THE MARK First Chapters

Here are the first chapters of my new book to hopefully whet your appetite a little bit...

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(Copyright Simon Maltman, 

Published by Close 2 The Bone Publishing 2020)

The Mark

Simon Maltman

Prelude

Pain – it was everywhere. 
Searing, whole.
I couldn’t separate the ache from one area of my body to another anymore. The pain swept across me in waves. 
The burns, the bruises, the gashes. Breasts. Legs. Face.
I was hot; the ground was hot beneath me too. I was sweating. My clothes were ragged and worn, and so were my protruding limbs. 
Thirst.
I longed for a cool drink of water pouring past my chapped lips. I’d shove a cigarette in between them after too – I’d take a long, rich drag if my battered lungs would allow it. 
But I had none of those things, I had nothing. I wasn’t getting away from here. There was nowhere for me to go. 
Trapped. 
It was hopeless. I barely clung to life at all. Just ‘being’ was slipping from my grasp. 
It would all end soon. 
How had it come to this?
I suppose I knew how. 
I have blood on my hands too.
Real blood.

Chapter 1

 “I did it my way.”
The thirty or so guests produced an enthusiastic applause as I closed with my usual number. Ironically, I didn’t do it my way at all. I just did it the way every other cover singer did it.
“Thank you so much, I’ve had a great time and Happy Birthday to Brian. You’ve been a wonderful bunch to play for.”
I blew a kiss to the newly turned sixty-year old and his ruddy face reddened further. I thought his wife’s did too. Turning my back to the room, I blew air from my cheeks and switched off my amp. Somebody switched on a speaker nearby and some dreadful cheese by nineties band Texas filled the room.
I bloody hate Texas.
It had been a house gig in Dundonald. The place was a lovely period property, up towards the Craigantlet hills. I began to unplug the leads from my keyboard and mike, then folded up my piano stool. I couldn’t wait for a smoke. In less than an hour I could be curled up in my flat, a blanket over me, in my jammies – spliff in hand. I always felt impatient to get home once I was finished a set.
“Victoria, Victoria thanks so much – that was really excellent.”
I turned round as the birthday boy’s son touched my arm.
“Aww thanks Tim, and call me Vicky. I hope that was alright for you.”
I meant it too. I don’t exactly put my heart and soul into these ‘covers’ gigs, but I do like to do a good job. I don’t care for the music, but if other people get a kick out of it, then what’s the harm? I’m sure most hookers like to offer a good ride and I don’t see myself as all that different really.
Maybe I should rephrase.
“Yeah, just perfect, Dad loved it.”
He handed me my envelope of cash. I held his gaze a moment. He was around my age – I’m twenty-nine. He had thick black hair, was well built, with strong features. He had the beginnings of a twinkle in his eye, despite the glaring blonde in heels and war-paint standing at the kitchen counter behind us. I’m aware that I’m not bad / alright looking; I’ve longish brown hair, blue eyes and I still have an okay figure. That’s probably because I haven’t had any rug-rats yet. Not that I’m sure I’ll ever want to.
“Great stuff. It’s my pleasure,” I said. “Take care.”
That sort of shit when someone’s missus is there makes me wild uncomfortable. I turned again and started to unplug the XLR leads from the back of my PA system. I frowned, thinking about the packing up and shifting needing done. I was zonked.
“Can I help you with that?” said Tim from behind me.
“Aww that’d be brilliant, yeah, thank you.”
I don’t flutter my eyelashes for help, but I don’t turn it down either.

***

“Did you get any decent pictures Vick?”
“Jeepers, I haven’t even had a chance to have a cuppa yet – give’s a chance Mike.”
I balanced my phone against my ear, filling the kettle under the tap.
“Oh, sorry if I’m disturbing you – frigsake,” he said playfully, “It is kinda’ important.”
“And so is me getting a bloody cup of tea and a joint down my neck.”
Mike was an ex-boyfriend of mine. There are several in that category knocking about Belfast.
I was relieved to be home. I threw myself down on the sofa in the living room, kicked off my shoes and hunched up my knees. My gigging gear was all still out in the car, but I knew I wouldn’t have any inclination to drag it all through tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.
The bulb from the hall cast a stream of light across the middle of the room. It looked like the girders of an old bridge across my floor. It looked pretty cool.
“Give’s a sec Mike.”
“Alright your highness,” he replied as I set my phone down.
I reached over for my stash tin and picked my phone back up. “Go on then.”
“Alright, I’ll only be a minute Vicky. Just, like, is the job doable?”
I stretched across the sofa again, enjoying the softness of the fabric against me, flicking the little lamp on. It felt good to be home. The room took on a pleasant glow. The living room is a decent size, but my big sofa takes over a fair whack of it. The walls are purple and I’ve a few classic art prints and old Blue Note covers on the walls.
“Yes Mike, it’s doable,” I conceded in a playful voice.
“Great, you’re a legend Vick!”
Although we were well and truly broken up, I still got a buzz sometimes from that thick, manly accent of his, especially whenever he was being nice to me. “I know I am. Right now, time to go. I wanna chill out before bed.”
“Alright, good night Amy Winehouse, go have your drugs.”
“Fuck off Little Prick Mick,” I said and hung up. It’s the prerogative of an ex to be able to tease about dick size when necessary. He’ll get quite annoyed sometimes, funny though. We’re actually pretty good mates. It’s the only time it’s worked out that way with an old boyfriend. I doubt it’ll happen again. There’ll probably come a time when he gets serious with someone else and she won’t want me hanging around. But sure, live in the moment, things worked for now. We’ll always still have our business arrangement anyway.
I skinned up a joint in the quiet of the room, then crossed to my Ikea glass cabinet to leaf out a record. It was too quiet. Once the gentle and meandering horns from Wayne Shorter’s Speak No Evil entered the room, I sparked up. I sat back down and curled up in a comfy little ball. The music lapped over me, washing away the ‘middle of the road’ muck I’d been playing all night long. These were the moments of gig nights that I looked forward to. I let Wayne and Freddie fight it out on their horns as I puffed away.
 My apartment is in Belfast – I’ve lived up by Queens University and Botanic ever since I was at Uni. Well, I moved back to my family house for a while when my dad died. That was a weird time – on my own in that house. My Mum had left when I was little and I don’t have any brothers and sisters. I didn’t like it and I soon sold the place. I was alone at twenty-two. My Auntie is still around, though she’s not well. We’re close. But I’m the last of my nuclear family. I guess you could say that felt pretty bizarre. Anyway, after that I was able to buy my apartment – no more renting. Somehow, I managed to finish my degree. I got my 2:1 in Philosophy and Ethnomusicology, then there I was – out in the real world. I wasn’t really prepared for it.
Is anybody?
I rolled up another number and flipped over the record to side two. I love the recording of that album, just the whole mood. The arrangements are incredible. They’re like a haze dancing above you. In bed for three would do rightly.
I slept well.

