina's. I make a comment that maybe I did it because I loved him, but only she got it, and I can't say it made things any better between us. After that I was berated for drinking water. Then I noticed Benny heading towards indoors. He assumed that I was taking a break and that the computer was his. I knew he didn't care about his email, he wanted to sneak a look at what I was doing, as it was eating him alive not knowing. All the documents I had been working on were password protected that only the System Administrator could over-ride. I knew he would have a pop at trying to crack the code, so simply chose Benny as the password, abusing his own arrogance to the extent that he would never consider his own name, well it sort of makes sense to me.

After ten minutes Benny comes back and pours himself a drink. I enquire as to whether his experience with the computer has been a successful and profitable one and he gives me a look then suggests I go bum Fat Charlie. A couple of minutes later Filemina is accompanied by Gore and Zippy, who are helping her carry an enormous paella dish as if they all belong to one immense happy family. I appear to be choice number four in the house as a potential dinner guest for her, so, taking more water I sit at the table before they can tell me I'm not invited. She makes a large issue of the help she has had to make this dish, which in turn means that I did sod all. When will they get their heads round the fact that I am here to work, not play. The peace is shattered by the news that Dave and John will be here tomorrow and are taking the other three to Algeciras on a little job for a couple of days. That should buy me some time. Benny moans and reminds us that he has to be in Malaga for his TV show on Saturday. The thought of Benny leaving us for a few days certainly helps me fall back into holiday mode. With this news, I decide to take the afternoon off and catch up on my tan.

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and this very good, typical dish from the shores of Valencia is given good treatment by the Argentinean hands in the kitchen. It is suggested that I muck in with the washing up, I laugh this offer off and tell her the day she helps me with my work I will help her with hers. The tacit nature of this comment has me pegged as rather a bad lad indeed, but I care not, she will have to spend two days alone with me, maybe I'll be nice then.

We continue the party after dinner and invite Filemina to take a drink as our guest. Thankfully, she declines and retires to her chores. It is not long before we bore of the pool and head down to the beach. Phoning young Jimstreburry, his new moniker, we ask him if he can bring some beer and an ice-box to the beach for fifty bills. He tells us that there is an ice-box in the house and he will see us in thirty if that is acceptable to our diaries. My word it is, I respond, leaving my potential love elbow-deep in suds.

The beach is fun. We play drinking-keep-up tennis and receive some funny looks from respectable people ten years younger than us. The idea of the game is that if you miss a shot you have to drink. Zippy and Gore find that the beer warms very quickly and theatrically fail to make contact with the ball, whilst Benny and I believe, very wrongly, that Connors / McEnroe is on the centre court. Jimstersonington, as he is now known, has not pulled a muscle with the ale and we are soon dry. Heading to the chiringüito, we dump the ice-box and order ice colds whilst appreciating the view. Zippy informs us that he has something to show us. He has sown a little compartment into his trunks which keeps his drugs dry whilst he swims. This is marvellous, we announce, though feel compelled to tell him that I, and Gore are in possession of a bag. He does not care for this information, claiming that these drugs are only for those who consider his work to be of a good nature. With this new state of affairs, we applaud his intelligence and prepare to cross another loo off the world toilet list in which I have pissed in on my third visit.

We are soon in fine fettle and holding court for the enticed listeners of the bar who are bombarding us with questions about our homeland and other topics of differing levels of pertinence. We get a round in and will take nothing back in return. We learn a new word which may be the pinnacle of linguistic pointlessness, "Espetero" the bloke in charge of putting sardines on a stick, it has a verb too, "Espetar" sometimes there are so many words it is hard to know what to do with them. Despite looking unkempt, we decide that the town is worthy of our continually improving persiflage. I am convinced this drug is like snorting a Thesaurus.

In town, we find a bar that is neither inside not outside. So, we sit in the area we believe to be not inside. It is a rather delightful place as time appears to have found its way to nearly nine o'clock. There are not too many people in the place, though once the after-dinner crowd come in it will be party time. I am quite enjoying myself until the harmony is shattered by a linguistic offering from another table. It went something like this.

"Hey! Where you guys from?"

"Luton."

"I ain't heard of that place. Where is it?"

"Bedfordshire. County Town.

"Oh! My God! You're British!"

"Indeed. You must be in town for the Cartography conference."

"Eh?"

"Never mind. We assume you are from the United States of America." They reel off some place names that mean nothing to me, nor are retained. We bid them a pleasant evening. Hoping that to be the end of it, Zippy goes to the lavs and I return to my drink. Hope springs eternal.

"So, do you guys, like, stay here?"

"We are summering in the vicinity."

"We're do you recommend we go at night?" The options are but too many. I wish to appear as rude as possible but not in an easy way, my rudeness is erudite, the product of dedication.

"There are lots of other places I am sure you would enjoy." Their party is four, two girls who are worth it according to Benny, one who isn't according to all of us, and some big haired luminous teeth jock who gets killed in the first twenty minutes of a horror film just before he gets his hands on his sweetheart's Bristols. The ugly one and the jock are doing the talking. The other two don't seem to feel the need to ask what to do in a town that takes seven minutes to walk from one end to the other, they can probably work it out. Benny goes over to them and they smile, he kindly tells them he is a TV star and is soon purchasing them a drink. The others believe that this is an invitation to join our table and they are upon is no time. I get the bag off Zippy and try to return a nicer person.

Now, with my nipples acting like wind-turbines, I must surely be able to stand this chaff for a small while. Especially as Gore brings me a fine Cuban rum and coke. Cuba Libre! I say, but the comedy is lost.

"So, we were in Cadiz the other day. That place is like, so, you know? And we wanna go to Morocco. You know there is, like, a ferry from near here."

"Is it a catamaran?"

"Eh?"

"You said it was like a ferry."

"Yeah. And then we can go there and buy some hash. You don't know where we could get hold us some do you? I love smoking pot."

I am sorry, Lord. I tried but I can't. "Who invited you to ask us questions? Why are you here? We have no desire to talk to you. So, please, can you, like, vacate our, like, table and, like fucking annoy somebody else?"

"We were only trying to be friendly. And by the way, we don't make fun of how you speak."

"Why do people who can't get any friends always want to be friendly? You can't make fun of how we speak because we speak properly." They go to another table disgusted, and then become more so, when their friends refuse to leave Benny. The rest of us laugh. A Canadian lad with his Spanish wife tips us the nod and compliments our beratement capacity. A drink is offered though we make it clear that this is not necessary. We see our new enemies leave and open a car. They take a bag out and close the vehicle. Then they cross the road to another bar, after giving us a sign that we should, I believe they say, swivel.

We have another couple of drinks and I have a marvellous idea. I phone Jaime, I can't be bothered with silly names, I am too inspired. I ask him if he can get hold of some pink paint and a brush, and meet us outside our current watering hole. He says pink could be tricky though guaranteed a similar tone. Within thirty minutes he was with us. Failing to contain the hilarity, we opened the paint and wrote "WANKERS" in huge letters over their new Beetle. When we compose ourselves, we take a vantage point near the side of the road and send Jaime in to find the owners of the vehicle. After ten minutes, he comes out with the pair looking bemused as they inspect their vehicle. Everything seems to be in order with their vehicle which stood next to another that some fool had painted abuse over. They returned to the bar as we started crying with laughter, running into Jaime's taxi as the owner of the defaced Beetle realised what had happened. We texted Benny and awaited a well-earned nightcap.

Tuesday 21st July 2003

I awoke this morning with a level of fear that I had not experienced for a decent while. I began to sweat as I was sure that Dave and John were only visiting with the intention of spying on me. I had done very little work since I had been here, but they had to comprehend that the environment was not convivial for the task bestowed on me. Neither am I trained in this work, plus the Internet connection has only been up for a day. These conditions are intolerable. I drag myself out of bed, feeling sufficiently fuzzy to not know what the body was aching from. I considered the fact that this was the hangover of an expert, someone who knew how to avoid the pitfalls of the next day. My stomach didn't ache and my head was in some way detached, but physical pain was almost non-existent. As always, I was under the misapprehension that a shower and forcing small pellets out of my rectum would make things tickety-boo again.

On the living room table was evidence of the previous evening's carnage. That stale whiskey smell that reminds you of old men was prevalent to the extent of having tenant's rights. Surely, if booze smelt like that the minute you open the bottle, this would be a much safer world. God knows what has happened in the study where my work takes place looks like the work of the Marques de Sade, so I take the lap-top back into the living room, assuming that the room smells like my breath anyway, and I hook up. If Fat Charlie's attempt at the explaining the delights of the Malagan province with a clear head, with a fuzzy one it was an even more thankless task. I fall back on to the sofa and notice the leftovers from Zippy's supply on the table. I feel the need to get as much done as possible. If I can get up to twenty something pages then they can't say anything that would be more or less on schedule. Then they couldn't say anything, this has not been my fault. The problem is that to get to, say, twenty-five pages I would have to do eleven today. John and Dave could turn up at any time, but I reckoned I had at least until four. That meant five hours for eleven pages, a little less than thirty minutes per page. Hardly the sort of work rate that Dickens used as inspiration for Hard Times. However, poor Stephen of the Pleasure Beach never had Zippy's stash to get him to the mill on time. I ponder this comment as Gore's golden snorting implement enters my nose, this time justified by being an aid to work.

After an initial sweat, the powder began to work its magic and I flew through three pages, making inspired corrections. As quickly as it had come though, the inspiration disappeared, leaving me once again incapable of comprehending even the simplest construction. I got together another line and was about to get my nostrils round it, when Benny appeared and called me a junky. What sort of person was he? How could he manage to make me feel so bad for doing something he abuses with frightening regularity? I now feel quite dirty as he enquires about the presence of hot coffee in the kitchen. I tell him that I think there should be and he appears pleased with this scenario. As he pours himself a cup I snort and he puts in an order for a line as well. In his own eloquent style, "I can't be arsed feeling better only to feel worse again tomorrow". The middle man, one would guess, is no longer needed.

I feared that the presence of Benny would hinder my work even further but his exacerbated energy levels meant that he couldn't stand to see the place in such a state. After a xenophobic call after our help, "Where is that Argy slut?" He did something that has never been seen in the history of our relationship, he got out the dustpan and brush, intent on giving the place a once-over. This almost unimaginable sight inspires me to crack on and by the time Mr. Sheen is doing the rounds, I have gone through ten pages of Fat Charlie's book, the most in one sitting up to the point of writing. Benny flops onto the sofa and requests another line, proudly holding Minute Maid and two very clean glasses. Zippy and Gore arrive too and are told not to make a mess which causes their faces to register confusion. I save the good work and am easily convinced by the merits of a swim.

Allowing the water to run till it comes out ice cold from the shower, when my nipples tingle from the cold water and not the coke I am ready to dive. I do a length underwater and am presented with a crisp glass of white by Gore as I reach the surface. Sipping casually as I prepare for the opulence of the next line from the comfort of the swimming pool, part of me wants to leave all this behind and take Filemena to some paradise, as the note hit my nose, I made another promise to myself to leave all this behind, as soon as it was feasible and didn't cause any social ruptures. With the pool-side frolics, no-one heard Dave and John arrive and the pair were left at the door for a good five minutes. The aim of their visit is to give me some free time, or so the whisper on the street goes. I was going to make sure that they would be aware of the magnitude of my task and how much work I was getting done in these most difficult of circumstances.

Dave and John join the party in no time, changing into their beachwear in the little cabin near the pool. They didn't seem to be dressed as spies but I was still very far from trusting their appearance at the house. Dave was more than keen to show off a little trinket he had picked up on his travels. It had the look of a silver bagel that opened in the middle in which thirty-two lines were expertly stored to Dave's cutting ration of eight lines from a half gram bag meant that two grams were constantly on hand. This, for these boys was more a tapa than a sit-down meal. Before paranoia became too close a friend, I wanted to leave some evidence of my work, and so, commented upon this to Dave. Dave said he had no idea what I was talking about and had assumed we were all here on our jollies. I offered a half-hearted "come on" but he insisted. Maybe Charlie did not want even his closest cohorts to know of his passion, and, if Charlie had sent him to spy, he would hardly claim to be bereft of knowledge of the subject, or would he?

Dave suddenly was overtaken by a strange look on his face. He had just realised that thirty-two was not divisible by six. This made his contraption, in his eyes, practically useless, and was suddenly ashamed to have it in his presence. I thought it was rather sweet and hoped to pocket it, should he continue not to care for it. Drinks are a bit thin on the ground here so it's a quick sniff to the chiringüito. Here our custom is initially the cause of much joy, though as Dave and John begin loutish recounting of their past this emotion soon turns to displeasure. Although there are six of us, and consumption is hearty, we make the place look unappealing and therefore are making people think twice before their stop-off. This means that the place could have four times as many people in drinking twice our total easily, plus the furniture would probably survive the jaunt.

I have never really socialised with Dave and John in a session sense before, and I fear I shan't enjoy it. Dave is a really nasty fucker with a penchant for violence rarely seen so far from floodlights. John is slightly more civilised, though the context of the situation doesn't allow for much. I suddenly feel that I want to tell people of my Galician blood, in order to disassociate myself from these people, but I know deep down that this, whilst not being where I belong, is where I am stuck. Gore seems to be lapping up the fact that not even the biggest glass in the house could contain all the excess testosterone spilling over, and talks of violent encounters with the same delight as the others. Benny begins some bullshit tale that we know is a lie as we were there, and the others do because it is so implausible. Zippy just nods and hums when there is a pause in the sentence. More people think better of the establishment, you might as well have a sign up saying that the British are in residence. At one time, I might have found this sort of presence exhilarating, though now I am filled with a desire to be somewhere else, anywhere else, walking hand in hand along the beach with Filimena, enjoying the simple pleasure of being in the presence of someone you love as time stands still. Hold on! I have had a bit too much of this stuff. Who said I was in love with her? Have to keep control of my thoughts. Still, love would be nice.

Things take a turn for the worse, when a group of German surfers decide that the unwelcoming glares from Dave are not enough to put them off a post-wave quaff. This is particularly worrying as one of Dave's pet hates is those of Germanic origin. These lads are young, fit and lithe, probably in a clean fight they could kick the shit out of us, and I hope they do, but it won't be a clean fight and I won't be around to witness it. As they order their drinks they take a table as far away from us as humanly possible. Dave makes a face like someone has put vinegar in his underpants and retires to the toilets. Maybe he will come out feeling love and respect for these people, I wish I had a couple of E's I could slip him. He exits the toilet and commences a roar. We are the first to hear it, though it is not for our benefit. Soundbytes below;

"The problem with the fucking Germans is." Here he stops awaiting a reaction, but doesn't get one. He repeats the sentence with extra volume. I look over at the bar staff with a look in my eyes that I hope transmits an apology, though am sure that it falls short. These German guys look like good fun, probably having more to offer than my learned colleagues now that Gore has adopted thug mode in favour of his normally delightful self. Dave continues "Is that they are so FUCKING boring. Just look at them." He points at them, scorning their mere presence in the bar. I'd rather go out with them, try surfing, maybe learn some German, I have a soft spot for the place, after all me and Julia spent some marvellous moments there. Maybe they are from Cologne, we would have so much to talk about. Oooh! What's the name of that bar on the corner of the bridge. You know, near the cathedral, there they do an excellent Alter Deibels. Oldest Cathedral in Germany, you say? They ignore Dave in the hope that he will refrain from further comments. They are wrong.

"God, they spoil Malaga. And what they do to Mallorca doesn't bear thinking about. Send the fuckers home." I remember stories now about Dave having a few beers, taking some mates down to Torrox and Torre del Mar, where more Germans were found in the Malaga area, and running amok in shops selling Deutsches Brot and Örtliches Bier for the Germanic settlers, then taking out their frustration on any males in the vicinity. All rather ugly, as this was about to become. Hopefully, the Germans would stand, take their pride with them and walk away, but, why should they? Because this was a cruel and hideous world. I use sleight of hand to wander inside Zippy's jacket and remove a couple of wraps and a bag of skunk. One of the Germans questions how they can be boring if they are doing the same as the English, sitting in a bar and drinking beer. It is a good response but represents only their desire to go down fighting. I am away on my feet as I hear sounds that appear almost comedic as I try to get as far away as possible from the carnage. The worst part of it, that when the police come, Fat Charlie's influence will probably end up with the Germans being charged.

I am soon half way down the beach and fondling the drugs in my possession. I am clearly determined to stop taking them as soon as a convenient moment presents itself. I am going away from the leisure zone and make good my path to the road, hoping to find somewhere there to take liquid refreshment. I pondered the reputation that we must have in this still sleepy town, and wonder why the British don't understand why some people feel little love for them. The first place I found was reminiscent of our first night in the town. Although the welcome mat was out, the full sentence was "You are welcome to leave". Whilst not doing just that, I rang Jaime and asked him to take me to Antonio's. At least there I could have a drink and enjoy an only slightly infuriating chat.

Jaime came swiftly and I offered him the chance to share my benevolence for the evening, but he declined saying that he had a date. I let the subject lie there, understanding why he would not care to spend his free time in the company of people whom he has only seen wreak havoc in his local environs. When I get to Antonio's neither he nor his delightful wife are in residence. I am too high still to drink alcohol, so I make do with a coffee and sparkling water, which I take onto the terrace. I wish I had something to read, though I am aware that I wouldn't be able to concentrate. So, I do what people who are coked up tend to do when they are high and want to give off an air of being quite the opposite, by embarking on a series of exaggerated knee movements and teeth chattering.

I really have no idea what to do. I wish I could be with Filimena even if reciprocation is not an issue. Thankfully, our lord God creator offers me the chance to make amends for my friends' rudeness by sending me two of the Germans. They don't see me as they sit, looking slightly dishevelled after their run-in with Dave, so I prepare my lines (vocal) and offer them the hand of friendship. This wasn't going to be another Versailles, more like Rome as the Union of Young Europeans forged through boundaries. I told them I was deeply sorry about my friends, I pronounce the word as if to make clear a certain amount of sudden disassociation, and would be delighted if they would accept a drink by way of an apology. This would be perfect, we could have a night out together, we could become great mates and then keep in contact on the messenger. I could return to my favourite haunts and they could show me the hidden treasures of their city. They told me not to worry. I said that I simply insisted, but their indifference is unwaning. Why would they want to spend time with me? I was only the coward who split at the first sign of trouble, they probably lumber me in with the French or the Italians, but it's not like that, I am a lover not a fighter, I don't want to run, but I don't want to hit. It is complex. Finally, the drugs subside and the coffee makes everything right. I glance over to them again and think "your loss" and was already glad to be rid of the boring wankers.

I did though, require company, I found Jaime again and asked him if there was a whore-house in town. He informed me that that was a question to be asked in a quieter tone than mine and that most villages over eighty inhabitants tend to boast a brothel. By the way, the one in Zahara, his town, was revered throughout the province. What is it about Spaniards that they have to have over-the-top civic pride, you can understand it if a region produces particularly good olives, but a brothel? It's not what you'd put on the council's web site. I ask Jaime to collect me again, and he says it will be a pleasure. I am not so sure how much of a pleasure it will be for him but we are soon in the vehicle. I will need some extra cash for the evening so we hit the cashpoint. I check the balance on the ten grand that Charlie gave us and am pleased to see more than five ton still waiting to be spent. It's early and the machine lets me have five hundred but no more. I have another couple of cards and consider trying to clear the thing out so that unhappy holiday-makers will be left without cash, then I wonder how I became such an evil swine.

Within ten minutes we are in the car park of the brothel. I ask Jaime to wait and how enquires how long I shall be. I reiterate that I have no intention of fluid spilling, just that my friends do not please me at this current time and I know no-one else, therefore I shall have to rent company. That way, they will be obliged to laugh at my jokes and consider me interesting. Jaime asks me if I am happy and if everything is alright, and I tell him that of course it is, how couldn't it be?

Inside I am instantly treated like the most appetising sexual morsel on this planet. Literally everyone wants to sleep with me. I have no time for tittle-tattle with the taxi-meter running outside, the misbegotten notion that this fare formed part of our group's little arrangement being far from true, so I head straight to the barman and offer my proposal. I require the services of someone capable of convivial conference on a variety of subjects. I should not care for someone with a tabula rusa in their cranium, and while expect a modicum of servitude, I still wish for a certain level of intellectual tennis. The barman's Manuelesque response of "¿QUÉ?" suggests that my lexicon is in need of simplification, or I should take less drugs. He seems to only have a problem with the fact that I don't want to have sex with her. He finds my requests strange but mentally stumbles on the reason part. When I offer him a twenty € tip is when we actually begin to speak the same language. He sends me Rita, a Brazilian from the North East Sertão, the semi-arid interior, she says as she says she never knows what to say. I ask her if she wants to earn three ton by accompanying me, laughing at my jokes, going to a nice restaurant and trying to make the most of evening, culminating in us not having sex? With this she glances over to the barman who simply shrugs his shoulders in confirmation. What is it with the people in this place? Why are they so obsessed with sex? She says she would be delighted but will have to change first. I agree and comment that she does like a bit like a "puta", then say that I generally know what to say but often say the wrong thing, she replies by saying that at least I don't look like a client, which I like. I order a beer while she changes and send a quick text to Jaime, who is happy reading his football daily and listening to the never-disappointing sound of the meter ticking over. Five minutes later we are in the taxi and heading to the town. The layers of make-up have disappeared and she is wearing a simple, low-cut T-shirt and jeans. She looks about a hundred times sexier now than in her drawers. Very strange.

She is very pleasant company indeed. She has a master's degree in Geology and is considered something of a specialist back home. Back home, though, is a land where knowledge of Geology is not highly prized, when it is accompanied with a feminine nature even less, so Rita came to Europe on the back of a load of false promises and lies, and, although she earns more than her old University Director and can send money home to her impoverished family, she still has wake up every morning. I suddenly feel like part of a huge conspiracy and, quite to my surprise, a tear forms in my eye. She tells me that I am one of the nice ones and suggests we change the subject. My tears aren't for Rita, they are for all of them, because, it would be inevitable that Fat Charlie's business interests did not include prostitution.

We have dinner and then go for a drink and a dance in one of the chiringüitos. Now they are full of fresh faces of the new holidayers, enjoying that first night as the ocean air carries them into heady fun. I watch them enviously, the couples, the groups of friends and think how lucky they are to be honest, decent people, then I remember that I hate them all and call Jaime to get Rita home. She thanks me for a pleasant evening and is whisked off into the night. I opt for the walk up the hill, but before doing so, take a fat line off the top of a Renault Clio. I have to thank Rita for that, I had completely forgotten about the drugs in her company.

Wednesday 22nd July 2003

I am awoken by the sound of people getting ready to leave on auto-pilot. My mouth feels disgusting and I entertain the idea of a quick brush, but the toothbrush is nowhere to be found, probably an example of my friends' well-developed sense of humour after my disappearance last night. More rest is needed for yesterday's excesses to be forgotten but the other are off on a job. I do not know or care where. Before going to bed I made sure that I took the keys to the BMW with me. I knew Benny thought he could have it. Sure enough, there was no knock on the door.

"Hey! Chicken Shit Yellow Bender! Car Keys." He held out an outstretched hand. "Morning Benjamin. What car keys are these?" I do hope he gets angry.

"The Beemer. Come on. I'm in a hurry."

"I'm afraid I can't give you them. That vehicle is registered in my name. Besides how will I get about while you are away. It is out of the question." Benny hasn't got time for this.

"Look Graham, stop being a fucking arsehole and give me the car keys, please."

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"That car is registered in my name and is worth around fifty grand. You give me a deposit of fifty grand and you can take the car. You can have the money back on satisfactory reappearance of the vehicle." I smile. He aches.

"You have five seconds."

"Or what? Let's phone Charlie. Let's see what he says. Fuck you. That's what he'll say, so that's what I say. Fuck You Benny. Close the door please."

"What are you shagging Fat Charlie or what?" He responds in a voice that he knows is too loud. If Dave or John heard a comment like that Benny's precarious tenure on this Earth would become even more so. As he exits the room I off the middle finger as an offering of war. I try to return to my sleep but can't. When I hear them leaving in Dave's rather roomy 4x4 it still makes me laugh as Benny will be in the back seat and he will hate that.

I wander downstairs to see Filimena standing in the middle of what could be seen as an NSPCC ad campaign but is in reality, our living room. I offer to help her but she says that would be counter-productive, she would have to go behind me with the dustpan, thereby doing twice the work. She did concede that it was a sweet offer, and if I could put some coffee on that would be an immense help. I can't work her out and don't intend to. I just thank God, or Allah or the Nesquick Rabbit she's not in a funny mood. I swill some orange juice down and realise I am in quite a healthy state. I suppose I have our lord the creator, or the devil, to thank for the fact that I rarely suffer from hangovers, well not as bad as others anyway. Normally, I can manage to get through the day without worries. In the time it takes me to struggle with the coffee, Filimena has more or less given the living room a Hello! magazine finish and is a after some hot water for her mop and bucket. I manage to make a mess that defies Physics, less liquid than seems to be necessary for the process of coffee making has remained in the cafetiere, with litres of dark brown liquid covering the surfaces. She takes one look at me and transmits despair, telling me to take a seat in the living room.

She is being very pleasant at the moment but I never know how long this state will last for, so I decide to get on with things. I suddenly become aware that I have an uncontrollable urge for that summer favourite gazpacho, excellent for an instant hit of vegetables to rejuvenate a dispirited system. The chances of their being ingredients in the house were minimal, and the chances of me being allowed to make such a potential disaster even less, so I reached for the keys and jumped in the Beemer. I head into town to find a suitable place, avoiding Antonio's for no particular reason that I can fathom. In front of his place is another restaurant which looks capable of granting my request.

Entering full of the joys of spring, I engage the kindly owner in a summary of my requirements. I ask him if he has gazpacho. He says he does. A good start. I enquire whether he sells food for consumption off the premises. He claims this is a possibility. Not perfect, but not worrying. I tell him that I would like to purchase his entire stock of gazpacho, eleven servings, and take it home with me. This, it transpires, is impossible. I beg him to elaborate as to the reasons why such impossibility should surround this simple transaction and he replies that he has other customers to think of who may want gazpacho, if he sells it all to me they may be disappointed. I point out that it is for sale and the aim of his business is to sell the greatest amount of food and drink possible. He concurs with this though mentions the ethics of my request. I labour the point by asking him if he had an Audi showroom which contained eleven vehicles, would he refuse to sell them all to one customer. This, in his eyes, was an entirely different scenario. In any case, I don't have a receptacle for the transportation of the produce. I said I thought he would give me his. He wouldn't. We recap, if I came back with ten friends he would gladly serve me eleven portions of gazpacho, with which I could do as I please as long as I have a suitable receptacle. I let him know that I intend to be back, and soon.

Outside in the street I find a shop that sells more or less every product ever to be made from plastic. I furnish him with the knowledge that I require a recipient that will hold eleven servings of gazpacho and comes with a sealing lid. He tells me he is closed, despite it only being one hour after noon. I ask him what I can do and he doesn't seem overly concerned with the solution of my problem. The two containers, which I can see, cost a Euro each. I offer the man ten for the pair and suddenly the shop is open. I now have my containers. Now all I need are ten friends.

There are a group of lads hanging around in the street, looking as if they are up to no good. Strange the double standards one has. I ask them if they would like to earn five € each for simply sitting at a table. They gave me a strange look but agreed, knowing their superior numbers would be able to help should the situation get sticky, obviously adherents of Russian military policy from the pre-Revolution days. We enter the place and join two tables together. Down we sit and I order eleven servings of gazpacho. One of the boys says "lovely" and I have to inform him that should he touch the liquid I will have him shot. Trust me to get culinary aware thugs. The boys help me to put the cold tomato soup into the containers, we close them and ask for the bill. Twenty-seven fifty for the gazpacho, two for the bread, which I take as well, and fifty European pee tip for matey boy. Outside, I load up the car and give the ten lads a fifty note. The divisions will have to be done on their terms, maybe some will lose out, maybe not, either way it's a valuable lesson that they have to learn and I feel good at being able to pass on a slice of life.

I get back to the house and no-one would suggest that anyone untidier than a pair of very devout nuns had been in the place, gleam it doth, I think, rushing to the kitchen to get stuck in. Filimena appears and has a look at my purchase, dips a spoon in and makes a face as if she has just consumed a panini with rabid dog and sulphuric acid sauce. She asks where I bought this abomination to cuisine. When I tell her she immediately lambastes my choice, saying that Benny could probably make better gazpacho. I choose not to tell her that this lot cost me nearly a ton. She brings out a salad that she has made and puts it on the table, this would appear to be us sharing a meal. I watch her eat and realise that there is no way I can listen to her at the same time. As the cold soup enters my mouth my mind wanders to try and remember a moment in which I have ever been happier than this. Of course, I discount Julia from this survey and realise that all the drugs and all the drinks and all the parties mean nothing in comparison to this simple perfection. As I look up again, she is unbuttoning her shirt and soon there is salad and gazpacho all over the place as we test the durability of the work surface. I won't make you suffer, dear readers, with the details, you enjoy the cold soup and we'll hook up later.

I awake to find myself alone, though I can hear her downstairs. She sounds like she is doing something so that must be a good sign. That means she hasn't woken up and wondered what in God's name she had done wrong. She wasn't whistling but she wasn't wailing, we'll take that. I wander down in my boxers and see her in the kitchen in one of my t-shirts. This is good. I stand behind her and attempt to cup the top half but find myself settling for the bottom, the response is not one of delight but it does seem to be a long way from repugnance. She has made some snacks and juice. How delightful. She turns and kisses me and tells me she has to go but to pick her up at half past eight. With that she is dressed and off on her scooter. How does she move so quickly?

With a spring in my step I chose to further my knowledge of the fauna and flora of Malaga. The time is just before six and I get in a good two hours solid work before showering and choosing the evening's attire. I pick her up in the square near where she lives, we go to dinner, we talk, we go back to the chalet and go to bed. It's that boring. It's fantastic. Just at that vital moment we realise that a certain purchase has not been made. I run to Benny's room and am delighted so see a box on the bedside table. Inside, the box is bereft, though Benny has taken the time to right "FUCK YOU AS THAT'S ALL YOU'LL FUCK" on the inside of the flap. How fucked up must someone be to go to those lengths and plan such nastiness. I find some of Zippy's, check the use by date and carry on with my business.

Thursday 23rd July 2003

Again, I awake and she is not there. Never mind. I can't remember the last time I slept so well. I hear her in the kitchen again and expect a replay of yesterday. This time I leave the boxers on the floor and offer her the most romantic bear hug I can muster. She asks me if I have gone quite mad. This is not good. She tells me that she will be back later to do lunch. This is not a warm, honey and treacle over my nipples voice. I ask her what was wrong, I know what she is going to say and don't want to hear it. Still, I ask. She says she has to go. By saying nothing she more than manages to say everything. I debate whether to kill myself, have a swim, take breakfast or start work and decide on them all except suicide. Of course, it could never work between us. I switch on the computer, completely over her.

I work for a few hours non-stop, desperately trying to not to think about anything that would remind me of the girl I was completely over, but just before lunch-time my brain wanted to collapse. I so wanted to see her, talk to her, see what the problem was, and so, in true male fashion, I sent her a message saying I had gone to visit the neighbours. Why did I do that? What if they weren't in? Also, the last people I wanted to see were a group of sexual liberals that would be considered extreme by the Merry Pranksters.

