The Ibizan book of the Dead
10 June 2002
They had the England game on a giant screen over the bar. And when I say giant, I fucking mean it. The thing stretched up to the roof, which when you take into account the fact that the Britannia Bar is more generally known as the Britannia Barn is quite an effect.
Of course, everyone had seen it earlier anyway, at the Paradise or the George or, if you like that kind of thing, the Dorian, or on shitty pirate cable in one of the "local" bars, which are nothing of the sort but have straw donkeys on the walls and tattooed barmen who came over on the run from the law in the 70s. So by this time nobody was exactly glued to it, except three pissed-up Scots blokes who had somehow managed to miss all the signs - the bunting, the flags, the tattooed beerguts screaming into each others faces - and were cheering the Argies like they could turn back time with the power of blended whisky.
We're slurring for England,
We're playing our song.
Odd pockets of sudden stillness on the dancefloor when one guy caught sight of something on the big screen and tugged his friend's shoulder. So they would stop, and look, and a ripple effect would go out across the warehouse. By the time the edges had looked over, the moment had passed, the spotters were back to slipping in beer, and the ball was out of play. Like the polar opposite of a Mexican wave.
The DJ wasn't helping much. E'd up twat from Gateshead who left a pregnant fourteen year old back home to chase the big break. Didn't realise that all those "Ibiza Club Classics" compilations were full of thirtysomethings with flats in Hampstead or Paris or Milan. When he's out of it, which is most of the time, he'll come up to anyone in a suit and ask if they're "spotting". At which point they usually break his nose.
Anyway, he'd decided that, what with England's glory and everything, scattering a few football songs in among the happy hardcore would be a really good idea. Which is all very well if it's "World in Motion", not so good when you're down to Ant and fucking Dec, "Back Home" and "Allie's Tartan Army". Christ's sake...
All of which is completely lost on the boy I've been chatting to for the last thirty minutes, if by "chatting" you understand, "sitting next to, making intermittent eye contact, smiling whenever he gurgles something apparently meant to be a witticism and letting him feel my tits".
He's pretty photofit. Crew cut, white T-shirt outshone by a vicious case of sunburn, biggish biceps failing to distract from none-too-faded acne scarring across his cheekbones. Low, of course. Married at 20, hasn't called his wife since he arrived last week, but his wolfpack of mates have in effect insulated him from pulling by hovering up everything in a Union Jack thong. A loser among losers, one of the world's born stragglers. But now he's got me. Thirty seconds of tongue, a hand on his cock and he's mine.
When you're lifting keys from bags in the cloakroom, you can't really afford to be choosy, but I've done pretty well this time. The hotel is walkable from the Brit, and it's a decent size, well-appointed, and clean. At least for the moment. I'm a little concerned he might notice that all the clothes on the wire hangers are men's, but I really shouldn't have worried. Before the door clicks shut he's stretching my spaghetti straps and burying his face in my tits as if my sternum grew truffles. It's not quite the fireworks and shooting stars you might have expected from those sultry Ibiza nights, but he's nicely distracted as I reach for the sports bag I'd dumped within easy reach, unzip it, take out my own big hard weapon (a claw hammer, in point of fact), and give it to him. Hard. In the face.
There's a nasty cracking sound, and when I pull his head back by the hair I can see he's bitten through his lip. But he's still making little suckling faces, even as his eyes roll up into his skull. Like he was just hungry. I let him have it again in the other temple, and he goes down with a sound like a bad tackle. I've got the Stanley out before he hits the ground but I think he's gone by the time the real work starts.
Anyway, the rest you'll have read about by now. The bathtub, the removal of the kidney, the phone by the side of the tub and "Call an ambulance" written in the mark's own blood on the wall. I don't know. I was bored.
I dumped the kidney behind the bins at the Britannia Bar, but it didn't seem like a great idea to go back in, and the smell was sticking to my hands, so I thought I'd head for the sea. Wash it off there.