Chapter 2

The next morning started like most. Though I didn’t actually see it. I rarely see mornings. I average around two or three gigs a week – usually at the weekends. I don’t have any other job. I get about a grand from the gigs every month and usually the same again from Mike – most months anyway. I’m not proud of it. All I had to do was check the places out – take some pictures and give Mike an idea of the layout and security. I eased my conscience by convincing myself that they all got it back on insurance. But I knew there was other harm done too. I didn’t like thinking about that.
When I did wake up, I zombied into the kitchen and put on some fresh coffee. Once I was armed with that and a slice of buttery toast, I plonked myself down on the sofa and fired on BBC News. I had a small joint after the toast, just for the taste really. Warm daylight crept around the linen behind the window. They were old fashioned lace, but I liked them. They had been up when I had bought the place and might have been the only thing I hadn’t changed. Spring had recently sprung and in Northern Ireland that often means just slightly warmer rain. But this year, April had been lovely – almost barbeque weather all the time – practically unheard of. I like feeling that warm, midday sun coming through. I especially like it when I haven’t been up long; still in my jammies, feeling well rested.
After a second cup of coffee, I padded back to my bedroom, still not dressed for the day. The air was stale, so I pulled the blinds and cracked the window. I considered another wee toke but thought better of it. I used to smoke cigarettes as a student, but I knocked that on the head a few years ago. I tried to avoid smoking roll ups too. Maybe it was Dad having his heart attack young. He hadn’t smoked for most of my life, but as a younger man, he had reportedly been on sixty a day. It would have been hard to believe that in later life. My dad was a quiet man, also really very formal. He was reserved and wouldn’t have approved of smoking or excessive drinking in his later years. I’d still been hiding most of that from him when he passed.
I eased onto my piano stool and flicked the plugs on at the wall. Stretching my arms out to my back, I heard a few clicks, then shook myself. I punched the button on my PC and let out a yawn as it powered up. I have a small set up in the corner of my bedroom for practice and recording. It’s not for the covers – nothing to do with that shite. This is for proper stuff. This is for jazz. I have some nice recording programmes, filters and processors wired up to my electric piano. I don’t use any of it for gigging. I keep it all separate. Along the other wall I have an original Rhodes electric piano and two synths – for when I’m in the mood for something a bit different. They don’t get much action to be honest. Truth be told, my bedroom doesn’t see much action at all.

Chapter 3

“Well, yeah thank you – if you could lift that other speaker for me, thanks very much.”
“No problem love.”
I had just arrived at my next gig, at seven in the evening a few days later. It was in a beautiful double-fronted Georgian house in Ballyholme, Bangor. It was for a fiftieth wedding anniversary and the couple’s son, in full evening wear, was helping me in with the last of my gear.
“I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my sister, see you later on,” he said, and introduced me to his sister Sally. It was apparently her house that was being used as the party venue. She was wearing a casual white T shirt and blue jeans. She was probably around my age, but she looked ten years younger than me. I noted her makeup had already been perfectly applied, despite her not being in her own evening wear as yet. I had only just applied my own makeup a few hours before. That was from under the covers of my bed, with yet another cup of tea steaming beside me. I’d had a ‘duvet day’, bingeing on most of a season of The Walking Dead. I’d spent some of it recording snippets of this and that on my computer, little compositions that sounded good enough, but that I knew I’d hate when listening to later. Eventually I had forced myself to cook something half decent to eat, then had to force harder to make myself take a shower. Nobody wants a smelly singer at their party. I had peeled a dress out of the laundry basket and given it a cursory iron. That final wrench had been getting my slap on, then making it out the front door on time.
“Please, come on through,” Susan said in a hushed and lightly posh Ballyholme lilt. We walked along a high-ceilinged corridor, with heritage grey paint on the walls, beneath a finely plastered dado-rail. Before we entered the kitchen, I took note of the alarm panel on the wall and registered the name and model. I had already clocked where the main sensors were placed – being around the front door and beneath the staircase. I’d clocked the type of Yale locks that were in place too. I’d done this type of thing for a few years now. Like any job, if you’ve half a brain, then you can get pretty good at it.
“You’ve got a lovely home,” I said, as we entered a huge sunroom off the kitchen. I meant it too.
“Thank you,” she said with a soft smile, “We’re very fortunate.”
I was taken aback by the rear of the house. It was an astounding extension – a really nice job. A vast sunroom had been created by building a huge glass extension onto an already large kitchen. It was finished with a near perfect blend of traditional and modern taste. Well I thought so anyway. If I had real money – this would be the kind of home I’d want.
“I was thinking you could set up over there,” she said, gesturing with a long, ring laden finger.
“Yes, that looks fine,” I said, pulled out of my daydream.
“Great, super… thanks. I’m really looking forward to hearing you play. Can I get you a coffee Vicky?” she asked.
She seemed sweet. She wasn’t at all up herself, not conceited about her house or her looks.
“Yeah great, thanks. Just a dash of milk please.”
I felt a pang. She wasn’t the type I usually wanted to rob. Not that I had a burning desire to rob anyone, it was just something I did.

