Factory Fortnight

By William S Allin

One resort, fourteen nights, thousands of visitors, countless stories, including:

Elizabeth and Nick – a mother and son hoping to put an end to many years of strife following a family tragedy;

Leah and Jon – who, together with their young family, plan to enjoy a relaxing break without interference from his demanding employer;

Shirley and Will – giving her father, Ben, an opportunity to rest and recuperate after a series of personal battles;

Gemma, Sara and Kylie – three girlfriends who just want to have fun; and,

Snowy – a man on a mission

All are hoping for a fortnight of sun, sea, and sangria, but they get a lot more than they bargained for. Some learn the locals are not as friendly as they first appear…

• Language: English
• Publisher: JOKApress
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781739171742

William S Allin

William S Allin was born in the valleys of South Wales over sixty years ago and still lives there - why would he leave? Having spent his working life writing for others, early retirement allows him to write things he enjoys. His fiction is mainly based on everyday life and all that it entails, including intrigue, romance, action, humour, and friendship. When he's not immersed in his writing, William finds solace in his other passions. He enjoys the simple pleasures of reading, cooking, and listening to music, all while accompanied by his lively Beagle, George. Factory Fortnight is his fifth novel but is the first to be published by draft2digital.com. JOKApress aim to make the other titles available soon.

Book preview

ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

Water ran through his hair, down his cheeks, around his neck and reached his back, soaking his shirt. This was not just perspiration; this was a full-on sweat.

For God’s sake! He resisted the temptation to add ‘woman’. It would provoke an adverse reaction, and they were hot and stressed enough as it was. No matter how much you squeeze the case, we are over our weight limit. He walked away from the suitcases, wiping his fat, sweaty face on his sleeve. Resting one hand on the back of a chair, he grabbed the two-litre plastic bottle of water and took a long, slow drink.

I just thought that if we pressed all the air out, it might be lighter, his wife said.

But there is not that much air in the cases! Pouring more water down his throat, he reflected on his last utterance. There again, with more air inside, the cases might be lighter.... He realised too late that he had thought aloud.

His wife was already working on the zip of the smaller suitcase. Right, let’s open this and shuffle the clothes. Get more air in.

It’s not going to work. She folded her arms and stared, telling him he needed to provide a more detailed explanation. He tried to recall his chemistry lessons some forty years earlier. I think we would need a light gas like... er... helium, which is lighter than air... but I’m pretty sure we won’t get a canister of that from the shop down the road.  He adopted his most sympathetic expression. Look, love, let’s face it. We can either pay for the extra weight or take the bottles out and leave them here.

This wine is much cheaper than it is at home. She narrowed her eyes as she did mental arithmetic. I think we had it for about a third of the price we’d pay normally.

Yes, but the airline charges a fortune for excess baggage. You know how they are. If they had a chance, they would charge us for peeing during the flight. They are hardly going to ignore this amount of excess baggage.

She was not about to concede readily. Are you sure the weighing scales are accurate?

They were repeating themselves, but now was not the time to lose patience,

As I said, they are, as far as I know. He sipped the water, took a deep breath, and sighed. I don’t like it any more than you do, but we have bought too much stuff. If you want to take the wine home, we must leave something else behind, such as gifts for the kids and grandkids....

She did not let him finish, and her tone told him the issue was non-negotiable. We are most certainly not doing that.

Okay...okay, so it has to be the wine.

We could leave your whisky? You are the only one who drinks whisky; we both drink wine.

He had reached the stage where he no longer cared.

Let’s remove the whisky and a bottle of wine and see how we get on. With the water bottle placed securely on the table, they unzipped the bags, moved items around, extracted them, and refilled them. They then re-zipped the bags and put them on the weighing scales. They repeated the process until they agreed to leave behind whisky, a bottle of Rioja, and several of his older T-shirts and tops. Technically, they were still marginally over their baggage allowance, but they hoped this would go unnoticed by the check-in staff.

He locked the bags and hauled them to the front door.

I’ll nip to the bathroom to wash my face, and then we can wait for the bus. He glanced across the table and saw his wife scribbling on paper. What are you doing?

The lady I booked this place with told me the owners would use the apartment after us. I’m leaving a note to thank them for lending us their place and telling them we had a fabulous time. You never know, they might remember this if we ask to come here again. It’s a lovely place. If we must leave the bottles, we might as well get some kudos for it.

He nodded and smiled. That’s a great idea. Good thinking, but what about the clothes?

