The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  Esta’s brow furrowed a little. Hammy felt that he had perhaps patronised her, but she was merely expressing empathy.

  ‘How about you?’ said Hammy, pointing at the space where her lower left limb should’ve been.

  ‘A … eh, infection. Bad,’ she said slowly. ‘Had to lose leg.’

  Hammy sighed, Esta shrugged. Two resolute survivors, it seemed. He, there for his first – and last as it transpired – physiotherapy session; her, there for a fitting for a new prosthetic. Despite the chasm across which their ability to communicate had to leap, they talked further over lunch, watching the historic events taking place across the Atlantic, where Barack Obama had earlier been announced as his country’s forty-fourth President. They were staggered to find out that they would both be returning to the same island later that evening. On Esta’s suggestion, Hammy began attending a clinic-based therapeutic class in Ibiza Town that Esta helped run. After a year of close attention, Esta Soler took it upon herself to widen the clinic programme to include sexual therapy. Hammy accepted a deep-rooted personal desire for strong female domination. He’d already recognised it within himself before leaving Kilmarnock more than thirty years before. He had never thought of himself as a ‘mummy’s boy’, but with a father rarely at home, perhaps he had been. It wasn’t something he could readily discuss with Bobby for fear of ridicule, but when Esta initiated him into the ways of the Sangre Naranja, she found an only-too-willing student.

  ‘Where have jou been?’ She is a little irritated.

  ‘Ach, it was Bobby. He’s going a bit…’ Hammy circles a pointed finger at his head, wide eyes going in different directions.

  ‘Loco?’ says Esta.

  ‘Aye,’ Hammy laughs, ‘fuckin’ loco. That’s the very word.’

  ‘We need to do quick,’ says Esta.

  Hammy knows not to correct her. He gets the message. He’s driven out to the agreed location. It is forty minutes to the north from Can Germa on the PM-812. He’s followed her written instructions and has arrived at a remote farm steading closer to Sant Joan de Labritja. Hammy has seen most of the island, but he hasn’t been near here before. Those in the Order from the south of the island use locations in the north for their activities, and vice versa, although lately, Hammy and Esta have been meeting to make plans at a small bar close to Bobby’s villa. Esta Soler has been kept waiting for over an hour. Hammy, even more than usual, is happy to do as instructed.

  ‘Een the back room,’ she says, gesturing towards a closed door in the rear of a tin shed which has, until fairly recently, been the home for a substantial amount of livestock.

  Hammy briefly wonders where they are now, and the same about their owner. He wheels his chair through the dung. It will need a sharp hosing afterwards. He suspects he probably will too. Nervous anticipation grows in the pit of his stomach. Esta has accepted that he never wants to do anything that will cause him pain; it isn’t that kind of domination he craves. But, as he approaches the closed door, he knows some form of mechanical contraption will be involved. On a previous outing, involving the suction pipe from an industrial hoover, Hammy insisted on a safe word. He chose ‘Heatwave’. As he sits contemplating what is on the other side of this potential room 101, he hopes Esta has remembered it. His cock is now javelin hard, not from the thought of being strapped onto some form of combine harvester, but from the Viagra he has taken at the time instructed by Esta’s note. It is that, more than the fear of a lashing from her that has made him leave the villa abruptly. Hammy couldn’t risk Bobby, apparently in the early phases of a potential breakdown, spotting him with a hard-on growing in his shorts. That would’ve been way too difficult to explain. So Hammy bolted, his penis thrusting its way up like an inflatable helium rocket at a kids’ fair.

  The back room is hot, the sun baking its crinkled metal roof all day. It is a nondescript space, apart from the apparatus at the centre of it. Hammy can’t conceive what it would normally be used for. Storing hay perhaps, but that might’ve been about it.

  ‘De bed is for me. De harness ees for jou,’ says Esta with authority.

