Is Harry On The Boat?

by Colin Butts

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

The brilliantly funny cult novel about holiday reps in Ibiza. You arrive at the airport to be greeted by a sun-tanned clipboard bearer, there to make your dream holiday come true. But behind the smiles, the badge and the suspect command of the native lingo, what really goes on? Are they a happy, celibate team working for the benefit of their clients, or are they at each other's throats to get their share of backhanders, drugs and sleeping with holidaymakers (or each other!)? Exactly how low is resort manager Alison prepared to go to maximise her cash gains in her last season, and how low is first year rep and none-too-bright former male model Mario prepared to go to win the infamous "Competition"? Which reps will Alison get rid of? Shy Lorraine? Mickey, the first ever black rep? The clubbing mad and girl-crazy Scouse Greg? Or will it be Brad, as we follow him from bedroom to beach, stumbling across company business that he shouldn't?

Release date: December 29, 2011

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

As you read this novel, you may find yourself wondering if any of the events described are based upon even a molecule of truth. The Young Free and Single reps whose journey we follow find themselves in some far-fetched situations, yet many of these are probably not quite as bizarre as those that real-life reps deal with on a daily basis. Although this is a work of fiction, many of the anecdotes are based upon actual events and experiences. The general rule of thumb should be that the more unbelievable the story, the more likely it is to be based upon such an experience.

To give the story a contemporary feel and to allow for the development of the dance scene, which is so important to the Ibiza backdrop, the action takes place in the present day. Some of the bars mentioned (Madhouse, Charleston) no longer exist. Other places have changed their names. For anybody who has been on such a holiday (even to a different resort) the names are academic – most will recognise or be able to imagine the types of establishment described.

In the same way that the reps are a composite of different characters I came into contact with, so some of the bars/clubs are an amalgam of different watering-holes it was my pleasure to (over) frequent. If you think therefore that you recognise yourself or one of the venues that I’m less than complimentary about, rest assured that you/it may have been only partly responsible for the inspiration. As an example of this, I have probably had at least a dozen different nominations from ex-reps convinced that it is their own resort manager that the Alison character is based upon. Like the other characters, she is a combination of several.

Certain ex-reps have helped either directly or indirectly and I would like to take this opportunity to thank and acknowledge them: Carl Verges, Tony Grant, Mark Hurst, Angie Bland, Michelle, Gresty, Babs Pearson, Des Ball, Debbie Bailey and Martin Morgan.

Thanks are also due to Dominic James (Deep Design), Harry Ritchie, Garry Bushell, Rodney Cooper, Dorise Mensah, Steve Bergin, David Hurst, Andrew Menzies, Dave White, Alan Jones, Bartolo Escandell and Steve Woods.

The story of how this novel got to this stage is almost another book in itself. I am indebted to Bren McKnight of WH Smith, Manchester Airport, for having the maverick vision to put the original pre-Orion edition on the shelves. Similarly, to everyone else at selected Smith’s and Waterstone’s airport branches for not being far behind (David Atherton, David Jefferies, Catherine, Andrew Thomas, Steve Moxon and Cliff Long). Also, respect is due to Rita Schreyer of Books Etc. for displaying professionalism and a total lack of pig-headedness by changing her original opinion and stocking it. A shout is due to John Newton of the same company for his exceptional support.

Within the publishing industry I must give a special thank you to Alan Wherry of Bloomsbury Publishing. Unconditional help coming from a total stranger in such a senior position helped change my belief that publishers were full of people as in touch with the real world as high court judges.

Most definitely in touch with the real world are Jane Wood and Susan Lamb of Orion. Thanks for bucking the trend and having the cojones to go with a book that isn’t about a self-effacing nineties man or an overweight PR girl who can’t get a shag. Thanks also to Viv Redman, Hazel Orme and everyone else at Orion involved in this project.

Finally, a special thank you to Mick Crowley for his unique combination of honesty, dishonesty, intellect, streetwise savvy and for being the first person whose opinion on the book I really trusted.

‘Ow.’

‘What’s up?’

‘You’ve got your elbow on my hair,’ said Alison. She tried to pull her head away, tutting impatiently.

‘Sorry.’ Jonathan transferred his weight onto his hands, slipping out as he did so. ‘Is that better?’

Alison grunted.

