Dancing with the Devil

CHAPTER ONE

I got to know Deadly Dancing whilst holidaying on the Isle of Mallorca in the 1990’s. His name wasn’t really Deadly, his name was David, but everybody who knew him well referred to him as Deadly, mainly because of his success with women. An ex-pat, he’d moved out there to escape from the jaws of the Inland Revenue. At the time he worked as a Financial Consultant and lived above his office, by the harbour wall, in Puerto Andraixt, a little fishing port on the west coast.

‘Women have always been my downfall,’ he said to me once. For a time his business thrived. Mainly he sold investments to the other ex-pats. He drove an open-topped Mercedes and wore clothes as garish as his character; usually bright and gaudy.

‘In this business they’ve got to remember you,’ he would say. When I stayed on the island we would meet up for golf and afterwards, over a couple of drinks in the bar, he’d regale me with tales of his conquests.

I didn’t see him for a couple of years. Then, when I was next there, I found his office and the apartment were closed up. I asked at the golf club. They said he’d moved to a small village further up the coast. At the end of a narrow, twisting, tortuous, downhill track I found a tiny hamlet around a fishing jetty. Nestled on the edge of the beach was a ramshackle taberna, with a grass roofed loggia, called the Ra-ha Bar. The proprietor Luis Rodriguez, a big, dark, hairy-chested Mallorquiene sporting a gold medallion and tooth fillings to match, knew Deadly all right.

‘He is living at the other end of the beach, with an Irish woman called Jenny McGuire. She is an artist,’ he said, in between sucking on a big cigar and coughing. ‘I show you where,’ he added and took me outside. He pointed in the direction of a small bungalow on a rocky peninsular overlooking the sea. I drove that way and knocked loudly on the front door. A dog began barking and then a white haired terrier came running around from the back, still exercising its lungs.

‘Sophie, come here. Be quiet,’ a man’s voice croaked. Suddenly I was looking at Deadly, or at least a pale imitation of the man I knew.

‘David, it’s me, Hugh,’ I said, still shocked by his appearance.

‘Hugh?’ he questioned. His eyes looked bleary. He’d lost at least two stone in weight. His hair looked different. His face was gaunt and unshaven. He wore a food stained t-shirt and a scruffy pair of fawn shorts. He was barefoot. ‘Hugh. Thank heaven you’re here.’ He guided me round to the patio. Sophie followed, sniffing at me as we walked. There were two rickety deckchairs looking out to sea and, after we’d exchanged some pleasantries, he poured two large Scotches and beckoned to the chairs. ‘They’re after me dear boy,’ he said, as we sat down.

‘Who? The Inland Revenue?’

‘No, the IRA. This woman I live with is one of them. In the past I’ve been involved.’ ‘Good God.’

‘She’s away at the moment and I’m looking after the bungalow and the dog.’ What Deadly told me that day is a twisted tale, so I think it best if I let him tell it. Occasionally, I may have to butt in, to fill in a few background details, so you get the whole picture, but this is how he related it to me, while we finished off the bottle of whisky.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

Wales had been Deadly’s home, prior to settling in Mallorca. South Wales in fact. An area inhabited by people of similar Celtic origins. He had also worked there as a Financial Consultant, a good one too, until the tentacles of the devil started to claw at his soul. For a year or so, the Puerto Andraixt venture went well. Then the stock market crashed and he had to move out. Afterwards he settled in a small terracotta roofed bungalow in the village near the Ra-ha Bar. Rodriguez helped him with the arrangements. It belonged to one of his builder friends, Ramos, who was serving a prison sentence for misappropriating council grants. I’ll let him take up the tale from here.

* * * * *

One evening I was in the Ra-ha Bar, playing stud poker and drinking whisky with three recalcitrant old lags. I remember football was on the television, the verbose gabble of the commentator caused me to lose another hand, not to mention five hundred pesetas. A Royal Flush had been a possibility if I had been concentrating. ‘Sod it,’ I cursed. My playing companions laughed. When I looked up I noticed the bar door open and Isabel walk in. Isabel Moreno had been my girlfriend, or at least that’s what I thought. Briefly our eyes met, then she strutted off to the far end of the bar ignoring me.

‘Deal me out,’ I said to my pals and flicked a five hundred peseta coin onto the table. They all groaned, but I was used to their barbs of sarcasm and wandered over to where Isabel had sat. Some of the young men of the village were gathered around her. ‘I was wondering if I could have a word?’ I said. Dark brown eyes flashed up at me. Jet black hair, silver earrings, coupled with a raunchy body, fashioned an innate sexuality.

‘David I’m busy right now,’ she replied indolently. Her words took me by surprise, but I continued.

‘I’ve got a video of the latest tear-jerker back at the bungalow,’ I ventured. ‘Thought we could watch it together afterwards?’