  Hammy looks up at the roof. Two parallel ropes hang from it, supporting a seat that looks like a toddler’s swing. The ‘bed’, on the other hand, looks like a bizarre gurney on which a condemned person might be lethally injected. Hammy is relieved that it isn’t for him. Esta carefully helps Hammy out of his clothes and into the swing. He is naked. The ropes have a little stretch in them and he bounces up and down a bit while she undresses herself. She then parts the legs of this modern-day stretching rack and her plan becomes instantly clear to Hammy. Supported by the sling, Hammy will enter her from behind while she uses the electronically controlled base to manoeuvre her vagina to a level so that Hammy can easily swing into her. Hammy finds it endearing that she has given considerable thought to him shagging her from behind while ‘standing’ up. His skinny, redundant legs contain little working muscle now with which he could support himself. But his upper torso is arguably larger and stronger than it has ever been. He is all out of proportion, much like the body of a cartoon superhero drawn by a child.

  Esta removes her prosthetic limb and clambers on the open-legged table. A flick of the remote spreads her – and the bed’s – legs. Another button pressed and her magnificent arse rises, propelled by a break in the middle sections of the bed that Hammy hasn’t even noticed.

  ‘Okay, Hamma … jou get in now,’ she pants.

  Hammy grabs his throbbing cock with one hand and swings the harness closer with the other. His feet touch the concrete floor but they are of little use beyond counterbalance. He edges closer and slides into her easily. His hands grab her arse cheeks, both for balance and for propulsion.

  ‘Mmm … Ahh,’ Esta moans. ‘Harda Hamma … Fasta!’

  He’s imagined having sex standing up for years now, but has never thought he’d ever do it again. Fuckin’ Viagra, man. Greatest invention ae the century, Hammy thinks as his rhythm improves.

  Esta is now pushing herself backwards in syncopation. This fuckin’ woman. They were surely meant to be together.

  Despite struggling to get up a consistent pendulum or purchase, Hammy’s confidence is growing. He decides to pull out of her, swing right back and then re-enter her on the downward curve as if he was one of the Flying Wallendas. She moans loudly as he pulls out and pushes back from her sweating, arched arse. He sniggers as images of Billy Connolly’s most famous joke materialise. But he has pushed too hard and the swing has gone back too far. The bed also rolls forward slightly on tiny wheels that Hammy hasn’t even noticed. His weak and ineffectual feet, now off the ground, he overbalances and tips sharply forward, like the star of an X-rated Punch & Judy show being operated by drunken puppeteers. The back of Hammy’s head is now where his cock has just recently been, his wasted legs flail around as the blood rushes downwards towards his head.

  ‘Dios mio… ¿qué ha pasado?, ¿estás bien?’ Esta lifts herself forward and Hammy consequently rotates. He is upside down.

  ‘Heatwave, heatwave. HEATWAVE!’ he yells.

  Esta hops around. Hammy is still hard. Supporting herself on one of Hammy’s ropes with one hand, she wanks him off with the other, before righting him and releasing him from the swing.

  ‘What a fucking woman,’ says Hammy, exhausted; blood rushing back from his head like the salts in an inverted eggtimer, streams of sweat flowing in the same direction. They both dissolve into hysterical laughter. He never wants to leave this place; nor to leave her and the life-affirming excitement of the illicit relationship they have.

  Chapter Fifteen

  October 2014

  Bobby Cassidy watches himself on the flat screen. Tears are racing each other down the pockmarked slopes of his face. Some slow and stop on the crest of his cheeks, as if part of a relay team waiting for a colleague in the same lane before setting off again towards the chin. A couple of fat ones drop into his glass and ripple his latest whisky. He has lost count of how many have preceded it. T
he film playing on his DVD player brings back substantial memories of an earlier – and much happier – time. The DVD case is in his hand. It is the remarkable story of The Rise & Fall of The Miraculous Vespas; a story with a postscript in which Bobby Cassidy played a key part. Bobby reluctantly took part in the documentary film as a favour for Max Mojo, who was keen to relaunch the band with a thirty-year anniversary package. Now, he is watching a snippet of an interview he gave months ago but can barely remember taking part in. The LP went on to achieve legendary status, cited by the likes of Noel Gallagher and Alex Turner as a major influence on the work of their own bands. Both of these titans of modern music bookend the piece delivered by Bobby Cassidy – formerly MC Bobcat – the Ibiza-based DJ whose remixed single lit the fuse of the reclusive band’s rocketing reputation.

  Bobby raises his glass: ‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us, damn few … an’ they’re aw deid. Or they fuckin’ might as well be!’

