The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  She thinks she sees the brief flicker of a rueful smile on his face but perhaps not.

  ‘Ah haven’t seen or spoken to my only daughter in years, since her manipulative cunt ae a mother has completely turned her against me.’ It is beginning to sound like the worst blues song ever, but he hasn’t finished. ‘Ah presume every muscle twinge tae be the start ae a heart attack, every slight stomach cramp tae be cancer, every headache, a brain tumour. Ah suffer fae regular anxiety attacks an’ ah take more pills than The Grateful Dead.’ He smiles as his eyes moisten. ‘And ah’ve lost all contact wi’ the only people ah’ve ever really cared for. The ones that ah could maybe have confided in about it aw.’ He sighs. ‘Everybody’s runnin’ from somethin’ Megan.’ He dabs at his eyes.

  She leans forward slowly and nods. ‘I stole $450,000 from my husband six years ago. He had physically and mentally abused me every day that we were married until he beat me and I lost our baby. He was part of an organised crime family and some of that money was theirs. That’s what I’m running from.’

  Checkmate.

  Chapter Ten

  August 2006. Ibiza, Spain

  ‘C’mon, man … ah need tae go. This Geppetto cunt’ll be waitin’ for us.’

  ‘Take the fuckin’ car then.’

  ‘Naw, ah want tae walk. We don’t dae enough walkin’ these days. We’re turnin’ intae fat slobs. You’re gettin’ a belly like the yin wee Jimmy Stevenson used to have.’

  ‘Whit ye sayin’? Ah’m now your bastardin’ full-time chauffeur?’

  ‘Ah’m no’ askin’ ye tae drive me down the day, ah’m ah? So stop greetin’ an’ hurry the fuck up!’ Bobby was becoming agitated. The interview had been set for 2 pm and it was now nearly half past one. He had been persuaded that it would be a worthwhile idea. His profile had diminished in inverse proportion to his waistline over the previous five years. His remix work on The Miraculous Vespas singles of 1995 and 1996 had reclaimed some of the critical ground he’d lost after ‘Dipped in Chocolate’. But he hadn’t followed it up. Hammy put it down to core, inherent laziness, but in truth, Bobby had been affected by a sudden and sharp loss of confidence. It coincided with Laurie Revlon’s illness. This had happened a full ten years ago, whilst she was on a personal quest in Africa to adopt a child. Her acquiantances, Elton and Madonna, had talked about it often. Laurie wanted to be the first. She had selected a six-year-old boy from the floating-village slums of Makoko in Nigeria. The adoption process had been completed and the boy had been renamed Laurence. But, on their final day in Africa before returning to the Balearics, Laurie had suffered a stroke. It was not severe enough to halt her motherhood ambitions, but she was fifty-three at the time. Some additional payments were needed to officials in Lagos to ensure no reconsiderations were contemplated by other interested Nigerian authorities. Laurie wasn’t totally debilitated, but it did knock her world-domination plans off track for a year or so.

  At the same Bobby Cassidy had been slipping down the rankings within Laurie’s team, not helped by his emergent sloth. Now, though, an opportunity to raise his profile with an Italian dance magazine had presented itself. They were doing a major retrospective on the Ibizan superclubs of the late 80s and had sent one Guiseppe Gennaro to speak to anyone who was part of that scene and was still alive.

  The walk down the narrow, hairpin tracks from the villa to the tiny local bar where he had agreed to give the interview took a full thirty minutes. Bobby was sweating profusely. The heat had been far more intense than he’d anticipated and his shirt looked like it had been used to mop up beer spills at the saloon adjacent to the OK Corral. Unfortunately, Guiseppe had brought a photographer with him, so Bobby instructed Hammy to run back up the steep hill to the house to get him a new shirt, and the car for the journey home. Hammy was understandably angry about this, and more so since he’d predicted it happening before they left.

  ‘Fuck off, an’ stop moanin’, ya lazy bastard,’ Bobby shouted at him before Hammy reluctantly turned back. Hammy was possibly out of earshot when Bobby yelled, ‘This kinda shite is what ah fuckin’ pay ye for, remember!’ In the guilt-ridden days and weeks and months that followed, Bobby prayed that Hammy hadn’t heard him.