‘David, I said I’m busy. Another time maybe,’ she said sharply. I stared in disbelief. One of the young village turks, John Fernando, had his arm resting on the back of her chair. A tall muscular young man, he ran a building company in the village and drove a four wheel drive Frontera. His work seemed to consist mainly of talking into a mobile phone.

To avoid any loss of face I indulged in a bout of verbal jousting with the other lads and then withdrew. I was angry, hurt and angry. For a while I wandered around the bar talking aimlessly to anyone who would listen. A muzzy feeling filled my head, probably from the whisky. Atletico were leading Barcelona on the television, but I wasn’t that interested, so I decided to make tracks for home. The beach route was the longer way, but it involved negotiating the rocks at the end of the bay, however, fresh air and clearing my head were at that moment more of a necessity.

Outside I felt better. The night was clear, the air chill; there were a million stars and in amongst them I could see the big jets heading for Palma. On the beach I decided to jog. The rocks at the bay’s end were still wet from the receding tide. I must have taken one step too far, too quickly in the dark. Salt air, bad whisky and a middle aged body were a cocktail for disaster. Suddenly, everything went upside down. For a brief moment I was looking again at the stars. Then for a long time I imagined I was dead. Sometime later I could hear the sea. Pain seared around my head. Running my hand through my hairline I felt dampness. When I looked at my fingers, they were sticky with blood. Much later I could hear snuffling. Whiskers tickled my face, then something was licking me. It barked and ran away. A dog, maybe a lifeline, I thought. I could still hear it barking and a woman’s voice was calling, ‘Sophie, Sophie, come here.’

* * * * *

Van Morrison’s voice was clamouring from a radio when I came around. I was lying on a sofa with a multi coloured blanket draped over me. Outside on a veranda, a tallish woman with pale blonde, shoulder length hair was cooing to a canary in a cage. She must have seen me move, for she stopped cooing, came into the room and switched off the radio.

‘I thought you were never going to wake,’ she said. ‘How do you feel?’ An Irish accent was laced with a North American twang.

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘What time is it?’

‘Coming up to midday.’ Her words formed slowly in a pert, rounded mouth. Sharp blue eyes bore down on me. A yellow jumper struggled to contain her breasts. Slinky slacks hugged her hips. She was barefoot.

‘Good God. Have I been here all night?’ I said. Movement reawakened the pain. Touching my head revealed a bandage, wrapped round and round like a turban.

‘I expect you’re still suffering from concussion,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Do you live in the village?’ The blue eyes were quite piercing.

‘Yes, I rent a little bungalow off the square. I hope I haven’t disturbed your day?’

‘You haven’t disturbed anything. There’s only me and Sophie and that thing,’ she added, pointing to an easel by the patio door. ‘And I don’t have to go out for that to bother me.’

‘You paint?’ I asked stupidly.

‘I try,’ she replied on her way to the kitchen. Somehow, I managed to prop myself up on my elbows. That hurt even more. The room looked comfortable with chunky furniture and lots of big cushions. A wood burning stove with a canopy chimney was a feature. The woman returned with two coffee mugs, setting one down on a small table beside me.

‘Having you here has been quite useful really,’ she said, whilst adding honey to the coffee. ‘For days I’ve been trying to finish that man’s face.’ She pointed the spoon at the easel. ‘Keeping an eye on you has forced me to get on with it.’ Trying to lift my head to look hurt, so I concentrated on the coffee. It was black and very strong, but the honey took away the bitter taste.

‘Did you bring me here and do all this?’ I asked touching the bandage.

‘Sophie’s the one who found you,’ she said. ‘She’s always picking up strays.’ Looking into the sharp blue eyes told me nothing. ‘When you feel like moving I’ll drive you to the village,’ she continued. ‘I’ve got some shopping to do.’

Getting up off the sofa was agony. I lurched when I was upright. Then the room spun. My arm went out, she held on. We were frozen like that until my legs began to obey my brain. Slowly, I made it to the easel. The gnarled face of a fisherman, mending nets, stared back at me from the canvas.

‘This is very good,’ I said. ‘Tell me how did I get here?’

‘You must have cracked your head on the rocks,’ she said pointing towards the shoreline. ‘We were on our last walk. I don’t know where you would be now if Sophie hadn’t found you.’ The dog, a Catalan sheepdog, a mutt of Spanish origins, had been sitting on the veranda, watching me with suspicion. ‘Come on Sophie, we’re going out,’ the woman called. Cautiously the dog padded in, inspecting me all the time with questioning eyes, sniffing at me when she got close. Bending to stroke her brought back the dizziness. Her lick on my hand was light and affectionate. ‘You managed to get up here by leaning on my shoulder,’ the woman said while putting on her shoes. ‘We got you inside, then you passed out.’ An impatient look told me she was ready to go.

‘Well I’m very grateful to you both,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your name?’