  Joseph Miller packs the bigger of his two silver, hard-shell cases. He searches for his passport, finding it under the bed. He scans it quickly, checking the date on his visa, as if hoping to find that he’s miscalculated. Maybe there was one more day available. The cost of a cancelled flight would have been worth it. Carlos Martorell was right, hard though it is to admit it: the settlement offered by Felix Masson on behalf of his own new partners is very fair, more than reasonable in fact. Like Megan, he now has more than enough money to live the comfortable lifestyle he once imagined for himself, he just can’t remember what that was. Her lifestyle is spartan, and her acquired money is merely an emergency escape fund. His could fund a freedom that he doesn’t know how to take advantage of and has no one to share with: a painful emotional paradox.

  ‘Fuck sake, Bob.’ Hammy tries to rouse his friend. There is no imminent danger of him choking on any vomit. His head is draped over the edge of the white sofa at an angle similar to that recently experienced by Hammy.

  ‘C’mon, pal, eh? Look at the fuckin’ state yer in, man.’ Hammy lifts Bobby’s head. His straggled, sweating hair sticks out at right angles from the back of his head. ‘Jesus Christ, have ye fuckin’ tanned aw that Johnnie Walker in the time ah’ve been away?’

  ‘Um … dunno. Time is it?’ Bobby slurs and dribbles.

  Hammy wipes his face.

  ‘Whit day is it?’

  Hammy laughs. ‘It’s fuckin’ Wednesday, ya tube!’

  Bobby shakes his head. He puts his head in his hands. ‘Where have you been, anyway?’ Bobby asks this in a manner that suggests he has no interest in the answer.

  ‘Jist oot. Divin’ aboot an’ that.’ Hammy knows he can get away with such evasion. It has been obvious for months that Bobby Cassidy is wallowing in a well of self-pity so deep that it is totally immaterial to him what is going on up at the surface. Hammy has been relieved about this. But now it saddens him to see his friend in such pain. He phoned Laurence Revlon at Revolution that morning. Laurence is an arrogant prick in Hammy’s opinion, with none of his mother’s class or consideration. She can be as hard as nails but there is always fairness from her too. Hammy can’t stand Laurence’s cut glass Eton accent. He constantly fights the temptation to remind the twenty-five-year-old that, with his ‘shanty-town, rice an’ fuckin’ beans’ background, he should be less of a cunt to others, ‘just in case his Ma decides to send him back’. Hammy bit his tongue when Laurence told him Bobby was finished. He remained silent as Laurence described how Bobby had been drunk on his last shift, and had taken offence at a young man photographing him behind the Las Dalias decks. The young man was a Rough Guide writer, covering – with Laurence’s permission – the less well-known clubs in the Revolution portfolio; the ones way off the beaten track. Laurence could detect the resignation in Hammy’s breathing as he explained the nub of the issue: Bobby left the DJ area and pursued the young man through the club, diving on top of him and yelling ‘He’s got a rucksack, he’s a fuckin’ Al-Qaeda terrorist … everybody get down!’ Hammy knew it was over. There would be no appeal to the Higher Court of Laurie.

  He looks at Bobby. He is unsure of what to do, but he knows he has to do something if he is to salvage a future here in his Estashaped Paradise.

  ‘Listen,’ says Bobby.

  ‘Whit?’ says Hammy. Maybe a depth has finally been reached; a profound realisation is imminent.

  ‘Some wee polis guy wis here lookin’ for you … Soler, he says. Juan Soler.’

  Hammy chokes. ‘When?’

  ‘Fuck should ah know? Ah dinnae even ken whit day it is, man,’ says Bobby. He buries his face in his hands and his head shakes slightly at the hangover raging inside his skull. ‘Whit ye been up tae anyway?’

  ‘Nothin’.’ Hammy is suddenly hyperventilating. ‘See whit ye were sayin’ aboot headin’ back? Tae Ayrshire an’ that? Mibbe it’s no’ the daftest idea.’

  She has her hands deep inside her pockets. It isn’t cold by Joseph’s hometown standards, but she does seem to be shivering slightly.

  ‘Right, that’s my flight gettin’ called,’ he says.

  ‘Joseph, I’ve really enjoyed these few days together with you. It’s reminded me a bit about … I dunno, just being content.’

  ‘Come over, then. Fuckin’ hell, we’ve got tons ae Premier Inns in Scotland,’ he says. ‘Ye might have tae sleep wi’ Lenny Henry, or listen tae the bastard’s jokes tae get a job wi’ them though.’