After a half hour, I had set everything up. We’d shifted a sofa together and then I got on with unpacking everything. I had a large corner area to myself to place my keyboard and stool. My iPad was set up, attached to my mike stand. It comes in handy for requests – I’ve an app you can just search for the music and lyrics. I use a smallish Fender PA for most gigs. It’s easy enough to carry about and it’s got a nice clean sound. The speakers are manageable to lift by myself and they fit snugly in the car, along with my little mixer.
‘Vicky Stark – travel-lite entertainer for hire’; that’s me!
Helen had left the room and I thought she’d gone out to send some messages she had mentioned. I listened. The house was quiet. I strode across the kitchen, checking around me once more before snapping pictures of the sliding glass doors and the lock in the middle.
Click.
It would be a potential alright. It’d probably be a goer. I never took part in the actual robberies – but I had picked up a lot about the scoping out of houses over the couple of years I’d been involved. I had just kind of fallen into it all. I think we were probably drunk one night, and I mentioned some amazing house I’d played at and what rubbish security they had. It could have just stayed as some drunken conversation. Then he actually went there, and it worked. Then we did it again. Honestly, it just started out with him stealing a few little things – it had felt like more of a game. Then we saw how it could be much more than that. It was some time before we made it a regular thing, that I’d scope out all the houses when I was playing gigs.
Click.
I moved swiftly around the room, searching for whatever might be relevant to the job; doors, locks, windows, valuables, pets.
Click.
I took a few general pictures of the sunroom and then some close-ups of the obvious items – the flat screen TV, paintings, a cut crystal set. I also discovered where they kept their car keys. Most of our jobs were done during the day, after carefully planning for when nobody was home, but quite often there’d be one car and its keys left at a house. One time there were two cars left behind and Mike rang and asked me to drive one away. I agreed on impulse, instantly regretting it after I’d hung up, but I was committed then. That’s the most I’ve ever been involved in any of them and only the once. It was a thrill, but I didn’t enjoy it. As least it went smoothly and I was able to bound straight home, lock my door and smoke a joint. I told Mike afterwards that I’d never want to get that close again. In fact, I told him I’d probably quit altogether before I was thirty – and that was creeping closer now.
Click.
Damn!
It struck me that I hadn’t checked for CCTV yet. If it was recording and someone watched it – I’d have some explaining to do, and the job certainly couldn’t go ahead. I ambled back towards my set up area and glanced casually up and around the ceiling. Nothing obvious was there. I released a sigh. My heart rate had quickened. Relieved, I walked back across the room, looking for any other expensive looking items. I noticed some pricey looking sculptures beyond the seated area. There were book cases surrounding the cabinet that they were on, with a modern oil painting of Scrabo Tower on the wall behind. I raised my camera phone.
“Vicky…”
Instinctively I dropped my arm down and felt my face fall too.
“… Sorry I took so long on the phone. Did you get everything you needed?”
I turned, recovering quickly, and dialled up a broad smile.
“Yes, all fine thanks – just taking a wee snap for the old social media pages – hope that’s okay?”
“Yes, yes – no worries at all. I heard you practicing earlier – it sounded fantastic – we’ll be sure to leave you a review up on your Facebook.”
“Thanks very much – I’d appreciate it.”
Guilt swept through me.
Then it registered that she had changed into a night dress and she looked sensational.
“You look lovely by the way,” I said, and walked over to my mike stand, adjusting my iPad.
“Thank you, it’s not often I get dressed up these days.”
I thought I caught a wistful expression cross her face.
I went and fiddled with the levels on my mixer, while the guilt spiralled around my stomach on a medium spin.
“I just need to pop out to the shop for a last couple of bits. I’ll be back in the hour. Here’s a spare key in case you need to go out and come back before later.”
She stepped over and placed them in my hand. Then she pulled on a denim jacket.
“Oh right, that’s great,” I said, looking down at the little metal keyring with three differing silver keys attached, “I’ll see you later on then.”
This is too easy.
She left and I sat down on my stool and flicked the switch on my keyboard. I reached over and turned the mixer on too, the speakers producing a low hum. Absently, I pressed my fingers down on the keys and tested a few low chords. It boomed around the room. Very bassey, and too loud. It’d need to be quieter later on. I’d also need to up the treble a little. But this was good for now, it suited my mood. I ran off a few pentatonic scales and then slipped into Dat Dere by Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers. It was written by his piano player Bobby Timmons – one of my all-time heroes. He had such a groove and unique style of playing. I began to speed up, improvising a few licks with my right hand. Sadly, he was kicked out of the band and later died from his drug dependency. We’ve all got our issues.
 I carried on playing and looked about the room, picking out a bass solo with my left hand. My eyes looked down and settled on the small bunch of keys. Occasionally a mark would give me a key or even a code for their alarm system. I had provided a key for Mike to copy a few times before. After the jobs, he just locked up and smashed a window to make it look like an ordinary break-in. You have to break it from the outside. A rookie error is to break it from the inside and then most of the glass shatters out and it’s obvious someone’s faked it. An episode of Columbo taught me that. Mike was always careful about these things – so he told me anyway. So long as nothing ever pointed back to us.