I’ll leave another note asking them to donate them to the Spanish people, possibly their cleaner. They don’t make very much money, and I’m sure they’ll be able to find a use for them.

That’s a lovely idea. Come here and kiss me.

Bugger off! Not until you’ve wiped that sweat off your face. She reached into the pile of discarded clothes and picked up an old white cotton T-shirt. Here, use this. It’ll save your shirt and don’t forget to have a wee. We have a long bus journey ahead.

Right, you are love. Cheers, he said, wiping away the sweat. He dropped the T-shirt onto the table and headed for the toilet.

Roughly 40% of the 128 privately owned apartments at the Playa Apartmentos were owned by Germans. The Germans adhered almost religiously to the complex's rules, which dictated that only owners and their families should use the apartments.

A combination of Dutch, French, Russian, Spanish, and British owners owned the remaining properties. These non-German owners did not care about the rules. The Brits, the second-largest community, often advertised their apartments for hire and were more than happy to let the properties to total strangers requiring holiday accommodation.

Lucia García-Ramírez had been cleaning the apartments for over eleven years, and the site rules did not interest her. All she cared about was the money she earned.

July was always busy, and Lucia was exhausted as she arrived at the last of the six apartments earmarked for cleaning that day. She silently cursed the outgoing residents for the lack of care and the mess they left. She was not happy that her employers expected her to clean so many apartments in such a short space of time. The cleaning was relatively quick and easy. The tiled floors and painted walls make them easier to wipe down. The time it took to change bed linen, towels and remove the rubbish always slowed things down.

She unlocked and secured the door to keep it open and heaved her trolley full of cleaning materials and fresh supplies into the two-bedroom apartment's main living area. The influx of fresh air brought instant relief. The wind blew paper across the room, but Lucia did not worry. She was pleased to see that the place was reasonably clean. There was an odd stain on the floor, and a few dishes had been left unwashed, but any resentment evaporated when Lucia spotted the whisky, wine, and clothing on the table. Her mouth opened into a wide grin as she inspected the clothes. The clothes were too large for her family to use, but there were places they could be sold. These were not in bad condition, but she had to wash them well. They stunk of body odour and cheap aftershave.

The clothes were a good consolation prize, but Lucia was most excited by the unopened bottles of Scotch whisky and Rioja. She picked up each bottle in turn, studied it, kissed it, and then carefully placed it on the shelf of her trolley, hiding it under the clean towels.

She instinctively knew the items were her reward for a job well done. Lucia placed the clothes into the dirty linen bag, picked up the paper, and tossed it into the black rubbish bag without reading it. With renewed vigour and a broad smile still on her face, she set about cleaning the apartment in readiness for her employers' arrival from England.

It had been a long and arduous journey, not helped by a delayed departure. The flight itself only provided limited entertainment for two small boys.

Charlie and Harry were hard enough work at home but placing them in a confined space for two and a half hours, with nothing to do, was a recipe for disaster. Sitting on the bus to their resort, Jon Oliver wondered if the holiday was a good idea. He was exhausted already and had another 13 days to survive. Never mind sun, sea, and sangria. All he wanted was sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Not for the first time that day, he wished his boys would behave like reasonable human beings and sit quietly to give their old man a break.

Daisy, his five nearly six-year-old daughter, sat serenely in her summer dress and sandals, chatting to her mother about everything she planned to do during her two-week holiday. Her brothers had no concept of time and could not see further ahead than the here and now. They were more interested in the window levers, the bell button, the space under the seats, other people’s possessions and, generally, anything and everything which denied their father a few minutes of peace.

Charlie, give the gentleman his hat back! Harry, I’ve told you not to press that button because the driver now thinks we want to get off. He gently but firmly eased the twins into a sitting position, placing his left arm across their legs as he apologised to the man in front and held up his spare arm to the driver, who shook his head before moving the bus again.

How much further is this place?

His wife examined the streets outside.

I’m not sure. It’s been a few years since I was here, and it’s changed so much.

Great!

His wife leaned forward and ruffled his hair.

Cheer up. It can’t be much longer. The driver said it would take about ninety minutes, and it’s nearly that now.

The boys stood again and turned to face their mother and sister. Charlie tried to get his leg over the back of the seat, but Jon pulled him back. Harry used a different approach and leaned over as he prepared to fall at his mother. Jon only just caught his legs in time.

Whoa, sit down here, you two, be good boys. Not much longer now. He turned to his wife. I hope you’re right about the ninety minutes being nearly up. I can’t face extra time with this pair.