That said, my bed was made, an analogy I hoped I hadn't made as soon as I thought about and then worried about the first four letters of analogy and that house. I knock on the door, trying to knock in a sort of way that doesn't attract attention or the people inside hear and suppose that the person knocking doesn't really want to come in. It doesn't work as I am greeted by Carlos and realise I have no pretext. I mumble something about an encyclopaedia and he ushers me in. He and his wife are wearing a sensible amount of clothing, which is much to my relief. I am offered a seat, which I take, then they offer me lunch, and I accept. Lunch is a very pleasant affair. Carlos and Antonia are genuinely charming people with very agreeable conversation, they may slide towards a level of sexual deviance that Sade, not the singer, would raise an eyebrow at, but I am jolly glad I came over. I have completely forgotten about Filimena, as I daydream about her. Carlos suggests a coffee and a brandy for the boys and I am inclined to agree. Antonia goes to the kitchen to prepare the coffee and Carlos attends to the brandy. I recline on the sofa and plan a nice afternoon nap as my eyelids start to weigh heavy. I open them with a startle as I see the naked Carlos and Antonia before me with the drinks and asking if I would like a bit of afters. I couldn't think of a reason why not, so did. A modicum of pain and a small of amount of confusion were the initial emotions, but that all changed when I opened my eyes and saw Filimena, looking more aghast than I have ever seen anyone as she observed the sight of me with Carlos inserting a vibrator into my anus whilst his wife felated me.

I hurriedly dressed, thanked them for lunch and ran to the house. There she was sat. She asked me what that was, and I ask her if there was any point in explaining. She said no. She asked me if liked it. I said no. She asked me what I liked. I told her that she already knew. She smiled and we went upstairs. I have no idea what is happening, but have to admit I am strangely addicted to her.

I awake ravenous and wolf down two bowls of gazpacho. She suggests the summer cinema and I can't think of anything I would like more. Summer cinema is an outdoor version of indoor cinema. In some places, it is a well thought out, comfortable and intellectual experience. In Zahara it is like trying to watch a film in a bar during the celebrations of a child's first communion. Children run about as parents noisily imbibe long drinks and discuss the merits of anything but the film. Despite the offering being "Dude, where's my car?" I would like the opportunity to listen should a subtext suddenly appear. There is one particularly odious and obese cunt behind me who is causing me to lose my famous temper. I tell Filimena that if he speaks again the twat will end up in the river. Amazingly, the slob has the audacity to tell me to be quiet, adding a "Güiri". I make my excuses to Filimena, telling her I shan't be long and tell the disgusting abomination to humanity to drag his fat arse outside for a pasting. He tries to laugh it off at first, so I reiterate. His response is to tell me to carry on with the film. I give him the option of having his fat arse kicked here, in front of his wife and children, or outside, I add, if you fit through the door; you useless fat bastard. Unfortunately, he took his disgusting family to another part of the cinema and I was unable to give him the shoeing her deserved, unable and perhaps, incapable, but that is the thing about being hard, sounding it is half the game and more. I'm shaking like fuck as I try to have a sip of my drink, and not sure how this little scene has affected the rest of my night with Filimena.

Friday 24th July 2003

Woke up in Filimena's pad. Rather less luxurious though I don't know why I am surprised by this. She shares with another girl from Cordoba and one from La Paz. Whilst she is in the shower, I remain firmly hidden in the room and fighting the urge to tell her that La Paz is the highest capital city in the world, on the basis that she probably knows it. I then think of a joke about San Francisco in the sixties and decide not to leave, ever. I can hear the two Argentinians talking and lie back to enjoy the accent. There is definitely a link here with me being Gallician and that, Franco period immigration to Argentina to start a new life, sharing in a new, challenging and symbiotic relationship. Shit! I thought I could blame the drugs for my drivellous outpourings, but I actually talk like this. There is a knock, breakfast is served. I spend a difficult time being scrutinised by all three of them and then they go into the kitchen and giggle. I try to give off an air of a dapper gent who takes all this on the chin, but they know I want to curl up and die. After twenty minutes that feel like six hours, we leave.

I try to work for a bit but we are possessed by that rather giggly and silly phase that is so delightful for those involved and so vomit inducing for anyone who has the misfortune of witnessing it. I don't get much done but am pleased as I pass the halfway stage. This is getting easier as it goes on and even more so as I haven't had anything stronger than a glass of red for the past few days. Drinking from the fountain of love just gives you different types of hangovers. After work, we frolic, have lunch, go for an enjoyable siesta and then it's her time to fly of the handle again.

"This can't continue." She says. "You have no plans for me once this holiday is over. You really are having your cake and eating it. Well, no more sonny, goodbye."

"Why don't you come back to Malaga with me?" Had I really just said that? And, if so, why did I say it in such a way that made her know I wanted her to answer in the negative? Aren't I supposed to be a good liar? She was gone before I managed another stupid question.

This meant I was once more alone. Looking on the bright side the rest of them would be back this afternoon. I decided to bell Zippy and see just when I could expect them. When he answered the phone and his second sentence was "the thing is mate" I knew it was going to be my own company, or risk the neighbours, I prefer the solitude. They are staying in Malaga as Spurs are in town for a friendly. My associates are off to Puerto Banus now to get some pre-match action in Sinatra's before hitting the Rosaleda. I returned to my work. Determined to get myself into a position whereby eight pages a day will suffice for the rest of the holiday. The afternoon drags so I decide to bore myself with the telly. Not missing her at all, I switch the box on and force myself to watch some ghastly afternoon show containing people so desperate to be on television, even at this level, that they are prepared to divulge their darkest secrets before the hungry nation. All of them should be shot now. No courts, no justice system, just systematic extermination. At least I don't miss Filimena.

I am hungry but cannot be bothered eating anything as it has no meaning now she has gone as well. The only plus being that I am completely over her and do not care if I ever see her again. For dinner, I opt for a bottle of red, supplies are very low, and find some Valium in Zippy's room. That with ET on the TV should set me up nicely for the night, or at least obliterate some time till I get some form of life back. I am taken by the little alien fellow and consider phoning home myself. I should do more often but the lies make me feel bad. I get to the second adverts before the sleep drug takes me away to the land of nod.

I awake at five in the morning with someone kicking me in the head. Check again, and I am still alone. My head feels dreadful. I only had one glass of wine so I don't how the valium could be so cruel. If drugs think they are going to beat me then they can think again. I take another valium, though this time with three Ibuprofen and offer to see life again in the morning. There is no way I could stay awake now, knowing that the world will be a better place in the mid-morning sunshine. On the plus side, still over her and off the drugs. I am proud of myself as I hold the other pillow close to me and drink in her smell as the drugs take effect.

Saturday 25th July 2003

It is eleven when I awake. My head is free of pain, though in no way could I guarantee that I had had more than twelve hours sleep. I feel strangely unrefreshed. As the jets of the power shower shotgun me into motion I consider myself as a space traveller who has been put to sleep for the duration of the journey to the star Apholsto Cobreilluna where an evil strain rhododendron threatens to take over the Zophkitic system. I have no idea where the fuck any of that came from. Breakfast, I think.

Putting together a breakfast is becoming a tricky affair. The milk doesn't smell like you would want to use the word "prime". There are some yoghurts and a bit of ham still on the bone. Any bread left in residence could be sold to a desperate clay pigeon shooter. I scrape together some foodstuffs and hope that the rest arrive in time to hit a supermarket. I have the great idea of hooking up to Alcampo (supermarket) chain, online but they do not deliver here, and if they did it wouldn't get here before Tuesday. Tine for my eight pages.

I phone Zippy at about two. I called him earlier but only got the response that there had been drinking and weakness was a dominant sensation in the camp. He also told me that Benny was staying in Malaga as he had his tv show to do. Not bad. The second call was more informative. Zippy and Gore both felt lots better after curry for breakfast. However, they would have to come by train so could I phone Jaime to pick them up from Cadiz train station at seven. I told them I was on the case. I needed to do something about lunch, there was no way the scrapes from breakfast would stretch that far, so, I would have to find a supermarket. This meant a foolish amount of walking or taking the Beemer out, somehow I didn't feel capable of driving. Then, when I thought of all the wondrous commodities for sale, I became confident once more in my driving skills. Promising myself a whopper stopper on the way, I reached for the car keys when Filimena entered, holding a pot covered with a tea towel and looking like she was about to visit someone who had been in a boating accident. She said she had made some chicken thing with rice and smiled. "Let's just enjoy the time we have." Were her words.

The lunch was quite delightful and well washed down with the last of the red. In my amorous folly, I had neglected to call Jaime. He had no problem with the jaunt, though did say that this trip was out of the jurisdiction of the original contract. I told him they would be delighted to pay whatever he considered reasonable. I like Jaime, he'll do well. Filimena undresses and offers herself as afters, so I get my spoon.

Aiming to be up in good time, maybe even drop her off and go to the supermarket, we wake up at seven thirty with the sound of a car door closing in the drive. I hear Zippy telling Jaime a joke that he doesn't remember properly and Jaime doesn't get. We have woken up together for the first time, though somewhat "in flagranti" The plan is now for me to get them out to the pool so that she can slip out unnoticed. It might work if we could stop giggling. I ask her what are we doing later and she tells me I am going out with my friends. I slide downstairs and pull out the greetings. I suggest a drink by the pool and see the ghost like figure slide out through the shadows and wonder when it will return. Discovering that there is nothing drinkable in the house, as we have no ice and mixers. This means a trip into town to the local supermarket, a place that should be ashamed to use the word super. They could teach us a thing or two about robbing, their pricing policy appearing to be anything but index-linked. We throw money away at these people and return to the chalet.

I truly don't miss Benny as the day turns into night and we drink the overpriced and under-enjoyed wine. I'm sure that is the general feeling around the campfire as we swig, but don't like to labour the point as it may look rather obvious. The wine does not have the effect of transporting us back to our youth or even giving us a quick ride down memory lane, rather its soporific nature causes us to yawn and question the worth of heading into to town for dinner. We do have to eat, that is clear, if not then Zippy will suggest an alternative diet, and then things will go from worse to hell. Four days without class A drugs may not seem the pinnacle of abstinence, but it does represent a small oak tree sap in the garden for me. We debate taking the car to Mamma Mia's, Gore says he'll drive, that's that. I can't understand why we are not having a laugh, but for some reason we aren't.

Sunday 26th July 2003

I had to check the date on the paper to make sure that yesterday was Saturday. I suppose it only has any importance when you have to get through hell to get to Saturday, when every is day more fun than the day to celebrate the ringed planet, the concept disappears. I get up at nine and walk into the town for coffee, toast and a paper. I am quite taken by my location and give Filimena a call. She berates me for spilling the beans to my mates about our relationship and says she never wants to see me again in a non-professional sense. I half expect this, and simply order another coffee before climbing the hill and doing a double shift of sixteen pages. Editing is easy, I conclude. Pleased with myself, I treat my dreamy body to a dip.

We had enough foresight to stock up on take away pizzas and lasagnes from that little slice of Italy we visited last night. We had to decide who was going to cook and who would get the liquids. It was an easy decision. Zippy would do the honours with the pop, whilst I popped the authentic Italian food in the oven. Lunch was far from spectacular, but certainly better than we would have managed alone, and less effort than going out. I checked the TV listings, Sunday was never going to offer much, especially in that moribund moment between two seasons. Deciding that the world wide web was the only offering that could possibly entertain us. We download an online version of Trivial Pursuit and begin to play, though a more taken by rather rudimentary versions of Play Your Cards Right and Family Fortunes. This is what happens on holidays, when you're bored of boozing with the people you're with and you've no-one to shag, all that's left is the scrabble. By half ten, the theatrical yawns appear and it's suddenly good book time. By my calculations, Filimena should appear brandishing gifts and love sometime around eleven, so I could do with a good night's sleep.

Monday 27th July

No Filimena, Zippy and Gore have picked her up to do a shop. They've gone out of town whilst I do no more than eight pages today. I am desperately close the mental barrier of one hundred pages, finishing on ninety-seven, leaving me a mere twenty-one for the rest of the stay. I feel I could do no more and still not get into trouble, but such complacency must be kept far away. They are taking eons with the shopping and I have to phone them. They are having a superb time at a water park, it transpires. They haven't even done any shopping yet. My lunch would have to wait. I refuse to eat what is left of the Italian riposte and make alternative plans. I find a bike that I had failed to see before, it looks capable of getting down the hill, so I risk it. I cycle past Antonio and he beckons me in. I can't believe that I am actually writing this down. There is only a point of keeping a diary if you have something to put in it, or have some thoughts of some worth. I am bored already, I do eight pages more in the afternoon and cycle till I ache, hating it all, knowing that SHE is doing this for one very clear reason. Let's hope Tuesday has more to offer.

Tuesday 28th July 2003

Tuesday doesn't start off any better than Monday. I have thirteen pages still to finish and decide to get them done today. If we leave on Saturday night or Sunday Morning then that will give me time to have a couple of run-throughs. I am beginning to understand where Fat Charlie is coming from now and have little trouble in making sense of the text. Perhaps we are more alike than I thought, I can't put my finger on it, but there is some sort of bond that I can't define. Filimena makes breakfast and is all smiles, for the others. I consider going back to Malaga today, as there is no point in me being here anymore, I have been ostracised without knowing why and my place does not appear to be here. Still, what good would returning to Malaga do? Do I have any more friends there? No, because I don't have any friends other than those who are here and don't wish to be with me. In over a year I have failed to maintain any relationships outside the organisation. I never speak to my parents and never do anything, I hardly ever go anywhere and probably enjoy life less than in Luton. I have more money, quite a lot of it in fact, but I'm tied to the organisation and can't exactly settle down in suburbia. I feel like I am slowly losing the capacity to love. The little that I had.

I work and the others fart around by the pool. Filimena tidies up, singing in a un-convincingly happy way and then she prepares lunch. The others race in with the news that Carlos and Antonia are having a bit of a tennis tournament and have asked Filimena and Gore to participate in the mixed doubles. Gore was quite a sportsman in the days of old and could probably still give it some with the racket. Benny and Zippy will be acting as judges, and I, all indications would suggest, shall play no part in this afternoon's fun. I smile as they make their plans, Filimena changing her lunch menu to accommodate a certain amount of complex carbohydrates to provide extra energy. I am wholly surprised when there is a plate for me on the table. Maybe I'm being paranoid, maybe the fact that I am being totally unapproachable is the reason for them not approaching me. That would be even more paranoia though, wouldn't it?

After lunch, I have a doze and hit the last five pages. These are all a summary so I decide to leave it. I can hear them all having fun and make the bold decision to bite the bullet and go over. Despite my fear that it would degenerate into nudey-tennis everyone maintained a dignified appearance, except Gore who had no tennis kit. Note from Sir. Filimena was given a very scanty outfit by Antonia that made sure the neutrals knew where to look. People were surprised to see me, they said so, which was so nice. I was already staying at the Paranoia Travellodge as it was. I went to help myself to the punch, running into a strange conversation about how hard it is to get Pimms these days, this would have not turned a head in Chichester but was an unexpected comment from Malagüeños. Before I could sip, Antonia had roped me in as her partner, I clarified the tennis aspect to this relationship before reluctantly accepting. I had no desire, nor ability to play tennis, but thought I may seem something more of a sport if I mucked in. Antonia insisted that she find me something to wear and in a few minutes, I was wearing what would be the perfect attire for a seven-year-old. Antonia suggested it was a bit tight fitting as she ran her hand over my crotch. Despite wishing for no reaction, my skin-tight shorts were pressed with the presence of an erection which annoyingly would not go down even if I did try to imagine Margaret Thatcher singing "The Power of Love" in German. Antonia kept rubbing so it was clear this was only going one way. I lifted her on to the bench in the changing room and as quickly as etiquette allowed pumped away whilst I watched her husband pull off, bad choice of words, two aces, a superb passing shot and a very tasty backhand volley to put him and his partner into the final. I wasn't expecting Antonia to tell me it had been the sexual experience of her life, so I was a trifle put out when she said she hoped I played tennis better. Oh well, onwards and upwards.

We came out and took the court against Gore and Filimena. Benny had obviously never seen anything this funny in his life, and comedy had a positive effect on his Spanish as he managed to insult me in a way understandable to all present. I just suggested he liked what he saw, and soon realised that that comment did me no favours. As I got the feel of the racket and he took his seat as umpire, I felt sure an opportunity to get revenge would present itself. The first set began and ended in a flash. With us only taking a point from her serve. She came over to me, I thought she wanted to whisper some tactics, but she simply said I should stick to shagging. I remind her that I was roped into this, don't like tennis and that's only a bit of fucking fun, you saggy fannied old trout, though the decibel level rose with every word, and eyebrows were raised. We sped towards defeat in straight sets, six-zero on both occasions and with them on match point, Benny announced it as "match point against Antonia and pile of shite", the ball came to me and I had a chance to make amends and at least win a point, but as I caught sight of Benny it was just too tempting to not give him the full force of the ball in the face. It caught him in the eye and he was knocked off the chair. There were gasps and Benny was taken for treatment. Antonia said that we had lost though I wasn't too sure. At least I wouldn't have to sleep with her again.

Benny had to be taken to casualty. Of course, everyone thought Benny was a charming fellow and I was the devil 'in carnate'. Balls to them all, I had made an effort and if they wanted to hate me, they would soon realise their error. Filimena and Gore won the tournament and then the party began. Benny returned and was given hideous amounts of attention whilst I was chastised for my deliberate attack. No-one seemed particularly keen to talk to me, so I slipped away without anyone wondering where I was going. I hopped into the car and started driving. I wasn't sure where I was going nor what I would do when I got there. So it was to be expected when I got to somewhere I didn't know, that I did nothing when I got there. I sat on the edge of a cliff looking over the vat array of water that lay below me, wondering if the answers were contained therein. Then it came to me, there was no point in looking for the answers until I knew what the questions were. I got back into the car and returned to the party. I tried to enjoy myself but it wasn't easy. I drank too much too quickly and was taken to bed by Gore, who put me in my slumber and whispered, "nice forehand"

Wednesday 29th July

Benny and Gore are off again, the call comes through from Ruben Shuffle telling them that they had to be in Algeciras by lunch time. Benny had a right shiner and was in no mood for work. Algeciras is a port on the Cadiz coast that is often in the news for the wrong reasons. As a port, it often receives cargos of products that are not for sale in the local markets, and is one of the major entry points to the Iberian Peninsula. It is also an entry point for immigrants fleeing political and social misery in Africa to risk everything on the high seas to enter a nation where dreams do not tend to come true with great frequency. When the drugs and the makeshift boats are not coming into the port, Algeciras fails to make the news, expect on the occasions when the police or the mayor wish to launch a message to doubters and voters by getting out a load of seized drugs are placed on a boat for the benefit of tv crews, making it look as if they are on top of things instead of taking bribes, before returning to the drugs to the street for the continued wealth of Fat Charlies and the like.

I am glad that I am not going. It's thug work, something I consider that I have proven myself above. Zippy hasn't been asked to attend so he's staying here. I plan to do as much of a read-through as possible Having Zippy here isn't a problem, noise won't be an issue as he will be happy with the Playstation and the headphones. This allows him to inhabit a world were the only questions that are asked of him are whether he really thinks he can make the green from that bunker on the seventh. From time to time he pleases his fans with an interview as he walks from the tee to the fairway, but for most of the time, you actually have to check that he is still there.

Filimena phones and says she is not too well. She drank too much yesterday and that has been exacerbated by the arrival of her monthlies. I joke that at least we don't have to worry about a family, but she doesn't see the comedic genius in this comment. She says she will need another hour and suggests Zippy collects her to go to a decent supermarket. As Benny came back to Zahara in his car after the tv show, we were now a two car family again. Zippy didn't seem particularly enamoured by this idea, but a disastrous tee shot at the sixteenth caused him to drop four shots and slip away from the leaders. This made him rethink the need for munchies and other substances in the house. He got up to go and I reminded him he was still in his tennis kit. He showered and changed, taking advantage of Benny's absence to raid his wardrobe.

With the house to myself, I read through ten pages and decided that the work was good enough. I certainly couldn't be arsed reading through this rubbish again, and so I left it on the table and decided to sunbathe. I'm not very good at sunbathing. My complexion is more Galicia than Andalusia, marking the climatic differences between different parts of the country. I roast for a good hour and am overcome with need for swimming pool. The cool water is relieving at first but soon even the cold liquid informs me that I am unable to tan to a decent standard.

Dehydrating slowly, I await the return of Zippy and Filimena.I am glad that Zippy did not go alone as I dread to think what would return in the trolley, at least Filimena will introduce an element of common sense to the shop. I decide that I have no desire for our, is this the right word? Relationship? to continue. I am reasonably convinced that she will not find this news too distressing. I would like to know what makes her tick though, why she began something that she had no intention of making a go of. Then again, as I ponder this, it begins to make more sense. I am hardly the King of commitment myself. Finally they arrive and I head straight for some vitamin C in the most convenient form. After staring worriedly at some oranges, I stumble across some juice and have a look how it sits alongside some ice in a glass. Knocking back a litre in one go, I return to the laptop as they begin to play rather juvenile games with the shopping.

A couple of hours pass and I reach the end of the masterwork. I have a glance through the original text and then compare it with my work. I can't really see much difference in reality, this causes a minor pang of paranoia as once again I wonder why he got me to do this, and why the four of us have been removed from Malagan society for a fortnight. I return to the living room and find the pair of them engrossed in a game of Tiger Woods that Zippy is teaching her to play. I am not sure if this is for my benefit so that I feel jealous and inadequate, though I am past caring. Just as long as she doesn't sleep with Benny.

I do feel slightly of very little worth as now I have nothing to do. I pretend to be still working though the game of Solitaire only drives the point closer home. I switch of the computer and sit sheepishly on the sofa. This is the first time I have actually listened to Zippy speaking Spanish, and, incredible as it seems, his level is quite good considering it is exclusively passive listening. He watches a lot of TV and wanders around a lot, but has never had classes, not like Gore, and still manages to get his point across, with about as much clarity as he does in his native tongue, or maybe even less, as he has less words to confuse himself with. I dislike being in the company of people who don't speak much Spanish when they are speaking as they automatically assume I only wish to show off. They gracefully decide to allow me to join in a skins tournament, and, deciding to make the best of it, I get us some beers and we start up. Zippy is clearly in a jolly mood, when he goes head to head with Filimena he manages to slice his drive so much that the ball actually travels backwards and she wins, they laugh about this, when it is my turn he manages to chip the thing in from one-thirty yards using a snooker cue. This means that I come last and, as a forfeit, have to make dinner.

Zippy has purchased some rather spicy looking Madras sauce, so I think I will wipe the smile of her face with an extra dose of piquant. That way if she does end up with him her breath will smell like a university rugby team and she will be unable to sense anything via her gustatory nerves. I am so glad that I am not being childish about this. Zippy is a fan of very hot curries so he won't notice or even care, his system only understands extremes. As I am chopping the onions I marinade the chicken in a bit of powder mixed with water, just to give the thing a bit more power. They are playing by the pool, doing all the things that seem so unimportant that I revelled in just days before. I put some loud Joy Division on so that it can be clarified that this is not much of a fun zone. Zippy requests something with more of a beat, but I think "Atmosphere" will do just fine for now. I open a nice bottle of red to help me cook, liberally splashing it into a glass, making as much mess as possible as I won't have to clean this up. I am pleased with myself for being able to handle this situation in such a mature way. I find some Jalipeño chillies and stuff them into the chicken fillet that will make the basis of her dinner. I try one and nearly lose my breath. She will love them I am sure. They close the patio door and take Gore's iPod out, clearly not yet in the mood for a bit of Leonard Cohen.

I leave the curry on the pan and take a shower. As the water tingles against my skin and combines with the wine to make me feel somewhat happier, I have a sudden fear. I do not like my curries too hot. I am going to have to eat this as well, plus, I filled one fillet with chillies, but during the cooking process they have fallen out and have mixed in with the sauce. I reluctantly dip a piece of bread in and have a taste. Even before contact with my tongue has been established, pain is already a factor. Of course, at that very moment they return and comment on how nice the meal smells. Zippy takes a spoon and takes a big dose as if it were as potent as lukewarm custard. Good work he claims. Filimena asks "May I?" and takes his spoon and repeats the manoeuvre. At least now I will have my laugh. She licks her lips and says she is going to have a quick shower. Fuck! She didn't even wince. Hopefully she is vomiting in the shower as I serve up.

As well as the cold beers, I have a couple of jugs of ice cold water on the side. She returns in a sarong and her bikini top, looking tremendously beautiful, she sits at the table and tells us that she has a liking for spicy food. "Indeed, my brothers used to torture me in Argentina! I had four brothers and was the only girl, they used to make me eat strong chillies to make me cry. For a while they had their fun, but after a while you get used to it. After that I used to challenge them for money, who could eat the most without reacting. It's all mind over matter. Indeed, I made a few quid back in those days." I thought about saying that I wasn't hungry after all, always the way when you cook, you lose your appetite, but I didn't want to be found out. I smiled and forced a forkful into my mouth. Continuing with the smile, I ate more, watching those two shovelling it away like it had the same spicy capacity as a Pot Noodle. I took a big gulp of water and felt pleased, I may be able to get away with it, sure it is hot but not so bad. I raise my fork to my mouth again and am suddenly consumed by a spasm. The sauce has infiltrated every centimetre of tissue from my lips until the opening of my stomach at the pylorus. I feel like a fire is leaving my body from the inside, consuming everything as it makes its way to the open air. I can't breathe or speak. I try to stand but fall to the ground, convulsing and retching as if I were having an epileptic fit, all I wanted was water but Zippy made me eat bread. Eventually, the respiration returned and I crawled to the toilets to vomit so much that I half expected my pancreas to leave my mouth with the combined unpleasant substances. The intense pain has died down now, but I cannot feel anything but burning in half of my body, as I sweat, I realise as well that the sunburn from before has chosen now to blister. I make it to my room and lie on the bed, enjoying the air-con at 17º and wondering how life could be so vindictive towards me.

I awake at about three in the morning with the sensation that a Bombay Mix factory had been installed in my mouth. Lights were off downstairs, I listened for a while though heard nothing. I assumed that they had gone out, or I had missed one of Zippy's legendary performances. I was half asleep though ravaged by pangs of hunger. I went down to the kitchen, which was now spotless, she probably convinced him to help her. How sad is he? He will do anything that lad. Everything is still in supermarket mode in the fridge and have no desire to spend time cooking again, so, without thinking I dip a piece of bread into a Tupperware that contains the leftovers from this afternoon, realising my mistake, I shake my head and make it to the sofa awaiting the pain that is in the post as if I were a prisoner on death row. By about five I was ready to sleep again, skin peeling, mouth burning, wondering what she was doing Zippy, elated at the quality of my revenge plan.

Thursday 30th July 2003

I rise late due to last night's disaster. Thankfully my mouth has returned to a semi-real state that allows other tastes to be distinguished. Zippy took Filimena to a disco and they danced until the early hours fuelled by the Ecstasy that Zippy took less than ten minutes to convince her to take. Quite ironic considering that she embarked upon an hour long anti-drug tirade at my antics, obviously, in her attempt to show no affection for me in an open way, she is clearly lying to herself about all the things she holds dear. Rather a shame considering that I am in no way bothered about what she does.

I am a little bored with the book finished so I wake up Zippy and force him to entertain me. Zippy is slightly fuzzy from last night's antics though is easily convinced as he knows what a pain in the arse I can be if I get in a sulk. I also bring him coffee and toast so that, by European law, means that I get the right to choose the next activity. I give him the best part of eleven seconds to digest his toast and suggest we open some wine. Gore and Benny will not be back until the evening and the thought of four or five empty hours fills me with dread. Zippy is also out of coke so the wine is not doing much for a party scenario. I inform him that is he required to entertain me but he seems unwilling. His conversation is weak, I get the impression he is being tight-lipped about the previous evening, probably because he failed to get anywhere, and hopefully because he really didn't. I put some whisky chasers by the side and he gives me a look that suggests he does not want to be party to this. He begins to yawn and ask me if I wouldn't be happier in the company of the frivolous pair next door.

After an hours' drinking without entertainment I propose a game. It will have to be a drinking game that gets Zippy more into the zone. I urge him to have a look round his room to try and find enough sustenance to keep us going until the others get back. He tells me that he has been round his, Gore's, Benny's and my room, but to no avail. He asks me what game we can play, now I have to think of one. Arranging shot glasses in a line I recall a spam e-mail that I received with a magic, fun game that you can play with nothing more than an active Internet connection and at least two idiots. The idea of the game is that you introduce words into the search engine field, and the person who gets the least matches has to drink a shot. For example, we start small, I choose ostrich and get 3,060,000 matches. Zippy goes for marzipan, which gets 3,320,000. Therefore, Zippy has to drink his down in one. From this we build words onto Marzipan in order to make a sentence. The main aim of the game is, apart from getting as shit-faced as possible with the minimum amount of human interaction, is to find a suitably pointless sentence that returns no matches at all and forces the other person to finish the bottle. For some reason, Zippy is crap at this game and he takes the lion's share of the wine. This means he is getting pissed and I am not, and as the sentence; marzipan water closet illuminates ottoman waffle pan via endocrine glockenspiel extraction integrates Montevideo through poltergeist Roxy Music fails to get a match, Zippy downs the bottle and is asleep within ten minutes.

I am left awake and bored. I phone Gore and their timeframe is approximately three hours from now. I stare at a bottle of Jameson's and can't think of anything better to do than polish it off with a Valium that I found lying around. I look at Zippy, asleep there and soon follow him into slumber.

By the time I am awake again it is night and Gore is standing over me, throwing cold water over my face and slapping me. I cannot ascertain where I am or what I am doing but the air is heavy, there is an intense warmth close to me and strange noises in the background. It sounds like there is a lot of activity in the area despite the fact that it appears late. I slowly drag myself up to see the chalet engulfed in flames as frantic fire crews try to extinguish the blaze. My initial reaction is to request sexual gratification in the form of an exclamation, which then turns to consternation as I consider the possibility that this fire may be the product of my clumsiness. Fear travels through every vein of my body as Gore assures me that this blaze could be the piece de resistance of Benny's stay in Spain. It transpires that Benny felt peckish and tucked into some stuff in the kitchen, notably a fried egg, however, the vast quantities of Valium that he has been taking in order to get some rest from the drugs and gin that help keep him on set. As the yolk was beginning to turn a nice, golden colour, the Valium kicked in and Benny was soon snoring on top of the work surface when black smoke soon turned to fire and before the rest of the party could make amends, the kitchen was in flames and the fire service were climbing the hill.

We relocated for the night in the hotel next to Antonio's restaurant, with Benny being sent to the University Hospital in Puerto Real for smoke inhalation, though no doubt what was waiting for him in Malaga would be worse. After check-out, we would return to Malaga, and what some people would call work. Funny holidays.

Side Notes from the Tuna Diaries.

As promised here is my favourite snippet from Fat Charlie's book on the Flora of Malaga. There is definitely some type of subtext here but I cannot put my finger on it. Clearly there are some issues that need to be addressed.

The (illegible name) is common to the higher areas of the Malagan

province. It is renowned for its immense capacity to intertwine itself

between the other, more eye-pleasing plants that populate the local

fauna. Before the other plants are aware of its presence, the plant

seizes their roots and saps the very life from the surrounding plants

, cruelly convincing them that their presence in the area would be

beneficial, when in reality that trust would be repaid with a cruel

and painful betrayal.

Pick the bones out of that one. Answers on a postcard if you have a clue what is going on here.

Further side notes from The Tuna Diaries

The meeting held on Monday the 27th of July had only two items on the agenda. In the conference room at Fat Charlie's office, Dave and John sat discussing a matter in a stifled voice as Ruben Shuffle and Fat Charlie came in with the Italian. The agenda was passed round.

1) THE BENNY SITUATION

2) ANY OTHER BUSINESS

Fat Charlie surveyed the evidence that gave testament to Benny's recent cock-ups and a majority decision returned the motion to terminate Benny's career with the organisation. This termination did not necessarily mean a P45, rather an impromptu gravestone. Normally, people did not like the job of having to eliminate a member of the team, but Benny had caused such a level of displeasure recently that a draw was necessary. It was decided that Dave would organise this the following Saturday and those presented with the task would be informed and given carte blanche to carry out the action as they saw fit.

With that the room was cleared for the final business of the other items on the rather flimsy agenda. Only Ruben Shuffle remained as the Italian handed an envelope to Fat Charlie. Inside the envelope was information ascertained from the toothbrush lifted from Graham during their stay in Zahara. Fat Charlie knew that the results of the test on Graham's deoxyribonucleic acid would confirm parentage. Once glance was all that Fat Charlie needed to see that Graham was indeed the fruit of that wild afternoon in Pontevedra all those years ago. The Funeral Director's mistake was that Fat Charlie told him that the good looking one would be his son, so when he went over he naturally assumed Benny was the one. Perhaps with time Fat Charlie would be able to laugh about this, but for the moment he needed time to think. He also made it clear that no-one else should be privy to this information, and, should word get out then he would kill the culprit.