The set that night went fine. It was uneventful. All the usual crowd pleasers hit home – Rocket Man, Call Me Al, Lovely Day. Afterwards, I was dutifully given a hand with my equipment by a few middle-aged men. Some of them leered more than others. I briefly thanked them and then set off into the night. The road to Belfast was quiet. It was still before midnight and it was dry and mild out, great weather for driving. As I passed through Crawfordsburn, I realised there were barely any cars at all. The road was a sixty, but at night by yourself, sixty feels like a crawl. I switched into the right-hand lane to overtake a lone Audi that was staying around the limit. Half a minute later and I was stopped at a red light. The Audi pulled up beside me. I glanced over to see a solitary male driver, a bit younger than me. I detected a smirk. As the light flicked to green, he shot off like a rocket. I didn’t have the bite up ready, but seeing him shoot off like that, I slammed my foot down. He hugged the corners up ahead, moving much swifter than before.
The little shite.
I pushed up to sixty-five and buzzed around the corners, just behind him. My equipment in the boot started to rattle about unforgivingly. The thought also struck me that I hadn’t had the trusty Focus serviced for a couple of years and had chanced it each time for its MOT. Red and white signs rushed past me, informing me that the speed limit was fifty, but I put my foot down further. I smiled to myself. I had to catch this guy – I couldn’t tell you why. I just really wanted to.
Gaining on him, we raced around the twisty section of the carriageway known as ‘The Devil’s Elbow’. I eased off the pedal faintly, but still clung around the bends at nearly sixty. We were neck and neck. I tried to catch a glimpse of him and I think I caught an anxious expression. Our cars were hugging close together now, too close. The sound of the engines against the quiet night were a dual roar. As we came towards the next straight, I gripped the wheel and stamped the accelerator flat to the floor.
At sixty-five I inched past him.
Seventy, seventy-five and I was a car length ahead.
My equipment jostled and clattered about in the back.
My hands felt clammy on the wheel.
As I hit eighty miles an hour I was well clear of him and the signs told me that the limit was now thirty. I eased off the gas and shot through Holywood town, cruising at around fifty. The lights all stayed green, then I hit the next big stretch of bypass, taking it back above seventy. All the while I stole glances in the rear-view mirror. I kept checking back for the next mile or so. There was no sign of him.