At Palma airport, Elizabeth Kingston patiently waited on the plastic bench, holding the handles of two suitcases. She was looking forward to her first holiday in seven years, her first without her husband in twenty-five years, and only her second visit to Majorca.

She desperately wanted the holiday to go well. The previous six years had been a nightmare, the most challenging time of her life. The stroke that struck her husband, Kenneth, was ghastly but was nothing compared to the horrific discoveries she made later. The findings made her realise that her husband was not the man she once thought he was.

After six years of strife, life improved slightly for the Kingstons when Nick, her only son, secured a post with a new enterprise established in the village. The business provided online security software for local businesses. Mr Shanklin, who used to be Nick’s IT teacher, developed an innovative software programme that not only defended computers from viruses and hackers but also sought out the source of the virus and identified, then traced, the sender.

His software immediately attracted significant interest. The fledgling company secured a portion of a disused bank building on the edge of Barry docks to develop the programme and other computer security services. Mr Shanklin provided Nick with full training, paid him well, and enrolled him on a part-time course at a local university to study for a degree in forensic IT. Many teachers thought Nick would have had a degree before now had it not been for the unfortunate events.

Nick phoned his father’s brother to celebrate the change in fortune and booked one of his apartments in Majorca. The apartment was free, but they paid for their flights.

They booked their holidays for the last week of July and the first week of August. Kenneth Kingston always refused to take a holiday during this period, as he regarded it as factory fortnight - when factories closed, allowing the workers to take a well-earned break. Kenneth would never stoop so low as to go on holidays with factory workers or other working-class people.

As Nick returned to his mother with bus tickets in hand, he thought it ironic that not only were they on holiday during factory fortnight, but Kenneth Kingston’s son was, to all intents and purposes, a working-class factory worker.

Right, Mum. It's bay number 27, and the bus goes to Cala Millor. The driver will know where to drop us off.

His mother rose from the seat, smoothed the hem of her best summer dress, and slipped her feet into her orthopaedic clogs. Then she grabbed the handle of the smaller suitcase. You lead, and I’ll follow. Any idea how long it would take?

About an hour. The bus is full of people from that side of the island, which means we are heading straight there, said Nick, taking the heavier case. I picked up a bottle of water to have on the bus.

I’d rather have a cup of tea, but I can wait until we arrive.

Her son smiled as his mother waved her hat to cool her face.

I’ll text Eddie and tell him to put the kettle on, Nick winked at his mother as they exited the airport and started searching for bay 27.

Gemma Potter sat quietly on the bus, thrilled at the prospect of being on holiday. She had been to Majorca before but not to Sa Coma or as a threesome. There should have been four travellers, but Zoe, Gemma’s friend from university, withdrew after a misunderstanding. Gemma’s companions sat behind her, busily chatting away while their thumbs worked the buttons on their mobile ‘phones.

Look at this gimp, said Sara, the blonder of Gemma’s two companions. I mean, who goes on holiday with their mother? She studied the lady’s greying hair, formed into a scruffy loose bun, and whispered to her friend. It might be his gran.

Total loser, said Kylie Best, the other blonde. Have you seen what he’s wearing? I wouldn’t let my granddad go out in a shirt like that.

Sara Grant pulled a face. And those jeans were so last century. He looks like something out of the ark.

Gemma said nothing but watched the boy ensure his female companion was comfortable before taking his seat. She agreed that his appearance was nothing to write home about, but something about him appealed to her.

The boy glanced up and down the bus, catching Gemma’s eye. He smiled at her, and her friends commented immediately.

You’ve pulled there, Gem. Two minutes in Majorca, and you’ve caught one already. Good going, girl! That must be a record even for you.

Sara screeched as she slumped back. Shit, Kyle, she’s got to stage one, and we haven’t left the airport.

Pre-stage one, said Gemma defiantly. She knew other passengers would have heard her friends’ comments, so she blushed as she focused her attention on the back of the seat in front.

Never mind, Gem, said Kylie, ruffling her friend’s hair. Your luck might improve when we get to Sa Coma.

It can hardly get any worse, can it? said Sara.

Her two companions laughed loudly. Gemma cringed and smiled weakly at the boy as he turned to face her again.

The taxi driver took the money, thanked the gentleman for the generous tip, and wished them a pleasant stay.

Grassy arse, said Will Hopkins with a broad smile. Let’s find apartment number 206 and store these cases. Then we can head for the bar. He surveyed the street and spotted a ‘Happy Bar’ sign close to the apartment block. That’ll do me, and it’s within crawling distance. What do you think, Ben?