‘Jenny McGuire,’ she replied and headed for the door. The dog followed. On my way out, I noticed in the passageway by the toilet, wooden boxes sealed with lots of packing tape and stacked in neat rows. Somehow, they looked strangely out of place, something not in kilter with the surroundings. Something sinister. At the time I thought nothing more about it. Later on they were to prove instrumental in my troubles. Parked by the back door was an old stand-up, red Renault. It was covered in sand but it started first time. Sophie jumped in the back.

‘My name is David Dancing,’ I said after I had struggled into the passenger seat. ‘Perhaps I could buy you dinner one evening, to thank you?’ She didn’t reply and we travelled to the village in silence. Her driving was full of erratic petulance. Constant pumping of her feet on the brake pedal reactivated my headache. I was deposited in the square, then I watched her park further down by the supermercado. On my way up the hill to my bungalow, I stopped and looked back. She was bending into the hatchback for her shopping bag. A long slow whistle emitted from my lips.

CHAPTER THREE

‘The island of Mallorca can be a balmy paradise,’ Deadly said to me on the patio, when we were into our second Scotch. ‘Certainly there are warm, sunny days when mind, body and climate appear in unison. Days when your bio-rhythms harmonise with the temperate environment,’ he looked up to the sky wistfully. ‘Being an island though, the prevailing wind can just as quickly change, bringing in storms and gales to dispel the illusion. That’s how it is with Jenny McGuire,’ he said, then continued with his story.

* * * * *

After she’d dropped me off in the village, I walked up to my bungalow. The temperature was high for that time of the year. My head was still hurting from my fall. Really, I was just looking forward to the siesta, when something in the resident's car park made me stop and stare. Taking up two of the spaces was a huge, red Cherokee Jeep. None of my neighbours owned anything like that. Tinted windows only revealed two shadowy figures in the front seats. I moved on. When I reached my door the Jeep’s engines fired into life. There was a screech of tyres and it hurtled down the hill behind me. At the time I remember thinking it was probably nothing, but it gave me a funny feeling.

Inside the bungalow mail was scattered across the hall floor. The letters were mostly circulars, but on one of the envelopes I recognised Geoffrey Cahill’s handwriting. What now I thought? Before leaving Wales for the island I had been involved in a drug smuggling incident. Geoffrey Cahill was my solicitor back home. I was completely innocent and there was a court case at which I was acquitted. However, an Irishman named Rory McCandlass, who’d been instrumental in the crime, still hadn’t been sentenced and for some strange reason the Crown Prosecution Service, back home, continually wanted me to reappear as a witness. Repeatedly I said I wasn’t interested, so at first I read Geoffrey’s missive with a cursory air of disinterest. I thought I’d heard it all before, until I came to his second paragraph.

‘I am aware of your wish not to get involved further in this case,’ the paragraph began, ‘however, the Crown have come up with something that may be of interest. Vijay Patel, who is their main man on this case, telephoned me last week. It seems they are still desperate to get a conviction on the Irishman, McCandlass. They now inform me he is a notorious activist for the IRA and was involved in the assassination of a well known politician. Patel mentioned you still owe the Revenue a hefty sum in back taxes and he implied that immunity from this debt may be considered if you are willing to give evidence in Court. Anyway, I thought you should be made aware of their offer. If you wish to consider taking it further, please get in touch. Your desire for purdah remains in tact, as you will see from the hand written envelope.

Trusting the women are kind to you out there and the sun hasn’t inhibited your drinking activities. Save one for me.

Best wishes, Geoff.’

Geoffrey Cahill is a stickler for correctness, but in a secret sort of way, I think he envies the deviousness of my life, hence the little quip in the last paragraph.

My troubles usually occur through taking one step too far, every time. I suppose being an only child doesn’t help. Losing my parents in a car crash when I was seven added to the problems. I was raised by my widowed Aunt Gwen in a village near Swansea. She provided shelter and comfort but no parental guidance. There was never a firm hand to control me, no one to tell me what was right from wrong and from an early age I was left mostly to my own devices.

At sixteen I found a job and moved into a flat on my own. From then onwards, apart from the odd live-in girlfriend, I continued to live solo. Work was my solace. Financial reward and the trappings that went with it were my only goal. Taking shortcuts seemed the quickest route to that end. Nobody told me there was any other way.

My first job in the offices of an estate agent taught me how to sell. How to hold onto a client, how to make the most of an opportunity, how to wheel and deal. I found my true vocation though when I joined a firm of financial consultants. An agile mind, a head for figures and a nimble brain were prerequisites. But I could charm as well. Oh, I was good at that. Soon I discovered the customers liked me. I used to second guess the market. Move in quickly and out again while there was a profit. The clients made a lot of money and so did I. Then I set up on my own. Word got around, the clients flooded in and we all became rich. Thinking back, those were the best days. There were no distractions, no tangled relationships, just work. The thrill of a deal, the look of joy on a clients face when I made them some money. I did nothing underhand, nothing dishonest. Quickness of mind was my style. Then the nonsense set in. Perhaps success went to my head. Troubles began to arrive like winter rain.