Chapter 4

“Alright, calm down, fucksake Mike,” I said while pulling my handbag off my shoulder. It was the next day, about lunch time. I had forced myself up early.
As soon as I entered his flat Mike had immediately started to pester me about the two possible marks. I flung my bag down on the sofa, feigning annoyance, but smiled up at him when I saw that he had left a bottle of Magners and a spliff on the table beside my usual chair.
“Do I know you or do I know you?” he said, grinning. He was dressed in a tight-fitting blue t shirt, with ‘Captain Beyond’ etched on it, and black jeans. He looked well. His short black hair with the flick at the front was still deep in colour and incredibly thick. I’d swap my stringy hair for hair like his any day of the week. He was handsome – he always had been. Mike’s a nice guy. It, well, just didn’t work out with us. I don’t know – after my Dad died and everything – things just fizzled out, I suppose. Strangely I’d never really thought about it a whole lot.
“Alright then, you’re back in my good books,” I conceded and took a swig of my cider, “New TV?” I asked, gesturing to the flat screen on the wall.
“Yep, purchased from some of our ill-gotten gains.”
I shook my head.
I looked about the room; he’d tidied it since the last time I was over. His flat was over near the Lisburn Road – it had only one bedroom and a small bathroom, but was nicely finished. The living room and kitchen were a decent size too. He rented it, but I think his landlord left him alone and it was very much his own place. He always had it clean enough – he’d never been the dirty, grungy student type. He’d the place sparsely furnished, and tastefully done for a guy! When we dated, he had dealt weed for a while and even then he had kept the place nice. He’d turfed out many a stoner on their ear for dropping a hot rock on the sofa or for spilling a beer. It hadn’t all been criminal enterprises though. He did sound at a number of venues around the city and still does – that’s how we originally met. But I suspected he made double his legit wage from our little sideline.
“So how are you anyway?” I asked and lit up the smoke.
“I’m dead on, grand. It was a good gig last night in The Empire.”
“Was it yeah? Who was playing again?”
“These out of town lads – over from England – Haile Selassie you call them.”
“Haile Selassie?” I repeated, taking a draw and passing the joint across.
“Aye, named after some old dictator, apparently.”
“He was the Ethiopian leader Mike, kind of hailed by Rastas and the like.”
He raised both eyebrows, breathing in smoke.
Exhaling again he said, “They probably like their ganja then; I should have brought some along with me.”
He got up and flicked his sound system on low. Some kind of chilled out dance music that I had no interest in came on. That was probably another reason we broke up – I couldn’t stand his love of electronica and he didn’t get jazz. He actually liked a range of stuff, some of it I didn’t mind. But not digging jazz – that was an unforgivable sin.
“So, you’re busting to hear about the gigs?”
“I am Vick, I am. Did they go okay, good reception?”
“Yeah, they were fine – same old, same old.”
“They’re the last ones before you’re away on holiday?”
“Yeah, that’s me now, no more work for three weeks.”
“Nice for some.”
“Cheeky hallion. So, I know you really wanna know if there’s a possible score. But here, bad news about the house yesterday,” I said, licking my lips, “It’s a no go.”
A white lie.
Surely I can’t really feel bad for ‘not’ robbing someone.
“Shit, really?” he said, frowning. “Fuck,” he said, under his breath.
“Yeah, well first off I couldn’t get any pictures ’cause they were around the whole time. But aside from that, they had a good CCTV set up in all the rooms and decent locks on the doors. They also didn’t have all that much that we’d want to take anyway. And, well, they were nice.”
“Bollox, that sucks,” he said and reached to take the joint back. He took a draw and then returned it, “Well I suppose that’s how it goes sometimes. You really sure it’s a no go Vick?”
“Yeah ’fraid so,” I said moving quickly on, “But the first house – it’s a different story. It should be alright.”
“Oh?” he said hopefully and cracked open a tin of Stella.
“Yeah, I reckon it’s a goer – have a look at these.”
I passed him my phone. I had deleted all the photos from the previous day. I felt another pool of guilt surge though me at lying to him. Who was I to decide that it was fine to rob the first family? Why did I ever even get into it? I don’t know. To be honest I think it was the excitement rather than the money.
“I’m Hank Marvin’,” said Mike, rubbing his stomach.
“I’m Bruce Welch,” I said with a cheesy grin.
“Huh?” said Mike, looking perplexed.
“Bruce Welch – the other guitarist from The Shadows.”
“Oh, alright smart arse.”
“I gotta know these things – playing all that old shit – Cliff Richard and all. Actually – my Dad took me to see them on their final tour – I must have been, like fourteen.”
“Jesus.” He looked disgusted.
“It wasn’t actually the worst.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, stubbing out the smoke.
“They were quite funny – especially Bruce Welch actually. They played a series of their hits they had first done with Cliff and Bruce said, ‘You know, really no one sings them quite like Cliff… he told me so.’ I always liked that.”

Chapter 5

I wanted to see my Auntie Grace the next day. I got myself up and at them in the morning. It was important to me that I visited her before I went away. I loved her, but felt a responsibility for her too. My cousin obviously loves her and all, but she’s a bit of a pain. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one left with her best interests in mind. I don’t know. Anyway, it was important to me that I see her, so I took a race down to Hillsborough. On the drive, I felt so excited about my holiday. I just sang along to my stereo, picturing everything that I wanted to do. That mostly consisted of sunbathing, swimming and indulging. It was only two days away. I was sure that a week in Lanzarote was exactly what I needed.

***

So this is it.
This is where my life ends.
There is no escape route for me now, no choice, no second path.
I made all my choices and the worst of them led me here.
I’m going to die here, far from home, on this island.
My body is torn, useless.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m empty.
There is ‘one’ choice.
They’ve given me that.
‘How do I want to die?’

Chapter 6

The following day I actually got up and dressed prior to midday again. I was on a roll. It was only a few days until my holiday, but I had arranged to go and stay a night with my best friend Amy. She had recently got married – to a great guy actually – and he was away for a week on business. We agreed it’d be fun if I stayed one night and kept her company. She lives in Greyabbey – along the west side of The Ards Peninsula. I chose to go the scenic way, along the coast road beside Strangford Lough, and out beyond the beautiful National Trust manor – Mount Stewart. The sun lit up the Lough as I passed by, also picking out the low-lying rocks, making them sparkle where the tide had swept out. Scrabo Tower stood proudly on its hill too, surveying the town beneath, as I whizzed along the coastal path below. Horace Silver belted out heavy chords over some Hard Bop jazz on the car stereo, I had on my thick ‘Beckham’ style sunnies, and the window was down.
Bliss.
I was getting buzzed about my holiday and life felt pretty good again. Maybe I had needed that little emotional ‘blow out’. As I entered Greyabbey village, my phone shook on the dash, with an incoming call. I flicked off the music and checked the caller – it was Mike.
“Hold on Mike, I’m just pulling in,” I said, and did just that. “Alright, I’m sorted, what’s up?”
“Hiya Vick, listen – just to let you know I’m doing that job tonight.”
“What job?” I asked, trying to remember what ones I’d given him over the last while.
“The Dundonald one.”
“From the other night?” I asked hesitantly.
“Aye, look I know it’s quick – but it seems they’re going to a family dinner tonight. The place’ll be empty. I found that out when I was tailing the old guy to a bar last night.
“You were talking to him?” I asked incredulously.
“No, I’m not a dickhead! I overheard him. You know how I always do a bit of snooping around before a job. I didn’t expect to find a window so soon either.”
“It just seems a bit soon.”
“I know, but I’m guaranteed a good window.”
I thought about it. I didn’t like it when he went very soon after gigs, but this one didn’t involve keys or alarm codes. There was nothing specific to connect to me to it. But I didn’t like it.
“Well I suppose if you’re sure, but please be careful Mike.”
I felt very nervous, but unsure why.
“Of course – you know me. Look – I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Okay, well good luck then, talk soon.”
“Okay, bye Vick.”
I hung up, stared at my phone, then set it back on the dash. Warm sunlight still streamed in through the windscreen, but my good mood had faded.