  Megan laughs. She has no idea who Lenny Henry is.

  ‘Look, just think aboot it. Ye know how tae get in touch wi’ me. Nae pressure, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says.

  ‘We’ll go up round the Highlands … tae aw the islands. Everybody’s fuckin’ anonymous up there, that’s the whole flamin’ attraction ae the place. Miles an’ miles ae sheep, an’ daft big cows an’ jaggy heather an’ fuck all else!’

  ‘It sounds fabulous,’ she says. ‘Maybe someday.’

  She says this in the tone of a parent promising something outrageous to a nagging child, just for a bit of peace. It makes him feel even more insecure and childish. She moves around and leaves little trace. In a few weeks, she’ll have a new mobile phone, a new number and to all intents and purposes, a different identity. He won’t know where she is. They won’t meet again, because she doesn’t ever look back. ‘Don’t Look Back’: one of his favourite songs. The irony twists and torments him. She leans in and kisses him. It is a goodbye kiss from a Goodbye Girl. His heart hasn’t ached like this since the day of Gary Cassidy’s funeral. Or immediately following the aftermath, when it felt absolutely certain that he’d never see Bobby Cassidy again. But he is now heading to the Balearics. Only two hours after Megan convinced him to get in touch with Bobby, Joseph’s nowformer PA forwarded an email to the hotel that the Glasgow studio had received. It was from Hamish May. It was marked urgent. It described Joseph’s best friend, Bobby Cassidy, in a very bad way, and desperate to see him one last time, having been given the last rites.

  PART TWO

  THE MAN WHO LOVED ISLANDS

  ‘Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There’s no escape. I’m God’s lonely man.’

  (Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver)

  Chapter Sixteen

  November 2014. Ibiza, Spain

  Joseph Miller is nervous. But this is different from his natural state of heightened anxiety. He doesn’t feel in any danger, just a generalised uncertainty. What will he say or do faced with his stricken former friend, whom he last spoke to six years ago, in a profanity-strewn, abusive and angry parting shot. If Bobby only has days – possibly even only hours – left, how to reconcile all that has gone before?

  Joseph is also exhausted. He can’t get Megan out of his mind. He has texted her daily in the week since he left China, but the responses are already drying up. There’s nothing quite as pitiful as middle-aged male desperation in the pursuit of youth, be it buying a scarlet-red Porsche, growing a ponytail or phone-stalking a female more t
han a generation younger. Joseph Miller is no Rod Stewart or Ronnie Wood; he has little to offer and he knows it has to stop.

  His already fragmented sleeping pattern has been rearended by the message from Hamish May about Bobby’s condition. The details were scant. Hamish left a phone number but he hasn’t been responding to any calls, and Joseph can’t contact Hettie. He assumes she must be out here at her brother’s bedside, having buried her own Bobby-shaped hatchets in advance of having to bury him. Seeing Hettie will be difficult for Joseph. He made a total fool of himself – again – on that cataclysmic day in Bethnal Green back in 2008. Even the passage of time won’t erase that humiliation.

  Joseph looks for his bag. The flight from Glasgow has been delayed. The plane’s baggage is now mixing with other incoming flights from Frankfurt and Copenhagen. He didn’t want to bring a large bag. He didn’t think he’d be staying long. If there is to be a funeral, he expects it to be back in Kilmarnock, but even if it isn’t, he’ll return for it to avoid hanging around in the atmosphere of death with a morose Hamish May. He’s made the decision to wear a black suit to travel, partly out of respect for Hettie, but also just in case it’s needed more quickly than anticipated. T-shirts and jeans and toiletries are all in the bag he was forced to check in.

  Flights are clearing quickly. Copenhagen disappears from the board, replaced by Madrid. Then Frankfurt, substituted by Berlin. Paris makes an appearance. Glasgow has long since gone. There are a few people he recognises from his plane, all coming to terms with the fact that their baggage hasn’t made the same flight as they did.

  He wanders out into the arrivals hall. He will have to return tomorrow for his luggage as he can’t give lost property a forwarding address. Joseph has left voicemail messages for Hamish to plead for an address and an update on Bobby’s condition. In a text reply, Hamish has merely confirmed that he’ll pick Joseph up.