"We shall need to address this situation." Fat Charlie said to Ruben Shuffle, who agreed.

BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-FOUR

Initial impressions of Lisbon

GRAHAM: In many ways, Lisbon's symbiotic relationship with the ocean can be seen on almost every street corner. It's wide, impressive avenues give the impression of decadence in the true sense of the word, buildings appear to be held together by the traces of paint and cement that have yet to fall off in great clumps. One could even believe that the visitor has caught the "Lisboetas" unaware and must accept their apologies as they only returned home yesterday and have only found time to put a rather extensive load into the washing machine.

Nonetheless, this failure to get the paint-brushes out does not cause the place to look unkempt, quite the opposite; Lisbon's charm is based around this throwback to the days of past glory. One has the impression of being invited to envisage a small slice of living history, as one closes one's eyes, and remembers one of the most important cities in the world in days gone by. Lisbon has not allowed time to stand still, and manages to blend the old with the new with effortless ease. Its location, rested on seven hills with the river Tagus flowing through the city into the omnipresent ocean, Lisbon boasts an enviable cultural mix, walking through the streets of the Baixo-Chiado district, the visitor's ears are besieged by a continuous mix of sounds from Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde and, of course, Brazil. A diverse mix of sounds and flavours fill the streets as the multicultural population of Lisbon get about their business.

All this is mixed with the disconsolate sounds of the traditional Portuguese Fado, the wailing sounds that express such feeling as the remarkably untranslatable "Suadade", an indescribable feeling of loss and yearning for the city experienced by sailors on long voyages. All this forms part of Lisbon's captivating power, and, it can be said that most visitors leave with a desire to return one day, as if some form of "Saudade" was acting on them.

Even so, Lisbon has moved with the times, regeneration in the city has been extensive, cultural and sporting events such as the Expo in '98 and the European Nations Cup in 2004 have revitalised the ailing infrastructure and given parts of Lisbon a modern façade. Though Lisbon is accustomed to this need for regeneration, the Great Earthquake of 1755 destroyed most of the city whilst at prayer, the population was decimated and drastic action was needed. This action was taken by the Marques de Pombal, who would go on to become the most misquoted Portuguese in history, rather like Marie Antionette, by not saying it was time to "bury the dead and feed the living". So, once again, the city supposedly founded by Ulysses three thousand years ago, rose again.

From any point of Portugal's finest natural harbour culinary delights are on offer, though traditionalists may wish to avoid the Docas area with its over glossy bars and elevated prices in favour of the more basic charms of the Belem and Fatima areas, though Lisbon is not a city to walk round with a map, wherever you are the world-famous number 28 tram won't be far away, so wander and enjoy as......

"Looking for gay porn, are we?" Dave walks straight in and immediately has a go. I manage to close Windows before he can see anything, and ponder whether I would prefer him to think I was looking for porn rather than penning (though can you do that on a lap-top?) my thoughts as a travel writer. I don't like the way he assumes that it is gay porn though, typical of Dave's consideration of my lack of prowess. Still, to be held in high esteem by Dave would mean riling the rest of the world. I simply smile and ask if we are fit. If he wants this homo-erotic fantasy then I have no problem fuelling the fire.

We are in Lisbon as Fat Charlie is keen to formalise things in this part of the world. He is also eager to take advantage of the many opportunities that Brazil has to offer, cogito urgo sum, Portugal needs to be tied up. There is a lad here who has been chosen to take this role on, and, it has been decided that I will be the link between Spain and Portugal. Fat Charlie and Ruben Shuffle were here too and a business meeting was pencilled in for later on this afternoon. Before that we would have to the opportunity to sample a nice bit of local cuisine in the old town. It appears the car is waiting for us downstairs. As we career through the streets, I allow my mind to wander in preference to listen to Dave's theories on the social failings of the Portuguese. Sometimes, I wonder why that man ever left the UK.

In the car my initial writings are confirmed and my eyes begin to close as Dave's words disappear........

I decided to eschew the flight, which involved a change in Madrid, accompanied by a three hour wait for the connection, in favour of driving up along the coast and furthering my knowledge of the area. From Malaga, I left along the coast road with the possible idea in my head of stopping in Gibraltar, though as I got closer I realised that my current living environment did not require me to need to see the place in this life. So, instead, I chose for a breakfast stop in San Roque, supposed home of a mythical Spanish dog from a tongue twister used in language teaching, he was out. So was most of San Roque, a quick coffee and a toast and it was back on the road. I preferred the coast road to the motorway, I was in no hurry and had left for Lisbon more than two days before the others would arrive in the capital, which gave me time to check out the Algarve coast and maybe even rent some clubs for a quick eighteen.

My plan was to make it to Huelva, close to the Portuguese border, where I planned to do an overnight stop in the village of El Rocio. This curious hamlet is where people pay an annual pilgrimage which is supposedly religious but from the stories I have heard it seems more like a wife-swapping and sherry tasting convention. This was quite a drive for me so it would have to be lunch in Cadiz. Cadiz brought back memories of the holiday, and, worryingly, Benny's latest venture into a possible P45 moment. I wondered what Fat Charlie planned to do with him, though in my heart felt that the answer was apparent. The fire had caused a great deal of damage and blame was clearly at the feet of Benjamin. I arrived in Cadiz in time for lunch and found a nice place in the centre, a bit off the beaten track and followed it with a wee doze under a sun-lounger. By five I was on the road again, it seemed a simple affair as I made it up to Sanlucar la Barrameda and was then confronted by a surprising body of water. The map suggested that from Cadiz I went up to Seville and then across to Huelva, but that looked like a rather dull way to do things. I asked a few people if it was possible to get to El Rocio and they looked at me as if I had walked into their first born's first communion celebration and defecated on top of the cake. With the evening getting on, I decided to admit defeat and spend the night in Sanlucar.

This was not such a bad idea as Sanlucar is the home of some very pleasant wines which are particularly enjoyable on a late summer's eve. As I sat in the main square I was reminded of why travelling alone can be rather tiresome. I craved company but had no desire to initiate a conversation with a stranger, just as I didn't wish to be verbally attacked by some stranger who, obviously like me, had no friends. I wandered round the old town for a bit and got trapped in a conversation with some old dears on the sherry, slight feeling of déjà vu, and, making my excuses, I returned to my accommodation with the excuse that there was a long drive ahead of me.

Admitting defeat again, I drove up to Seville and took the motorway to Huelva, giving El Rocio a miss after the problems it caused me the day before. I was in Huelva by twelve, and thought it best to lunch there. Huelva is not a particularly beautiful city, there is little to write about it from what I saw, lots of charming factories and the oldest football team in Spain. I made no attempt to digest in the province and hit the car again as I aimed to be in the Algarve as soon as possible. People had mentioned an island called Tavira, not far from Faro conveniently on the E-1, very pleasing driving considering the local wine left a slight furry lining on the roof of my mouth.

I arrived in good time for a swim on the "Ilha de Tavira", one of the most architecturally stunning areas of the Algarve, almost unchanged in comparison to some of the rather tacky affairs down the coast. Albufeira and Faro spring to mind as places to avoid, yet Tavira with its island offer a more relaxing sojourn on the coast. Parking the car, I opted for staying on the actual island rather than in the town. The island has a relaxed atmosphere; some might say a little bit hippy, but still a very pleasant way to wind down after the journey. The atmosphere in the bars is very different to the previous evening. Being alone was not an obvious problem the drinks flowed merrily and I was soon invited to toke on a nice example of some home-grown. Happily spending the evening with my new Portuguese friends, we took the party on to a local disco. As the snooze factor posed a problem I handed round a few pills and the night fell into place accordingly. I was dancing with a rather eye-pleasing young thing from Setubal, it could have been the start of something beautiful but I had a rendezvous with the boys for lunch and was still about three hours from Lisbon with a break. I told her I had to go to the gents and made a swift exit to my rented accommodation.

The fuzzy head reappeared in the morning but two cups of coffee helped me return a sense of normality to the affair. The rest of the road was more or less straight, in many ways the E-1 drives itself, and at 180km/h I was soon in sight of the capital. Unfortunately, coming from the south means that I enter Lisbon over the 25th April Bridge which is only two kilometres long, I wish I had done the round trip and entered via the Madrid – Lisbon road, which would allow me to enter the capital via the stunning Vasco de Gama bridge, which runs an impressive near eighteen kilometres over the Tagus, and built to commemorate the five hundredth anniversary of the Portuguese explorer's discovery of the sea route to the Indies via the Cape of Good Hope. Quite simply the finest bridge experience in Europe, if not the world, who knows, enough to bring out the civil engineer......

The car comes to an abrupt halt as we arrive at what will be the hub of the "Luso" operation. We exited the vehicle and entered the building. It was located near the business district of the city and gave the impression of being a place I wouldn't mind working in. Ruben Shuffle shook hands with the concierge and handed him a brown, unmarked envelope. This was nothing new and the lad passed on a hearty "Bom dia" as we entered the lift. The office was on the ninth floor, so there was no way Fat Charlie would walk it, and I doubt he would if he would make it to the first floor on foot. As the lift moved its way to the top of the building Ruben hit the stop button and we were left stranded between the third and forth floors. Fat Charlie gave me a look and then suddenly began to speak. Then I realised what was going to happen, for some reason he thought that I was responsible for the fire, or that all the ills that Benny and Zippy had caused the organisation were my fault, and I was going to pay the ultimate price. My lip started to quiver as he pulled out a revolver. This was how I was going to die? Fucking brilliant, in a lift in Lisbon. For the fuck ups of my useless friends. How magnificent. I tried to voice the word "no" but nothing came out. Fat Charlie gave the gun to Ruben and began to talk.

"Graham. We are not here to form a business with the Portuguese. Rather we have to eliminate a rather greedy employee who has had his dirty fingers in my pies. The same as Malaga, this cannot be allowed to continue, my reputation is at stake. This is why you are here. You have done well for us, you and Gore. Let's not mention the other two. We have plans for you and want you to become a more important piece in the operation. However, our business is tainted, and so are our hands, as are yours. That said, we need to know that you are with us at every level and are prepared to dirty your hands to the same extent. We want you to pull the trigger Graham, only once, then, I promise I will never ask such a thing of you again, but you must do this thing for us, so that we know. Do you understand?" With that he handed me the gun and took a step back.

I wasn't capable of speech. I felt the weapon in my hand and it seemed inconceivable that this tool had the power to end a human life. I simply nodded. What could I do? Now if I said no then I would end up in the Tagus. They told me the plan. When Dave asked for a glass of water that was when I had to shoot the guy. What a way to go. Not even in the worst films do people go in such a fashion. Someone I didn't know. Someone I would never know. As the lift started up again Ruben ran off a short catalogue of the bad guy's crimes. He had generally, ripped off Fat Charlie and abused the levels of trust normally required and expected within the organisation. Therefore, to avoid people far away from Charlie's web of control, this lad was going to bite the bullet, well, only if my aim was not true.

We entered the room and caught our intended victim by surprise. He pretended to be pleased to see us, using the words unexpected pleasure. I felt the gun in my hand and was immediately worried about the stirrings it caused in my trousers. This was not supposed to happen. I secretly hoped that some sort of reconciliation could be achieved, so that I could look like I was going to go through with the deed, but without having to pull the trigger. That seemed like a perfect immediate solution, though I soon realised that the situation would arise again. The lad pleaded for his life, he sobbed as he mentioned his family, how sorry he was, the usual rubbish. I wasn't really listening by now, I didn't hear as Dave asked for a glass of water, too occupied trying to hide the erection in my shorts. It was on the third repetition of Dave's request that I caught some of the words. At first my fingers froze on the trigger as my eyes caught his, I was sure I was squeezing the thing yet no bullet came out. My eyes shifted to Dave who looked disgustedly at me, whilst at the same time offering an "I told you so" look to Fat Charlie. It was Dave I wanted to kill as I squeezed the trigger three times and hit, I believe heart, stomach and lung. It didn't take long for him to die. Dave commented that I was a late developer but soon got the hang of things. Ruben tried to take the gun from me, but my hand was clamped to the weapon. I couldn't let the grip go; I wanted the gun in my hand forever. I felt a cavalcade of emotions run through my body more powerful than I had ever felt with drugs. However, as with the drugs, it didn't last, I dropped the gun on the floor and fell swiftly on top of it.

I came around in the car. Fat Charlie was giving me a bottle of water like I was some overgrown baby. My first reaction was to check that the erection had dissipated, thankfully it had. I remembered scenes from films where people vomited after their first murder, but I now felt nothing, not even remorse for the life I had taken. I tried to analyse my actions, I had killed someone I didn't know, but he knew what he had done, if you play the game like that, it's best not to get caught, and if you might get caught, you have to put distance. He had been stupid, he should have considered his family, he didn't deserve them, he was an idiot, and he had, in reality, committed suicide. Fat Charlie asked me what I wanted to do and I said a line and a whiskey would help things a little. They agreed and we drove back into the old town, as I looked out of the window of this beautiful city I wondered where all this would end as I had now added first degree murder to my curriculum of shame. Still, the thought of a drink appealed.
BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-FIVE

That killing bug

GRAHAM: I was fine whilst we were partying in the streets of Lisbon. It was when the emptiness of the hotel room welcomed me again that my mind started to wander. Sleep was going to be difficult, I was not keen on the idea of sleeping pills, too many chemical snoozes had taught me that an enforced rest with woes on your mind doesn't tend to help things. Therefore, I took the healthy decision to not embark on any rest until my body could not do without it. This meant some room service, alcohol would only force the issue, a sandwich and lots of coffee would help me continue through the night. The rest of them had made their way to a place of relax, but my previous experiences had made it clear that that was not an avenue I wished to travel down again.

The coffee came and I chose a film from the on-screen menu. I wasn't too interested in anything they had to offer, though considered it best to avoid one that didn't feature too much murder. It was clear that if I looked for them there would be cross-references and subtexts in every offering the seventh art could provide me with, even Notting Hill appeared to be little more than a catalogue of assassinations, cleverly disguised by Hugh's overly English manner. Despite efforts to the contrary, the lack of entertainment drove me closer to rest and my usual capacity to find an extra dinner service for insomnia was somewhat lacking.

At least my slumber was not a haunted one. When I awoke from it I was mostly worried by the fact that I felt nothing. It did not register in my head that I had killed a man. Surely, I should feel something inside me that made me aware of my actions? Why had I committed this atrocious crime? Why did I live this life? Was there anything less me than the life I had chosen? Perhaps that was the issue, that this life was me, too me. Perhaps I was a killer. Perhaps that was my chosen mission in life. Perhaps I felt bad in Malaga because I didn't get to pull the trigger. I still had the gun with me. I decided that I had to know the truth. I needed to know if my feelings for murder were really a calling or not. I lay on the bed with the gun in my hand, desperate to pull the trigger again. Not because I wanted to kill, rather because I wanted to know if I felt something or not. I reasoned that, if I took another life, and felt like this, then I would never repeat the action in my life. If I felt something, then I would have to deal with the fact that a serial killer lurked within me.

Over breakfast I hatched a plan. Fat Charlie and the rest were leaving by plane later that day. I still had the car that was my excuse. The car was about to be forgotten. It was not in my name, that would be foolish, obviously my DNA would be all over it, but I did not believe the CSI thing. Anyway, aren't I in Malaga with hundreds of witnesses? They asked me for the gun but I say that I panicked and threw it in the Tagus. This does not cause extreme pleasure, though the consensus is that what is done is, in many ways, done. I pretend to be level in the head department and merely in need of a couple of days on the coast before heading back to the office. The good thing about working for people for whom murder is as commonplace as a tax return is that they assume you will also be cool with the programme. That is what I intend to fin out later today.

We check out and say our goodbyes, disposing of the false documentation with which we hand checked into the hotel. I had another two sets of false ID, we always travelled like this so that steps could not be traced. I went into the car-park and gave the car a dusting down with a T Shirt so that any fingerprints would be removed. This probably wouldn't help if they found me or the car, but that wouldn't happen, and, it made me feel better, also giving me time to formulate a plan. I looked at my trusty guide book and decided the town of Coimbra would be a good place to start. I always slept well on trains and I discovered that there was one at twenty past two which would have me there around five. Coimbra itself looked potentially big and worrying, so I decided to disembark a stop or two before in the sleepy town of Condeixa A Velha. Here would I get off the train and walk into the country, my plan was fool proof. I checked there was a car hire facility in the town and was soon on my way to the train station. I arrived in good time to manage an interesting meal experience. You get a plate and then help yourself to food, then they weigh the plate and you pay for your stuff. Unfortunately, the plates seem to be laced with mercury, but the fare is good considering my sparrow like stomach. I wish to appear as normal a person as possible, everything is paid in cash, enormously inconspicuous, no-one would remember me, at least I hope. I bought the ticket from the machine on the platform, found a carriage with only a few people on and lay back in the surprisingly comfortable seat.

The locomotive motion soon had me in that curious state between sleep and waking, my head dropping ungamely and causing whiplash as the train progressed. In this state, I perfected my plan. How could I sleep on a train when yesterday I killed a man? How could I be so calm? For this reason, I knew I had to do what I was about to do. I travelled light, I only had my gun, the three bullets that remained from yesterday, a bottle of water, a packet of smokes and some valium and coke. As the train made its way to my destination I prepared myself mentally for, what I hoped would be my final murderous act. I drifted back into a semi-conscious state and, despite the dribbling, was pleased to see we would soon be in Condeixa.

Without causing any interest, I got off the train, my hand firmly placed on Gore's DJ Bag all the time, if I lost that then there would be murder. There wasn't even a guard at the station, so shades on I wandered out of town. This did not take much wandering as the place was small. I put my hand inside the bag and checked the gun, it seemed ready for its moment. I would walk along a country road and then, the first person I saw, indiscriminate of age or sex, I would kill. Then I would know. Then that would be an end to it. I know it was unfortunate for the victim but I saw it as a small price to pay in the long run. If I knew that I wasn't a killer I would be able to get on with things, leading as normal a life as possible within the confines of my work. I walked for about twenty minutes and was clearly out of town. I found a road that seemed to lead nowhere and waited for my victim to cross my path. A few more minutes walking and the sun was taking its toll on me. The water in the bottle was almost warm but still gave some relief to my dry mouth. This town was so sleepy that it looked like no-one would cross my path, I was even thinking about choosing a different path when in the distance a figure appeared. It was about three hundred metres in front of me when I first saw it, so I could not distinguish the sex of the person. I took the last of the water and felt my heart beat increase. All I had to do was end this life and then all this would be over. As I marched on it became clear that my victim was a woman, now she was about one hundred and fifty metres in front of me, she looked young, even from this distance quite pretty. As the distance became less than one hundred metres I remember thinking I was glad it hadn't been a kid. Now I could distinguish her features, she was young, I would say about twenty-three, very pretty, she was wearing a short skirt that showed lovely long legs. Her looks were typical of the Iberian Peninsula, long brown hair flowed down her back, a broad smile covered her face. She seemed a happy person, enjoying life, perhaps she had a special reason for the smile on her face, maybe she had just finished University or something, or her beloved had just proposed to her and she was off to tell her parents the good news. Maybe she was just a happy person who saw nothing but beauty in life and was enjoying this summer evening, simple plans, a dinner with friends, living a decent, honest life. She was now less than ten metres away from me as these thoughts ran through my head, I told myself not too look back after the deed was done, her beautiful face flashed me a smile as our paths crossed and, in one swift motion, I extracted the gun and shot her in the face.

The close range of the impact meant that there was no question that she was dead. Bits of skull and brain were splayed along the path and I took great care not to stain my clothes. The silencer meant that no-one could have heard a thing. I walked on another hundred metres and turned left. It seemed that this road was back into town, I had to hope that no-one found the body for at least an hour or so, that would give me time to hire a car and get out of the place. I fought the temptation to look back as I turned, and within ten minutes I was on the outskirts of town again. Luckily, I saw a fire burning pointlessly off the side of the road, I cleaned the gun down and threw it onto the fire. The next stroke of luck was a vending machine that I bought an ice-cold bottle of water from without leaving any prints, treating myself to a dab of coke, I washed it down with a healthy swig. Now I had a spring in my step.

It took another ten minutes to find the car hire place. Portuguese is very similar to my mother's Galician tongue, so I could understand a fair bit, though the pronunciation was more than a struggle. My first choice of false ID was that of a French gentleman called Alain Bernard. A nice nondescript name, I entered, chatty and charming, trying to speak Portuguese but failing miserably in a quite theatrical French accent. I took a SEAT Ibiza and in a matter of minutes was in possession of the keys. I bade the charming young thing a good day and to my intense delight, was on the road before seven.

My plan is to head for Salamanca, stay there overnight and then go to Madrid the following day. Finding the N-620 I began driving to Espinho, the total distance was just over two hundred and fifty kilometres so I thought that with a little luck I should be in Salamanca by half nine. At Espinho I stopped to pick up supplies. The television news was on, forest fires being the main talking point, that suggested that the body hadn't been found. I bought some milk shakes, sparkling water and a Solero, dished out an over-the-top "Merci" and got back in the car. Heading down the motorway my mind wandered to the girl I had just killed, I still felt nothing for her and what I had done, this was a good sign and meant that I was almost definitely not a murderer, or not an innate one. I decided to force the issue as I drove along, quite impressed by the quality of the Portuguese radio, especially in comparison with their Spanish counterparts.

Forcing the issue, I visualise her face, as I remember her before blowing her brains out. I imagine that she was on her way home, armed with good news, not only had she just finished her university course, but she had been accepted on a prestigious master's course in the capital. All the family awaited her at home, her mother looking at the clock and shaking her head as she laughed "Where has that daughter of mine got to? What little birds in her head!" At the table her little sister smiled, it didn't matter if her sister was late, she was just waiting for her to come back so she could give her a big kiss and tell her how much she loved her. Her mother took a cake from the fridge and got the table ready, she told her husband that it was time to put the coffee on, but her father responded that this moment deserved something more special than coffee and went to fetch a bottle of port that he had been saving for such an occasion. Whilst fiddling with the bottle her father commented on what a dizzy, scatty thing she could be, her little sister laughing as she told her Papa not to be bad, the three of them laughing and remembering the amount of times the eldest forgot things and generally had her head away with the fairies. She was always late, and, this time, it would seem that she had forgotten her keys. Her mother shook her head as she went to open the door, her little sister hiding behind the door so that she could jump out and scare her sister, and then give her the biggest kiss ever and tell her that she loved her. Her mother was still smiling as she opened the door, expecting to see her daughter and receive two kisses, though as the door opened, she saw something that would instantly remove the smile, indeed it would be a long time before she would smile again, maybe she would never again smile like she used to. Her father instinctively knew something was wrong, the bottle slipped from his hands and left a macabre pictorial metaphor on the floor as glass and the dark liquid intermingled in the same way that bits of cranium and brain covered the path where his daughter's corpse lay. Her little sister would never get that kiss, nor would she ever understand what had taken her sister away from her. I see that we are close to the Spanish border and on a negative note, that means that the radio will so go downhill. Still feel nothing, good news, I know it's hard to justify this and many people will see my reasoning as far from plausible, but I see it as if I feel nothing I will never need to kill again, and, that seems like an adequate sacrifice to me.
BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-SIX

Timeline Marbella Timeline Luton

BOOK TWO - SECTION THIRTY-SEVEN

It took a tattooed boy from Maidenhead to really open her eyes

GRAHAM: And that was how he told me. I know Dave had very little love for Benny, but you would think that he would have had some compassion for the fact that we had spent the last two decades together. That said, I hardly gave anyone any reason to think that the news of his death would particularly upset me. However, the fact that Dave told me with all the heart of someone telling me that in the end he had been unable to fix my lawn-mower somehow felt wrong. I put the phone down and looked at the sea that licked the shores outside my new apartment. I waited for the news to sink in, I waited for a feeling, some kind of emotion inside of me that signified grief for the loss of life-long friend, but there was nothing.

At first, I didn't know whether to feel bad or not for not feeling anything. Our friendship had been in decline since the late nineties, I can't remember the last time we had any fun together, or I was pleased to see him. Anyway, wasn't it me who pleaded with Charlie for clemency? Wasn't it me who risked my reputation, and then for what? So that he could admit on television that he and Fat Charlie and the rest of us where up to our necks in it? So that he could burn down Fat Charlie's expensive holiday home? Not only that, but he goes about his work making more enemies than friends, the happy-go-lucky king of fashion that sold with ease on the streets of Luton is no more, he antagonises everyone, I suppose I had better get used to describing him in the past simple, and no-one has much affection for the fellow. Everyone, likes a clown, despite the fuck-ups (see Zippy), but no-one likes a miserable, egotistical arse who fucks everything up. After this analysis, I feel even less for Benny's passing, though I have realised that there is something that I cannot face right now, The Other Two.

Not that I am against New Order splinter groups, I refer to Zippy and Gore. I feel nothing, but I cannot be expected to grieve for them. I do not have that capacity, and I cannot be there faking mourning when in my heart of hearts I would love to cry out "Good Riddance!" I phoned Dave again and told him I needed a few days. He told me not to worry but not to lose touch. I said I wasn't going far, God bless old chestnuts like "needing to get my head together", everyone has to accept that, it's the law, I just wanted away, let the dust settle, my remaining friends would have to cope with this tragic loss on their own. Jotting down Fat Charlie's mobile number and, reluctantly, that of Dave, I thought it best to switch off my phone. I had to move quickly, as soon as they find out they will phone, when I don't answer, they will appear. I have no time to pack. I will stop off somewhere on the way and purchase everything I need for my break. What I do need is a destination. I closed my eyes and using the power of the random pen, chose somewhere to spend the next three days or so. The first couple of attempts proved to be on the top of mountain or in a forest, I would at least need somewhere with a hotel of some quality, plus I didn't want to drive along anywhere too ghastly. Remembering the need to calculate the hurry-up coefficient, I move to the nearest place that looks acceptable on the map and let Mr. Google do the rest. I find a place called Jubrique which is less than one hundred kilometres along the MA 557 which I can pick up at Estepona, it doesn't look like tough driving, though my skills are often tested in car-parks and the like. The hotel Fuentecilla Rural sounded as good as anywhere, it didn't seem like much fun, but then again I didn't want any.

I jumped in the car and struggled to get it out of the parking space, something that tends to occupy a great part of my day. More often than not I leave the beast in its lair and take a taxi. After a decent bit of cursing I finally get the vehicle to the exit, though I have amusingly left the strange plastic key thing in the flat, much to the hilarity of the two vehicles that have formed a mini-queue behind me. I give them one of those smiles that tries to explain everything, but they still considered me a fool. I return to the flat as quickly as possible and try to locate the key, which has entered a black hole in the flat. I eventually find the thing, though I am not looking forward to seeing my fellow motorists again, I just hope they know of the reputation of the people whose employ I am in. It appears they don't as my parentage is questioned. I have no time for this so try to drive away as quickly as possible, causing the thing to stall which initiates the klaxon orchestra's third movement in B Major. I make a mental note to have their families assassinated and their villages torched the moment I come back and am off, thankfully, after far too much huffing and puffing.

Despite saying I wouldn't, I leave my mobile on, but on silent. Just to see if they left a message or something, a kind of morose sensation as to how they would react to the news. My friends probably wouldn't get the news until late on today, or even tomorrow. Maybe they would never know the truth, all I was told was that Benny had been given a type of celestial P45. I would no doubt have to be back in Marbella on Saturday for lunch so by then I hope all the dust would have settled. I can fake any emotion once they have had enough time to get their heads round it. I stop off at the Cañada shopping centre on the outskirts of Marbella, not because it was on my way, rather that it is the easiest one to park in, and after the subterranean experience at home, I would like things to be as easy as possible from now on.

Once inside the shopping centre I was overtaken by my shocking level of nerdiness. It had escaped my mind that I was supposed to be performing some form of grief ceremony for my recently departed friend, but I was more interested in the offers on toothpaste. I kept the mobile with me but knew that even on a school-day, the chances of a call from Zippy before ten in the morning would be improbable. I bought some clothes and toiletries and was soon on the road again. Trying to force a feeling by listening to some of the shite music that Benny used to listen to, but still nothing manages to make me feel anything. In fact it is worse than that, I begin to consider the possibility that Benny may have done the rest of us a favour, Zippy can be saved, people like him, and maybe it will be his wake-up call. God knows, he needs it. I must not keep saying "God knows" and "God willing" as I don't believe, despite my mother's concern. I eventually find the MA 557 and begin to wind my way up the mountain pass. I consider turning back and finding somewhere up the coast, but something tells me to drive on to Jubrique.

I am somehow taken with the name, the person I don't believe in knows why, so onwards I go up the windy, vomit-inducing hills. Of course it looked like simple driving on a map that I couldn't read and showed only the most basic of information. After nearly an hour's driving I appeared to be equidistantly far from my chosen destination. Finally, I found a turn-off that lead me up another hill, I felt for a moment that the town planners around here had been tricked with a bag of beans in the past as the low lying cloud became the newest of my many concerns. It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning when I arrived in the village. Luckily there wasn't much there to test my rather shaky orienteering skills. If this indeed was a one horse town, I had arrived on a day that it was moonlighting down the hill. However, the place looked just what I needed for a few days. I had almost accepted that I wouldn't lie to myself anymore, I wouldn't find solace in my pain for Benny here, he was dead and it was his fault, my motivation was not to make the same mistake, something I didn't fear would happen. Benny effectively committed suicide, only that another person actually ended his life. I parked up in a space for two cars in such a way that would anger another driver later on, took out my scant possessions and crossed the road to the hotel.

At eleven and a bit a.m., my stomach was suggesting that breakfast should be entertained forthwith, though I assumed that checking in would be the work of a mere moment. With a smile on my face I made my way to the reception desk I gave the delightful looking young thing my information expecting confirmation from the Internet booking service. She looked at my reservation number, and then at me, then at the computer, then at me again. My knowledge of the hotel game told me that the number of keys that were in their cubby-holes meant that the hotel was not full, so should the world wide web fail to book me a place, I felt confident of striking a deal in a more conventional way. Unless, of course, the Swedish ladies volleyball team were arriving any moment now. That would be rather disappointing. I was slightly worried about my mirth considering the recent passing of a friend, but that was just the way things were. I felt certain that my jolly state would not last long as there did seem to be more than one problem to iron out. We started with the fact that the computer did not admit the reservation number. I suggested her worrying was curtailed as we could start afresh with a new reservation, she informed me that this was impossible, as the system recognised the reservation and it couldn't be deactivated. This was the first time I had heard such a sentence, and cared not for its repetition. She called a colleague at a travel agent's and between the pair of them they quickly managed to get no closer to my room. Luckily after a few minutes we managed to cancel my original reservation and start again. It was going to cost me extra for this, my caring levels were now very low, I just wanted to get my things in my room and, well, after that I didn't know what I was going to do.

We began again with the reservation. I was actually using my own ID for this one, as there was no illegal activity involved, a rare experience in previous times, though I felt confident that I would not kill anyone during this stay. After twenty minutes of fro-ing and not much to-ing, my reservation was made. I asked her what room it was and she told me the number. Then, she told me some more things. I couldn't go to my room until it had been cleaned, despite the fact that it had been vacant the previous eve. I asked her how many guests they had had the previous night and she admitted that the hotel had been empty. I asked her how many cleaners they had, she furnished me with the information that their number was two. I enquired, tacitly, or so I thought, that if there were two cleaners that had begun their cleaning duties two hours since, it would be fair to suppose that one of their tasks may have already been completed and there would be a habitable room available for me. This request was treated with almost disbelief by the receptionist as the rules did not permit such a thing. My room could not be occupied before noon and that was the case. I was welcome to wait in the bar, but that would not be open till twelve, although I technically couldn't either as I wasn't really a guest, until twelve. I asked her if she could look after my bag but she reminded me that I wasn't technically a guest. Smiling still, I suggested she wasn't much of a receptionist and returned to the open air, informing her that I would be back.