Chapter 7

“Do you remember Jamie Higgins?”
“Aww fuck don’t mention him,” I said and went into a wrinkle.
“You broke his heart sure,” said Amy with a great big snigger, while filling up both our glasses to the brim with Prosecco.
“Jesus,” I gasped, catching my breath, leaning back against the bottom of the sofa. We had both ended up sitting on the floor, a combination of wanting to sit near the wood burner and finding it easier skinning up on a magazine on the floor.
“Shall we have this now?” I asked, brandishing the joint in the air.
“It’d be rude not to,” Amy said with an affected pout, passing me over a glass ash tray.
It was after nine and we’d been drinking for an hour or two – it felt like our student days again. I didn’t even mind her putting on some Queens of the Stone Age. It’s not my usual thing. It took me back to those days – half gothing ourselves up and dancing about The Limelight nightclub together. Amy still looked great – she’s always been a right wee stunner. She’s a natural blonde, with a subtle bit of help from the bleach bottle. She’s taller than me and only slightly broader. Yeah, and she’s got better boobs.
“So tell me about this holiday,” she said, accepting the burning joint.
“Aww yeah Amy – I can’t fuckin’ wait. It’s going to be amazing.”
“I’m sure – you’re such a bitch – I’m jealous!”
“Aww sorry,” I said, making an overtly concerned face, before feigning confusion, “Here, you’re not that long back from your honeymoon in Thailand love!”
We both laughed.
“Ach, I suppose that’s true,” she said and handed me back the joint.
“I’m getting hungry – will we order some food in?”
“Munchies Vicky!” she said, pointing her finger in an accusatory good humour.
“You’re probably right – but anyway, I don’t care – I’m bloody starvin’!”
“Curry?”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll grab a menu,” she said, and peeled herself up off the floor.
Just then my phone went again.
“Hello?”
“Vick, it’s me.”
It was Mike, and his voice was serious and out of breath. My chest tightened.
“Are you okay?” I asked urgently and stood up, instantly feeling sober.
“Fuck, well I am now I suppose.”
Amy bounded in with menus in one hand and drinks balanced in the other. Her face fell when she saw my own expression. I tried to send a reassuring smile back and raised a finger to say I’d just be a minute, stepping out to the hall.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, holding the phone to my lips.
I had never told a soul about my arrangement with Mike, not even Amy. I was pretty sure that Mike got up to a few other similar antics, but I was also reasonably sure that he didn’t tell anyone about our thing. I suppose I was ashamed of it and didn’t think that other people would understand me doing it. I didn’t understand myself.
“So,” he paused, “it didn’t go so well at the house.”
“What do you mean?” I hissed, feeling sick.
“There was someone home. A guy.”
My buzz was totally killed.
“Fuck!”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. What happened?”
“I was breaking in through the back door, nice and quietly – picking the lock, just like I planned. Then he walks past the window and is just, like, staring at me.”
“Shit! He looked at you, he saw you?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck. What age?”
“Don’t know – maybe forties?”
“Probably his son – what did you do?”
“I fuckin’ ran for it!”
“What did he do?”
“I dunno – I just belted off and round to the car.”
“Fuck – but did he see the car, I mean – could he have read the number?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’d have seen him coming. I was a street away. I just sprinted, jumped into the car and sped off. I suppose he was probably shocked to see me too.
“Shit – but he saw your face?”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to be bumping into him any place.”
“Still though,” I let out a sigh, half relieved it wasn’t worse, “That was too close Mike.”
“You’re telling me!”
“I know, but I’m not sure I wanna keep doing this. We can’t get away with it forever.”
“Look, we’ll be more careful… I’ll be more careful.”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon Vicky, we’re on to a good thing here.”
“Look, I’ll think about it. I’m down at Amy’s house – I’d better go. I’m glad you’re alright.”
“Okay, if I’m not speaking to you – have a good holiday.”
“I will.”
I hung up. Right then I decided that was me out.
For good.
Or, at least I’d only do maybe one more.
Two at most.