I re-read Geoffrey’s letter and mulled over the consequences of going back. The offer to clear my debt was tempting, but there were other problems I had escaped from in South Wales. About that time the financial services industry became far too complicated, too fraught with legislation for a one man band, so I went into partnership with Ben James, an old school chum. At least he was someone I could trust, someone I could bounce ideas off and to begin with it worked. Unfortunately though, in time, our relationship disintegrated, firstly, as a result of my affair with Ben’s wife June and finally, as a consequence of the fiasco of the drug smuggling trial. By then most of my clients had become convinced I was a criminal. After reading Geoffrey’s letter two or three times I decided going back to the UK would serve no useful purpose. At that particular moment I was relatively happy in Mallorca, albeit poor. To have miles of sea separating me from all those other problems suited me fine. So I tossed Geoffrey’s letter onto the kitchen worktop.

Suddenly I felt hungry. I hadn’t eaten since the previous day. My head continued to ache and cooking seemed too much like hard work. If I could make it down to the Ra-ha Bar Rodriguez would make me some bacon and eggs. I decided the bandage around my head made me look ridiculous. Unwinding it hurt like hell but at least the bleeding had stopped. I cleaned up the cut and put on a plaster. The bathroom mirror revealed two black eyes, giving me the appearance of a prize fighter. Stumbling along the pot holed track that led to the Ra-ha Bar added to my discomfort. Inside, Rodriguez was behind the bar reading his newspaper and puffing on a cigar. Fortunately the place was empty but the radio was turned up loud. Waves of thumping music pounded through my head as I opened the door.

‘Can’t you turn that racket down?’ I shouted. A look of astonishment crossed Rodriguez’s face.

‘Well, my God, what has happened to you?’ he said and began laughing. ‘Some woman’s husband caught up with you at last, eh?’ He continued laughing. He laughed so much he choked on his cigar and I had to endure a mouthful of his spittle in my face.

‘No, nothing like that. I had a fall. If you want me to spend some money in here, turn that racket down.’ Still guffawing he reached for the radio.

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You and John Fernando had an argument over Isabel. Now he has Isabel and you are like this.’ The gold fillings in his teeth sparkled as he spoke.

‘I tell you it was nothing like that.’ I said and explained about my fall.

‘Oh that is very funny,’ he replied when I’d finished, ‘very funny indeed. Best laugha I’ve had for years,’ he continued in his broken English. ‘Even better than when the dustcart got stuck in the drive and the council had to pay me compensation. That is very good. Very good indeed.’

He reached up to the shelf behind him for a bottle of whisky.

‘No. No more of that,’ I said. ‘What’s in that poison anyway?’

‘What it says on the label, ‘Genuine Highlanda Creama. Bonnie Prince Charlie!’’ he said, wiping the dust off the bottle and thrusting it towards me. He had hefty shoulders that heaved up and down when he laughed. His moustachioed face was filled with the pits and craters of his life. His greying hair was quiffed at the front like an ageing teddy boy.

‘Tastes more like Scotch mist to me,’ I said. ‘Give me some of that French brandy and I’ll have some bacon and eggs if you can manage to stir yourself.’ He left me with the bottle and his newspaper and moved off to the kitchen area which was at the far end of the bar. I heard him continue to chuckle about my predicament as the eggs fried.

Rodriguez was a rogue. Not a particularly nice rogue either. He charged over the top for the drinks and he watered the gin. The whisky I had been drinking was probably some cheap poteen purchased at a discount and poured into labelled bottles, for that was the sort of thing he would do. Fishing used to provide his living, until that industry became too much like hard work. He sold his boat and built a glass extension on the front of his bungalow, as a bar. Later on he added the grass roofed loggia. Now it’s the focal point of the villagers’ social life. Which means Rodriguez is privy to all the gossip.

‘The woman who lives on the edge of the beach. Is there a Mister McGuire?’ I asked when he returned with my bacon and eggs.

‘Blonde woman, with a dog?’ he said.

‘That’s her.’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘How long has she lived there?’

‘About three years I think. Haven’t seen anybody in that time. She’s an artist. Goes awaya quite a lot. Did she give you that?’ he said pointing to my face. ‘Did you try it on with her?’

‘No! I keep telling you I had a fall, but she helped me up the beach afterwards.’ He puffed on his cigar, guffawing as he exhaled.

‘When she goes awaya, there is another woman who looks after the dog,’ he said. ‘I think she takes her paintings to Palma. Sells them in a gallery off the Avinguda du Jaume. Apart from that nobody knows much about