I put my things in the boot and began to seek out a solution to the problem of breakfast. There was a cafeteria across the square which appeared to be open, activity was minimal in the village, summer was reaching its end and most people probably had little desire to be here. I don't know why, it all seemed very nice and postcardy to me. Across the road was a cafeteria that looked about as good as anything I would find around here, and I decided that the world would fall into place with a coffee and a light inside me, and, should the Gods curry favour with me, a bit of toast.

Entering through those strange metal door curtains, I am sure neither language has a word for them, a set of hanging metal beads that perhaps would prevent a very weak drunk from entering, but for the rest of us there is just fear of the loss of an eye. The curtains indicate really that you are not in a city, that people will observe you like a little green feller who has just double-parked his spaceship in front of the town hall and asked for a bevy of local virgins to be sent to your slaughter chamber. Thankfully, the place is empty. I remember a film I saw as a child that was about a neutron bomb that killed everyone in the city but left the buildings intact. That was how the town appeared, I gave a shout of "Good Morning" and took a seat. I had picked up a book in Malaga, a collection of short stories by the same chap who wrote that "Secrets" thing that was not up to much, but I like to give people a second chance, take Benny for example. I remember that he is dead, and I remember that I still can't see any negatives. There are noises coming from the kitchen so I assume I shall be attended to in a matter of hours. I leave it another five minutes and give out a shout of "Oiga!" which literarily means "HEAR!" and I find very unpleasant and rude, still it is one of the most effective ways of getting any attention. A female voice indicates that a moment's more waiting is required. I accept this and continue waiting.

A few seconds later I hear the charmless expression "Cabrón de Mierda!", literally, "Bastard of Shit!" This type of exclamation is generally reserved for people for whom you feel extreme hatred and I was surprised as I had not really had time to make any enemies in this place. As I look up to see the fountain of this fury, a coffee cup comes flying towards my head, and only my ninja training permits me to sidestep this attack and I question its validity. My parentage is questioned and the saucer follows the cup, this time I am not quick enough and it catches me just above the eyebrow. There is a feeling of intense pain and my right eye chooses to take some time out from its seeing duties. That means I am badly posed to avoid the second cup, which catches on the forehead, and then things go black.

I awake after an unknown amount of time to find a woman in her early forties standing over me with a rolling pin. My vision is still impaired, that coupled with the knock on the head impedes me putting two and two together. She asks me what I am doing here and how I had the audacity to try to find her. Then, the penny dropped.

"Julia? What? But, what?" My surprise was such that that was the most articulate catechise that I could muster.

"What the fuck are you playing at? Hasn't enough time passed? Can't you let me get on with my life?" She spoke and raised the rolling pin. I felt it best to make my explanation far beyond excellent.

"Don't, please!" Was the best I could offer. I bought myself a moment to think. How was I here? How was she here? How weird was this? "Julia, I had no idea that you were here. You must believe me. If I had known I would never have come. I've been living in Marbella, I needed to get out of town for a while and chose a place at random with a pen on the map. I had never even heard of this place before this morning. You have to believe me. This is all random." I gave her a pleading puppy-dog look just to make it all sound more real, such is the lot of liars, the difficulty we have in making the truth sound plausible.

"Marbella? Bit of a step up from Luton, isn't it? So you just ended up here by chance? Well I don't care if it's true or not, makes no difference to me. I am surprised you didn't get yourself killed a long while ago. Anyway, it's great to see you." She smiled.

"Really?" I responded, like a fool who sees a sign saying walk into this wall and does just that.

"Not at all." She maintained the smile.

"I see you have fostered an appreciation for sarcasm since we last met."

"Well, having you hopes and dreams shattered by the biggest arsehole ever to walk that planet often makes you change your outlook on life."

"Sarcasm again?" I enquire.

"This time it was the truth." Now the smile had gone. "I suppose you could have a coffee now you are here. Don't steal anything." She went into the kitchen. My right eye was filled with blood my head hurt like fuck, I didn't know whether it was from the blows or the reencounter. Either way this was quite strange indeed. Julia still looked good, her hair was still black, though maybe dyed, and she had kept her figure. I cautiously rose from my chair and made my way to the kitchen entrance with the aim of small talk.

"So, how have you been?" Great start, Gray. "I mean, you look well." As if that was going to bring it round.

"What do you expect to hear? That I never got over you? Years of therapy and counselling have failed to erase the mental scar you left? Well, it wasn't like that. Quite the opposite, quite a few bottles of vodka and quite a few cocks I never asked the name of their owners soon made things alright again. Maybe you did me a favour, no-one has ever hurt me since. That doesn't mean I have become a sour, old witch, far from it. I have learnt how to love and how to be realistic. For that reason, the coffee's on me." She pushed past me with the coffees and returned to the table. I decided to just play things by ear, if I could get out of here without another injury, I would settle for that.

"So, how did you end up here? Strange choice wouldn't you say?" This question was, some would say, pivotal, if she invited me to mind my own business I might as well finish my coffee and leave, should she answer offering some information, then maybe this could be an interesting day. It was certainly crossing my mind that us meeting in these circumstances was indeed rather strange, the kind of thing to blow the fatalist Gore's head off. She did that womanly thing with her coffee, she started looked into it, swilling it round, as if she were waiting for the coffee to give her permission to respond. Of course, she had her answer, but was allowing me to dread the myriad of possible diatribes that could soon leave her mouth.

"This place chose me more than the other way around." That was a good response, she couldn't leave it there, unless this was some episodic series that would be continued in the near future. I gave her a look of genuine interest and prepare my sore head for concentrated listening. "My husband is mayor of this place." That hurt more than the cup to the head. She knew what she was doing, all this was aimed to create a response. I tried to look cool, but failed. Then I had a flash of inspiration. If I was to go down, then it would be fighting.

"I suppose you don't wear your wedding ring to work so that it doesn't get damaged in the kitchen etc.?" It was hard not to look pleased with myself.

"Very perceptive." She smiled and continued to play with her coffee. She excused herself for a minute. For a painter, she had a lot of Agatha Christie about her. Whilst she did something that did not appear that urgent, I waited at the table. I wanted to stay here, I was still realistic, but it would be nice to stay. After five minutes she returned with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Pouring liberally, she took a swig, asked me for a tab and began. "I have been married for three years, but hardly see the man. He is never here, I get this place, the hotel and other little things. It didn't start off as a marriage of convenience, of course, neither was it true love. He had his political responsibilities and his business interests. At first, he was away Monday to Friday, then it just sort of became longer. Now I am just called upon to look good on his arm when he has a function to attend. We still get on quite well, we just never coincide. He prefers younger things that can be easily distracted by his financial prowess. The situation suits me, I don't have to worry about money. I like it here; this place never has any customers and if there are then I have staff to deal with them. I can go up to the house in the mountains to paint, at the weekends I go off to London, Paris, Venice, Florence or Munich and wander round art galleries and from time to time have exhibitions. I even sell the odd doodle. She looked up and poured from the bottle again.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Was my measured response.

"Like fuck you are!" Was hers.

I laughed and she poured a third brandy. I told her that I wasn't used to such swigging at this early hour. She told me to shut up and drink. That seemed like good advice. She asked me what was going on in Marbella. I told her the story since she last was seen on the streets of Luton, something which has taken the four of us over three hundred pages to get to, but I managed to sum up in less than two minutes. Dear readers, how we could so easily have saved you all this time. Benny's assassination was the logical point where I left the story. She said she couldn't believe that all four of us had made it this far, though wasn't surprised that the only people that I had had a long-lasting relationship with were those I didn't like or couldn't shake off. I suggested that wasn't fair for Gore. She said the fact that I was making excuses for them still proved her point. It would be nice to right just for once. The brandy was causing my head to pound. She didn't seem too offended in my company, and I had no desire to go anywhere else. Taking a big gulp and then fighting the white-knuckle ride, I asked her what her immediate plans were.

"Maybe you wouldn't mind hanging out later?" Where did that come from? Had I suddenly become a character from Beverly Hills 90210? I had never used that expression in my life. Was I under the impression I was cool? I tried to rectify the situation. "I mean, if you have no plans. Maybe I could buy you dinner?" A strange itchy sweat invaded my palms and neck as I realised I had done badly. She took the bottle in her hand again and said: "Why the hell not?"

That was what I would consider a good result, it was though, just a little before one. There was a lot of afternoon to be had, but my goal now was to get some sleep and try to get my head feeling normal again. Julia was pouring more brandy, I hadn't eaten, I had been bonked on the head with porcelain, and the fact that I was here with her was all too much for me. Julia asked me to help her with some stuff in the kitchen, that didn't make any sense, but neither did any of what was happening. As I followed her into the kitchen the pain in my head did seem to subside. She asked me if I knew how to peel prawns, I wasn't going to tell her I didn't so I began to get busy with the fish. I peeled away happily for a couple of minutes when then from behind I felt a pair of hands on top of mine, within seconds and rolling between bits of peeled prawns we reached the next level of reconciliation, and that, I imagine is more than enough information for you.

After the passion left the kitchen there was a moment that may have invited trepidation and even led to an expulsion. Her silence was evident as she slid off the table, readjusting herself in an attempt to collect her composure. The moment lasted a lot longer than the clock on the wall seemed to suggest, then, after what felt like an eternity, she said that she had some things to do and would see me later. I would accept that. I didn't have much choice. I found myself in the hotel, ready for a bed. Counting the parts of my body that didn't hurt, I fell into the bed and was soon wondering whether to risk entering the land of dreams. I gave way soon, remembering that I had lived in some form of dream for the majority of my life.

I didn't know whether to take flowers or some of other form of gift for Julia. There didn't seem to be much point in taking a bottle of wine as she had a restaurant, she always had a good nose for the grape so I didn't want her giving me one of those looks as I handed the inadequate bottle over. She told me to turn up around eight but I had done everything that was on offer in this town well before seven after the noon. I wasn't sure how to react, I wasn't sure what to say, what to feel. I really wanted it to be a few hours down the line so I would at least know whether to feel anything again.

She opened the door and gave me a smile that at least suggested my early appearance did not cause her too much distress. She beckoned me in and handed me an apron. This felt more than strange, we were acting like we had been frozen in pods in a spaceship as we travelled to our new interstellar home and she had somehow forgotten about all the dreadful things that I had done to her in the name of our relationship. I don't know why I was complaining about that, she could, of course, spend the entire evening berating me for my numerous failures, and that would be a shame as my head was now feeling a lot better. She told me to peel some carrots, all the time looking over me as I did it, not in recognition of my good work, rather in desperation for my failure to do it as she would like. I have a theory that if I studied her technique and faithfully replicated it, it would still be wrong, like when she got me to help her to clean the house, but then complained that I only made things worse with my substandard performance. All that said, as I watched her cut the ham, I realised that I had fallen in love, with her, and once again.

Despite the fact that she laughed at my carrots, she appeared content with my wine opening ability. I poured her a glass and thought about giving her a kiss. By the time the thinking process suggested that it could possibly be a good idea, the moment, and the woman, had left the room. She told me to make myself at home in the living room, something which I did with ease, worryingly comfortable. I had to make myself look as uncomfortable as possible when she entered otherwise I would have a complex upon her return. We hadn't had a conversation since the incident between the prawns earlier and I still felt nervous. In my nervous state the first glass of wine barely touched the sides. I didn't want to get drunk as that would be a social faux pas. I tried not to drink but the glass kept coming back to my mouth. I had had three sips but they felt like three bottles, my heart beat like an overdose had been granted to me. I caught a glimpse of her in the kitchen, and realised, that common sense had now left the building. I was in love. I decided the best thing was to look cool, but I couldn't get the word marzipan out of my head, for some reason it was also the most hilarious locution that I had ever heard. My attempts to contain the giggle are fruitless as I resemble someone on a bus who has just remembered an incident of great hilarity. At least the rest of the bus can't see me. Things are under control when she returns with canapés, despite the lack of marzipan, I burst out laughing. I am glad I decided to look cool.

"What's so funny?" She enquired.

"I don't know. It just came out from nowhere." I gave her a look that begged pity.

"I thought maybe you had remembered Benny had been killed." She smiled and then realised that it was a rather unpleasant comment. I had forgotten all about Benny, but was smart enough to deflect the situation away from my stupidity and onto her embarrassment. There wouldn't be too many opportunities like this, so I had to make the best. I flashed her a look that I was about to give her a yellow. "Maybe that was in bad taste. I apologise. It's just that." She began to trip over her words. "Forget it. Let's eat. Extra-marital sex tends to sharpen my appetite." We took to the table and she spoke, but I couldn't hear the words. I could hear clouds and other things that didn't normally make sounds. Every sound had its own special relevance. Whilst I thought I was being delightfully charming and doleful, she just asked me if I was tripping. As everyone knows, a large meal and wine tends to make one sleepy, so we eschewed the idea of brandy in the west wing in favour of randy inside her things. My deepest apologies readers, there is truly no excuse for that.

I was awoken at around half past seven by the sound of a siren. It sped past Julia's residence and I spent a moment wondering if it belonged to an ambulance or a fire engine. I fell back on the pillow, looked at Julia and began to laugh again. She was also now awake.

"Hardly the most romantic gesture in the history in the coquet world."

"Sorry. It just seemed rather comical. I am here and yet paying for a room in a hotel that you own. Made me laugh."

"I am delighted to see that you have spent the interim years developing your well-bred sense of humour. Do me a favour, will you? Go to the window and tell me what all the commotion is." She had a strange look on her face so I did as she asked. In TV movie fashion I went to the window with the sheet tied round my waist, and saw very little than smoke bellowing from what used to be the main square. I informed her of this and she asked me to be seated.

"This may seem very strange. I have something to tell you and I beg you let me tell the story without interruption, however difficult the concepts may appear to comprehend." She said. I just shrugged and prepared to listen. What was the worst that she could tell me? Of course, I didn't even think about that. "Exactly ten days ago, I went up to the house we have in the mountains to paint. I like it up there and the view is spectacular. I have painted it God knows how many times and usually just start again on the same canvas. Strangely for the time of year, the weather turned dramatically and so I decided to stay the night up there. Being alone in one place or another does not make much difference. At just after ten there was a knock on the door so I went to investigate. The front door is covered by a large metal gate so I was fearless as I opened it. Stood there was a man in his fifties, asking if he could give me something to help him light his fire. He was staying in a house up the road and was lacking in firelighters. I gave him a couple of pine cones, a local trick, and he told me he had a message for me. I just wanted him out of my face as soon as possible, so I said "Really?" and he continued. He said that the message was that the past would come back but it wouldn't haunt me, and that the third time truly was lucky. I thanked him for the message and went to close the door. He said that his words were true and that if I didn't believe him, then the next day I should take a look in the garden. The very last tree would be bereft leaves or fruit. With that he bade me goodnight and was gone." She stopped for a moment to light a cigarette, yet I knew that it wasn't my time to speak. I gestured that she continue.

"Despite the weird encounter I was able to drift into a deep and fulfilling sleep. As I took coffee in the morning, I tried to avert my gaze from the garden but soon my curiosity got the better of me. I wandered down to the garden, the morning sun felt good on my bare arms, even though I was at nearly one thousand metres altitude, the rays of light always fell graciously on the garden in the morning, it still remains as one of my very favourite places. However, the warmth of the morning sun soon was found lacking as I saw the tree at the end of the garden suddenly without leaves or fruit, just as the old man said. I felt nothing for a moment, expecting to feel something, but it somehow felt alright, it wasn't a problem, the rest of the trees were fine, the night's storm had passed and the weather presented itself with the finest of credentials. I got in the car and came back down to the village. The incident was clearly unusual but I didn't find it upsetting, nor did I feel the need to make sense of the old man's prophecy, somehow, I knew that the meaning would be made clear. Two days later, I received a letter that told me that everyone I cared about should be kept away from the hotel on the dawn of the thirteenth, this morning, at seven thirty in the morning, as a fire would ravage the place. The letter told me not to be concerned as the money would be necessary for the future. Then you walked into the bar and everything fell into place. Normally, without the benefit of the visit from the old man, you would have considered being hit on the head with a cup as the highlight of the agonising violence I was about to inflict on you. However, despite the Twin Peaks storyline, I wanted to know what was going on. Still, I had to make you bleed, just a little. I didn't want to give anything away. You were the only guest in the hotel so I gave the staff the night off. There are a couple of the staff who get on my nerves but not enough to wish on them cremation. It wasn't hard to get you out of the place. Now you are here, the hotel is on fire, and this is quite curious, if you will allow me to dabble with understatement." She extinguished her cigarette and looked at me.

"Gosh." I simply said. Swearing somehow felt wrong. "What are we going to do about it?" I hoped she had some answers, as I didn't.

"First, I need to get some more sleep. They will come knocking for me quite soon and there will be an amount of paperwork which will make my already repentant head, for the wine, don't get paranoid, worse. I made a plan the other day, just in case all this come true. So, give me a kiss and go back to sleep."

I gave her the kiss but sleep was not becoming. She was off in no time in the land of nod. I didn't know whether to be pleased or not. I liked the idea that my irresistible charms had won her back. That didn't seem too plausible in terms of life on planet Earth. Now that some mystical intervention was the reason behind her change of heart I didn't like the idea as much. Then, looking at her as she slept, and considering what I had in Marbella, sometimes you had to accept help from other sources. I lay next to her and started making plans, whether it was my innate fear of the future or the delight of a dream coming true, I soon found myself in the same land as her.

The bell went a bit after nine, she gave me a kiss and told me she would be back with the most haste possible. I barely meddled with consciousness, failing to hear her close the door. The next time I awoke it was with a feeling of genuine, unpleasant pain. My left leg had moved out from beneath the sheet and had managed to lodge itself directly into the rays of sunlight that were penetrating the room, they must have had a good hour or so to work on my foot and leg as the skin was warm and very tender. I dived into the shower, allowing the cold water to ease the pain somewhat, then I realised that my clothes had been burnt to a cinder. I sat with a towel on and wandered into the kitchen to make some coffee. Julia returned soon after. She looked tired, she took my coffee and sat at the table.

"Electrical failure. Bad fortune. An act of God. That's what the police said. That means that the insurance will pay out. What happens now?" She asked under the impression that I would know the answer.

"(Space)" Was my response, hardly worth the inverted commas. If she expected something from me, she was due for some more disappointment. She realised to take the bait.

"My husband will give me a divorce. He won't like it, but if he gets funny I'll say I'll go to the press. He might actually make more money from a scandal, but his political reputation would be damaged, and somehow, he has managed to keep it impeccable, despite corruption. I imagine it will be rather more difficult for you to hand your notice in?"

"Could be tricky. Whatever it takes, I'll do it. You are sure about this?"

"Not at all." She responded.

"More sarcasm?" I enquired.

"If it were sarcasm, you probably wouldn't need to ask if it were sarcasm." She smiled and we went to the sofa. "Here is the plan. I've had a good think about it. I think this is the way forward. How much money do you have? Lie to me and I will have your genitalia in the stew."

"About two-hundred grand. Plus, a flat. I can get my hands on another one but that would be misappropriation. I'm not a stranger to such acts. A potential three quarters of a million, more realistically half. And you?"

"The hotel is insured for about half a million and I have some other stuff. I imagine there would be a pay off, but all that could take time. I think we should move as soon as possible. Can you get out in two weeks?"

"Better to be as soon as possible. Whatever happens it could get ugly. My employers are not nice people. I could try and have a word, but maybe it is just best to disappear, far, far away. Two weeks sounds almost too long. Where?"

She looked around the room, as if she were searching for inspiration. That dreadful abomination to broadcasting from across the pond known as Fox News was on at the time, and, not surprisingly, fair, objective journalism had been ditched in favour of the weather. As the meteorological information told us of the current climate in South East Asia, she looked at me, and shouted "Okinawa". I saw no reason to disagree. "OK. We need to move fast. There is no way that we can speak to each other directly. I imagine that the fire has removed all evidence of your visit to this town. Here is how we shall keep in contact. Join this on-line dating page." She handed me the address of a web page. "Use this nick, only contact me on mine. Always use a cyber-café and never the same one. We will speak every three days from eight to nine at night. If for some reason one of us can't make it then we will just leave a message. There can be no other contact between us. The next time we see each other will be in the airport. Well the next time will be in my bedroom, in three minutes. Then you must go back to Marbella, make things seem as normal as possible. Do what you have to do, don't get caught, then, well then, I don't know. Will they come after you?" She enquired.

"They might." I had to tell her.

"Might not have too many shags left then, best take advantage." She winked at me. With that we were horizontal again, but it didn't seem too long before I was back on the chicane of hell and wondering how to elude the clutches of Fat Charlie after leaving his organisation, murdering one of his colleagues and robbing one of his flats. This would take some organising, or some luck. I remembered Julia, I had used up all my luck. It would have to be organisation.

END OF BOOK TWO.

BOOK THREE - SECTION THIRTY-EIGHT

The Yobakishi Murders (IV) Air

Yobakishi felt something that night. He didn't feel like a five-year-old boy, when he spoke to other five-year-old boys about his plight they looked at him with justified fear at the kid now labelled weird kid. His mother would not let him mention the things that paraded around his head. She told him not to worry about such things. These things would all become clear later. However, his mother knew that he was still at an age where such answers were acceptable, soon would come the moment when she would have to give him something more plausible. When that moment came she feared her capacity to give him an answer that would prove of any use to him.

He felt angry at himself for trusting the stone, and, then later, even angrier for allowing the stone to trick him. He hoped that the stone had finished its doings, but deep down he knew that this was not true. He lay on his bed and waited for the stone to call him. He knew that the stone was aware that Yobakishi knew the truth, but Yobakishi could still provide the stone with one last fix. Yobakishi wanted to be strong, but he didn't yet know how to destroy the stone and didn't want to give too much away. He took the stone out of the drawer, he hoped to give as little away as possible, whilst knowing that the stone had a greater command of cunning than he did. The stone began talking about being stuck at the bottom of the Earth, Yobakishi feigned interest but the stone realised that something was up.

The next day Yobakishi couldn't find the stone, he knew that this was common practice. When the stone felt that Yobakishi was working things out or doubting it, it turned on a disappearing act to make the little guy jealous and, its experience had shown, that Yobakishi always welcomed the stone back. Yobakishi wanted to be strong and continue ignoring the stone, but kept hearing the whispers that begged for just one more time. Yobakishi wanted to believe it, he would ask his mother how to destroy a stone and then this would truly be the last time. He conceded to the stones wishes and went to sit with his mother on the living room sofa.

Yobakishi's mother sat with quite some trepidation as her little boy came into the living room. Their relationship had not been going smoothly in recent times and she felt increasingly distanced from her first born. Today, though, he seemed different, more open and forthcoming. He asked her at what temperature stone melted, she had no idea why this question should perturb the mind of a five year old, yet leaped on the chance to respond that five hundred and forty degrees Celsius should do the trick. She hoped to tell her son all the interesting things that she knew, all he had to do was ask. He was quick and bright and soon worked out that the only place round those parts that could offer such temperatures was the old metal works on the outskirts of town. With that Yobakishi cuddled up closer to his mother and she felt a bond that had been missing for a good long while in their relationship. He gave her a kiss and told her he loved her, hoping that the damage that the stone was about to do would be minimal and, more importantly, would be the last. The deal was made. Tomorrow he would take the stone to the metal works and that would be the end of that.

They watched a delightful programme about tigers in the Savannah, Yobakishi's mother gleefully telling him all the facts she knew about Biomes and the like when the programme was interrupted. There had been a shipping disaster in the Baltic that was gripping the world. As the information hit the screens of Japan, most people thought the worst was yet to come. The line between Tallinn and Stockholm was covered by the well-respected shipping line of Olofsen-Haugen, a company whose stickling for safety led to a multitude of industry awards. Such dedication to customer care was inevitably reflected in the price of their stowage costs, yet most passengers had no qualms with this, especially in comparison to the cheaper offerings by some of the more cowboy-style operators in the market. The O-H fleet was modern, offering staff some of the highest wages in the sector to guarantee a level of service in fitting with the company philosophy. In twenty years of service they had never had an accident that had been considered newsworthy and technical problems that had occurred had been solved professionally and efficiently without disruption to passenger comfort.

On the night of the accident, a normal Friday night in mid-September, sailing conditions were described as optimum by the captain as they left Tallinn at just after half past six. The majority of the passengers were workers returning home to their native Scandinavian lands after a week of work in the Baltic states, undergoing a rapid state of commercialisation as their entry into the European Union opened new markets. Swedish and Finnish companies were quick to exploit these new opportunities and the relatively short distance between the two nations. Most Swedish workers chose to return home at the weekend, especially as many companies offered incentives to workers, including a special service that left Stockholm at seven in the morning on Monday so that the workers could spend Sunday night with their families.

Normally, the atmosphere on the boats was rather dour, most people had had a hard week at work and where looking forward to being back in their native land at some time after nine. This Friday, though, was somehow different from previous ones, the atmosphere was more convivial, normally passengers that shared the boat on a weekly basis, yet never got much more beyond a simple "hello" were conversing freely and suggesting that the pressure of the week may be best put to rest with a beer or a glass of wine. It was a beautiful night over the Baltic as the sun bade goodbye to the day, leaving an array of orange lines interspersed with the white trails of cloud in the distance. The captain surveyed the scene as the boat made its way to its destination, pleased with the company he worked for, and with the work he was doing. Below deck, there was something of a party atmosphere on board as the boat sailed past one of the deepest parts of the Baltic.

In terms of deep seas, the Baltic doesn't pull its weight, only boasting a depth of four-hundred and seventy metres at its deepest point north of Gothland, yet, every mother his informed an infant child that drowning is possible in six inches of water. When the unthinkable, and, still to this day, inexplicable, happened, and a hole was ripped in the hull, the boat soon ran into serious trouble. The party atmosphere waned, the emergency plan was put into operation, the entire world seeing the efficiency of the Scandinavians in coping with an emergency situation. There were enough lifeboats for all the passengers and staff and, after an hour's nervous rescuing, all the passengers were accounted for. With most of the passengers now bound for Stockholm in helicopters, the emergency services thought they were due a well deserved pat on the back when the television service was interrupted by images that were being broadcast from inside the vessel. At first the images were blurred, without sound, then, after a few minutes, the image focused to show five men in one of the conference rooms on board the boat.

It transpired that when the roll call was taken, the computer had wiped from the system the names of the five occupants of the room, all workers of the same company, who were using the time to finalise a deal of great importance to their company. The boat was now on the sea floor, unable to fall further whilst remaining on the Earth. They had been left behind and were now completely sealed into their conference room as the boat's security measures prevented any water entering. This was of great comfort to them, but it also meant that no air entered, and with every breath they took, less oxygen remained. The emergency services hastily turned around and raced towards the sunken vessel, knowing that time was against them. Experts calculated that there could only be enough air in the room to keep them alive for the next forty minutes. They had been underwater for more than an hour, before that they had been in an enclosed in a stuffy room, smoking cigars, talking animatedly and helping themselves to whiskey, all of these actions have a negative effect on conserving oxygen. When the sound first appeared, viewers were placed in a moral dilemma; they could not tear their eyes from the morose scene, yet felt guilty as they spied voyeuristically on the inevitable deaths of the unknowing protagonists. Television companies debated whether to cease the images, yet knowing that they would be easily accessible on the Internet. They made the decision to continue broadcasting, in the vain hope that a miracle would occur.

The five passengers had no idea that their last moments were being broadcast to the watching world as they sat nervously, occasionally looking into the darkness in the hope of seeing a light that would take them to safety. They were all engineers and knew well enough not to tamper with anything, if they were to get out of this, salvation would have to come from outside. Two of the passengers were Swedish, there was a Finn, a Russian and an Estonian, even the demographical make-up the passengers seems to have been thought out so their final conversations will be in a foreign tongue to achieve maximum televisual diffusion. They all seemed calm, as if they expected the inevitable rescue that they had seen in so many films, yet this time there would be no rescue, the experts gave them less than half an hour, even though the rescue teams were less than fifteen minutes from the vessel, they would need another hour to locate and safely open the door to rescue them. With tears in his eyes, the newsreader talked of their doom.

The Russian was the first to pose the question. "Will we get out of this?" Deep down he knew what the answer was, but wanted someone to blindly ignore the truth so that he could grasp onto something before drawing his last breath. Perhaps the coldness of the Scandinavian character is demonstrated here, but his fellow passengers all opined in a negative manner. The logic of science students making it clear that their life's journey would end at the bottom of the Baltic, at the bottom of the Earth.

The Estonian placed a cold reality before the rest of the group. "It is possible that no-one even knows we are here. The place is security sealed, even if they remember we are here, will they find us before we run out of oxygen? I doubt it."

"So what do we do?" enquired the Russian, still hoping someone will pamper him with unrealistic optimism.

"I'm going to have a drink." Came the reply from the Estonian. "I hope no-one minds if I smoke?" Was his second comment. This brought a roar of laughter from all those present. The world watch bemused as these five men awaited their death amid whiskey and laughter. One of the Swedes brought fresh glasses over, suggesting that things should be done properly until the end. He poured generous measures of twenty-five year old malt and added ice and water according to each consumer's wishes. The viewers at home were given images from on board the rescue party, a virtual map showing the distance between the two vessels and a projection of the remaining air in the doomed conference room.

The images shifted once again to the anchorman, now physically affected, the news-guy wept and told us, the lads were really dying. No doubt the cruelty of the spectator gave way for some parts of the viewing public to begin taking bets on who would be the first to go. The Finn was the senior member of the party, slightly portly, and clearly aware that his health was not quite what it should be. He looked nervously at the rest of them and asked "Is this any way to die?" They responded that it wasn't what they had hoped for. "The worst thing is, that the last words I said to my wife were not to forget to get the washing machine's uncertain bulb looked at. I was going to phone my daughter earlier but got bogged down at work. Now I will never speak to either of them again. All the things that I could have said. That's what hurts."

The Russian took hold of the Finn's right hand and commented "If that's how you feel, then they will know that you would want your last words to them to express your love, but your feelings for them have been constantly transmitted, just as you know what they would love to say to you." The Finn thanked him for his kind words, and accepted a final dram of whiskey.

One of the Swedes started to cry. "I haven't had anyone to say anything to for years. I wonder if anyone will miss me, no doubt post-its will keep appearing on my desk for weeks to come until someone has to remind them that I am no longer with them. They will probably ask what company I went to." This wasn't a lame attempt to get attention, the Swede had taken stock of his life and was not pleased with what he saw.

"Have you deliberately done bad to people? Have you caused unnecessary pain?" The Estonian asked.

"Never. I have always tried to treat people fairly". Came the response.

"Then, you will be missed. You have made a difference. I have lied and cheated to get where I am, and my conscience is clear. You are a good man, and your legacy will be felt. Maybe you have not been fortunate in love, but maybe in the next life you will be." The Estonian spoke with sincerity and passion. The world watched as they all made their peace with their consciences, and did so with a grace and humility that made more than one spectator re-think their actions.

The TV companies had now managed to add a oxygen meter to the screen which, using the latest technology, calculated how much oxygen was left and how much each passenger, taking into account body weight and age, would need. The age of reality television seemed to make it difficult for some viewers to realise that this was what the true definition of the term should be. Four of them drank and recalled comedy moments from their life, then, when one of them went to ask the Finn, the reality of their plight hit home again. He was unconscious, they checked his pulse but it was slow, he was still alive, though soon the precious little air that was reaching his lungs would not be enough to maintain the life in his body. They left him as he was, a mute participant in the party, and poured more drinks.

The other Swede began to scream in his native tongue. He ran to the door and started banging it with his fists, knowing the inanity of the action, whilst hoping beyond hope that it may have some positive result. As he turned round he fell to the floor, a fall from which he would not get up. The rest where all struggling for breath when the news-team announced that the rescue team had found the boat and expected to be with the remaining passengers in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes though, would be too long, the initially suggested forty minutes were up, the remaining three sat around the table, their speech slowed as they tried to conserve as much energy as possible.