  ‘MC Bobcat, thank you for this interview. How are you now?’ The shift in tone from the young Italian from casual to professional at the flicked switch of his tiny, metallic tape machine took Bobby by surprise. As did the use of the recording name. He hadn’t heard anyone use it for a while. It grated like nails on a blackboard.

  Bobby paused before answering. A young waitress brought over their order: bruschetta and still water for Guiseppe; a burger the size of a car’s hub cap and a flagon of beer for Bobby. The waitress fluttered around the handsome young journalist but barely looked at the forty-two-year-old DJ.

  ‘Ah’m fine, pal,’ said Bobby. ‘Whit aboot you?’ Guiseppe sipped his water and ignored the reciprocity.

  ‘You first came to Ibiza in…’ He checked his notes. ‘…1987, right? What was the club scene like back then? Were you aware of the, em … explosion that was about to happen?’ Guiseppe’s English was excellent. His pause wasn’t about searching for an evasive word, it was about selecting the right one. This wasn’t going to be as straightforward as Bobby had anticipated when Laurie Revlon’s PR department had informed him about the opportunity.

  ‘It was excitin’, tae start wi’,’ said Bobby.

  Guiseppe was writing copious notes in addition to the recording process, presumably to ensure that the interviewee’s rapidly delivered dialect could be deciphered properly back in Milan.

  ‘Aye, the Brits aw headed tae The Star Club. Most ae them were in San Antonio so we pitched up there tae,’ said Bobby between beer burps. ‘It was like a place lookin’ for an identity. An’ then the followin’ year Oakenfold an’ Farley an’ Holloway an’ aw them dropped Es at the Amnesia, an’ well … ye ken the rest, eh?’ Bobby launched himself at the burger two-handed.

  Guiseppe’s mouth gaped a little before he collected himself. ‘Who were your DJ heroes, back then?’ Guiseppe’s questions appeared to be pre-determined, if a little randomly sequenced.

  ‘One ae your lot … Toni Oneto. He did really cool stuff at Nightlife up the West End.’

  Guiseppe was fairly certain that Toni Oneto wasn’t Italian, but made a mental note to check.

  ‘…And Derek Dees. He wis a fuckin’ legend, man.’ Bobby registered the puzzled look on Guiseppe’s face. But he hoped the magazine would give his Benidorm-based mentor a namecheck. The auld cunt was probably stacking shelves at a Carrefour nowadays but maybe he’d somehow see the eventual article and get a few free dinners off the back of Bobby’s benevolence towards him.

  ‘What else has changed, for good and bad?’ Guiseppe asked.

  ‘Fuck me … well, ah had a bit more hair,’ Bobby laughed.

  Guiseppe didn’t, he simply scribbled notes. It was disconcerting that he wouldn’t even look up after delivering a question.

  ‘Well, ah suppose … Privilege was called Ku. Stupid fuckin’ name by the way. Whit else … George Michael wis still straight an’ ye could trust the cunt tae run ye hame in his motor. The England fitba team were still pish … aw, aye, an’ fuckin’ DJs didnae earn the same amount for playin’ other cunts’ records as David Beckham does for wearin’ a fuckin’ sarong!’ Bobby’s voice was growing in volume at the same pace as his general irritation. Someone had put mayonnaise on the burger when he had expressly asked them not to. His blood pressure was rising. It was hotter than hell itself and Hammy was still nowhere to be seen with his change of clothing. He scraped the top of the remainder of the meat and then clamped his jaws around as much of it as possible.

  ‘What’s exciting you now about the Balearic scene, MC Bobcat?’

  Since this wasn’t a live radio interview, the second use of the stage name just seemed unnecessary. Bobby felt something more than a journalistic jibe sticking in his throat.

  ‘Fuck all,’ he said, coughing.
He gulped more beer. It didn’t help. ‘There’s a wee bar up west … used tae be Plastic Fantastic … cough … it’s just called Plastik now … cough … It wis a great … cough … record shop an’ now it does DJ competitons … cough cough.’

  Unknown to him, Bobby’s face was reddening. Guiseppe’s head remained down, looking at the words he was writing.