Jonathan guided himself in again and continued. He rested his head on the pillow, but looked out of the window. Parked directly outside his Hampstead flat was the red Alfa Romeo he had collected from Follet’s in St John’s Wood the previous week. The engine was gleaming and the car purred like a cat. A pussy. Red and inviting. Pistons going up and down. In and out, up and down. Shit. Desperately, his eyes scanned the room. In the corner was a TV and video. That was no good – it made him think of pornos. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he leap-frogged to computer games – Mortal Kombat. The tightening in his loins subsided.

Alison looked at her watch over Jonathan’s shoulder. Nine fifteen a.m. She would need to leave within twenty minutes to be sure of getting home in time.

A droplet of sweat trickled off the end of his nose, landing on Alison’s left cheekbone. It was quickly followed by his tongue. His breathing quickened, and his thrusts were slower. The two computer-generated characters had been replaced with images of yielding female flesh.

Alison knew what was coming next. Sure enough, Jonathan withdrew his bursting member and replaced it with the middle and third finger of his right hand. At the same time he shifted position and started working his tongue down to her stomach, stopping to give each of her nipples exactly the same amount of attention.

‘No, Jonathan, I want it now,’ breathed Alison. Her meeting with Kirstie was so important that she grabbed the opportunity to end proceedings prematurely with both hands. With one cupped beneath his bulging ball bag, she used the other to rub the length of Jonathan’s circumcised phallus. In less than thirty seconds she felt the first hot spurt land on her forehead. Jonathan groaned, then watched the rest fall between her breasts. Alison was relieved that none had gone into her frizzy blonde hair.

After a few minutes, she looked at her watch again. Good, she thought. Not even nine thirty.

She got back to her parents’ house just before ten, had a shower and got ready. Kirstie was due to arrive at eleven thirty.

Kirstie and Alison were fairly similar and, probably because of this, not close, but they always went through the motions of liking each other.

Kirstie had completed her final season as resort manager for Young Free & Single (YF&S) Ibiza the previous summer. Largely funded by the money she had made there, she was now opening a travel agency in her native Brecon. She was visiting her boyfriend’s relations in Kent and had agreed to make a detour to see Alison, who would replace her in Ibiza. She knew that Alison was desperate for advice on how to gain maximum financial benefit. Alison wanted to clean up.

Alison’s parents’ home was a typical suburban semi. At the front was a large bay window with Laura Ashley curtains; at the back, a patio door opened from the dining room on to the neatly bordered garden. The room was dominated by a seldom used mahogany dining table, now covered with a number of holiday brochures, an open briefcase and a passport.

The crunch of gravel in the drive heralded Kirstie’s arrival. Alison scooped the brochures into her briefcase. She waited until the doorbell chimed then went to greet Kirstie. She flung open the door theatrically. ‘Daaahling!’ she shrieked, and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘How are you? All right?’ smiled Kirstie politely.

‘You look a bit wet. Don’t you just loathe the British weather? God, I can’t wait to get away again.’

Kirstie grunted. ‘Living room, dining room, bedroom or study?’

‘Well, the drinks cabinet is in the dining room and seeing as you’re such an old alkie I think that’ll be our best bet. I’ve poured you a drink. Unless you want coffee?’

‘No, that’ll do fine.’

They sat at the table and smiled at each other. Alison lit a cigarette. ‘So, any regrets?’

‘No,’ Kirstie replied flatly.

‘Oh, come on, dahling, you’re not telling me that after four summers abroad you’re not going to miss it?’ Alison tossed back her frizzy mane and laughed. ‘Still, I suppose we’ve all got to settle down some time?’

She paused and looked across the table. Kirstie’s inside knowledge of Ibiza and in-depth knowledge of the fiddles and local contacts could save her a lot of time and make her a lot of money. However, although they both knew why Kirstie was there, Alison didn’t want to blow things by being too blunt in her questioning.

Kirstie was flicking through the YF&S brochure. She recognised most of the people smiling out from it – the company nearly always used its reps as models. She stabbed her finger at a picture of a good-looking lad, with two nubile holidaymakers clinging to his legs. He had short, very blond hair, dark eyebrows and green eyes framed by eyelashes so thick and long that had he been a woman he would have had little use for eyeliner or mascara. Even though he was only just over five and a half feet tall, he was almost certainly the closest thing you could get to most people’s pre-conceived idea of a ‘typical’ rep. ‘He’s with you this year, isn’t he?’