Due to the silence that was predominant, they almost didn't notice that the Russian had also passed out. They had no way of knowing how close they were to being rescued, it appeared like they had no real hope left now. As they sat with the three corpses, the Estonian took the bottle again. "How many children do you have?" He asked.

"Three. And you?"

"Two."

"A drink for each of them? And then our wives? And then we shall say goodnight." It was a difficult proposition to watch, but somehow seemed to be the perfect end. They named their children and took a drink. Then they said a final goodbye to their wives as the bottle was finished. For a moment they waited, waited to die, cursing their good health that had made them live out more of this nightmare than they would want, when the Estonian suggested a bit of running on the spot.

"Why not?" Replied the other Swede and they hugged. With that, they began to run on the spot, using up the remaining oxygen, that was now of little use to them. After a minute or so the Swede fell to the ground, the Russian continued, forcing himself faster and repeating the phrase "я люблю Вас " as his body lost the fight with the little oxygen that remained that could not sustain his body. Finally, he too fell to the ground, and the last of his strength left his body. Slowly, the images disappeared too, as if the cameras were powered by oxygen.

Yobakishi looked at his mother and told her about the stone. They decided to take a walk with the stone to the old metal works. His mother told him that he was not responsible for the stone's actions, but that he had to take responsibility for the stone's destruction. They sneaked into the grounds of the factory, enjoying evading the security measures as they made their way to the furnace. Yobakishi heard the screams of the stones but felt no piety, he knew what he had to do, his mother opened the grate and in went the stone. Yobakishi heard the agony of the stone as they walked back towards their home. A security man saw them and told them they had done the right thing as he showed them out of the factory. Yobakishi and his mother walked home hand in hand, in silence, but looking forward to the future.
BOOK THREE - SECTION THIRTY-NINE

Hangover Cures (IV) Rage

GRAHAM: I arrived back in Malaga reasonably sharpish. It was important to act as if everything was as normal as possible. I had a big sit down with Fat Charlie and made out that I went a little bit wild after I heard the news, but soon got my head together, he didn't question how twenty-four hours was enough for me to put things into place. It was all made easier by the fact that most people knew that I had less time for Benny than the others. The fact was that the meeting with Julia had put things more into perspective. Now I had a goal, I didn't understand what was happening but, in the absence of fact, I put all my hope into blind optimism.

The first job to get through was Benny's funeral. The night before I had to hook up with Zippy and Gore, word had been put round that Benny had been the unfortunate victim of the Russians. This was Fat Charlie allowing the guy some grace and a chance to appear, posthumously, in a greater light than his final moments. I remembered my mobile when I was driving into the Puerto, and, upon turning it on, saw the bevy of messages from Zippy and Gore. I felt Gore had an accusative tone in his voice as I appeared to be far from home, Zippy just sounded confused. I wondered how long Zippy would get. We had arranged to meet people in the Marley, which seemed somehow wrong, that the murderers should put on a wake for the victim, especially when they are pretending that some ghastly Eastern Europeans bumped him off. We got together on the beachfront.

It was difficult to know what to say, above all as Gore was hanging on my every word to see if I let something slip from head office. He probed me as to where I had been for the last twenty-four hours, so I gave him the truth, obviously the form of the truth that would help my situation. I reacted, I needed space, I came back. Zippy said that was cool, Gore agreed, but you could tell he wasn't wholly convinced. I would have to manage the conversation via Zippy, if I made too obvious a subject change in the conversation, then Gore's suspicions would be confirmed. For some reason, if the same comments came from Zippy's mouth then they were greeted with the raised glass. I felt uncomfortable, I ordered a G&T and made the decision that if I got pissed and let it slip then that would be the way of things, I would, of course, try not to.

Gore seemed to chill out a bit with the second drink. It was just after seven and I felt hungry, everyone decided that it was a decent idea to go to Benny's favourite place for high tea. No-one was particularly sure what Benny's favourite place was. He was always more or less indifferent towards food, he ate but never showed to much concern for one place or another. Unable to reach a decision, we decided on Macky D's, somehow it seemed to be the right place. We ate hurriedly and in semi-silence, surrounded by teenagers increasing their acne capacity in Siberian temperatures, why is it always so called in that place? It was a fittingly miserable experience of very little culinary value, somehow reminiscent of whenever Benny tried to prepare a meal during his living days. Things made more sense when we were in a bar and enjoying drinks together again. The atmosphere was far from sombre, it was strange, for a moment it almost felt like Benny was there with us, that was too weird, so while Gore took a call from his lover, me and Zippy raised a nose to the deceased.

From then on, it was standard fare, the usual itinerary for lads intent on drunkenness, initial euphoria leading to glorious recounting of past triumphs, culminating in the tearful hugs that mark the end of the evening. Despite being drunk, I could not stand the atmosphere in the Marley too long and made a pair of botched attempts to leave unnoticed. Unfortunately, my nice try for a subtle exit leaves me with every door covered by someone who wants to buy me a drink. A number of people are saying things like "dreadful shame", when really they are thankful for the wake-up call. If Benny was the scapegoat then they would accept that and clean up their acts, Fat Charlie didn't care who knew, of who thought it was the Russians, that didn't matter, what mattered was order. I, however, have a very busy day of sneaking around tomorrow, so, on the third attempt, I snook, is that an acceptable past simple form of the verb to sneak? I truly hope it is, it's so much more fun than sneaked, out of the bar and found a taxi. Reclining back on to the leather seats of the Mercedes Benz, I quickly became aware of how pissed I was, and how I wished this taxi was taking my to Julia's loving arms and not to the cold, empty, unmade pit in which I would temporarily fester, but I smiled at the fact that soon everything would be perfect, just as long as Fat Charlie didn't murder us both.

I set the alarm for ten in the morning. I had a lot to do before Benny's funeral and wanted to make a start. I figured the pain of a hangover would get me into motion. Before my brain could question the wisdom of my body I was in the shower and washing away some of the hurt that had made its way through the pores of my skin. The cleansing process helped but I knew deep down that more pain would have to be experienced before I could once again form part of the human race. Medicines had their function to remove a hangover, but I had always been a sufferer more of tiredness than pain in the body, sometimes all I needed was to put in a few testing situations, something that life in Spain constantly provided, for the feelings of joy would return and I could do my work.

Breakfast was a necessity. I chose a bar that would potentially help me in my quest for pain, a type of emotional flagellation that sends the white blood cells quicker to tickle the happy nerve. A personal theory that you may not share, even though, it always helps me when I am short of time. Ideally, I would remain in my pit until I felt ready to participate on planet Earth again. The bar was a typical old man's bar, normally not favoured by the non-local element of Marbella, populated by people who had stopped using words to communicate in favour of grunts, endemic rudeness that should, in the short term make me happy. I was expecting a low quality of service, almost disdain at them having to serve me, and, should the Lord be on my side, a dirty tea-spoon. It soon transpired that my job was not going to be easy. I was greeted by a wide smile from the waiter in his mid 50's. A lifetime of servitude had not dampened his spirit, and the smile was soon accompanied by a welcoming good morning. This was not part of the plan. I wanted something quite different. He continued with this worrying niceness as he took my order. He congratulated me on my choice and offered me the opportunity to sit. I refused and stayed at the bar. As I wished were his words. I couldn't break the rules and force him to be unpleasant, it had to be anger caused by people's nature. This was not working, so I reached for a tablet. As he served me my near perfect toast and delightful coffee, all in pristine crockery, he made a comment that there was a hint of Galician in my accent, making pleasant conversation but not being too friendly or over-bearing, keeping his distance correctly. I left nourished but still in pain. I left a five Euro note on the table, much more than the cost of breakfast but in some way he had reaffirmed my belief in the human race, and for that I thanked him, even if it did come at the very worst possible moment.

Out in the street there were plenty more opportunities for anger to be vented. My next mission was to find a taxi. Normally taxi drivers are the only people in this town less pleasant than the waiters, some say the bus drivers too can be quite charmless, though I refuse to use their service. As luck would have it, there is a taxi strike today. That means I will have to walk. It's only about a twenty minute walk to the estate agents that I have carefully selected, a new one with no visible links to Fat Charlie, though this is soon doubled by two four foot nine, old women who manage to occupy the entire walkway. Old Spanish women have a built-in radar that guides them to the left as you try to overtake on that side, and vice versa. Despite their height, ninety percent of which is hair, they can occupy a large avenue with ease, travelling at a constant 0,7 km/h, sometimes less, on a Sunday. It takes seven attempts to overtake, finally doing so with a slight brush which causes her to admonish me. Unbelievable, rage fills up inside me, hitting me like a line of good stuff, removing twenty-five percent of my pain. I smile and bid them good day. God bless you, ladies.

I am now travelling at full speed when the next encumbrance presents itself in my way. A street "entertainer" had drawn a crowd who were aghast at his ability to, I kid you not, stand still. Had I slept through various EU dictates? Had this been given funds to become an art-form? The entire pavement was blocked as this idiot, painted gold, myself remembering the girl who was found dead by Mr. Connery, the gold paint suffocating her, I wished an equally unpleasant end upon this fool. People tutted as I pushed past, as if I was going to cause them to miss something. What would they say? "I missed a bit of that talented chap standing still when that rude man went about his business." I am tempted to drag out the old chap and piss on the cunt until he moves, when I remember that I owe him thanks for helping me in my quest.

Now I only need one more dose of misery before I will feel perfect again, perfection being relative. The choice was either a bank or the post office. Ideally some interaction with a public organism would also work, though I fear that the civil servants may just provide me with an overdose of what I am looking for. I pass a small branch of a bank that does not appear to be run on a model of Teutonic efficiency. I enter and try to open an account with some false ID. I offer her two hundred Euros with which to open the account, but, delightfully she is unwilling to take my money. Despite proof of address, I have no idea where, but I have proof, she refuses to let me have the banking equivalent of my first trainer bra. We shout for a while, and then, joyously, I feel the last of the pain leave my body. Now, I can work.

I am soon in front of the estate agent's. I had a nose around before and found out that someone in my luxurious block sold a flat recently for upwards of seven hundred thousand Euros. What is happening to property prices in this town? Still good news for me, and for the lads inside, who are about to have a bargain thrown at them. I feel superb now, unable to fail, Fat Charlie will never know, well of course he will but then it will be too late. Inside there are two people, I am not sure about the correctness of this term, working. Despite my being the only client in the place, neither felt the need to attend to my urgent needs until a period of nine minutes had passed. This was not looking like tempting bowl of ice cream I had hoped. Finally I was called to the table like a naughty school boy, whilst I explained myself I began to wonder whether I hated this chappie or had already passed on to detesting him.

His name was Vicente, there seemed to be a small olive oil factory in his hair, he wore a pink shirt and looked at me like I had just named Pol Pot and Hitler as my ideal dinner guests. I reiterated that I was offering him the bargain on his life and I was not in the mood for neither the dillying nor the dallying. He said that it all seemed most irregular and made a half hearted call to his boss. I felt pain in my left leg, realising that my good work was being undone. He was turning his nose up at four hundred grand profit. I felt sure that this kind of thing didn't happen to him every day. I clocked his mobile and assumed that the old Peugeot 205 was his and decided to leave him, shitting on his dead relatives, as the delightful Spanish expression goes. It seemed so fitting. I just left, without a goodbye, the right leg feeling pain as well now.

Outside, I lit a tab and pondered my next move. Luckily there was another estate agent's across the road. I was sure that the service there would come somewhere closer to my requirements. I enter and am greeted with a warm smile from a charming looking young thing of, I should guess, twenty-five pleasant summers. I was offered a seat and asked to inform her of my business, telling me her name was Sonia. She was just what I needed to complete this transaction. I decided that she should be privy to more information than Vicente hardly brains a-plenty!!! I was quite pleased with that little quip before I realised it was shit and I returned back to character. I told her the whole story, it went a little bit like this.

"Sonia, I am the owner of a rather pleasant property in Puerto Banus. Now, I know there is no need for me to tell you of its worth, only that I am keen to get rid of it as soon as possible due to the need for me to gather as much cash as I can in a very short time frame. The reason for this was that recently I reencountered the love of my life after a long time. Previously, I did not treat her in the way I should but for some reason I have been given another chance and I did not wish to squander it. Unfortunately, my line of work is not one that a person can simply leave the company and receive the boss's best wishes. For that reason, I require a quick sale, I promise you that I am the owner of the flat, everything is paid up in full, everything is legal, I shall give you all the necessary paperwork to check this out. I want to sell the place for three hundred grand. That's the figure I want, after all the paperwork and necessary costs. This is a bargain for you, and, at the same time you will be facilitating the passage of true love. So, what do you say?"

What could she say? She almost had a tear in her eye as she told me that we had better get things in motion. She called her boss over, he was another fan of the Vicente look, though the good news was that this guy only looked like a wanker. I made it clear that this sale was Sonia's and the commission should reflect this. He asked me for the address and threw his diary out of the window. Remembering the taxi strike, I suggested that we take a peak now, that way I could give him the paperwork to check out. He would need ten minutes and in the meantime Sonia considered it a pleasure to offer me a coffee. She told me she hoped that it would all work out. I thanked her and complimented her on the quality of her coffee, despite it being akin to dishwater. Machines! I smiled to myself. My work had been good.

As we drove across the town, I started to take in truly just what I was up to. If I was caught that would be the end of me, and, probably, Julia. Then I got the point of it all, if I was caught then I would die, but if I was caught then I couldn't be with Julia and that was probably worse than dying. I would just have to cross my fingers and hope that everything would work out, surely the Gods were on our side or they wouldn't have gone to the trouble of the elaborate prophecy and the destruction of the hotel. I took some consolation from this, but I was aware that these next two weeks were going quite stressful.

We arrive at my flat and Antonio, the boss of the estate agent's, is impressed with the parking space. When we get inside it is clear that I am not taking full advantage of the flat's potential, the scant decoration makes the place feel soulless, Antonio saw the potential, I told him I would be leaving the furniture, even the electrical appliances, though I got the feeling the forty two inch telly would be ending up chez Antonio as soon as I left Marbella. Antonio quizzed me about the story he had heard from Sonia but I wasn't in the mood for repeating. I felt exhausted and just wanted Antonio out, with the paperwork, so that I could get my head down. I gave him all the necessary papers. I informed him that there may be some outstanding payments for block maintenance which would be brought up to date by Monday. He said that everything seemed in order, but would need to double check. He suggested we meet at his office at five on Monday. That seemed acceptable to me and we said adieu. I doubt I could ever feel a desire to become friends with the man, but he is professional and keen to make a lot of money just what I need now.

It's gone lunchtime on Friday afternoon when I phone the Italian. I am sure everyone else will have left already, if they even bothered to turn up. The Italian seemed shocked by my phone call and acted sheepish. I didn't think much of it, though I was glad when he told me that things were very quiet, and best continued on Monday morning. I was tired but decided to pop down to the pool for half an hour. Another advantage of the flat, Antonio knew that he could make a lot of money from the place, yet he also picked up on the fact that I didn't want to give too much away, so he kept his distance, a bright lad, he will do well.

There were lots of sore heads for the funeral, people even made rather hideous speeches as Benny was given a send off that was considered fitting for someone of his rank. Still history is littered with members of select committees, advisors and political right hand men, who have been bumped off in the night and then given the twenty-one gun salute. I found my stomach not up to the task and I headed outside hoping to get some fresh air, only to find myself surrounded by some of the people who probably murdered Benny. For a moment it seemed refreshing that they couldn't stomach it either, then I felt I had to be away from them. There was a type of wake in the Marley, but I only lasted half an hour before sneaking off with Zippy though he was in too much of a reminiscence mode. I told him that I felt to weird commiserating Benny's fall after our relationship had become null. He bought the flimsy excuse and I went on my way.

Later on I went into town to buy a pay as you go mobile, for message only contact with Julia. She still hadn't worked out an effective way of getting the number to me. She was convinced that all our conversations would be monitored and we would have to speak in code. I thought that if we were being monitored then that would be the end of things anyway, so it didn't matter what we said. I didn't tell her this. I bought the phone and walked aimlessly for a while. We had arranged to have our first conversation tomorrow morning, before I went to the Marlborough, so I was scouting for out of the way Internet cafes. I found one, noted the address and made my way home, well, to my house.

Boredom, tiredness and Spanish television soon had me asleep. It was another uncomfortable sleep as I was afraid of waking up late and missing my chance to speak to Julia. I was convinced that she would think that I had just got pissed the night before and forgotten all about it. Excitement carried my tired and unrested frame to the Internet café, any form of contact with her would make up for the lack of a night's sleep. However, once I was online and found her on the chat-page, the conversation didn't seem real. She told me that we would have to speak in code, she was sure that at some point, the Marbellí grapevine would be made aware that my flat was up for sale. This meant that we had to act cautiously, this meant that rarely had there been such a passionless conversation, the only motivation for me to get through these days were the brief moments of conversation she had promised me, and these were turning out to be a lot less fun than I had imagined. I also expected her to talk a bit saucy, but it soon became clear that it would be more erotic attempting cyber-sex with an Anti-virus trouble-shooting page. Our conversation lasted an hour, she was making up the code-words as she went along so I had to be quick, she made it quite simple she asked me if I had found a buyer for my bicycle, if I could leave the pottery course I was doing without losing my inscription fee, and, she told me that she would make sure she sorted out the theatre tickets for the date we had said. Every time I tried to say something soppy she cut me off. Then the hour was I up and I said I was off to the meeting. That, disappointingly, was it.

I felt enormously empty as I hit the Marley, realising as I walked through the doors that I would have to get back into my role as a none too suspicious version of the person I didn't want to be. Inside the pub it was easy to follow the script. Off we went for lunch then returned to the pub for an afternoon session. I wanted to speak to Gore, he would understand and wouldn't say anything, but I knew that I had to be strong, two weeks of misery for a lifetime of happiness seemed a fair exchange. I passed on the Charlie, the thin type, for a short while, but then I succumbed to a wee pick me up after six, not wanting my vocal chords to be too loose, but seeing the advantages of getting drunk as a way of obliterating Sunday and taking one more day from the equation. It was fun with Zippy and Gore, at least I allowed myself to believe it was, there wouldn't be many more opportunities for this, but, by the same token, there had already been far too many in the past.

Sunday was supposed to be a write-off, but unfortunately I awoke just before lunchtime feeling like only carrot juice had passed my lips. I went to a restaurant by the sea and my appetite surprised me. I called Zippy after lunch for coffee, coffee is always a metaphor, a word people use to describe not drinking coffee. I thought that it was of equal worth to feel a bit rough on Monday, that made the time go quicker, or so the theory of Zippy went, getting pissed on a Sunday afternoon was like staying in on a Friday night, you got to bed reasonably early and got your eight hours in, you felt slightly fuzzy, but things could be a whole heap worse. Zippy made some strange noises and was clearly not available. It was painful listening to him, his speech was slow and wandering, God knows what he was doing. I certainly didn't want to. He was soon off my mind as I bumped into two of Gore's lady friend's young Brazilians and invited myself to join them for a drink. They were heading off later to a samba bar to do some dancing and I was tempted, but suddenly imagined Julia looking down on me and not being too pleased as I enjoyed jolly-time. I made my excuses and wandered slowly home, I sipped a glass of wine and watched the football round up, before realising I was asleep, and my penultimate weekend in Spain had come to an end.

Work had never seemed so pointless, but I had to try to look as though everything was as normal as possible. We were planning something rather big, and the timeframe was three months, so everyone was getting on with things on their own. Everyone knew their role, and did what they had to do without anyone needing to ask too many questions. I got through the day without any problems, just worried about how time could move so slowly, three hours didn't seem composed of one hundred and eighty minutes, much more indeed. Still, so much clock-watching was asking for trouble. By the time I got away I was truly bored. Luckily the ride to see Antonio raised my interest levels again.

I arrived and was offered a coffee by the effortlessly delightful Sonia. She told me that Antonio would be along shortly with his lawyer. You could tell she was chomping at the bit, dying to ask me more about my story. I let her suffer for a bit and then told her the story. She seemed genuinely disappointed when Antonio arrived and she was forced to return to her work. Antonio introduced me to his lawyer, I remember not liking him, and he didn't like me much either, but due to the binding factor of making money quickly, this was brushed to one side and the transaction continued full steam. Luckily Fat Charlie insisted that on his "properties" correct records were kept of all relevant documents and maintained up to date, even going to the lengths of random inspections. I handed over the paperwork and watch there smiles grow. The lawyer called a surveyor to determine quantities and we were soon back in the flat. This time it was my turn to make coffee.

After a while they were convinced that I was legal, by that they meant they could find no traceable link to my illegality. They left with a guarantee that I would be paid on Monday. That gave way to a rather large hurrah. They would wait till they found a buyer, knowing that their grubby little hands would be bitten off in the process. I now have to find a Swiss bank account, I can't have all that money lying in account in Malaga so I have to move into sneaky mode. Swiss bank accounts appeared very glamorous but I had no idea how to get my grubby little paws on them, luckily, in this modern age, the information was just a click away

I like the idea that I can know everything with such ease. Of course we are still at the stage where one cannot impress at a dinner party, one could hardly break off from the conversation with the charming young thing to our left to quickly answer her questions on the longest river in Finland and the surface area of Poland in square kilometres. Perhaps in the future we will have access to the world wide web via our eyebrows and flip down menus will appear discreetly in the corner of our left eye, but by then she would be able to do the same thing and wouldn't bother asking me the question, thus bringing an end to pub-quizzes and TV game-shows. You decide whether that is a bad thing.

It seems that opening a Swiss bank account is not as exclusive as one might think. A mere fifteen thousand dollars is all one requires to have the luxury of a protected account. Of course, for this price you get the Swiss equivalent of my first saver's account with free pencil case and badges of the improbable dragon used to promote such novice financing. My needs are much more expensive and the possibilities of doing it all on-line are quite frankly fear inducing. The best thing would be to open an account with a private bank in Spain and then let them do the paperwork. My worry is not how much this will cost me, rather whether Fat Charlie will find out that I am moving, in my world, vast amounts of money around. Neither do I trust Malaga to keep a secret, Fat Charlie knows too many people around here. Luckily I have to up it to Seville to see our Porto-Irish friend and have just pencilled in two visits to private banks there.

It was now Tuesday and I still had to survive until next Thursday before our intended departure, this was clearly going to be the longest ten days of my life, so a drive up to Seville would remove one of them and hopefully stop me worrying about the financial side of things for a while. As long as everything was cool in the Andalusian capital my cut would be a few grand, that would be more than enough to get me through a week and a bit, even in Marbella, so the rest of my money would be invested in cuckoo clocks. At least the drive up to Seville was more in keeping with my skills than then previous trek to Jubrqiue.

I got there early doors as I wanted to be away from João as soon as possible, not because I had no time for the fellow, but rather because I was operating on a reduced time-frame, word could easily get around that I left him at ten and wasn't seen back in Malaga till late afternoon, I could always say that I was enjoying the delights of the city, they would believe that and probably think it was a failing, though they may also argue that enjoyment should be done on my time, not theirs. João was running things well in Seville, I deposited the money, took my share and aimed to leave, though he insisted on buying me breakfast. He said he knew a place that did superb cured ham toasties, so I simply had to acquiesce. He asked me if I liked Seville, I looked around the place where construction had begun over a millennium ago, and I had to confess that it would be nice when it was finished. I only had fifteen minutes to get to my appointment after breakfast, I thought a taxi may be the best option, but the city was not in playful mood. As the hour of our arranged meeting I was lost, rather warm and more than confused. I phoned ahead but there was no answer. By chance I found myself outside the private bank where I had my second appointment, taking that as an omen and not fancying any more of the building site in the grounds of a part Arabic part Gothic cathedral, I bought a paper and had another slow coffee, before arriving ten minutes early.

I was met at the door by what you might call a money smile. I had briefly mentioned my needs on the phone, and they had explicitly mentioned their conditions. They knew I would be seeing more than one bank, although now I wasn't, so they would have to make me feel somewhat special. I was offered a coffee but declined in favour of a glass of water, strange how cocaine users pull funny faces at the thought of a third coffee. I was greeted by the man I spoke to on the phone, whose name just happened to be Justo, another good omen as justo in Spanish means fair. My situation was complicated unless I accepted the option of a Platinum account which meant paying double commissions and removing all the problems. For them to set up the Swiss Account they would take close to four grand off me. I was given the fullest of guarantees that outside these walls no-one in Spain would know of the existence of the account, that was good enough for me. He gave off a professional, serious and trustworthy air about him. There was definitely a good feeling about this. My work had been good. Justo knew what to do when the Estate Agent's gave him the nod with the three hundred grand, I arranged to phone him in a couple of days and I thanked him. After another hour's walking, I was reacquainted with my vehicle and heading back to Malaga.

With everything tied up in Malaga, I was now actually ready to leave, well as soon as the money came through. Thrice weekly, I had conversations with Julia that I began by looking forward to and ended completely bemused at what had actually been discussed. Our conversations were so false and lacking in information due to our combined fear of being overheard or discovered that the code-words failed to signify anything of any importance to me. I wanted to tell her what I felt and how I was sure everything was going to be just fine, though I couldn't promise this, and one false move, like telling her everything was going to be just fine, was the quickest route to making sure just the opposite happened. I had to assume that they were watching me anyway, even as a precautionary measure, Benny had been removed, and despite our careers taking very different paths, I am sure they were keen to see the effect such a dismissal would have on the three who remained.

The problem with trying to look inconspicuous is that suddenly everyone asks you if everything is alright. In the same way that you can be in a little bit of a mood and then by the time person number thirty-seven asks you in a ten minute period if anything is the matter, that is when you take rage to another level. Nobody had ever mentioned to me that I seemed tense before, now people who barely knew me where at it. It was the worst period of clock-watching I have ever been through in my entire life, I divided the day into fifteen minute periods in the office, and calculated how many of these fifteen minute periods I would have to survive to make my meeting with Julia. The only good thing about this was hitting targets, like forty-seven fifteen minute periods which meant that I had only two days to go. Of course, it was depressing at the beginning when you had more than one hundred in front of you, actually it was also depressing in the middle and end, and made the time go even slower.

To make things even more fun, everyone else was engrossed in a fascinating project that I was not invited to participate in, that meant that there were less people in the office than usual, and also that I had the chance to convince myself that I was not needed as I would soon be waddling in concrete Nikes. As promised, on three o'clock on Wednesday, I received a phone call from a Seville number which I knew was Justo, and phoned back to discover that my Swiss bank account now boasted the healthy sum of half a million Euros, and that the information had been sent to the safe deposit box that we had agreed. Of course, I made the call from a phone-box in the street, realising that that was the most suspicious thing I could possibly do, but by then it was too late. I knew that I could not wait until our planned departure of next Thursday, I would give myself away before then. So thankfully, during our next conversation, I convinced Julia to go next Monday, that meant two more days at work and a weekend to survive. At least I was pretty sure that I had convinced her to go on Monday though given the cryptic nature of our conversations she may have actually meant never put mackerel in an airing cupboard before filtering the fins, I guess I would find out on Monday.

Thursday was a dull experience, the office was nearly empty and I sat there bored planning a robbery that I would never do. In the evening I wanted to see Zippy, a strange urge to see the guy, but his phone was off and someone said he was off to Algeciras to pick up a cargo. My day would switch from moments of joy as I realised I had got away with it, to utter panic at the bullet that awaited me on every street corner. I was free to do what I wanted with my flat, but not to leave the organisation, not like that, not knowing how much I knew, and not with them knowing that. The potential fall out between the police and Fat Charlie for one rather ugly murder would be vastly more acceptable than the thought of me running round knowing too much. Of course, my plan is not to betray Fat Charlie, at least not in that sense, but he knows, that if they come after me, I could always seek refuge in the long arm of the law. Despite being told never ever to do so, I briefly phoned Julia and after hearing her voice for a split second, I told her I loved her and hung up. That made everything feel better. No codes, no cryptic words, a simple I love you. After that the only thing I could possibly do was have a curry.

So, Friday was to be my last day as an employee of Fat Charlie. The day dragged as much as the two previous ones. By twelve o'clock I was sure they knew, they were just waiting for a convenient time to finish the job. Maybe they did hold Julia responsible as well, and were going to remove her from the field of play as well. All this was very plausible, so why the old man in the village? Why go to such lengths to prove something is going to happen if at the final hurdle everything falls to pieces. Pondering and paranoia took me to two p.m., at four I could go. Then, a few minutes later, something strange happened, though strange was becoming commonplace. Dave came into the office and asked me to do some rather routine tasks, normally someone of minimal importance would perform these but as everyone else was working on the big job I was not part of, he asked if I would mind doing him this favour. The work was menial and made the time go even slower than doing nothing. All I had to do was input some information about properties and despatch the agreed quantities to the account holders provided. To make it last two hours was a piece of work in itself. I, in a very bored way, began to plough through the details, thinking that nothing could be worse than this, until I got to flat number seven.

Flat number seven was more a mini mansion. The most interesting thing about it was that there was no information as to who the benefactor was, which meant I had no-one to assign the money too. It was just then that my hand wandered inside my pocket and fondled the piece of paper that Justo had told me to keep near me at all times. It was the access code for my Swiss bank account. Of course, the money would go through a clearing house in Spain first, and then disappear without trace, that is why is would pay nearly twenty-thousand pounds on a transaction of this nature. Still, as most banks charge you 2,40€ to take out 40€ round here just because you cannot prove at least one grandparent was born in this postal district, the proportion I was being charged seemed fair. I extracted the paper, and entered the digits. Immediately wiping the field clean less than a second later. How could I do this? They would kill me. Anyone would. Then again, they might never find out. I typed the digits again. I wiped the field clean again. Of course they would find out, flat goes missing, Graham goes missing. Hardly a test for the detectives. Then again, if they knew now they were going to kill me anyway. That was given. They couldn't kill me any more because of this. Once again the numbers entered the field. I couldn't. They had been good to me. But we were talking about half a million Euros, that meant that I was a dead man if they knew, and if I was a dead man, I might as well be a dead millionaire rather than half a millionaire. This time the numbers went in and before I allowed any thoughts to cross my mind again, the enter button had been pressed. Now, I had really done it. I had better get away with this.

Unable to hardly control my fingers for the final three transactions, I knew I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I was being obvious. I don't know how, I just was, too obvious. It was twenty to four when I decided to make a dash for it. I set my PC to reformat and then turned the screen off so that no-one would notice, I doubt they would even care. I made it into the forth floor lift and was pleased to see I was alone. Just as I pressed the button for the ground floor, a hand grabbed the door and held it open. The voice which accompanied the hand asked me to hold the lift. Fat Charlie was now in the lift with me. This was not, the historians would say, ideal. I began to sweat with Fat Charlie in the lift with me, not only because there was no air-con, nor because he occupied nearly sixty percent of the space in the lift, simply because it's quite hard to know where to look when you've just robbed half a million off someone. However, I had to look somewhere, I searched the confined space for somewhere for my eyes to rest when I was strangely drawn to the name of the lift's manufacturer. I had never considered it before and had travelled in lifts made by that firm countless times, yet in that moment a lift made by Schindler seemed the most hilarious thing in the world. I tried to contain myself but couldn't. My head was full of "Schindler's Lift". I laughed heartily and stupidly whilst the person who had brought me here, employed me and given me a future, stood bemused. I thought it best to explain the cause of my merriment. He just gave me a funny look and told me to have a siesta.

Now it may appear to be just a pithy comment, but I took great solace from those words. For me it meant that Fat Charlie didn't know. How could he know? Even if he suspected, surely I would be too nervous to act like that in front of him. I had done good work. I hadn't done it intentionally but the result was still in my favour. There was a spring in my step as I decided to surprise Gore, I wanted to see him before my departure. I got to his house, unannounced, and was disappointed to find him not there, well that's what I thought to myself but he wasn't there then by the same token I didn't find him. Either way I was without playmates. Zippy wouldn't have his mobile with him if he was in Algeciras, that was standard practice, so, I simply bought a book on Japan, paying cash of course, and rented The Big Lebowski on DVD. I had a lot of preparing to do for my forthcoming unglamorous life away from all this horror.