  ‘…Cough … It’s great. It’s changin’ the face ae San Antonio, man … cough cough. Ah’d love them tae ask me tae work there…’

  Guiseppe looked up sharply. Bobby’s voice had changed from deep growling to squeaky struggle. He now sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West as she evaporated. Bobby’s face was beetroot red. He was struggling to breathe.

  Guiseppe jumped up and pulled Bobby off the stool. He grabbed him from the back and manoeuvred him as Heimlich had dictated. After three jerks, a piece of gherkin projected across the bar and hit the menu blackboard behind the wooden servery. Guiseppe let Bobby go and he fell breathless to the floor. The observers in the bar applauded and – spotting her chance – the young waitress ran forward and hugged the Italian hero, accidently stepping on Bobby’s hand as she did so.

  ‘So, MC Bobcat, one final question. How did it feel to find out that your record ‘Dipped in Chocolate’ was voted the worst dance song ever, by Mixmag?’

  It had been nearly an hour since a pickled cucumber had almost killed Bobby Cassidy. This interview wasn’t doing much for his health either, but he now felt obligated to Guiseppe Gennaro to complete it. The interview certainly wasn’t what the Italian had anticipated either. He hadn’t admitted as much to Bobby, but his brief was simply to grab a few background quotes in order to add depth to a wider piece. From Bobby, however, he’d gotten so much more: an intimate portrait of an angry, disgruntled has-been from the Balearic Beat days, whose bitter recalcitrance would now be the central theme of an expanded study.

  It was almost 4 pm. Guiseppe Gennaro left in a taxi as soon as that final, brutal question was addressed. Bobby knew the record was widely derided but the Italian’s reveal had been like a hook from Mike Tyson to the solar plexus. His response had attacked and blamed all manner of people, from ‘that snidey wee cunt, David Guetta’ to ‘Thatcher’s fuckin’ bum boy, John Major’. His acridity was redolent of a professional footballer who’d retired penniless the season before the Bosman ruling came in to force, or before the Sky money dropped and grossly inflated the salaries of even mediocre players. Bobby Cassidy was depressed. He knew it but couldn’t admit it to anyone else, least of all Hamish May. The last ten years since the highs of The Miraculous Vespas triumph had been a relentless downhill slide. Everyone else was still riding that crest to a differing degree: Max Mojo had a villa in the South of France. He was often on the phone to Bobby talking about getting into film, purely in order to be able to walk to the Cannes Festival just down the road from his house. Old Cliff Raymonde – whose mahogany-tinted skin Bobby’s own now most closely resembled – had taken over Laurie Revlon’s studio, converting it so that it had proper accommodation and making it among the best in Europe. Laurie Revlon’s own business had also grown and adapted. Revolution still thrived, but Bobby Cassidy hadn’t worked there since, coincidentally, the night of the 9/11 attacks in New York, five years earlier. He’d made a thoughtless joke after playing an old, jazzy Style Council track entitled ‘Dropping Bombs on the White House’. Hardly anyone was in the club that night. Most were at home, glued to televisions, still unable to fully comprehend what they were watching. Angered words got back to Laurie Revlon. Laurie had a close friend who worked for Silverstein Properties on the eighty-eighth floor of the north tower. It would be three full days before Laurie knew she had made it, shocked and traumatised, but safely out of the building before it collapsed. By which time Bobby Cassidy had been suspended. Laurie liked Bobby, but he would never work at Revolution again.

  Bobby’s temper was rising as he looked back on a decade of increasing obscurity. He strode back up the steep hill, preparing himself for an outpouring of rage at his disrespectful subordinate. Hammy had evidently simply left him at the bar. And the photographs for what should have been an important, profile-raising interview would now surely show him to be out of shape, filthy and the red-faced victim of an assassination attempt by a rogue pickle. A sweat-sheened fury was consuming him.

  It took him fifty minutes to reach the approach to the house. He felt like he was physically melting. He must’ve lost at least a stone on this climb.

  Fifty yards from the gatehouse, on the tightest of Can Germa’s mountain bends, a car was on its side. Water and oil was flowing from its exposed underbelly, steam rising in the melting heat from its bonnet. A young male driver was being breathalysed by an even younger Ibizan police officer. A female passenger sat shaking on a piece of stone by the side of the road. A thick puddle of fresh, red blood and the marks of rubber evidenced what had happened.