‘Who’s that?’ enquired Alison.

‘Scouse Greg.’

‘Oh, him? Yeah. What’s he like to work with?’

‘He’s fine. You just have to leave him to it. Shags himself silly, but he’s pretty discreet.’

‘Is he a good seller?’ asked Alison. The resort manager had a vested interest in excursion sales.

‘One of the best,’ replied Kirstie. ‘But you’ll have to watch him. If he can make a few quid on the side, he will.’

‘Not this year he won’t,’ replied Alison sharply. ‘The only person who’s going to make any money is me.’

Kirstie knew Alison meant it. She had seen it before; the determination to have one last year with the sole objective of making as much money as possible, with little regard for anything or anyone else. Kirstie had come home with nearly fourteen thousand pounds and she knew Alison wanted more. Kirstie had never seen anyone so ruthlessly determined to make her mark. It made her feel uneasy. Her instincts told her that it was probably going to be a strange old season in Ibiza.

Alison spent the obligatory period of time making small-talk then started firing questions. She soon got the impression that Kirstie was not telling her everything, which was indeed the case – there were some things she was just going to have to find out for herself. Once she realised that she had leeched everything she could from Kirstie, they started talking about reps, past and present. Eventually, they worked their way around to the new ones, all of whom Kirstie had interviewed. Alison should have been involved too, but she had told everyone at the time that she was ill with ‘women’s problems’. If an abortion could be defined as such, then she could not have been accused of lying. Only the father knew about it and nobody was going to find out who he was.

‘You’ll like Mario,’ said Kirstie. ‘His parents are Italian. Done a bit of modelling. Very sure of himself. Shouldn’t give you any trouble, though – he wants to go all the way.’

‘If he’s anything like you say he is, I’ll let him.’ Alison laughed at her own deliberate misinterpretation. ‘What about the girls?’

‘There’s a Brummie called Lorraine. I was surprised she got picked, really. She seemed a bit timid. Quite plain too. Jane liked her, though, and you know what Jane’s like when she makes her mind up,’ said Kirstie, referring to the overseas manager. ‘I suppose you know you’ve had another honour bestowed on you?’

‘What, you mean El Negro?’

Alison spoke surprisingly little Spanish in view of the amount of time she had been repping, but she knew what black was.

‘That’s right, Mikey Jarvis, Young Free & Single’s first ever black rep,’ replied Kirstie. ‘He’s got a brilliant sense of humour, as well as being built like a brick wotsit. And he’s a karate black-belt.’

‘What about this blue-eyed boy Jane was going on about? Brad, is it?’

Kirstie thought back to Bridlehurst, the country house-cum-hotel setting for the reps’ final interview. It had lasted twenty-four hours and every aspect of each potential rep’s personality was tested. The panel had agreed that Brad would make a great rep. ‘Bit of a natural leader, really,’ she said. ‘S’pose it’s ’cos he’s older than the normal first year.’

‘How old is he, then?’ asked the twenty-five-year-old Alison.

‘Twenty-six, I think,’ replied Kirstie, homing in on Alison’s insecurity. ‘Yeah, quite sharp too. Very quick-witted. He finished that McQuaig test in six minutes.’

‘The what?’

‘McQuaig Institute test.’ The company had only just introduced the test so Alison had never heard of it. ‘It’s like an IQ test. They have to answer fifty questions in fifteen minutes. When she first saw him Jane Ward assumed he’d give up when he realised there wasn’t a pair of tits on page three of the question sheet. Mind you, she soon changed her tune when she marked it and found out he’d got them all right. Apparently he has an unusually high IQ.’

‘I bet he looks like a right little swot,’ said Alison hopefully.

‘Hardly!’ laughed Kirstie. ‘He’s a bit wider than Mikey, probably he works out a bit, but not quite as tall. Broken nose, light brown hair …’

Alison had stopped listening. She was already worrying that Brad might be a threat to her position.

Kirstie could see that Alison was deep in thought. She made a few unsuccessful attempts at conversation, then finished her drink, made her excuses and set off for Kent.