That meant that my last chore as part of the organisation was Saturday at the Marley. Monday was a bank holiday in Spain, the never ending need to thank virgins meant that my little misdemeanour would not be uncovered until Tuesday at the very earliest. By then I would be dead or gone. I did, however, expect the Marley to be something of a bind. I would have to spend three hours minimum in the company of people that I was about to betray, not the worst kind of betrayal, but still something rather capable of warranting execution. My protagonism on Saturday afternoon was quickly curtailed when the main news of the day was the fact that Gore had disappeared, the upstaging swine! Fat Charlie was in a foul mood but made it clear that Gore, if ever seen again was to be left alone. One neither knew why nor dared to ask. For the first time in living memory, Fat Charlie was absent for the Saturday lunch. Theories were bandied about in hushed tones, and I made a big thing about saying that you just don't do that.

Everything disbanded early and at four o'clock I was home. I walked around the neighbourhood for a while, found a phone box in a quiet side street and phoned my mum. I told her I had met Julia and we were going away. She wanted to talk, to know all the details and to offer that mother's angle on things, but I kept things brief. The truth would have killed her, as it may well yet, kill me.
BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY

Departures II - On Line and In Love

ZIPPY: Summer was always a funny time. I couldn't get over how much work there was for a period that was supposed to be the quiet time. This was not solely due to the increase in summer customers, but the fact that Benny has not been answering his phone for a few days now and Graham also seems to have gone to ground. Add to this the major inconvenience that Handclaps and Reader's have gone AWOL as well, this means that I am running around far too much for these tired little legs. For this reason I had been called into to collect a package from Dave when this task would normally be handled by someone of far lesser importance. Still, I suppose that shows my worth as a team player, prepared to get my hands dirty and mix it with the proles.

The summer work was quite a drag, the scene was not my cup of tea, Benny liked it, all that farting about with people who may have been famous, certainly acted like it, and who thought of me as a mere drug dealer. That said, if they wanted to pay three ton a gram for glorified speed then who was I to complain, a business cannot choose its clients. That's why I was missing Benny, he would gladly spend twenty four hours a day down Puerto Banus, of course he would be Mister Telly and network his arse off, but that would give me a bit of peace. If Handclaps and Readers didn't get their act together soon I would have to find another mule to feed off the glamour of my work.

Not that one should think that Zippy is an all work and no play character, though there is the possibility that you may have guessed that already, though play has changed its definition in recent times. I have made a couple of decisions that I hope will turn out to be, at the very least, monumental for the future of my life. Both are symbiotically related to each other and neither is easy. First, we have to get off the coke, we have looked into this and come to the conclusion that it is doing us more harm than good. I can't notice any health problems as yet, except if I am off the stuff for more than three days my heart feels like a constantly expanding medicine ball in my chest that desires to accompany a hot drum and bass outfit on percussion, but everyone gets that. I also have to find myself a girlfriend. By that, I mean a nice, normal girl, not the sort that I meet when I am selling them drugs, those sort of girls are no use to me now, I need someone down to earth, someone away from this world, someone to grow old with, I know it has taken a long time to happen, but I think I am growing up. I don't want a junky slag that's two a penny, I want a homely, dull, boring girl who likes to stay in and watch a film, or have a nice meal, I want boring, I don't want to go another party, I want to be the King of Dull, and I'm loving the idea. It truly was a momentous occasion when I finally realised that the organ that got me into most trouble was not my knob, but my nose.

To get the girlfriend I had the rather brilliant idea of joining an online dating service. It's quite simple, and, according to its own publicity, guaranteed for success. It also has the extra advantage of improving my Spanish, which is going nowhere. This can't go on, it's obviously easier for Gore and Graham, Gore has his Brazilian lass and the Flamenco lot, I can't make head nor tail of what they say, though Graham does confess to difficulty at times, so I often stand there like a spare dictator at a genocide trial. I want to be able to participate more, but Marbella, and my work colleagues don't help my linguistic advancement.

It wasn't easy writing in Spanish, but, to my great surprise, the Luton blood that is my legacy seems to be rather glamorous to my virtual pen-friends who delight in my sharing the language of the Bard with them. This is something of a contretemps for the ongoing quest for me to speak their tongue, but I allow this moment of glamour to let the poor girls lose their heads for a while, whilst I daydream about confused conversations over coffee, the need for curious gesticulation and other tomfoolery to aid comprehension. I had thought the process was going to be easier than it is actually proving to be. I have made one jolly good friend, though there could never be anything between us, as in a moment of foolish clarity I confessed to my lifestyle and work, in a moment of unnecessary honesty she asked me if I had any vices, and I said that apart from drugs, alcohol and prostitutes I was quite keen on chocolate milkshake. I am assuming that is what is creating the lack of possibility, though there is also the chance that she doesn't fancy me.

I have met another two that proved less of what pundits might call a good result away from home. The first one had just come out of a rather stressful break up and was having professional difficulties to add a touch of piquant to an already rather spicy dish. She was not what one would consider great fun. The first time we met she barely opened her mouth despite proving via the gift of the telephone that she was proficient in English. She just sat there offering monosyllabic responses to my charmingly formulated questions, deliciously avoiding any topic likely to cause distress. Three tapas seemed like a lifetime, she just rearranged a salad, which she had no intention of eating, seven times around the plate. I thought about spiking her with an "E", but some people weren't built for training at altitude. I thought that she would never care for my presence again, but she called me a few days later to go out again. I tried to sound like I wasn't making excuses, and she asked me if I was making excuses, and I realised that I didn't have one. We went to the cinema. I liked that, a great place for a date with someone you don't have much to talk about with, as you are obliged to be in silence for ninety minutes. The film was terrible, I was glad my Spanish was so poor, one of these dialogue-based, constant room-changing Spanish films interspersed with unjustified nudity, a transsexual and someone taking smack. If that alone was not bad enough, she extracted a pair or nail scissors during the film and began to destroy the arm rest. Whilst doing this, she repeated the word "Cabrón", meaning bastard. The people next to us began to air their distress, I flashed them a look that hoped to convey "What's she like?" but I was sure my eyes also demonstrated my own desire to be many miles away from her. When she started to cut her hand, that was when the cinema staff was alerted and we were shown the door. I tried to get her somewhere as soon as possible where she could clean up her hand. We entered a crowded Italian restaurant, but managed to find a table. She refused to clean her hand in the toilets, but at least agreed to keep the seeping wound out of view. As the waiter came she ordered champagne and brandy. I asked her whether that was wise as she was clearly on medication for her fragile mental state. She took a dislike to this comment and gave those eating full view of her injured hand, my feeble Spanish capable of understanding that she was screaming that I had inflicted the injuries on her and once we were home would soon inflict more. I begged my innocence, but some do-gooder, arse, cunt came and took it upon himself to be the hero of the piece, pushing me to one side and trying to punch me. He missed of course, but the police were called. This cunt was mine. I pretended to go for a scuffle move, only to get his wallet and find out where he lived. The police came and it was a very unpleasant forty five minutes waiting for the cinema manager to confirm my story. Within an hour her parents were there, with her psychiatrist, whilst I was wiping a number from my mobile, I made my way to an address I was not familiar with, then I called in a favour from some thugs, told them the story, although they loved that kind of thing, and we waited outside the guy's apartment and then proceeded to kick him till his pancreas cried. After that I needed a whisky and a fat line.

I decided to knock it on the head for a while. Then a girl who seemed normal contacted me, we sent a few e-mails and then started phoning each other. Everything seemed fine and dandy so we decided to meet up, I received the raised eyebrows from Gore and others, but happily left early to collect her from the bus station, she said that she was too nervous to drive and meet me. Over the net she had sent me some photos, Angelina she was not, nor was I Brad, although neither was she Jennifer at the time of writing. However, when I saw her at the bus station, it was a test to contain my disappointment. She had neglected to tell me that she was suffering from a thyroid problem and had put on twenty five kilos since those photos had been taken. In fact they were actually photos of her sister. How about lunch were her next words. I remember hoping we were going Dutch. The weight gain and the photographic mistruths soon paled into their deserved insignificance as we sat down to eat. She threw back three glasses of red as though she had just done the last leg of the Paris-Dakar without water and arrived in the Senegalese capital on a bank holiday. Then the pleasant, at times suggestive, telephone conversations became a world away as she began to recount tales of violent abuse on the part of her father, emotional torture from her mother and a war she had become embroiled in with a local gypsy mafia. All this before she beat the current world record for tortilla consumption. That, it transpired, was simply the hors d'ouvres . After an hour of forced smiling, I admitted that it wasn't what I had expected and maybe it would be better to cut our, already huge, losses. At first she didn't agree with this premise, then she realised that I was not really comfortable, so we returned to the bus station.

Unfortunately, the bus services to the village where she lived were not frequent. It had just gone five and a bus had departed not more than five minutes since, the next one was at ten p.m. She said that was cool and she would stay overnight at my place. I informed her that that was not going to happen. I felt I couldn't leave her at the bus station for five hours, despite the fact that I wanted to. I took her to a pub, she suggested I show her the Marley, but I wanted to take her somewhere where I was not known. She then started on the pints, rarely have I seen what is known as diatribe, but this was vitriolic, and for some reason, all of her rage was directed against me. As pint after pint went down, all her ills, as well as certain seventeenth century European conflicts were my fault. I just smiled, pained. My watch conspired to go slower than ever, it was only eight o'clock. Now she was shouting at me, questioning my sexuality. It seems that I am a bastard for not allowing her to stay, surely a bastard would allow her to stay, then kick her out in the morning. She cannot see such logic and continues to expand my database of Spanish insults.

At just after half past we decided she would see out the rest of her stay at the bus station. I got her within one hundred metres of the place and could then take no more. With her screaming at me in the street, I stopped smiling, and informed her with as much Spanish vernacular as I could muster, I was now leaving. Perhaps in the future things will be simpler, maybe people will only take into account your Ebay feedback or the quality of your iPod playlists before accepting a possible future spouse, until that glorious day happens, every Saturday we will have to put our kit on and leave our hearts and souls on the pitch. Still, who knows maybe third time lucky. When she was finally out of my life, I ran heartily to the Marley where once again I found solace in shallow acquaintances, drinks and drugs.

The drugs issue was supposed to be solved by the homely sort in the Gingham dress. Unfortunately, this was taking longer than I had expected, so I had to take more drastic measures to reduce my intake. The solution was staring me in the face, Heroin. The facts of the case are, my body is accustomed to the coca leaf's by-product, anything close to a rush requires a substantial amount. Yet, my body is a stranger to smack. Its effect is instant, long-lasting, and generally unpleasant. Whilst I take H I can't consume cocaine, neither do I wish to. It has its down sides as well, as any solution does. I can't take it during work as I could do with the other, so most of my free time is dedicated to being smacked out of my brains, but this short term sacrifice is going to be worth the while when I am finally clean. With that here we are at Dave's office. I hope this will be a quick affair. I can't stand Dave a great deal.

I almost get a hello from the snooty cow on the front counter. She can only dream of what might be. I wander up to Dave's office and am surprised by the rather warm atmosphere. Not warm as in "Hi Zippy, pour yourself a cocktail." Rather no air-con in September, hence, uncomfortable. Dave is flanked by two rather unpleasant looking people, this in an industry where unpleasantness is one of the items highlighted in bold on one's CV. I recognise one but can't recall his name. The other one is a stranger to me, and hopefully will remain so. I am hoping this will be a brief affair. They tell me to sit and I do so, gesturing that there is excessive warmth in the air, though I refrain from comment.

Dave begins. "Zippy, I'm glad that you came in. It has become necessary that we have a little chat." This is starting to look weird. "I have been preparing myself for this moment, and, I will admit, that it has been hard to find the words. I was going to begin by saying that you have become a liability, though for you to become a liability you have to have been through a period when you weren't a liability and then underwent a transition by which the result was you finally did become the aforementioned liability." Dave was looking at me in a rather serious way. I don't remember him being so eloquent either. I wasn't sure what he was actually referring to, I wasn't aware that I had done anything untoward. He seemed to think otherwise. "I don't have a problem with you being a liability to yourself, that causes me no concern, the problems occur when you, as a liability, begin to make my work unnecessarily difficult. Then, you create an issue in the head of Fat Charlie, which means you are problem, and you know what problems need, don't you?" This was a confusing situation but I still had enough wits about me to recognise a rhetorical question when I saw one. Surely, the pause was too long. I felt I was actually supposed to say something, though could not think of anything that would help my case, as I did not know what my case was supposed to be.

Dave asked me if I remembered the nasty looking piece of work that was to his left. I nodded. I turned out the guy's name was Aubrey, I was disappointed that I didn't remember that he had such a silly name, though I was glad that I didn't laugh, that may have made things worse, if they could be. There were no smiles or handshakes, just the feeling that Dave was going to continue. Obviously, in the light of Benny's latest mistakes, Dave wants to give the less reliable elements of the organisation something of a dressing down. I could handle this, I will take my admonishment with a certain amount of aplomb, maybe even dignity, then, within a month, I would be clean and new again, and all this we will laugh about a year from now.

"My main problem with you, Zippy, is how much you know. Now I don't really know how much you know or how much you remember. The problem is that your mouth is frequently open. When it is open it makes comments that prejudicial to us, to our organisation, because frequently you are in no state to be making such comments. Therefore, you could feasibly say something that would put all of us in a rather sticky situation. I am sure you understand our concerns?" That wasn't rhetorical, I felt the question mark.

"You know I would never say anything that would harm the organisation. Anyway, all I know would be more damaging to myself rather than anyone else." I tried to give him a look like an Italian defender gives to a referee after a hideous challenge, knowing he is guilty but under the impression he doesn't deserve a yellow. I felt I had to say something. As soon as I had finished I wished I hadn't come out with the equivalent of "I dunno wot you are talkin' about, copper". Hopefully this would be over soon, I had managed not to think about coke for a few days but now wanted to give the skag a miss for a few days.

"You know too much. That's the issue. You take too many drugs. You have a big mouth. What's on your iPod, Zip? "Smack my Bitch Up"? or maybe "Needles and Pins"? or is it just the Velvet's debut? Look at you. You are a mess. We know what's going on with you. Heroin? On top of the coke? You are mad, and that level of madness cannot be tolerated. You don't recall your conversation with Aubrey from last Thursday do you?" His look was now worrying.

"I recall his face. Though I don't recall the conversation we had. Anyway, I knew he was with us so even if I was frivolous with information, I was aware of whom I was talking to." I scarcely remembered a word of the conversation, I was still having trouble calculating the doses required to keep the Charlie at bay. I knew I wasn't looking at my best, no style guru would ever claim heroin was an essential fashion item, my hair was greasy, and my skin had lost its gleam, yet this was a small price to pay, and the organisation would benefit from this in the end.

"You haven't got a fucking clue. You don't remember a word. You are a fucking useless muppet. You are a danger to everyone you work with. Plus, you know about Benny." I gave him a look that suggested he should elaborate. Without realising what was happening, Aubrey moved behind me and handcuffed my left wrist to the chair. I doubt I would have had much chance of preventing him from doing his wish, though I was slightly displeased at my lack of effort in trying. Now the fear of what was about to happen to me, that this was not just a normal dressing down, and that, coupled with the excessive heat in the office caused me to sweat more. The look on my face was one of discomfort that caused Dave to mention the temperature.

"You have probably been wondering why it is so warm in here. Maybe you are slightly more perceptive than we gave you credit for. Perhaps that should spare you, but, you do know about Benny." He now smiled, he was, now, clearly enjoying this.

"What about Benny? I know that he has made some cock-ups. I don't think that anything I have done has been on the same level as his." Perhaps betraying Benny would be an option.

"That is true. You have yet to come close to Benny in that sense. What worries us is what you might do. What you might know. That said, you know that we have killed Benny." With that he looked at me and awaited my response. Benny? Killed? It made sense, though was something of a shock. I wrote a memo to myself to grieve as soon as I got out of this. That was my only concern at the moment, that and not joining Benny, wherever he was

"No, I didn't know this. As far as I am concerned I still don't. I won't say a thing. It's like no-one ever told me. You can trust me." I was pleading, it was embarrassing, but they had killed Benny, so why wouldn't they kill me too? "Please, I'll get clean. I'll prove my worth." I had always hoped to go with a modicum of dignity if I ever got into one of these situations, but now that I was here my initial reaction was that dignity could go fuck itself.

"Zippy, relax. Despite the power held within this organisation, we cannot simply remove people at will. There are standards to maintain. We cannot just kill you." I now had a favourite sentence in the history of the world. That was the plan. Now I understand. Scare me. Good work. I am genuinely scared. Please continue and explain my rehabilitation. "Though we do have to guarantee your silence. That has been the issue that has caused us most of the recent head-scratching. It was your wandering vocal chords that gave Aubrey the idea last Thursday." Aubrey returned to my proximity with a very large pair of dressmaking scissors, with which he proceeded to cut through my already sweat drenched shirt, exposing my bare back. This was returning close to area known as rather unpleasant. What were they up to? I wanted to know and didn't want to at the same time.

Aubrey and the other, still unnamed fellow, began to put surgical gloves on, Dave was obviously coming to the part he was waiting for, he walked towards me, smiling. They said they weren't going to kill me. I would be OK. I would be OK, wouldn't I? I wasn't so sure. Dave began speaking again. I felt ill. "You know what Lysergic Acid Diethyl Amide is, don't you Zippy?" Now that was a rhetorical question if ever there was one. "Of course you do. You mentioned to Aubrey what happened to your girlfriend. The one who went mad and took a hundred tabs." I looked confused. There was a superb reason for that.

"That wasn't me. That was Gore's ex. That wasn't me. Did I say it was my ex?" Why did I think that would make any difference?

"Poor Zippy. Even in tragedy you are full of bullshit. Well it was still the catalyst for your silence." He gestured to the others that they extract the contents of an envelope, and that they should do so with an extra amount of care. "What we have here is a specially designed sheet of LSD. As you will well know, LSD is generally consumed by placing a small tab on the tongue and allowing it to dissolve. This paper has been enhanced so that the same absorption process can be achieved via humid skin. Hence the temperature. As I said, we cannot kill you, though we do have to guarantee your silence. This sheet of paper contains over one hundred doses. As you will remember from your invented tragedy girlfriend, massive doses of LSD do not kill the taker, though can remain in the system and destroy the human brain for a lifetime. I believe Gore's ex remains in an institution, with only her ghosts and demons for company. Look at me Zippy." Commanded Dave, I did so. That was the moment when the sheet was placed on my soaking back. The other one held me hand so the sheet couldn't be removed, though the ten seconds that the sheet had been there was no doubt already enough to administer the massive dose.

"How long does a tab take to start you tripping?" Dave enquired.

"About half hour. Like a pill." I responded lucidly.

"Will this should be rather interesting viewing. Feel anything?"

"Not yet"

"Any questions?" Dave and the rest still looked like they were when I came in. I felt nothing. At least I felt like I felt nothing. It was hard to say. I imagine that I wouldn't feel this good for much longer. Did I have a question? Millions. The only one I could think of was the following.

"Why is it that when you are waiting to cross a road at a non-official point, and there is a lot of traffic, how come when you get the chance to cross, as you do so the nearest green man at the zebra crossing appears anyway and you save no time?"

"I would suggest that it is because all the traffic lights are linked to a central computer, and as such, that when the last of the vehicles pass from the last green light a pause is created during which there is less traffic as the cars further down the road have already stopped and the ones in front have already passed, allowing the pedestrians to cross. Just an off-the-cuff theory. Could be wrong."

"Sounds plausible." I felt still more or less as I did when I came in. Things were slower, there were more people and the temperature had dropped about thirty degrees, apart from that I was pleased at the way I was holding things together.

"I have a question for you." Dave announced. "Who came up with the name Zippy? It's very fitting. Just like that noisy, mouthy prick off Rainbow, I'll have to buy them a drink one day." With that he started laughing. Of course, he wasn't laughing really, his mouth wasn't laughing, he was laughing inside, I could hear him, he couldn't fool me.

"Actually, that is not the reason, I am in fact a distant relation of the Bostonian inventor, Elias Howe, inventor of the modern sewing machine, and the zipper." It was hard to breathe and speak at the same time, somehow, I managed to get the words out, I think they were the words that I wanted to say, so that was enough, through my desire, I had said them, and said they were. I felt more comfortable now, all those present had taken on more convenient two-dimensional forms so that each section of the conversation could be slotted on top of each other.

"Interesting. Don't worry about what we will do with you. We shan't let you leave here to be run over and cause us more problems. We will drop your sad wreck of a body in the nearest park and make an anonymous phone call. You will spend the rest of your pitiful, confused existence in a psychiatric ward. Should you ever manage another coherent sentence, who will listen to it?" Said Dave in Swahili. I never knew I could speak it. We are outside now. There are no people. Only buttons, every button has its function. I hear music. It's not music. I am struck by how dull this is. Then, from nowhere, there is a blast of pure white light, like electricity, but more so. I hear someone say "say the word", I know what the word is.

MACHINE.

CREAM.

DREAM.

STEAM.

I can't remember the word at the moment, but I know it. I will say it later. The electric shocks are stronger now. It would be funny, just like a pineapple. That would be the word. My word. Forever.
BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY-ONE

Memories of Thievery (VI) To Kill A Rockingbird

GORE: Fate has always fascinated me. The way things happened, the apparent lack of coordination and the random factor that means no two people or things should really be in the same building, town or forest, yet somehow, they are drawn together for some inexplicable reason that will change their lives for good or bad. This came to mind as I heard by chance that hideous musical abomination "Missing You" by, I believe it was, John Waites, though I shall have to Google it for confirmation, yet the song is so shite that it doesn't even deserve that. Anyway, that song was a particular favourite of a girl that plays a major role in one of our darkest hours. A pure accident, an act of God, call it what you will, but still a moment that makes my hair stand on end every time I think of it.

It was the night of the 24th October of 1997. A rather grey and uninviting night in Luton, though the town barely scrubs up with the sun beating down on it in all its glory, so when winter sets in before November, not to be moved till March, the town manages to depress even the most upbeat Prozac user. We had a job that night, nothing special, remember these were the Tony Matthews glory days, everything was sown up for miles around, the police were in our pockets as long as we lined theirs, at times it was almost too easy. Plans had been made to the last detail, Graham was always on top of that. That was his area, but things could always go awry due to the fickle nature of the Gods.

We decided to take the van to the job as previous experience had taught us that we often had to leave stuff behind, which occasionally stuck in the throat, so it was better to sacrifice comfort for extra financial gain. Benny almost always drove, it was simpler to allow him to perform this task rather than have to put up with his whingeing for the duration of the journey. Graham was entitled to the other front seat as he was logistics, which seemed fair, in those days their mutual snarling was minimal, they even seemed to be friends. That meant me and Zippy slumming it in the back, but in those heady days of youth, comfort appeared to be an overrated commodity. We aimed to be at the warehouse by half past eight but a lorry had jack-knifed on the main road out of Luton, possibly with the excitement of leaving the place. This meant that our arrival time was put back by more than thirty minutes, much to the consternation of the doorman whose loyalty to the company was priced at the current exchange rate of five hundred pounds worth of Tony Matthews' appreciation for his labour. He got arsey, as was often the way with those of his ilk, enjoying the Warholian fifteen and playing the big man before returning to their rightful place on this Earth, guarding boxes and aiding thieves. He claimed that someone might turn up, however, this was Saturday and anyone with any sense in Luton was either, not there, or in one of the many neon infested watering holes that offered the opportunity to, temporarily, forget about just how miserable an existence it was. Maybe I am being a little harsh, things just seem so more in focus now that it is almost hard to believe we spent so much time there.

With our arrival now in hand all we had to do was load the van up and be gone from the scene as soon as possible. That was the only part of the evening that went without any snagging. We got the gear in in double time, hoping to make up a few minutes on the ring road and side-sneaking back into the town. As optimistic as it seemed at gone nine in the evening, we still had designs on a strong continental lager before time was called. With Jobsworth now satisfied, we were on the open road with the intention of being able to refer to this job as one with a tick in the completed box of Graham's spreadsheets. That would have to wait. Trying to use a lesser known side road we managed to find a broken bottle in the middle of the road and cause enough damage to the front right tyre to make all of us adopt that look you only see when you can't explain something in a moving vehicle. A puncture meant that we had said goodbye to a drink during the normal boozing timetable, there was always the option of a place with a lock-in, but that seemed somehow wrong, by then it would be too late, the rest of the revellers would be too drunk, you would have missed the boat. No, the way things were going I think we were all looking forward to getting back, a cup of tea and maybe a chocolate hobnob, and, bien sûr, Match of the Day.

The puncture was a particularly time-consuming affair, we appeared to wish to prove who was the clumsiest in an area in which, whilst not excelling, we were certainly competent, apart from Graham. It was gone ten when we were back on the road, we had to get the gear stored as soon as possible, so it would be another hour or so before we even tasted the tea. In those days, we all had lock-ups so Zippy kindly offered the tea and use of his space. Already tasting the golden brew, we sped down the tree-lined boulevards towards Zippy's, just as he remembered that his dwelling was bereft of milk, and, for that matter tea and sugar. No-one even asked about biscuits as we turned around towards Graham's, the obvious choice. The roads were still practically empty so Benny decided to give it slightly more gas than the Highway Code would recommend. It turned from the fabled fine rain to something that would be considered a determined spit. As we closed in on the area that took us to Graham's, something happened that would turn the night's previous calamities into mere trivia. We barely had time to see what was happening before it had already happened. From nowhere a girl had stumbled off the pavement and had landed awkwardly in the middle of the road, right into the path of our van. The angle at which she stumbled meant that at the moment of contact instead of being propelled away from the trajectory of the van, she was sucked under its wheels like some bizarre cross-river ferry, with its turbines sucking the victim below. Before we had time to react, both the front and back left wheels had gone over her body. Science was never a strong point of ours, but it wasn't difficult to reach the conclusion that the combination of a two-ton transit van filled with misappropriated loot and four fully-grown adult males driving at nearly fifty miles an hour would cause a certain amount of deadly death to be inflicted on a nineteen-year-old who was struggling to make eight stone even with her Docs on.

We didn't stop to inspect the damage, no other vehicles in the road meant that we had probably not been seen, it was an unfortunate accident, that was true, but now we had to get off the road and remove all the evidence. We drove on in silence as she lay there, lifeless in the street, the culmination of a variety of hiccups putting her in the exact point in the road at the same time as we sped down it. We got the van back to the lock-up and changed all four tyres, giving the chassis a good brush down too. By just after midnight everything looked fine, the loot was hidden, and Graham phoned Tony Matthews. Thankfully, Tony saw it as the accident that it had been. It still hurt, but there was nothing we could have done. Tony asked us for the keys to the van and told us to get away for a few days. He would take the van and use the accident as an excuse to fix up some young urchins that he was none too fond of. With that we flopped onto the sofa and finally drank that cup of tea. There wasn't too much conversation, we couldn't find any answers, I just remember feeling weird that it was the worst thing we had ever done, yet the other bad things had been intentional. How could fate be so cruel to allow all that had happened to us be transferred onto her? A strange and restless night befell me as I woke up sweating, though despite my paranoia, I am sure that she would have gladly changed places.

As time went on more facts about the accident began to appear. It turns out she was the sister of a mate of mine called Graham Boden whom I knew from school, he was going out with her elder sister, and I recalled seeing her at some of the places where rock music proliferated. Her name was Janey, I kept thinking she was called Janey Jones, but that was clearly the old Clash track invading my memory. I made some investigations into what had put her at the scene of the accident. I had to wander with precaution, despite the fact that other people had been accused of reckless driving I didn't want to push things too far. After subtly buying her still distraught sister a few ciders I managed to winkle the story out of her. After I heard it, I was left cold. If I had thought that fate was a cruel dame before. Her work on Janey Jones was certainly from a different sphere.

Janey wasn't even supposed to leave the house on that portentous Saturday, she had had a cold and was looking forward to an early night. Despite that, her supposed best friend, Emily, had made her feel guilty about staying in and Janey had decided that it was easier just to pop out for an hour or so, make her excuses rather than have the wrath of Emily for the forthcoming week. So, against her better judgement, Janey made her way to Emily's flat where they were supposed to meet. Janey rang the bell and waited, she continued waiting for another ten minutes. Emily had told her to get there at no later than half nine as she was hoping to see a boy that she liked in one of the rockers pubs that they frequented. That was a plan that delighted Janey, she knew who the guy was and knew what an idiot, he, and his mates were. This meant her having to listen to a dreary conversation whilst she was only thinking about the Lemsip that would await her when she returned home. Still, maybe one day Emily would do her a favour. She laughed at this thought as she waited by the door. She had no idea where Emily was, the lights were off and this was the period before mobile phones were common place. There was no way of contacting Emily, the pubs were on the other side of town, and Janey didn't fancy walking through the streets alone. She was confident Emily would return soon, maybe she had gone to the offy to get supplies, a few drinks would certainly help ease the pain of the cold and the poor conversation that she would have to endure. She didn't really feel like one but she lit a cigarette, just to make the waiting less dull.

If Emily had gone to the off-licence then she was taking far too long. Janey didn't know what Emily was up to, but knew that her personality would prevent her from even being angry with Emily the next time she saw her. She would though, never see Emily again, she would never see anyone again. Emily had gone to collect supplies from, but she soon forgot about her friend who was waiting for her when she rather fortuitously bumped into the very same rocker that Emily hoped to happen upon in the boozer. She made no effort to hide her feelings and when he offered her the possibility of sharing a bus after he had bought some Rizlas and ten Superkings she hastily acquiesced. It wasn't until she was sat next to him on the bus that she remembered her friend waiting outside her house. Now there was nothing that she could do, Janey would wait around for an hour or so then either make her way to the pub, or return home. Whatever she chose, Janey would air her grievance in silence, which was one of the things that Emily liked about her, Emily's own unreliability never became an issue for their friendship as Janey never said anything and never did anything similar to Emily.

Internally she became angry at having to wait, especially as the evening's weather took a turn for the worse and Janey felt the slight recovery she had made from her cold turning into relapse. As the weather got worse she found herself without an umbrella and wherever she stood a drip managed to find its way down the back of her neck via the leather and her Motorhead T shirt. Anger rose up inside her, and even though she knew that there was no-one in the flat, she edged her way to the kerb to have one last look. As she looked up her right foot caught a discarded diet Coke can that lay in the street, the combination of that, the slippery surface and her rather cumbersome leather boots caused her to fall sideways into the road, and, approximately ten seconds later, she was dead.

The final facts came from the mouth of an anonymous person who had been entertaining a voyeuristic metal fantasy until the morose factor suddenly disappeared. Rumour has it that Emily sought counselling after feeling so bad about the incident though less generous people suggested that this was merely to get some more attention for herself. The voyeur described the van which was found, and while we sunned ourselves in Malta, a couple of wide-boys were charged with the crime, all due to Matthews' influence.

I can't listen to that Clash track any more. Every time I find myself in bizarre situations due to delays or the poor organisation of others, I immediately think that a Transit van will fly around the corner and grab me from this life. The irony being that I have been in so many situations in which I could easily have been killed, and yet here I am, like so many others who flaunt death on a daily basis, whilst some have the misfortune to meet a violent death whilst doing a favour for an undeserving friend. It would be nice to think that Janey Jones is in some better place now, but that would simply fail to explain just what type of world this is.
BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY-TWO

Departures (III) Gore Vital

GORE: Thinking about things like the Janey Jones incident wasn't just a coincidence, a lot of things had been being replayed through my mind since we returned from what I am hesitant to call a holiday. I suppose that I have always just got on with things in spite of setbacks, occasional deaths and disappointments. Benny's death left me with a strange feeling inside. It was a pre-announced departure in the sense that he had placed people of power in an uncomfortable position on more than one occasion. Benny had no-one but himself to blame, yet we all felt the need to at least show some apparent mourning, despite the fact that Benny could have quite easily taken us with him. We remained closer than brothers for two decades, the term "thick as thieves" provides a rather apt reference point, yet in little more than a year we have become closer to strangers, bordering on mistrust, and, occasionally, contempt.