Chapter 8

I couldn’t put off packing forever. I started the next afternoon – which was kind of needed as I was due to leave for the airport during the coming night. I was a bit groggy and hung over after my stay with Amy. The phone call had hit my good mood, but after a few more drinks, I got over it. Amy’s great and we had good craic. It was just a blip – Mike got away okay, I’d think about things properly after my holiday. We had fairly indulged and I was close to bringing some of that indulgence up from my stomach a few times, but I was alright and slept it all off. I hadn’t driven back until after lunch – albeit probably still over the limit. When I got home, I crawled straight into bed and had a power nap. After an hour’s kip, a little one skinner spliff and a cup of tea got me ready to get stuck into packing. So far, I had managed to get out my suitcase and pack some plastic bags. You always need plastic bags – stops makeup leaking, sun cream, somewhere to stick your dirty underwear etc. That’s my top tip folks.
Next, I packed a week’s worth of clothes, then unpacked them again, realising I had been packing for Northern Irish sun and not Canaries sun. I thought about ironing and then thought ‘fuck it’, there’d be one in my room probably – it was a good hotel – an Iberostar. Then I began to get excited, picturing what it would all be like. I put on some electric Miles Davis and finished packing, checked on my passport and then printed out my boarding card. I had a flutter of butterflies. It felt nice. I was going away by myself and was spending a lot of money, but frig me, I was determined to have a good time. Next, I carefully left out what I needed for the morning: toothbrush, toothpaste, lippy, foundation, mascara, concealer. I bucked everything else into the suitcase. I grimaced as I looked at the couple of bikinis I’d be wearing and hoped I’d still fit them after a few years of no use. I threw in a few shawls and cardigans to cover my shame; I didn’t care if it looked weird in the heat. I stood back and considered my work with pleasure, then rolled myself a big king-size for bed. I curled up with a last cuppa and watched You Tube videos about Lanzarote. If I hadn’t had the smoke, I’d never have slept, I was that excited.

Chapter 9

It annoyed me that I was a little anxious about having no weed for a week. Tobacco was one of the last things I packed on the way out of the flat, though I don’t usually smoke ordinary cigarettes. I figured I’d miss a wee nicotine hit from the spliffs. The free bar should suffice all right to keep me evened out. I hit the road in the early hours, the streets were dead, and the air was cold. I had a mild sensation that I’d forgotten something, but the pleasant feeling of anticipation too. Arriving at the International Airport, I scanned my parking ticket and found a space pretty easily in the long stay. It was still chilly enough outside and I hugged my fleece to me as I hauled out my suitcase and locked up the car. It was a short walk to the terminal, and a few other passengers were pulling precariously stacked suitcase trolleys and dragging along tired children. I was glad not to be bothered with either. Once inside the building, any nerves disintegrated, and my body was ready to start to relax. By the time I got to the hotel pool I hoped I’d be positively comatose, one way or another.
I leafed out my passport and tickets and joined the queue. The flights for our airline were in two small lines and there weren’t many others in line at that time in the morning. As I neared the front of the queue, I had a last think through everything and got ready to check in. I looked around the huge check-in area. It was strange seeing it all so empty. Massive cardboard cut-outs of families recommended trips to here and there and drinks machines stood lined up and unused. It felt like I was somewhere too early, before it was open to the public. The tiled floor looked like it had just been cleaned, a sheen sparkled from it, most of it not yet trodden on.
Just then a man checking in at the desk in front lifted his hold luggage onto the scale, and I saw his face through the crowd for a moment. It was only for a split second. He looked familiar. He was fairly ordinary looking – average height, brown hair, maybe late forties, well dressed. His eye caught mine and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition from him before he straightened up and walked on towards passport control. I couldn’t place him, I couldn’t place the face, that hard set face.
“Are you moving up love?”
“Oh sorry,” I said, replying to an older woman in the queue who was gesturing to the gap in front of me. I had watched the man leave, disappearing through the double doors. I didn’t know why it had given me a funny feeling. I shrugged and soon I was at the desk myself, all checked in, and another wave of excitement washing through me.
On the way through Passport Control and then in the Duty Free area, I looked out for the man, but he had disappeared. Then I forgot all about him. There was an hour until boarding, and I kept up my little tradition. I only go away on a proper holiday once a year at the most, but I keep up this little ritual. First, I go to the airport shop for a paperback for the plane. Second – to the café for a full Ulster Fry. And third – to the bar (and yes it’s never too early when you’re going on holiday) – for a gin and tonic.
In no time I was seated on the plane, then shooting into the sky, and as I looked down, I willed my troubles to just float away. They seemed they might do – at least for a while, as I started my new Jo Nesbo, had a cup of tea, dozed and then repeated this several times. I love my wee country, but I was glad to get away for a while, get a bit of perspective, to take stock maybe. I think it’s a good enough place to live, but yeah, it’s pretty mental sometimes. These days we might as well just be called ‘The Backstop’ for all that anyone cares about us. I mean it is a pretty fucked up country in a lot of ways; we are a perplexing bunch. We’ve got Nationalists waving Palestinian flags at local Gaelic matches, like impassioned experts on the Middle East. We have Unionists dressing up like toy soldiers and marching about while getting tanked up on beer and Buckfast. Then we have the politicians who never even meet together, never mind agree on anything, with their own track records of sectarianism, racism, corruption and sometimes murder. I probably will never work for the tourist board.
I woke up just as we touched down on Lanzarote soil. The sky outside was a rich blue, as was the ocean that was only metres beyond the landing strip. The setting of the airport alone was something else. I could sense the dry heat outside, gazing out at the palm trees and whitewashed buildings. As we taxied to the terminal, a broad smile swept across my lips.
The airport was a big one and there was a lot of bustle, but it was quick enough getting through passport control and then picking up my suitcase. I began to perspire, despite the air con and pulled off my fleece, keeping in full tourist mode – on alert for any pickpockets. I’m sure there are just as many pickpockets in Belfast, if not more, but back home I never gave it any thought. A broad cocky Rep ushered me and a few others outside and then out to the coaches. I just followed along in the stream. The heat felt soothing on my skin and I couldn’t wait to be stretching out beside the pool, taking an occasional dip to cool off. Pure relaxation. I was really excited.
The holiday would prove to be absolutely nothing like that.
NOTHING.
Soon I would be convinced that I’d finish the holiday in either a Spanish prison or a Spanish morgue.