The sun was playing peek-a-boo through the row of uniform-height poplar trees that lined the straight French country road. Brad had one of his favourite garage tapes playing. He would have liked to have the roof off, but keeping it on allowed him to carry more stuff on the roof rack. He was taking in the scenery and generally feeling pleased with himself. During the first few hours of the journey he had had the occasional pang of guilt when he remembered his girlfriend Charlotte sobbing on the doorstep. It wasn’t so much the leaving her that made him feel guilty, more the ‘Yeee-haaagh’ and punch in the air he had let out as he turned the corner.

Brad didn’t realise that there was a problem for quite a while. It might have been the music, it might have been the landscape, but it certainly had not been the Triumph Herald’s temperature gauge. Cursing, he pulled into a layby and thumped the dial. The Triumph failed to respond so he got out to see what the problem was.

The Sunday-morning stillness of the Dordogne valley was broken by the gentle hiss coming from underneath the bonnet. When he opened it he saw straight away that the fan-belt was broken. His first thought was not on how to overcome the problem, but retribution on the person from whom he had bought the car.

It had an ill-fitting Ford Sierra engine, which gave it the turning circle of the QE2 and made it a nightmare to drive. However, he had bought it partly because the tickets were booked and he had no other choice. He was miles from anywhere and it was a Sunday afternoon. The only option was to try to flag someone down.

The first to take pity on him was the driver of a battered Citroën 2CV, who couldn’t help. He seemed sympathetic, though, and Brad picked up the French for fan-belt – (courroire de ventilateur). Just over two hours later a Ford Sierra approached, with British plates. Unfortunately its occupants also had a British mentality – healthily displayed by their shouts of ‘Wanker!’ and accompanying hand signals.

Brad sat down on the grass verge and opened the last can of duty-free Kronenburg. There was no way he could leave the car because of all the merchandise on the roof rack. A night spent sleeping in the cramped driver’s seat with no blankets was not appealing, but he could see no other option. He sat back, crossed his fingers and scanned the horizon in the forlorn hope that somebody would come to his rescue.

Almost four hours after he had broken down his saviour arrived in the shape of one Samuel T. Zakatek. Sammy seemed fine to start with, especially when Brad discovered that he, too, was on his way to Ibiza, where he had apparently spent the last ten years. He assumed initially that Sammy’s idiosyncratic personality traits were due to his being American.

During their search for a fan-belt, they stumbled across a farm that had been given special dispensation by the French government to grow hemp to produce oil for use as a machine lubricant. The laid-back farmer contacted his brother, who would bring up a selection of fan-belts the next morning. Brad and Sammy spent a few hours helping out and in return the farmer arranged for them to stay overnight in a friend’s guesthouse.

In the time they spent together Sammy told Brad increasingly bizarre stories. One of these was about how he had taken over a beach bar in Ibiza. It had become so famous that the King of Spain ‘dropped in’ one day to congratulate him and offered Sammy anything he wanted as a reward for being so successful. With fortune beckoning, the thing Sammy had wanted was the King’s tie.

Sammy also told Brad how when he was twelve he had planned to kill his parents because they had sold his grandpa’s land, which had been given to him by Navajo Indians.

Brad concluded that Sammy was a psychotic Vietnam veteran. Rather than continue with the games of pool they had started playing in the bar of the guesthouse he made his excuses and went up to the room they were to share. He wanted to re-establish his grip on reality – the strong marijuana and Sammy’s intense alternative reality were making his head spin.

He had almost fallen asleep when he felt Sammy shaking him.

‘Brad. Wake up, man, wake up.’

‘Wassamadder?’

‘Sorry to wake y’, man, but I’ve just had a great fuckin’ idea.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

‘No, listen, man. We ain’t gonna get a chance to take any more weed in the mornin’ right? So I figure we drive up there now and help ourselves to some.’

‘Leave it out. I don’t fancy smuggling any gear across the border. Besides, if you think I’m driving up there at …’ Brad looked at his watch, ‘… three twenty in the morning you must be off your fucking trolley.’

‘C’mon, man! Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘Somewhere just behind my sense of common. Look. Just go to sleep. We can probably grab a little personal in the morning.’

‘Well, fuck you, man. I’m goin’. Y’can do what you want.’

Now Brad was in a dilemma. Although going to the hemp field held little appeal to him, the thought of allowing psychotic Sammy to drive off into the night with the majority of the YF&S merchandise that Brad had temporarily stored in his jeep held even less. ‘All right. Give me a minute to get ready.’