I have worked my arse off, that is without recrimination. I have done so due to a combination of fear and desire, fear that if I didn't appear to be worth my weight then an unpleasant fate might await me. At first, I believed their story about Benny, it seemed plausible, things could go wrong, so why wouldn't a group of Russians mistake him for someone else and unfortunately fill him with lead. Quite possibly because he was about the most famous person in Malaga connected, at least in a name and a face sense, with any organisation. After a couple of days, I realised that I wanted to believe what I had been told in order to expel the idea from my own brain that I could possibly befall a similar fate. Of course, I had pleased the organisation from day one, but it only took one mistake, or you only needed to be in the wrong place at the right time on one occasion for everything to go horribly wrong.

I have found myself pondering, or attempting to evaluate, just how close I have come to death on various occasions in my life. There are moments, when but for a minor modification to the script, my number could have been called. By my calculations, on thirteen occasions I have been in a situation where the outcome could have been, quite feasibly, the end of my life. That doesn't stop to take into account moments of pure misfortune, Janey Jones moments, when fate conspires to end it all. How can we possibly calculate the number of times when if you had turned left into Whitecastle Lane then you might just have stumbled upon a schizophrenic with a large bread knife. How many times have you been driving and a hand or a foot slips, nothing happens but if someone did the same thing on the other side of the road? Well. Recently, I've been scouring the Internet, obsessively reading pages devoted to dead rock stars and unfortunate cessation of people's animateness. Of these, one of my favourites has to be the ninety-nine-year-old dear who was crossing the road in her wheelchair, on the way to her own hundredth birthday party, when the wheels got stuck and she was run over by the van delivering her birthday cake. Sometimes the stories are comical, but when you think about someone like Haven Gillies, a pedestrian in New York who happened to pass by an apartment block when bored, unattended children were playing at squashing the "ants" below by throwing fruit and other items that gradually increased in size, instantly ending the lives of Haven and two other passers-by.

So why this morbid obsession? Two reasons, firstly, on two consecutive days my iPod offered up, on shuffle mode, back to back originals and cover versions. That was clearly a sign that something was up. For the more anally retentive of you the tracks were "Only Love Can Break Your Heart" by Neil Young and Saint Etienne, and "Son of A Gun" by The Vaselines and Nirvana, both disparate in their take of the original version, I am sure you will agree. However, that pales into significance with the second reason. In this job, sometimes you question if you are doing the right thing when you are on your own. When you are two it becomes more important to think of the other person, it's hard for one person to stay alive so two makes things trickier. When two becomes three then it is clearly time for a career move. So, when I got the news that Janaína was heavy with child, it was time to take stock. Unplanned as it was, it might have just saved my life.

To bring a new life into a world like this was wholly unacceptable. The fact that I now had someone who was actually looking out for me in a greater sense than it would not be a disappointing but expendable loss should I be dragged from this mortal coil also meant that I had taken a more active interest in what might happen to me. That did not mean by any means that I had found God, unless you are referring to the latter-day church of good old common sense, rather that the organisation now offered me very little. It was time to leave. The question was when and how.

It has been mentioned before that your standard fifteen days' notice and thankful yet explicit letter is not enough. Ideally, I would like to have something to bargain my case with, rather than simple begging. Snooping around the offices was not a particularly bright idea as being caught would likely exacerbate the problem, a problem that they didn't know they had and wouldn't take kindly to having. I needed a dose of good fortune, in the past I hadn't always received a proportional share of this, but somehow felt I was due one.

Along with the soon to be mine good fortune, I also needed a plan. I was tired of working in the environment that I found myself in and wanted a change. I had money, technically, so, I could do whatever I wanted. Just as long as I wasn't caught and killed. Practically a done deal then. I had always dreamed of owning my own record shop, and once that though re-entered my head the cogs began to turn more freely and pipe dreams became small business plans. It made perfect sense, I contacted my old mate Neil McGuinness, who had the record shop that me and my cousin used to steal from in the baby days, and he said that he was tiring of the Luton scene as well as facing continual pressure from the high street chains just to stay afloat. He had been tempted by a financial carrot from one of these dealers to give up his premises and clientele so that they could devote more floor space to the current plebeian boy band extolled by the teenage populous. I told him of my latest contrivance to open a specialist music and record store in Barcelona. It was to be more idealistic than profit motivated, a place to share experiences and dreams, and, who knows to jam a bit. Not trying to be cool, just a load of over the hill hippy nerds who took things just a little but too seriously. Why Barcelona? Why not? I didn't know the place and everyone raved about it. Good enough for me. I would have to be rather silent as a partner during my disassociation with Fat Charlie. I knew I could go to the other side of the world and it would be harder for him to find me, but if he was going to try and find me, he would. Neil liked the plan and he began to look for suitable premises. We settled for a place not far from La Rambla and he made the transaction. We now owned a record store in Barcelona.

I spoke to Janaína about the best way to make our move from the organisation, she, it transpired, was also considered part of it by disassociation, although she had never committed a crime in her life. Her principal manifestation at the early stages was a desire not to be hunted down and shot for fleeing with a gangster. I hated that word, especially when it came from her and was directed to me. I wanted to make sure that she would never have to use such a word again, at least to describe me. Without a bargaining chip, we knew we would have to go on the run, hoping that Fat Charlie would find it in his heart to offer a small amount of clemency. I planned to write him a parting letter, with the aim of making him see that I am not needed, yet not to be feared, appealing to his as yet unseen better side which will allow me to raise my family in peace. I feel he knows me well enough to sleep soundly at the fact that my mouth will remain tightly shut, I have no desires to tell his enemies, or mine, i.e. the police, about any of the activities we have dabbled in on the Costa, plus he knows that the police cannot try to tempt me with anything as I have more than I could ever hope for as it is. Any reasonable person would say the Dickens with it and let me be about my merry way. Most reasonable people are not the bosses of major international crime cartels.

It was surprising how quick things began to move. In just two weeks I went from finding out I was to be a father to owning half a record store in Barcelona. Ideally, I would like to sell my place here. I could get upwards of half a million for it whilst only losing my hand down to the wrist from the biting customers. That though, would offer the organisation a real motive to come after me. I would have to walk away from the property with only the money I have in the bank. That is around two hundred and fifty grand, and that is mine, as Jim Bowen would say, whatever happens. I earned that money, by hook and by crook. Not a bad profit for the time we have been here and I am sure most people would think twice about getting another few years under their belts before shipping out, but I cannot leave my unborn child with the possibility of being fatherless, and I am resolute that I shall be there to watch him or her growing up. I can't make those kinds of promises whilst I am still in the organisation.

So now I have to learn how to be a father, there are books, I have heard, though I'm not one hundred percent sure that that is the way. Thankfully, I have full confidence in Janaína, and hope she has some in me. I have been racking my brains to see how many of my friends, acquaintances, and as the list is so short, enemies, are fathers. There are not too many. Some of the older guys in the organisation have bred, but their family set up seems akin to a Dickensian farm whereby the eldest will take the father's reigns when the plough gets too heavy for him. I still find that If I think about my impending new social status for too long I start to sweat and lose control of my breathing, yet at the same time I feel an inexplicable joy that has hitherto been a stranger to me and continually wander off into a daydream world in which I am football coach, knower of all things and my sturdy shoulders make the best youngster transporter ever devised. Janaína is insistent that we tell no-one, my current distrust of Graham makes this easier. I would like to tell Zippy, but his disappearance impedes this. This may be a good thing as his lips have sunk more than one battle-cruiser in their time. I would like to see the look on his face though, when he found out he was going to be an uncle, planning walks in the park hoping to attract women with a baby in tow. Whether Janaína would be happy at the prospect of uncle Zippy feeding him God knows what, is another matter. He would have to make do with Uncle Neil for now, until our extended family increased in size.

Janaína planned to go to Barcelona before me, find a flat and get things ready; as soon as it was possible for me to escape I would do so. It was considered wise to wait around for a while should some information fall into my lap with which I could maintain some sort of hold over Fat Charlie. I was convinced that something would turn up, a lot of strange and still unexplained things had happened recently, and if I could find out something, not that I am party to blackmail, then that would clearly help my case. I felt sure that it was just a matter of time, I had never had such a feeling before, such conviction that a greater force would help me, perhaps now, with the capacity to look back, my blind allegiance was rather perturbing, it also meant I spent little time looking for a plan B, should I have needed one.

As it turned out I didn't need much of a plan, A or B. I'm not an avid fan of eavesdropping; one can invariably discover that they are not as cool and groovy in the eyes of their peers as they had convinced themselves to believe. I had partaken in an excessively warm curry on a Wednesday evening and was feeling the pinch with what one could only, if unpleasantly, be described as an anal flame thrower. Rather embarrassed by this situation I locked myself in a cubicle and tried hard to make as little noise as possible, although the putrid air around me suggested that the cubicle was indeed engaged. As I pretended not to be the occupant, stealthy feet entered and embarked on a conversation that went a bit like this:

"Yeah well, he fucking deserved, didn't he? Left the big man with no choice. Tell you what, I'm just sorry that I wasn't picked to do the job myself. It wouldn't have caused me a moments' lost sleep. Big mouth prick. Better off without him."

"I know what you mean. Pisses you off though, they walk in here from fucking Luton of all places, and are suddenly straight up the ladder. First week here and there doing Saturdays at the Marley. Jesus, I had to work three years to get there. What's so special about them anyway? Benny was a joke, a liability, but so is the other one. Always fucked up on one drug or another, reckon he snorts twice what he sells, plus he is on the sly with those jakey fucking hangouts he uses. People like that just cause problems. Kevin and Steve did us a favour when they plunged the knife in. Get rid of Zippy too then things might get back to normal."

"Still left with the other two tho'. No matter how much they may have their heads screwed on, still sticks in the throat a bit. We have grafted like pricks for years and their taking all the fringe stuff. You have been here seven years, you got a flat after four. Maybe the nerd is good at organising, but the other one, he is two-a-penny, throwaway, and anyone can do what he does if they've got the muscle. Sure, he's sound, but they hardly broke the mould. If it was up to me, we should call the Russians to sort out the other three!" (Laughter)

"Do you think they believed it? The Russians botched a job and killed Benny?"

"Graham knows the truth. I told him. Charlie told me to. Something very strange going on there too. I know where you're coming from though. I would breathe quite a sigh of relief if all four of them went the same way. Still, doubt it will happen. Benny fucked up good and proper, Zippy, you could argue, will do the same, but we can't remove employees just because we think they might do something untoward."

"Though we could force them into a situation whereby they dig their own grave."

"Clarify"

"Zippy's got a big gob, only takes one rather unfortunate misplaced comment would be just enough to talk him into more trouble than he can get out of."

"I see what you mean. Jesus, with Zippy he wouldn't even need to say anything, he wouldn't know what he had said from one day to another. Why don't we just get him in, make out he was shouting his mouth off about us killing Benny, then we've got him. Say that we can't have him knowing such stuff. Bad for the organisation. Then we would have to silence him."

"I like that idea. You can be a malicious, vindictive twat when you put your mind to it."

"I assume that was a compliment. Fancy a line?"

"Good idea. Let's get a beer. God, I hate the summer. Good job we've got staff members to knock off or I'd go mad" (Laughter, both of them leave the toilet).

I didn't know whether to be pleased or angry at the conversation I had overheard. I knew I could have done nothing to save Benny, his fate was written in the stars a long time ago, but to hear those in charge discussing our removal from the work sphere so candidly was more than worrying. The other voice I couldn't place, but I expected no less from Dave. I had to move quickly. I had to work out how I could blackmail them. I left the toilets with my head somewhere quite different, and transferring all my clumsiness to my size twelves, I collided with Fat Charlie and stubbed his big toe. He made a noise that suggested the experience had not registered enjoyment. Would that be enough to see me in concrete loafers? He was visibly displeased. He paused for a moment and decided not to kill me. Rather he gave me his keys and asked me to take his car to the Andalucia Plaza hotel, where he would be taking lunch. My response to anyone else in the world would have been to tell them that the taxi service was more than adequate, but the drive would give me time to think how to use the information I had just discovered.

Fat Charlie's car was nothing special. An imported, automatic Lexus. I hated driving automatic cars, there was no skill to it, anyone could do it. Any basic level of common sense would allow a non-driver to make an adequate, if bumpy, getaway from the scene of a crime. I pondered how I could use the stuff about Benny, and, I assume, the soon to be equally dealt with Zippy, to my advantage. Then I realised that our group had disbanded, my motivation was to save myself and my family, the others had had their chances and blown it, they were not going to do the same for me. Zippy was no longer my responsibility. I opened the glove compartment to search for a CD or something, but more than anything to have a general nose as so many parts of my body were not being used in the driving process. I was amazed to find gloves, hideous driving gloves used by Tory voting Daimler drivers, and an envelope. I knew that the contents of the envelope were not for me, still I decided to have a nose inside. I was glad I did quite soon afterwards. Inside was a DNA test which confirmed that Fat Charlie was Graham's natural father. I assumed that this knowledge had been kept from a large number of people, including Graham. I smiled to myself as I turned into the hotel car park, looking forward to seeing Janaína later and telling her we could begin packing more or less as soon as she felt ready. All I had to do was to compose a letter that appealed to Fat Charlie's good nature whilst making it clear that I knew one or two things that I shouldn't. I walked the twenty-minute stretch back to the flat picking up some flowers and chocolates on the way. There would be lots of flowers and chocolate from now on.

I couldn't resist a bottle of champers as well. Though my lover suggested that no alcohol pass her lips for the period of gestation, I manage to get her to take a glass. She asks me why I am in such a good mood and I tell her. She brings me back to Earth a jot when she enquires if I am happy as my employers have murdered my friend, potential plural. I realise that I am aiming for an honest lifestyle but still think like the thief I have been for so long. I suppose it will take time for this to change, but when it does, the world had better be ready. I have just remembered the word change, that was the word that brought us here in the first place. I don't think anyone thought that the change would be so radical. Maybe the change we needed was not to start a new life together rather begin a new one apart. I pondered how much I would miss Graham and Zippy, and soon found my mind wandering onto other subjects.

She was leaving the next day, I urged her not to go by plane, just in case, so she decided on the midnight overnight train that would get her into Barcelona early the next morning. She would have a bed on the train so that would be the most comfortable form of travel for her. I liked to think that in this way I was already beginning to put her needs first, even though she kept saying that she would have preferred to fly. She was leaving behind close friends to run away with me so she was at least due the chance to say a temporary goodbye to them. Hopefully soon our residence would not need to remain a secret and she could rekindle these relationships in our new home. I, on the other had, would not be bothering. Graham wanted to do his own thing as much as me and Zippy would soon be gone. It sounds cold and callous but I have to make the first move to start this new life.

As she left for the evening I sat on the terrace and opened a rather charming bottle of red that had been waiting in the pantry. It was inevitable that I would replay some of the more cavalier moments in my head and even permit myself the occasional laugh, though at no time did I ever consider what I was about to do was wrong. I thought about how fortunate I had been and how I had to do everything in my hand to make this work. I had to learn to be so many things, more than just a father, I had to learn to be a good person and to wipe away all these years of pain that our work, is that a valid description of what we do?, has caused. I want everything to be just perfect, the business is no great worry at the moment, I am sure we can make it work if the will and the desire is there.

I still had to write the letter to Fat Charlie but wanted to wait and savour the moment just a little longer. I wanted to drink it in with the fine wine, survey this place like it was my empire and at the same time not care when I leave it behind, for I know I am going to a better place. Pondering the letter to Charlie I realise that he will not come after me, I am convinced that his recent finding that he is about to be a father will be what pulls at his heartstrings. I realise now that I was naïve in hoping to blackmail him with the knowledge that I had found out about Benny, that will probably be on the front page of the in-house magazine before long. No, the only thing that could get me out of this was parenthood. I decided to write the letter, before the wine affected my literary judgement. I would write the letter than allow the grape to work its magic on me.

I kept the letter as simple as possible, not wanting any unusual double meanings to cloud Fat Charlie's wisdom. I let my heart pour out its sentiment whilst maintaining the reigns on the control. I was pleased with the work, and despite allowing my finger to hover over the print button for perhaps longer than was necessary. I ran off a copy and popped it in an envelope, just after reading it one time in paper form, because, as we all know, from the computer screen to the page there is a wide world of difference. I fear, dear readers, that our time together has come to an end. I shall be leaving a day after Janaína and would love to inform you of how things are going but don't see how that is possible. Of course, if you are ever in town and stumble across a little record shop in Barcelona, do pop in, you may find yourself a bargain, though I doubt it. As a parting gift I shall leave you a copy of my letter to the big man, make your own mind up whether to have me bumped off or not, I think you'll find I'm worth it.

Malaga, 15/09/20

Dear Charlie,

At first, I thought it would not be an easy task to write this letter. I had considered its wording before a series of incidents came to light, incidents which have, in effect, helped the letter to write itself.

Perhaps some clarification might help things. Since my current, sentimental, relationship has become more serious, I have been forced to ponder the idea of leaving the organisation. This idea has been brought to a head by the fact that my beloved is now expecting our child. I know that you yourself have recently had to deal with similar emotions so you will understand that my duty is to help my unborn infant have the best life possible. That cannot be done with my current line of work.

Therefore, my request is simple. I wish to leave, to start a new life and a new family. I know you may not take kindly to this, though as a father, I am sure you will understand. I know I run the risk of ending up the victim of another Russian "mistake", just like Benny, but deep down know not to fear this. If you are coming to find me and finish me off, I suggest you bring many hands, because you will have to kill me and make sure I am truly dead before I will stop defending my family. The deeds to the flat are included with this letter.

Wishing you all the best, and thanking you in anticipation of your understanding and generosity.

Gore
BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY-THREE

Surveillance was the Italian's middle name

THE ITALIAN: After Graham phoned to say that he was taking a few days to himself, it took about twenty minutes for Fat Charlie's paranoia to get the better of him and send me to follow him. Of course, by then, it was too late. I was sure from the beginning that Graham was only acting so cagily so that he didn't have to put up with the other two who have still yet to find out about Benny. The only transactions we could trace to him were an Internet hotel service that simply books a room for a person valid in about thirty-eight thousand hotels up and down the country, and a receipt from a random holiday shopping spree and a petrol station too near Marbella to indicate anything of any interest. I was annoyed at having to use up a favour on such dull information. It was clear that we would have to wait to until he returned to Malaga to inspect his actions.

All we know is that he didn't go too far, he asked for three days but came back after one. My suspicions were raised when he came back acting exaggeratedly normally, normally in the sense that it appeared abnormal due to the fact that he was being jolly yet showing mourning at the same time. I looked forward to the challenge, Graham would obviously go to great lengths to make sure he was not being followed, or to keep his nose clean should he be up to no good. All this seemed like good sport, though with the downside that should he be up to his neck in it, then, once the game was up, that would be the end of him. That would be a real shame as I liked Graham, he was really the only one of the four of them that I liked. Did I say four? I suppose that means I should update my contacts database. At the present moment in time you find me sitting waiting in Fat Charlie's office. He has called me in to pass on my report. With Charlie, he likes things to be done more personally, he doesn't like reading reports as people can be ambiguous with their language. Therefore, I have to verbally go through all my actions of the past fortnight, after which, Fat Charlie will make a decision on Graham's future. After two coffees, his secretary announces that he is parking as we speak.

It's just me, Charlie and Ruben, he knows that I am a man of confidence. You learn not to let secrets out in this field of work, they only come back to haunt you. Knowing things is never a problem, just remembering them. I could have provided Charlie with dribs and drabs of information, but he doesn't like things to be done this way. He wants the lot when the lot is ready for giving. He takes a seat, you never know really when to start with him, there is always a few moments of rather uncomfortable silence, during which you begin to question the words you have chosen and rethink the sentences that kept you awake last night, it is as if you are under scrutiny, knowing that any oversight will not be looked upon with kindness. I'm sure more than one has talked himself or herself into a pickle during these sweat-inducing moments. Maybe that is the plan.

"So, our friend Graham. What do you have on him?" It was made clear that it was now my turn.

"Well, as you know he returned much sooner than expected. He was present for Benny's funeral, and, perhaps not the right words, but, funeral party. This was the first of his dabblings with unusual behaviour. At first, he didn't appear to care about missing the funeral, and then he decided that he couldn't miss it. It is common knowledge that he and Benny were at loggerheads, and had been so for the best part of a decade. My initial conclusion was that he was trying so hard to be inconspicuous that he was failing miserably, of course, with me watching him, everyone else fell for it."

"The old it takes a thief to catch a thief theory?" Offered Ruben.

"Indeed. He left the party at around four. I had one of the minions furnish me with this information, as I am far past late night drinking sessions in the Marlborough. I got to his flat at about nine a.m. and began to wait. I expected a long, fruitless wait given the consumption of the previous eve, but to my surprise, he was up and about by ten, meaning I had to leave the invoices I had brought along to entertain myself with. He was quite easy to follow, that gave it away to me that he hadn't yet done anything wrong. He was about to. He went for breakfast, got angry at a couple of old dears and a street entertainer, and then went to an estate agent's. There was an animated discussion in the estate agent's and he left in what looked to be a foul mood. I had to slide down a side street as he abruptly left the place, took stock and found another one across the street. I obviously was not going to hear what was being said, so I made the decision to gamble on the fact that he was possibly selling his flat. I raced over there, thanking God for the taxi strike, and set up some nosing equipment. I awaited his return two doors down, which just happened to be vacant.

He returned not long after with an estate agent. He was spouting some story about finding the love of his life and that it truly was third time lucky. This would suggest that he is planning to leave us, though not to go to the competition, rather to disappear, quite simply. Whether this is good news or bad is for you to ponder, the only currency I deal in is facts. The love of his life is Julia, we are assuming. They were together before he went to prison and briefly after he got out. He lied to her and broke her heart, she never wanted to see him again, but somehow, in a way beyond my powers of my probing toys, she has returned. Something quite monumental must have happened, and purely by chance. There seems to be no way that he could have been in contact with her before a few days ago, he had what the tabloids like to call a romp with the help in Cadiz, if you recall. How they were reacquainted will remain, I fear, a mystery. He wanted rid of the property without haste, and asked for the sum of three hundred thousand Euros, less than half its current market worth.

He sneaked away in Seville to see someone about opening a private bank account. I had anticipated this as he would not want the money from the flat transaction to go into an account in Malaga, thus alerting all and sundry to his actions. Of course, and these are your rules so there is perhaps little need to repeat them, but it does seem appropriate at this juncture to mention that selling the flat is not a crime, not is it questioned by the organisation, only the fact that he was doing it in such a green-eyed fashion. I couldn't get too much information out of the private bank, and as it was soon to be transferred to a high security Swiss account, there was little point in trying. In this game, it's not the big things that give people away, it's the things they think they don't have to think about."

"Though most people don't have a sneaky swine like you on their tail." Offered Ruben. There was a pause. "Compliment".

"Well. During the week, there was little to report. Graham worked as usual and pretended everything was both fine, and dandy. Occasionally he would disappear to Internet Cafes where he would log on to a dating page. This was his only means of contact with Julia, I have printed out the transcripts but there is little of interest. They plan to leave quite soon, in less than forty-eight hours as it happens. She has done all the organising, and we have been unable to trace her, other than knowing she is in the south of Spain somewhere. They have been quite careful not to stay online more than one hour, speak only three times a week, and always from a different computer. Lately they have been using Internet Cafes that reformat their hard-drives overnight. Still, knowing where she is wouldn't real make much difference. She will have to come to Malaga for them to leave. We know that, which is why we put the trap in place.

With Graham going about his business as normal, he was asked to do some rather basic, perhaps even menial, for him, transaction checking on Friday. We knew he was planning to leave soon and, had very little on him to justify any actions. So, we gave him so basic stuff to input pertaining to property sales. One of them, however, was missing the account information, and the system asked him for this before he could continue. The theory was, that if he was planning to be off by Tuesday, he wouldn't be found out till he was gone, if he was found out then that would mean we would know he was up to something and it would be the end for him anyway. He knew he had nothing, or everything to lose, victory would see him half a million better off, and if he were caught, he already knew his fate. It took him less than four minutes, he typed the numbers of his Swiss bank account three times, deleted them, and then a fourth time was enough for him to hit the enter button. He continued working until a bit after five and went looking for a beer with Gore.

We have known from the start that Gore is not party to whatever Graham is planning. Gore gives very little away, and I would suggest that he has ceased to trust Graham. Gore was unable to entertain Graham that evening, as was Zippy, who Graham believed to be on a job in Algeciras. The final message from Julia appeared to be a cryptic set of digits with a nonsense sentence at the end. It became clear that at some point they had had a telephone conversation so that Graham would understand what to do. It took me four hours to crack the code that referred to a Post Office box in Malaga. Inside were the meeting and travel details for their departure. Unfortunately, we got there too late and he had taken them. I assume that they have now been destroyed. We don't need to know. He will lead us to her."

"So, all, we have to do is wait. What do you suggest we do with him?" Fat Charlie didn't seem to be asking a question, but at the same time that really had a lot of question about it.

"His crime is quite serious. More so than those of Zippy and Benny and their fate was death. If you let him off, and word gets out, then your authority will be called into question. I know you like Graham, we all do, it's a shame that it has to end this way, but I cannot see another option." My words had to be well chosen, so I kept it to a minimum. I was sure he had already thought that part out, so I wondered why he was asking. Whether these actions would be the prodrome for Graham's death was not a decision I was supposed to make.

Fat Charlie looked up at me as if there was something preying on his mind. I knew not to force the issue, and awaited his question. "Pierluigi, you're a father. What does it feel like?" Fat Charlie asked.

"It's the greatest thing in the world. Whatever happens, however black things may appear and however many times that you want to strangle them, every day they give you a reason to believe that having them was the greatest achievement of your life. Why do you ask?" My curiosity got the better of my normally held tongue.

"The information that you are about to be privy to is of the most confidential nature. Only myself and Ruben are party to it. Should you widen this circle of confidentiality we will be disposing of your body as well as the possible cadaver of Graham. I know you are a man of trust Pierluigi, but I have to prevail upon you the need to maintain silence on this issue. Please don't take offence." Fat Charlie gave the Italian a pleading look.

"None taken." Responded Pierluigi.

"Graham is my son. The DNA tests have been performed and there is no doubt. Paternity has been discovered. This, I am sure you will agree, adds a slightly unwanted dose of piquant to the situation. If I were to sanction his execution then I would be doing so on my own flesh and blood. That said, he may be my son, though we may have missed too much for that ever to mean anything. Let me ask you a question. What percentage of people would have done the same thing, being in the same situation as Graham?"

"You mean. What percentage of thieves would take the opportunity to steal an extra half million, knowing that they are leaving in a few days and his crimes to date are justifiable cause for the organisation to cease his contract at the nearest juncture? Graham may well be your son, but parenthood is not like golf, you have to be there from day one, every day, without fault, you can't leave your clubs in the loft, join another club or change sports. By the same token you can't pick up your clubs and expect to play at the same level as someone who has been in the game for more than thirty years, nor can you expect the same treatment in the clubhouse. It was your sperm that impregnated Graham's mother, but can you really call yourself his father?" These were hard words for Charlie to hear, but someone had to stay them to him.

Fat Charlie waited for a couple of moments. "I thank you for candid and compassionate words. You are indeed a kind man and a good friend. I shan't take up any more of your time. I will, though, take some time to ponder the situation before making a decision. There are too many bodies in the mortuary at the moment so we would have to call in outside help, the Russians always perform these tasks well."

I left the room with a strange feeling. I knew Graham had done wrong, but was slightly, to say the least surprised to discover the parental twist. As I descended the lift I wondered if I wasn't slightly miffed that I hadn't found this information out myself. I was also displeased at being in the elite group of those sharing the knowledge, things inevitably spill out, information can be stumbled upon quite easily, and blame could be apportioned with an even greater ease. I feel quite sure that Charlie knows that my style is different. I feel a slight pang of worry as I consider helping Graham, then, as the lift doors open, I realise that my actions should be ruled by my head not my heart, and, with that, I go about my day.

BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY-FOUR

Two conversations for one

JULIA: Was I doing the right thing? That was a question I had been continually asking myself since the apparition of Graham in what used to be my restaurant. At no point had I managed to convince myself with a satisfactory answer, other than the one that it must be what Zeus and his mates want. Had Graham appeared without the forewarning of the celestial messenger then I would not have stopped at a couple of coffee cups. Maybe I wouldn't even have recognised him, who knows? Certainly not me.

Since he left I have had to tie up all the details here. My husband soon agreed to the latter day de rigueur prefix, though it appeared like he were losing a faithful servant to the company rather than a wife. I am provided for, my share of the various lucrative establishments I ran for him exceeds half a million, Graham has the same, and so we should begin things on a reasonable footing. Quite frankly, if we get as far as having to worry about investments and the like then I would take that gladly. My principal fear at the moment is the possibility of being gunned down at the airport or before.

Whilst I had to continue about my business, the prospect of what could become of me, and what might happen to me, hell, maybe even us, has been an ever-present in my mind. It would seem not to be the case for the person I am planning to share the rest of my life with. Whilst I am a bag of chain-smoking nerves, Graham continues about his business in Malaga, with the pretext of maintaining social veneer, as he calls it, without exhibiting the merest concern that the current undertaking could be anything more than the continuance of his amusing forays into life. Surely, he can pick up on how nervous I am, but I don't understand why he doesn't try to make some kind of comment, even with the boundaries of our strictly adopted code, some kind of effort would be possible. I would be so disappointed, even devastated if I found out his true motivation was that there was nothing better to do. I lie awake at night at examine every angle, while he sleeps off the wine and whisky, then I think that if he loved what he was doing in Malaga then he wouldn't have done what he has done so far, but sometimes men are such sheep that you want to believe in them but they so often fail to deserve it. He feels that he is handling the situation in a utilitarian and pragmatic way, whereas I get the impression that he has stumbled upon this chance and may still disappear into the night without me.

Of course, that is a pernicious thing to say or even suggest, but if I only had some form of proof that it wasn't so, then I would uncouple such thoughts from my head. If I'm not thinking about Graham then I am subconsciously re-writing scripts and endings to film, TV programmes and even stories found in throw-away magazines to fit in with the current crisis. My mind also keeps wandering, through the story-books of friends and acquaintances, people whose love stories I just have to analyse in the quest for my own self-help. Most people seem to have been happy enough, though have not had an agnate struggle to that of Odysseus and Penelope. The only story I can recall, that was not the product of fiction, was the story of my friend Gloria. For the past few days Gloria's story has pervaded my brain on so many occasions I half expect her to appear out of the blue, just as Graham did.

When I refer to Gloria as my friend, I am being less than honest. It was a curious relationship in so much as we really couldn't stand each other, yet were often together. I've never known a person with whom I have had, I am quite pleased to say, so little in common with, yet despite that she appeared to despise everything I stood for as much as I did with her. We met when I was living in London, before my Spanish jaunt was even a thought, I was painting and selling the occasional doodle and she just appeared. She was one of those people that you can't remember meeting, yet at the same time it is hard to recall when I didn't know her. Despite the fact that we may have loathed each other on the surface, we both liked each other's set of mutual friends. That made up for a lot, most of the time we were never together, alone, anyway, so it was just a case of ignoring her. That may sound callous, but she was a deplorable witch.

Gloria considered herself to be of good stock. Estranged family relations meant that she could perpetuate this myth without a worrying over-reliance on the truth. Most of the people she boasted in front of were similar social climbers whose only desire was to have their voice heard above the mass cacophony of piffle. Gloria may have come from money, but it was her marriage that propelled her to the elite über-wealthy.

Her husband was a certain Richard Pennington. Not a remarkable name but quite a remarkable man, if you judge things by business acumen, as a human being his yield was poor. He and Gloria were remarkably suited, shallow and greedy, their main motivation on this planet was the accumulation of residual wealth purely for show purposes. Richard had been a regular on the Top 100 richest men in Britain list for the best part of a decade. Gloria could have been a model, had she cared for any work. However, Gloria was quite happy to play the part of the busy society wife, gliding between appointments and generally wondering how she managed to get so much done in her hectic days.