Chapter 10

My tongue practically hung out as I gawped at the scenery we passed by; the volcanic rock, the mountains, the beaches, the uniformed whitewashed one storey buildings. It was not like I had expected, very different – but much better. There is an almost desolation about the island (except for the thousands of tourists that is.) But it doesn’t feel like a resort island – even as we dropped off guests at five-star hotel after five-star hotel. The island has retained its essence and certainly its unique look. Incongruously red-orange volcanic rock still lies in piles everywhere, scattered in-between the newly laid roads. Black rubber irrigation pipes run above ground alongside palm trees, as if the island has only just opened for tourists for the first time. I suppose it has only really been a popular destination since the seventies, but still. There are no high rises here or obtrusive buildings. This is a unique volcanic island – that almost touches the coast of Africa, and it still feels very much like that.
Arriving at the hotel complex, I was met with a smile from a very handsome and toned porter who took my luggage and then handed me a glass of champagne. His smile was wide and effortless. I knew I was gonna like this place. I took a seat in the reception area and spread out on the sofa as a few people ahead of me checked in. I sipped the bubbly goodness, absorbing the ambience of the contemporary and tasteful lobby. It was all fine sofas, large grey tiles and modern art. As I turned in my seat, I could look down a large, open staircase leading down to the ground floor. I could make out part of one of the swimming pools and the many happy guests lounging around beside it. I could also view some of the other pools beyond it and the adjoining windows of the colossal dining room, snaking around beside it. The white of the outside of the building looked as if it had just been reapplied, with the hot rays from the sun reflecting off it. I breathed out. This would be just what I needed.
After checking in, I was escorted across the grounds to my room – or more like apartment suite. There was a good-sized living area with a flat screen on the wall, a bedroom with another flat screen and then a huge bathroom with shower and a bath too. Beyond the living area was a small terrace. I couldn’t stop smiling to myself after the porter left. Then I found I had a Nespresso machine AND a free mini bar, and the grin widened. They would deal with both my hangover and my way of getting it. I left unpacking for now and went to discover what the view was like from the terrace. My room looked out to the sea beyond, only metres away, and there was a volcano in the distance too. A volcano! Between me and the beach were a few palm trees dotted over the rocky, black ground. In minutes I was seated on my lounger with both a bottle of San Miguel and a coffee. To finish off the experience I rolled myself a cigarette. I had only arrived, but this was the most relaxed I had felt for a long time.
After a while I forced myself up to do some unpacking and I had a quick shower too. According to the hotel brochure, dinner would be served soon, and you could just go in and help yourself to as much as you liked. I’m partial to a buffet as much as the next – but a five star buffet had me intrigued. I threw on a good enough purple dress, heels and touched up my makeup. I rolled another smoke and set off to walk around the outside of the complex. I walked down the steps and headed around the back way, so I could get a feel for the place. I passed a water slide area and a waffles and pancakes van. I made a note to pay a visit the next day – not to the slides. I went around one large wing of the hotel and was greeted with a panoramic view of the sea and the coastal path. It just looked like paradise. I stared off into the beyond and it almost took my breath, along with my second cigarette. There was an island in the distance, and I wondered if that was Gran Canaria, or maybe Tenerife. My geography is piss poor. I moved on, walking and smoking and soon I was at the bottom of the main pool area. There were only a few swimmers left behind, enjoying a peaceful evening swim as the sun lowered in the background. There was an infinity pool in front, then two smaller pools behind that. The sun loungers were half empty now and most of the remaining loungers looked to be heading in soon after a hard day’s sunning and swimming. For me, that would be tomorrow for sure.
 I walked up the steps at the side, being extra careful in my heels. At the top I found myself outside the restaurant. I could see diners looking relaxed, enjoying their meals, with smiling waiting staff serving them. Before heading into the restaurant, I stopped and looked up at the three facades of the hotel, wrapped around the pool area, storey after storey. This place was something else. I couldn’t believe my luck. I finished my smoke and carefully disposed of it in the designated receptacle. No throwing ciggy ends down on the ground here.
The restaurant: Wow! It’s a self-service dining room, but unlike any I’d ever seen. There were no fewer than twenty service areas and at least a dozen chefs were cooking a variety of fresh dishes at the counters. I tried to go easy and pace myself, but I’m afraid I ate like a horse. I asked my waitress for a dry white wine and she brought me a bottle of it. The atmosphere, though formal, was also very easy and not stuffy at all. I felt relaxed, not even self-conscious about eating alone. I hate it when you go somewhere and it feels like you’re being judged the whole time – if not by the patrons, then by the staff. I worked my way through two platefuls of main course, mixing fillet steak with paella rice and a spicy Indian curry. Then I filled a dessert bowl with cheesecake, ice cream and a little fruit – just to be healthy. I was stuffed and getting overheated. I finished the remainder of the bottle out by the pool bar before I retired to my new comfy bed and to sleep the loveliest sleep. The next morning I awoke, not knowing that I wouldn’t sleep soundly again for some time.

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