Once in the jeep, Sammy started swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He was driving faster than normal and had a crazed look in his eyes. Brad was scared, but unable to say any of the thousand and one things racing through his mind.

The road leading to the hemp farm was like one of those you see in James Bond car chases, or old movies when a moustachioed fiend has tampered with a car’s brakes – very windy, with steep drops and no railings. A car was dawdling along in front of the jeep. Sammy started to thump the horn. ‘C’mon. Get outta the road, y’ motherfuckin’ French sonofabitch.’ With that, he rammed its rear bumper.

‘What are you playing at, Sam?’

‘Move it, fuckhead.’ He rammed the car again.

‘Stop the car, Sam.’

‘No way, man.’ Sammy was almost forcing the car off the road.

Brad had had enough. ‘Stop the car, you fucking psycho, or so help me, I’ll—’

‘That’s the difference between us, Brad,’ said Sammy, grinning maniacally. ‘Two tours of duty. Hah, I’ve already died twice. But how about you? Are you scared to die, Brad?’

This was sounding like a script from a bad B movie.

‘Sit tight. I’m the tour guide, man,’ drawled Sammy. ‘I haven’t been like this in a long time. It feels goooood! Y’know, Brad, when I first saw you standing by the road I thought, Wow! That’s my brother, man. That’s why I stopped.’

Brad was sure there were tears in Sammy’s eyes. They were approaching a sharp bend and he was not slowing down. Brad had another look at him: he seemed to be in a trance. He pushed Sammy against the driver’s door, grabbed the steering-wheel and yanked on the handbrake. The car skidded to a halt. Brad got out. The distance between the car and the drop was a matter of feet. Sammy was staring straight ahead. Brad turned round and started walking back to the guesthouse. Some things were more important even than YF&S merchandise.

‘On behalf of Captain Reynolds I would like to thank you all for flying with British Caledonian and we hope that you enjoy your stay in Ibiza. Please remain seated until the aircraft comes to a complete standstill. You are reminded not to smoke until you are inside the airport terminal.’

There was a click and some classical music started playing. Mikey looked across the aisle and out of one of the windows at the terminal building, which was distorted by a heat haze rising from the tarmac. As he turned his head back he caught sight of the Idiot’s face, grinning at him from two rows in front. He returned a half-smile. Mikey’s first impressions of people normally turned out to be correct. On this occasion he hoped he was wrong.

As they got off the plane, the Idiot grabbed the stewardess’s hand and kissed it. Mikey shuddered at the thought of spending the next six months with him. When they had first met at the airport, Mikey was put off by the pseudoblack attempt at bonding with the ‘Hey, Bro, how’s it hanging?’ handshake and cocksure attitude. Then the Idiot was endeavouring to chat up the check-in stewardess, the duty-free cashier, and a group of girls in the bar. All of these with his rep’s badge unnecessarily emblazoned upon his chest. Mikey had made up his mind that Mario was a complete and utter stain.

They made their way to the baggage carousel. Mikey largely switched off to Mario’s self-centred ramblings, especially when Mario tried to tell him how he was sure that the stewardess was going to call and that when she did he was going to ‘Fuck her brains out, man!’ Mikey wondered if too much wanking had caused Mario’s cerebral organ to exit its original habitat for similar reasons. He also offered a prayer of thanks to the inventors of the Walkman and sunglasses, which were saving him from having to acknowledge Mario’s waffle.

He sat on the edge of the carousel waiting for it to jerk into life. This was it. He was actually in Ibiza. Unfortunately, so was Mario, fresh from preening himself in front of the mirrors in the toilets.

‘Spanish birds are fit, man. That young one over there in the car-hire bit keeps looking over. I bet she knows we’re reps.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure it’s one of the conditions of employment.’

‘What is?’

‘Being telepathic.’

Mario looked at Mikey, baffled. He changed the subject. ‘So who’s meeting us, then?’

‘The resort manager,’ replied Mikey.

‘That’s Alison, isn’t it?’

‘Sure is.’

‘She wasn’t at the training course or the interviews, was she?’

‘Sure wasn’t.’

‘I wonder what she’s like,’ said Mario. ‘Yeah. D’you reckon she shags?’