  Bobby’s heart stopped in its tracks. It seemed inconceivable that Hammy had been involved, and yet he hadn’t returned to the bar for Bobby. He’d be in the house, Bobby told himself, as he ran past the crash scene. But what if he wasn’t? His heart was racing. What the fuck would he do without Hammy?

  Chapter Eleven

  October 2014. Shanghai, China

  He sits in her living room. It is compact but its elevated position offers an exceptional view of the Bund, especially now, late at night, when the dazzling neon and the effervescent sodium mix and dance across the Huangpu’s rippling blackness. The flat is a model of frugal minimalism. There are no material trappings. Nothing on the walls. No Western consumerism that many of those born here so crave and fear in equal measure. There is no television in the principal room. He knows the programmes are mediocre for the most part, and downright irritating for the remainder. So, maybe that view is enough? It isn’t a home. It is an enclosed, heated space from which someone can disappear within fifteen minutes, leaving little trace that they have even been there.

  Megan pours him a glass of red wine, one sizable enough for him to deduce that she is happy with him staying for a while. He still isn’t sure why he is here, beyond the instinctive feeling that he wants to be. After the nadir of the Huangshan visit, being here, in the flat of a beautiful, young, English-speaking woman is incredibly comforting. Joseph suspects that she too craves some form of emotional solace. She has no close friends to speak of. He isn’t blind to the suggestion that his earlier intervention on her behalf was, for her, motivated more by paternal protection than by sex, as he had briefly imagined.

  She returns from her bedroom. She is wearing a loose white t-shirt, bleached jeans and white Converse shoes. Her blonde hair is tied up. She looks totally different; beautifully natural. In her work clothes, she could really be anyone. Attractive certainly, but more reflective of the organisation she works for – polished and professionally classy but not remarkable. He realises now that she is only truly relaxed within these walls. And she has let him inside. He appreciates how much that must have taken for her.

  She sits on the sofa next to him, watching the ships and cars slowly start to outnumber the people on the Bund as late evening becomes early morning. They talk for hours, her telling him that he should get back in touch with his best friend, him affirming her determination never to return home. She is a nomad and the anonymity solitude affords her comforts and sustains her. Isolation from the people and places that made him feel most alive is slowly but surely killing him. Difficult though it would undoubtedly be, she is convinced Joseph needs to see Bobby Cassidy; to atone and account for sins past; to try and recapture something of the relationship they once had. Perhaps some form of happiness or contentment might come from that. It is surely worth a try, she feels. He isn’t convinced but he has to conclude recounting some of their teenage experiences has been refreshingly enjoyable. It has been a very long time since he has laughed as much. It has been a similar amount of time for her, too.

  He looks down at her. She has fallen asleep, her
head on his lap. Telling him more about Vinnie, the crushing shock and subsequent terror of his immediate switch into Mr Hyde, and about the circuitous route to reach possibly the one country he won’t think of looking for her has exhausted her.

  She sleeps.

  He can’t. But he is happy, comparatively speaking. His hand rests on her shoulder. As clichéd as it sounds, he assumes she simply needs a father figure; someone to reassure her that she did the right thing all those years ago and that she should never go back. In the future, another Cockney Jack cunt will destabilise her and another Joseph Miller will hopefully be there to protect her from her doubts. He wishes he was younger, that he could be the one who was always there for her.

  She sleeps.

  He can’t. So he sits awake, dreaming: that Gary Cassidy never went to the Falklands. That he and Bobby never fell out. That Hettie Cassidy never met that cunt Pete D’Oliveira. That he never met or married Lucinda, the architect of all his pain. But then he’d never have had Jennifer in his life, however short-lived, and although that road is currently blocked, Megan has reassured him there remains some hope of connection via the words he is writing for her.

  Joseph Miller lifts Megan Carter’s head and gently lays it down. It is almost sunrise. She stirs. He fears she might be disorientated and will panic at the sight of a strange man in her apartment. But she doesn’t. She smiles warmly at him.

  ‘Some breakfast? I don’t have much in, but I could fix an omelette.’

  ‘That would be good, aye,’ he says. He watches her rise, shake her hair and walk to the kitchen worktop at the rear of the open living space.