Richard had reached his personal peak of the rich-list at number seven three years' previous. He had remained there for another three, and saw the possibility of moving up, ideally reaching the coveted top spot, as complicated at an optimistic estimate. This was a matter of great concern to Richard, and one that had been commented more than once in the social circles in which they moved. Not that there was any disgrace in being the seventh richest man in the country, though those who knew Richard's ambition, knew that his rage at failing to make at least the Champions League places was eating him up. Gloria heard this rumour and became even more obsessed with the failure of continued upward-mobility that it was decided they needed to hatch a plan.

The only person that Richard knew of in a parallel industry who possessed greater wealth was the American magnate, Lanyard Winthrope III. Lanyard Winthrope III was the owner of the hugely more successful Collingbart and Truddle investment bank, and America's fourth wealthiest man. Being three place higher on the American list meant Richard's placing on the UK list would mean his only concern would be a certain Swedish furniture manufacturer. It would not be a simple task to acquire Lanyard Winthrope III's wealth, he had spent the vast majority of his life acquiring it, and he had been very careful with wives and the like who may tempt him to fritter some away. They had only met on a pair of occasions, but Richard got the feeling that his American friend was somewhat keen on Richard's darling wife. The evil pair opened a frighteningly good bottle of wine and began to hatch.

It was decided that Gloria should go over to the States, look up Lanyard Winthrope III and let him know just all the dastardly deeds that her rotten rogue of a husband had done to her. Once he heard this catalogue of lies he would, it was hoped, offer her a shoulder to cry on. Gloria knew that she would have to offer something more than her own shoulder in return, but that was considered perfectly acceptable in terms of the potential investment. Taking an inspirational John Grisham with her on the plane, she planned to trick Lanyard Winthrope III into parting with his empire and then returning to Richard. The plan was devious, illegal and quite erotic, she thought. She missed Richard in those first few weeks, but she was the sacrifice to win the war, her role was essential. The two sides would never come together without this gift. As expected Lanyard Winthrope III fell rapidly under the gaze of Gloria, he believed every word she said, and continually made offers to prevent her from such misery in the future. At night, she would phone Richard and laugh about the comedic side of her dalliance, for a while it was all quite fun, she compiled evidence and forged a series of rather disturbing photographs which would be used to help her cement the deal.

What she was also banking on was the fact that Lanyard Winthrope III would fall so hopelessly in love with her that the mere thought of not being together would make him care so little for his empire that he could equally live without it. This seemed perfectly plausible until, around week five, something strange happened. Gloria thought that all this was an act, yet she found herself increasingly drawn to Lanyard Winthrope III's company, and kept finding excuses not to phone Richard. She had enough evidence to help Richard take the empire, but could not do so. She kept asking for more time, until she realised, that she had fallen madly in love with Lanyard Winthrope III. Richard phoned to ask for an update and Lanyard Winthrope III took to the receiver. He told Richard that Gloria had confessed, but that he had forgiven her and she would be staying with him.

Richard entered a state of depression that very night. Realising the futility of his lofty position without Gloria, realising how empty his house was, his life was, realising that he had driven her away with his obsessive greed. He felt that if he had the chance to talk to her that she would see reason, so, drunk, he boarded a flight to New York. He wanted her to see reason, but he was not prepared for the sight of them together. He arrived at Lanyard Winthrope III's luxury apartment block and entered. Richard was also known in these parts. He could see them through the window, they were dining and looking enormously happy. He knew in that moment that she would never go back to him. He hung around for a couple of days, spying on them, until Lanyard Winthrope III went on a business trip and Richard sneaked into the house, brandishing a kitchen knife and ending his now ex-wife's life. An hour later he was on a plane back to London, where he would await retribution. The company began to suffer, he was never there, and his mind spent even less time there. He was amazed that the New York police had not come after him, even a month after Gloria's death. He sat in a park in Central London, eating a sandwich, thinking to himself that he had got away with it, and almost ready to start again. He would swear now that he heard the sound, but the fraction of time it took for the noise of the trigger being pulled and the bullet entering Richard's body made it impossible. Lanyard Winthrope III stood over the lifeless cadaver, threw the gun onto the grass and made preparations for the rest of his life to be spent in a psychiatric institution.

So, with stories like that going through my mind it's hard to maintain a positive outlook. Maybe I'll just open a bottle and keep my fingers crossed. This is happening for a reason, and that must be good enough some higher force, so I don't know why I am having such a problem with it.

* * * * * *

GRAHAM: I know she thinks that I am just going along with this because there doesn't seem to be anything better on the horizon, but I do believe in what is happening and want more than anything for it to work. How can I show her though? She is cold and short with me whenever we speak, I look forward to those moments more than anything during the day and then feel empty afterwards. I want to tell her everything, I want to appear keen, but every time we get close in a conversation, she breaks off. I know she has to do this, I know she is stronger than me, I accept this, but it hurts. Plus, you never know, if she wants you to appear doting, you do just that then she tells you to be distant, it's the same when she comes to you holding two dresses and asks you which one looks better on her. There is no right answer. How I am longing for tomorrow. Desiring its arrival yet fearing the possible outcomes, both positive and negative. If we get as far as having to question the wisdom of the venture, then we will have travelled much further than anyone had anticipated.

The last conversation we had was not one of the greatest, and she signed off by telling me that she had been listening to sad songs and searching out stories on the net and in magazines. I just can't get out of my head the potential disaster I am heading towards, and I now also fear the possibility of me and Julia actually not working things out. This fear started when out of boredom I began to play one of Gore's association games. He has theories that people's personalities can be attributed to various aspects of their favoured media and sporting beliefs. His last one was that people are either generally negative or positive and this can be proven by a test of if you were from "X" city which team would you support. It seems to hold water too, although there are no guarantees in football, someone who responds, AC Milan, Real Madrid, Arsenal, Liverpool or Bayern will generally have experienced more joy on the park than those who go for Inter, Atletico, West Ham, Everton and 1860. The argument goes that by eschewing the glamour you create a finer understanding of life through pain, though it also makes you a contrary swine. So I'm left with Boca, Celtic, Wednesday, CSKA Moscow and FC Brussels (now I know that I am reading too much into this) whilst more positive people enjoy their "luxuries".

I thought it best not to mention this level of pondering to Julia and I told her that that was just nerves but have now realised that my own thoughts have been pervaded by the dreadful story that I was once told in a boozer in London. The story is one of true tragedy, one that still causes me to shiver to this day, despite me not coming within one hundred kilometres of any of the participants.

As the story should have been a nationwide scandal, but never made the press, I assume that the names that I was told were changed, so we may as well have some fun with the monikers. The story begins with Major Rupert, a top-ranking army officer and all-round military based chappie. He was born a century and a half too late for the world he inhabited, and would have been much more at home dashing round the battlefields of the Crimea rather than left with the politically motivated and thoroughly un-soldierlike warfare of the late twentieth century. However, he was an honest and loyal person who based his life on a set of ideals that he would take with him to his grave and would respect the orders given from his superiors without too much question whilst knowing that he would always follow them.

By the time the First Gulf War came along, Major Rupert was looking forward to his first real war. Of course, he had participated in the Falklands, but he saw the chance of pitting his wits alongside the Americans, whom he considered inevitably superior in terms of technology and budget, yet remained unconvinced whether they were really a match for his glorious men. He had been preparing for a true conflict since he first held his father's rifle while he was still in the shortest of trousers. Things went well for Major Rupert in the Gulf, he soon saw that Iraqi military might was more a fictitious creation of the American news networks, though he was impressed at the Americans' light show.

With the inevitable victory around the corner, Major Rupert was chosen for a special mission outside Baghdad and into the heart of the land controlled by one of Sadam's top generals. When Major General saw the plans for the attack, his first emotion was concern. He had seen first-hand the folly of armies, ludicrous plans formed by Generals, only conceived for the own personal glory, despite the bloodshed and loss to the infantry. He had seen how other commanders had little or no respect for the men who carried out their work. Major Rupert believed his role was to "muck in" with the lads and create morale in the unit from the top downwards. Of course, it was unavoidable that behind his back, the squaddies would take the piss out of the Major, but deep down, and especially when they heard stories from other regiments, they knew they were lucky to have someone who actually saw them as people.

Major Rupert voiced his concern over the feasibility of the plan to the Home Secretary, but Major Rupert knew the set-up. He was given orders to be carried out, not to be questioned. He felt he had to voice his concern, but he was soon away putting the plan together. If he succeeded, it would be a major coup for the British army, and possibly lead to the surrender of the current regimen in Iraq. The chances of success, though, were minimal. Major Rupert's force was under-strength, well prepared, that was never in question, and accompanied by a worrying desire to be slice to bits my machine gun fire in the name of their great nation. Indeed, Major Rupert's wish was to die on the field of battle and have his coffin dragged down Pall Mall by military horses, with full honours. As they moved into position, it seemed that he just might get his wish.

The headquarters of the Iraqi general Sadat Faljullah lay in the mountainous area in the north near As Sulaymaniyah. It was well guarded and remained one of the last strongholds of the fabled Republican Guard. The men knew this was a dangerous mission but went in, their spirit unfaltering and their desire to flush out the enemy stronger than ever. Within fifteen minutes all lay dead or captured, those who were captured were executed within the hour. News filtered back to the British government about the failure of the attack, and it was decided to keep the media at bay.

Major Rupert's wife was told by the government that her husband had not only failed in the mission, but had deserted and had been in cahoots with Sadat Faljullah since he first read the Koran in the early days of the war. There would be no state funeral, no investigation, her husband had been a traitor and if she, or any of her family tried to make a fuss, there would be no scandal, the press was with the Government, her family would come to the same grizzly end as Major Rupert. Major Rupert's wife, Scarlet, did not believe any of this for a second, and summoned her daughters, Emily and Felicity, to discuss a plan of action. The daughters also believed their father was innocent, and the victim of a government cover-up, but how could they prove this? And, more importantly, who would listen?

It broke Scarlet's heart to think that her husband had died in combat without having the nation for which he gave his life honouring the sacrifice that he had made. She implored Emily, who was courting the son of the Foreign Secretary at the time, that she try to make some peace for her father's name, which was now being sullied in hushed tones, but would surely one day be the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons. Scarlet awaited her daughter's return anxiously, hoping that she could make them see sense, but her optimism soon dissipated when Emily returned with news that they were to leave, with great haste. The government also stipulated that Emily could see her betrothed no more, and should one more word be heard on the subject of Major Rupert, Felicity and her children would be the next victims. Emily tried to contact her now-ex, but it was impossible. She sat in one of the many rooms of the family house and pondered the future, when she heard a single shot from upstairs. She rushed up the stairs, but knew not why she gave haste, as she was more than aware of what was awaiting her when she got to the top. Her mother lay on the floor, her father's trusty revolver used to allow her to re-join Major Rupert on the other side.

After the incident, Felicity went mad and was taken away to an institution. Her husband maintained custody of the children, but Felicity would never recognise them again. One afternoon, her medicine was forgotten, and she chewed her own tongue off, left unattended, she bled to death in her quarters. Emily tried to see her ex-lover, now not looking for revenge but for someone that might want to hold her. He said they could meet at the parents' country house, but Emily never made it, her car crashed into a tree on the road down there. Those who inspected the car knew that there was no brake fluid, but nobody said anything.

I hadn't thought about that story for such a long time, even though I never knew any of the people involved, or even if it were true, I do remember the Minister having to resign and never being heard of since. All those lives lost and no-one came out winning. Not the ideal preparation for what we are about to do, but we have to crack on. I imagine by eleven o'clock on Monday morning I will know whether my story will end at Malaga airport. Whatever happens, for now, either we die together tomorrow, or we escape to Japan, dear readers, we shall leave you at the airport, for you, also, have earned a break.

BOOK THREE - SECTION FORTY-FIVE

(Departures IV) And with that

All the players in the final part of the drama were in place. All of the muses and minstrels who had helped to tell this story thus far waited patiently as the characters got into position for the final act. Neither side knew whether the tale they would tell in later days would be classified as a tragedy or a smile would come over their faces as they recounted a happy ending. Storm clouds gathered over the mountains that generally sheltered Marbella from inclement weather, presaging a tumultuous end to the proceedings. Before the curtain rose for the final time, all eagerly discussed favourite parts and possible outcomes.

Graham was the first to stir. The plane left at half past twelve. A delightful time to fly, just after breakfast and with a decent lie in before checking in. Sleep had not been kind to Graham. He had arrived home at around seven the previous evening. By that time he was not even the owner of the establishment, though he had stipulated in the terms of the sale that he be allowed to vacate the place on this final Monday morning. He packed a light case in ten minutes, threw his passport on top of the pile of clothes and sat back. When he stopped doing things was when the demons came for him. He felt exhausted but daren't sleep as he knew he would wake up around two in the morning and never return to the land of nod. He decided to go back out and do some shopping, remembering a line from a book or a film or a song, about leaving a good looking corpse. For that reason he wanted to sleep well and look as sharp as possible on his arrival at the airport.

His mind was still playing games with him as they arrived at the shopping centre. He was spending so much time thinking that he may be killed by Fat Charlie that this action was almost rendered superfluous by the quality of his driving. He was still unsure as to what extent he had angered Fat Charlie, but certainly a pair of Malagan bus drivers thought he was worthy of execution. He still had a few thousand Euros in his Malagan account so treated himself to a travelling outfit of some mien. He wandered about the shopping centre, appearing to anyone who bothered to look at him as if he were without a care in the world, taking advantage of the Sunday opening. He decided that his last meal in Malaga be a fine one. Using the principle that expense is the ideal barometer for quality, he purchased the most expensive slice of steak the supermarket had to offer. He also took a forty € bottle of wine, some overpriced cheese and ham on a chopping board and a tub of Cookies and Cream. It was certainly a meal to give you gout. He polished it off with a portion of chips procured from a local vendor. He left the steak cooking for just long enough to confirm that life had left the animal, then tossed it on to the plate, allowing the remaining blood to run, intermingling with the chips and the Béarnaise sauce. He took a bite, expecting one of the taste sensations of his life, and instead he felt his stomach contract. He tried to bite into the meat but felt his teeth react violently, failing to chew, disassociating himself from his saliva, renouncing any moistening of the foodstuff. He took a moment away from the meat, tried a chip, with more, yet still little notable success. He tried to swig the wine, that went down without issue. He wanted to eat, he felt hungry, but his stomach betrayed him. The meat grew gradually cold, he nibbled a piece of cheese like an anorexic mouse trying to placate a worried mother, and noticed that the bottle was now almost empty. It had been a fine year for that vineyard, though whether they could justify the price tag was another issue. He went to the kitchen to take a second bottle, started thinking about what he was doing and suddenly became ravenous. Giving the meat the culinary sin of a minute in the microwave he proceeded to make light work of the feast, eating so quickly that almost a litre of sparkling water (the world's best cure) was needed to reduce the indigestion

Despite the heavy meal, Graham felt more awake than he had ever done with chemicals. His mind raced through a thousand thoughts a second. He made the positive decision to take this mental torture to bed. If he stayed up more wine would flow, and his chances of leaving a good-looking corpse would be reduced. A self-hypnosis tape that had aided his mother in the old days when he caused her more restless nights than she would care to number was used to achieve the ideal of sleep. He awoke at around three a.m. with cold sweats, knowing why Fat Charlie had done nothing to stop him. It was obvious and he had been such a fool. Of course, Julia was in cahoots with Fat Charlie, he had searched for her and offered her the chance for her to get the ultimate revenge, to amortise the emotional debt owed in the most violent and grievous form, as she and Fat Charlie laughed at him, revealing the true reason why the four of them were brought to the Costa del Sol, Zippy and Gore waiting silently in line for their fate as their worth ebbed away. He unpacked his suitcase as he was now going nowhere. How could she do this to him? He could she be so bitter? Hadn't time mellowed her? What happened in that small town? How could that have been engineered? The vision, the fire, the reencounter? With that he realised that there was no way that his theory could be true. This realisation did not bring relief though, rather more pain, he hated himself for allowing such thoughts to pass through his perverted mind. He longed for forty eight hours from that moment, and the ability to know finally what his future would be. In no time, the suitcase was packed again.

He relaxed back into his bed, for a brief moment he felt relief, but that wasn't too last that long. Fat Charlie knew what he was up to. How could he not? So why hadn't he finished him off? Did he want to do it in front of Julia? And then finish her off as well? He thought about phoning Fat Charlie to try and plead his case. Then he remembered the minor matter of the half a million that he had filched from his ex-boss, and he wondered at just how much joy that brought him. There must be, he pondered, some reason why Fat Charlie was waiting. Then again, maybe he didn't know that the money had gone. There were too many things to worry about. Maybe Charlie planned his vengeance on a greater scale and had put a bomb on their flight. Why not? What did he have to lose? Graham could not believe that he had just asked himself that question. He reached for his wine glass and sparked up a light. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wondered how he was going to leave a good looking corpse when the living specimen left so much to be desired. He found sleep again, though when the alarm informed him that he had spent his last night on Spanish soil and was rested, his initial reaction was to question this.

By half past nine he was ready. He always felt like a naughty schoolboy when he was dressed in expensive clothes, as if someone was about to tell him to take them off and ask him just what he thought he was playing at. There would be no good-looking corpse, even the creams pilfered from Benny (they were hardly going to help him in the after-life) helped produce the glowing sheen on the skin that was offered on the tube. He was sure that those bags did not highlight his beady eyes to the same extent when he retired for the night. He made coffee and poured himself some juice, clearing up the flat as he went, waiting for ten in the morning, that was the time that she would phone, when she would tell him that the next stage was in motion. At ten he would know if his life was over and his dreams dashed, or whether he had new and more worrying things to concern himself with. Nine fifteen was the longest minute that he had ever experienced, twelve seconds into the first minute of the tenth hour, a female voice said "Arrivals car park, zone c, end row, white ford focus. Eleven, don't be late, already checked in." Then the line went dead.

The Italian played back the recording. They knew that they would be leaving from Malaga airport, they also knew that it would be that very day, before the missing half million was discovered. The Italian had been in constant contact with Fat Charlie via the mobile. Fat Charlie appreciated his diligence but felt the need to tell him that not every move was necessary. Whether Graham had chosen the orange juice in favour of the pink grapefruit was clearly superfluous information. The Italian was told to collect his things and take the rest of the day for his own amusement. Soon after the order was given, there was no trace of the Italian's presence.

Julia had been staying in a flat that was owned by her now ex-husband, though at Graham's insistence she had been moving about for the past week, Her case was notably larger than Graham's, though she considered that she had only the essentials. She had been through so much mental turmoil in the past fortnight that she had no energy for last minute doubts, she had analysed everything so thoroughly, and believed in the prophecy so much that she took comfort from that, and had faith in the success of the venture. She had made plans, just in case, for her wealth to be donated to a Parisian art project that she had a fondness for, hoping that, should things not work out then someone deserving should benefit from all this. She knew that this was merely a contingency plan, and would make a donation in person at a later date.

Her temporary abode was some seventy-five kilometres from Malaga and allowed herself two hours to drive to the airport. She stopped off half way along the journey. She had never liked driving in the rain. The clouds over Malaga did not look welcoming, yet she knew she had to press on. She drove past the seaside resorts of Nerja and Mijas, wondering whether she would ever see these places again, and whether she really cared. Her stop off in Torre del Mar was an unfortunate last sojourn in Spain, an overweight family of noisy Brits reminded her that there were really two Malagas. She drank two coffees and smoked four cigarettes, promising to herself to give up if she got through this, then laughing at the stupid irony of her promise, she could well be driving towards her death, and here she was worried about a smoke. She got back into the car and made her way to the airport. It was quarter past ten when she got into the car-park, she got out of the car and went inside the airport building to collect the tickets and squeeze in some more coffee.

She had booked the tickets in her married name. As she had never bothered to inform the British authorities that her surname had changed, the unremarkable sounding Julia Barnes, daughter of Gregory and Eleanor, continued to float around the British government's data systems, though as she asked for nothing, no-one questioned why she paid for nothing. Therefore, Julia Sanchez sounded remarkably un-English, and having an ex-husband who was a mayor, meant dual nationality and a Spanish passport were easily obtained. What was remarkable though, was the fact that four Julias were booked on the twelve thirty flight to Frankfurt, with three of them continuing on to Tokyo. None of them were British and none had any discernible reason to be Graham's lover. The Italian admitted defeat and resigned himself to wait for the answer. Julia collected the tickets and ordered a small coffee with a dash of milk, a cortadito she wondered to herself whether she would ever speak Spanish again, she wondered to herself if she would ever speak again. If they came for her now she would have had her last conversation. She felt the need to converse with someone, but remembered how much she hated it when people latched on to her whilst travelling. Despite the coffee she still felt tired, and even though she had promised herself she wouldn't she popped on the pills her husband used to get through gruelling meetings, prescription amphetamines. She ordered some water and smoked endlessly until five till eleven when she made her way back to the car. They had had time to put a bomb under the engine. That didn't seem like to bad a way to go, very quick, at least. Her throat was dry as a result of the toxins. She opened the car door and, donning her shades, waited for the eleventh hour.

Fat Charlie and Ruben Shuffle were on the other side of the airport. They didn't want to be anywhere near the Russians when the moment came. The Russians had been contracted to do this job, however they decided to do it was the way it would be. They wouldn't mind causing a ruckus in the airport if they thought they were getting a slice of the action. They knew what Graham looked like, Fat Charlie didn't need to be there at all, he just felt that he should.

It had taken a good long sit down and a double dose of thinking to reach the painful decision. More than once did he change his mind and bestow the gift of life on Graham, only to reclaim it moments later. Fat Charlie had taken the decision alone, he found that other opinions only made things worse. Ruben afforded him space, he knew that this was between Charlie and his conscience. It is not easy to kill a son, but if you have to then it's made easier if you only knew he was your son a month ago and he's just robbed half a million off you. Part of the reason why Charlie kept changing his mind was because he wasn't sure that Graham had actually robbed him, the lad was a thief by trade, if you give a thief the chance to nab half a million what are they going to do? Wasn't Charlie guilty? What always turned Charlie back to the idea of killing Graham was the reality that he could never truly be his father, it was too late, he didn't need a father anymore, Graham needed his lover. For a moment Fat Charlie wondered whether he was killing Graham, his own son, out of jealousy. Then he thought about the repercussions in Malaga when word got around, as it would, that he had allowed Graham to steal from him and escape. Authority would be lost, there would be mutiny, and rightly so, he was doing the right thing.

He stepped out of the car. He needed some air. That was the excuse anyway, as soon as he got outside he lit a cigar and polluted the air he claimed he needed. They were parked on the other side of the airport car-park. At the back of the car-park was a ditch that was not considered worthy of maintenance by the airport authorities as it lay out of view of the paying customers. Fat Charlie looked down into the mound of accumulated rubbish and was distracted by a whimpering noise. Below him he saw a sad looking dog, possibly rather old, surrounded by a litter of cheerless pups. The look on the bitch's face was one of "What am I supposed to do? Just walk away?" all the pups were missing a leg, and looked emaciated, undernourished and close to death. Yet the mother remained with them, when the easier option for herself would be to simply walk away, start again, forget this unfortunate incident and hope for better fortune in the future. Fat Charlie had a banana in his pocket, it wasn't much but he peeled it and threw it to the sad collection beasts. The mother fed the pups as best she could, two of them had such pitiful mouths that the mother had to turn the banana into a mash before they could swallow it. The mother looked at Charlie, feeling obliged to offer thanks, but really knowing that he had only prolonged the agony a little more. He knew dogs couldn't talk, that was preposterous, but the dogs did say to him that there was still time to save his, even if it was too late for hers. Charlie extracted his mobile phone and ordered the Russians to come and meet him.

Graham found the car and entered at two minutes past eleven. He was relieved to sit in the passenger seat of the Black Ford Focus. He laughed as he said "Opposites Attract", his user name on the dating web site and how he knew the car would never be white. She replied with her name "Quality Meets" an alliteration of the motto "Quality Meats" that was emblazoned above the window of her father's butcher's. They laughed for a moment, not because this was funny, more due to the confusion of the moment which meant that they did not know which emotion to give preference to. Graham went to speak and managed the word "I" before she stopped him and told him to wait until he could say the full sentence so many times she might get bored of it. The flight was leaving in an hour. She suggested they make their way to passport control. He concurred that it was a good idea and hand in hand they went into Pablo Picasso airport.

The Russians were keen to do a good job. They were even more keen to siphon off this lucrative area of work on the Costa del Sol. They had put together a nice little poison dart that would be inserted into the leg of the victims and after about ten minutes would cause instant death, they still had to work on their patter but their ability was unquestioned. They were quite pleased with the concoction, all of them were ex-KGB and enjoying plying their trade in the post-Soviet world. What they didn't know was that Fat Charlie had no plans to include them in his set-up, rather he wanted to double-cross them and remove a potentially dangerous element from the Southern coast. The police would be waiting for the Russians and all their dealings would be scrutinised, thus cleaning the Costa del Sol and leaving it for the more honest exponents of thievery that had been the fulcrum of Marbella crime in the heyday. Fat Charlie yearned for a return to these days, he believed that proper Costa del Sol thieves came from decent stock, and that the Eastern Europeans and the south Americans had no place there. For someone of his stature and importance, he often had a tendency to dabble in the speaking of piffle.

The Russians had been offered twenty-thousand Euros for this job. Money that would never have been paid. They weren't doing it for that insignificant amount, rather the chance to be seen as major players. Now Fat Charlie had had a change of heart. He was not going to murder his son. He would allow him to leave, with his lover and his father's blessing. Fat Charlie began to think a bit longer and harder about revenge. He never got his revenge on Padre Gregorio, he found out a while back that he had died of old age an elderly statesman of the church. That was the person he should have killed, not his own son, he felt that allowing all the confusion surrounding the recent weeks to cloud his judgement. Fat Charlie looked at what his own life had become. Was he happy? Had he ever been happy? Sporadically he could say that yes was the answer to his question. Sporadic happiness did not seem like a result for someone who had wielded so much power for so long. The question begged what was the point of it. It was a question that would need some addressing at a later stage. For the short term, Ruben and Dave could run things, in reality they already did. At times it was better to take a final curtain call before your dignity was whisked from you. Fat Charlie didn't know if that was his case, but it certainly seemed like the time was right. He paid the Russians and asked them to do just one thing for him.

Ruben looked at Charlie, not knowing whether he was expected to offer any words, so none were offered. The last thing Ruben wanted was to say something that might make the big man change his mind again, he would have killed Graham but that was not his decision. There was no gesture that the vehicle should be put into motion, so Ruben sat with the keys in his hand. Eventually the silence was broken.

"It was the right thing to do." Fat Charlie said.

Ruben knew that it wasn't a question, so resisted the temptation to answer for as long as possible. He gave a nod and started the car.

"it's never to late to make a fresh start. I've been doing some thinking. But let's not worry about that at the moment. Come on. I fancy Chinese food. I'll pay. Graham and Gore deserved a future. I am giving them the family I managed to lose. We did the right thing."

Ruben drove the car out of the airport. Moments later another vehicle left with four Russians inside, unsure whether to be happy with their twenty grand for not killing someone, but wholly unaware of how close they had come to spending their winters in sub-zero Moscow. As they drove theirMercedes Benz onto the airport ring road their heads were full of plans that may or may not one day come true. Still, they all agreed it was nice to have the plans at least.

Meanwhile, inside the airport, Graham and Julia went through the rigmarole of getting Graham's ticket whilst thinking everyone in the airport had been hired by Fat Charlie to kill them. Despite the eternal fear, the process was rather uneventful apart from a clumsy passenger crashing his trolley into Graham and nearly knocking him flying. Given what could have happened, that was a result that the team would sign on the dotted line even before the draw was made. It was a little after twelve when their flight was called, the flight was on time. The general feeling was that if they took off they would be safe. However, that meant a life on the run, that didn't please them, it was something that had not been mentioned so far, the first hurdle was escaping. What awaited them once they arrived at their destination? Would they ever be able to make a home? Would every day be a continuous nightmare of looking over shoulders and sneaking into alleyways? Graham wondered whether it would be worth it, then looked across at Julia, and knew it would be and more.

They walked through to the departure lounge and the plane was already boarding. It seemed like this section was being hurried through as swiftly as possible. As Graham had his passport checked he assumed that this was Fat Charlie's last chance to remove them, but knew that this was not going to happen. There was a moment of serenity in the airport as the announcements ceased, all the passengers appeared to make way for Graham and Julia as they made their way to the plane. As they set foot outside, the storm clouds dissipated and the sun made its way through the clouds, forcing specks of blue to appear in the skyline. The pilot, who had anticipated poor flying conditions, greeted the change in the meteorological outlook with a small thank you, knowing that while everyone likes a challenge, it's sometimes nicer to fly in optimum conditions.

Graham and Julia found their seats and began the tiresome task of taking them. The plane was full, there were lots of school children, a group of senior citizens and all the other people you imagine not to see in a plane disaster. Graham knew that if Fat Charlie was prepared to blow up the plane then he wouldn't give two hoots about who the innocent were. He took his seat and looked at Julia. She smiled at him but it didn't fill him with optimism. He asked if her she had expected to get this far, she said that she hadn't. She remarked that it felt like someone had been following her all week. He admitted to the same feelings but he hadn't mentioned them.

"What did you do about it? Our conversations were so cryptic it was difficult to make any sort of sense of them." Julia asked.

"I tried following this Italian bloke that they use for such sneakiness, but I haven't been able to find a trace of him for nearly two weeks." Graham responded.

"Which probably means that he was following you."

"I hadn't thought of that. So they know? Well then, why haven't they done anything?"

"That is an excellent question which I imagine will go unaccompanied with an excellent answer. You're supposed to know them. Why don't you have the answer?" She was right. Sometimes you just ask questions in the hope that the words you hear in response will be of some comfort to you. Maybe Fat Charlie knew everything, maybe he was just waiting, he had just removed Benny, and before that God knows how many? He let them think we had got one over on him so that they would be off their guard, and, at some point in the future, he would come for them and take them. They would be of the belief that they were basking in the glory of victory when in fact the cruellest defeat awaited them. Those were the thoughts that were going through Graham's head as he sat back in his seat. He daren't manifest these thoughts to Julia, if she never knew then the truth could never hurt her. Unfortunately, the very look on his face gave him away.

"Don't lose the plot now" Were her words. Before Graham could consider these words when he was interrupted by the appearance of a small boy of Asian extraction, probably Japanese, but Graham wasn't in the mood for betting. The boy was looking straight at Graham, laughing and repeating the same sentence, in, we are still assuming, Japanese. After the boy had repeated the phrase ten times, Graham felt that he needed to know what the youth was going on about. His mother was sitting to his left, though was already engrossed in the delightful entertainment provided, and had headphones on which prevented her hearing her young charge's outburst. He tapped her on the shoulder and almost caused some coronary damage as the lady unexpectedly removed the headphones. He apologised for the intrusion and explained what had happened. She asked her son to repeat his articulation. With a confused look on her face, she translated the utterance as "Don't live the dream of others. Make yours real. The other one will be fine. Don't worry." The mother passed on the confused look to Graham, who suddenly felt more alive than he had ever done before. He thanked the mother and gave the son a wink, asking him his name, who laughed and suddenly became shy. "Yobakishi" his mother responded. Graham smiled to Julia, who gave him a questioning look. He went to take off the jacket, now unnecessary for the flight, and was surprised to find an envelope in the pocket. He opened the envelope and found two pieces of paper inside. The first, a simple post-it with Fat Charlie's handwriting clearly visible and the message "Good Luck". The second, was a stamped and dated bus ticket from Pontevedra to Malaga, dated some nine months before Graham's birth. Suddenly, everything fell into place as the plane began to accelerate down the runway Graham turned to Julia and smiled, his hand held hers as the plane gathered speed. "Champagne?" He suggested, and she concurred this was a fine idea. He leant over and kissed her as Malaga became smaller in the background. And with that, they took off.

END OF COSTA DEL TROLLS