Mikey looked at Mario over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Probably, Mario.’

When Mikey and Mario came through customs the airport was fairly empty. Although they hadn’t met her before, the YF&S bag draped over her shoulder ensured that they spotted Alison almost immediately. Mikey felt a sudden sense of anticlimax. He had gone through such mental turmoil, such challenging interviews to become a rep that Alison seemed somehow inadequate.

‘Ciao, bella,’ smarmed Mario, and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too,’ said Alison, thinking Kirstie had been right about how drop-dead gorgeous Mario was. ‘And you must be Mikey.’

‘Don’t tell me – my sunglasses gave me away.’

Alison laughed politely. ‘There aren’t too many black reps here.’

Clumsy, thought Mikey.

They kissed each other’s cheek. It was the first time she had been kissed by a black man.

‘How are you two getting on? All right?’ enquired Alison.

‘Yeah, man, great,’ replied Mario offering Mikey his hand for another handshake. Mikey had no choice but to take it and to go through the motions.

They put their luggage into the white estate car Alison had hired. YF&S supplied her with a moped, but on special occasions she was allowed a car. Mario sat next to her in the front, whilst Mikey clambered into the back with his Head sports bag. He took out his ghetto-blaster unit and looked for a cassette to put in his Walkman.

‘Hey, great wog box, man.’ Mario realised his faux pas almost before the words were out of his mouth. ‘Shit. Sorry, man, I didn’t mean …’

Mikey put him out of his misery. ‘It’s all right, Mario. That’s what I call it.’ A relieved Mario laughed. ‘You can do me one favour, though,’ added Mikey.

‘Yeah, man, whaddya want?’ replied Mario, eager to please.

‘Stop calling me man. I’m from London and we’re in Ibiza, not New York. My friends call me Mikey.’ He paused before adding, ‘You can call me Mr Jarvis.’

‘Oh, uh, right. So that’s your full name then, is it? Mike Jarvis?’

‘No.’

Michael Jarvis chuckled to himself. His dry humour and flat delivery were lost on Mario.

Most reps never bothered to research much more than the prospective nightlife of their chosen destination, but Mikey had found out a little about the history of the island. He guessed that Mario, and probably Alison, would have no interest in it, so he thought it would be fun to share his knowledge with them on the journey into San Antonio. As they drove away from the airport, he saw a sign pointing towards Las Salinas, the salt flats.

‘See those salt flats, Mario?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s mainly because of those that this little island has been invaded through the years.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Well, that and its location, of course.’

‘And now it’s being invaded by Young Free & Single,’ chipped in Alison.

‘And loads of Krauts,’ added Mario.

‘Funnily enough, a Germanic tribe called the Vandals invaded Ibiza in the fifth century.’ As Mikey had expected, there was no reaction from either Mario or Alison. ‘Then the Byzantines.’ He soaked up the disinterested silence. ‘Then, of course, there were the Saracens.’ He smiled to himself and paused for nearly a minute. ‘I think it was the Moors next – or was it the Normans?’ He took some chewing-gum out of a wrapper and popped it into his mouth. ‘No, I’m sure it was the Normans.’

After nearly half an hour they arrived in San Antonio. Mikey remembered reading that it used to be a small fishing port until tourists started arriving in the sixties. It had really taken off however, during the tourist boom that followed Franco’s death in 1975 and the advent of the ‘specialist holiday’, in particular those catering for young people. The ‘West End’ of San Antonio had grown to service the demand for pub crawls, with a huge variety of theme bars and night-clubs. In the mid-eighties, the island had given birth to the rave scene. Although there was still a strong demand for ’ere-we-go type bars, it was the stylish clubs and more laid-back, drug-dominated places that came into vogue. Places like Café del Mar, which until the mid-eighties had been the domain of locals and a few backgammon-playing workers, were overrun with Moschino-clad ravers and wannabes.

It was quite close to Café del Mar that the majority of YF&S’s accommodation was based, including their principal unit, the Bon Tiempo apartments, which was where Mikey was to stay. The area around the Bon was undeveloped and the building stood there, a solitary white block like a lone tooth in a mouth of decay.

As the car pulled up outside Mikey saw that its white paintwork and brown shutters rose five storeys; all of the shutters were closed and the only towel draped over a balcony was on the top f. . .