His father-in-law, Ben Moran, forced a smile and nodded. It looks great.

Ben’s daughter, Shirley, took his arm.

It’s okay, Dad, there’s no rush. We’ll stay in the apartment if you don't want to go out. Will can go if he wants.

No, I’ll be fine. I want to see if San Miguel does taste better here. It’s pretty shit at home.

Nice one, Ben, said Will. I am ready for something to eat too. The food on the flight wasn’t bad, but there hadn’t been much of it. He stepped onto a raised kerb by the pub’s entrance to get a better view of the bar. It looks like they do meals. I can see people eating in there. What do you reckon? Steak and chips all around?

I’d rather chicken, asked Ben.

Have what you like, Dad. You can get anything you want around here. They cater for us Brits.

Ben nodded and made his mouth smile once again. His daughter had nagged him to accompany them on this holiday, and he had only relented when he saw an opportunity to do something he had been thinking about doing for a while. Not that Ben would do it just yet. He wanted Shirley to enjoy her break first. There was plenty of time for him to sort himself out. He lifted his bag and walked up the steps to the entrance.

Later that evening, a much-delayed family get-together occurred in one of the larger apartments.

Edward Kingston, known to friends and family as Eddie, loved playing the host at parties and gatherings. He poured himself a glass of cheap champagne and raised a toast to the people sitting on his balcony.

To the family, especially those no longer with us.

All bar one raised their glasses immediately. The exception was his nephew, Nick, who gritted his teeth and took a deep breath before extending his salute. To the family, he said quietly.

Eddie ignored his nephew's disrespectful behaviour. The boy was still angry. His father, Kenneth, Eddie’s brother, had left them in the mire, but Eddie saw no reason they should dwell in the past. They had survived, prospered even, and their lives were on the up.

Are you okay, Elizabeth? Have you settled in all right? Let me know if there’s anything you need.

His sister-in-law smiled warmly.

We’re fine, thank you, Edward. It’s a lovely apartment.

I hope it’s not too small. I am sorry I couldn’t give you the three-bedroomed one. My estate agent let it to a prospective buyer.

It’s fine, Elizabeth replied.

Are you sure you don’t mind being on the bed settee, Nick?

He’ll be fine, said Elizabeth. It’s got everything we need. Hasn’t it, Nick?

Yes, it’s great, thanks. I’m looking forward to getting in there tomorrow. He pointed at the pool. Mum prefers the beach, but I’m keen to have a good swim.

That’s why I love this place. You have the best of both worlds. The pool is outside your balcony, and the beach is just beyond that gate. You can please yourselves.

Eddie’s daughter arrived at his side. Can you lend me some money, Dad? I forgot to go to the cashpoint.

How much?

Hundred should do it.

He took the cash from his shirt pocket and handed her ten and twenty euro notes.

Aren’t you taking your cousin along? He glanced at Nick. I’m sure he’d be much happier with you youngsters rather than stuck here with the oldies.

Louise’s face showed her father had said the wrong thing, but she tried to bluff her way through.

Er... he can come if he likes, but I’m going out with the girls. It’ll be a boozy night with Candice and Becky.

It’s okay...I’m a bit knackered anyway, Nick lied.

Maybe next time? Louise’s smile was as fake as her eyelashes.

Yeah, maybe, said Nick.

His uncle had not given up.

Where’s Don? Has he gone out yet? 

Louise knew exactly where her brother, Donald, was and where he was going but had no intention of landing him with their sad cousin.

He’s gone to see Christiano. I think they are working, but they might be out later.

If you see him, remind him that Nick is here. They don’t get to meet up very often.

I will.  She fibbed as she smiled and waved goodbye.

Leah Oliver and Daisy climbed wearily up the stairs to their apartment.

Mum, why couldn’t we use the lift?

Because it’s dark, and the mossies are out.

Do mossies live in lifts, then?

Not always. I think they live in the open air but like damp places.

So why can’t we use the lift? Daisy's confusion was evident.

Leah continued. The problem is that people use the lifts when they return from the pool and don’t always dry themselves properly. The water drips onto the floor of the lift and stays there. That attracts mossies. They also like it because when people like us get in the lifts at night, we can’t see the mossies, so they are free to bite our legs and arms and suck our blood. If we used the lift now, the mossies would have a party on us.

Daisy shook her head. I’m using the stairs all the time. I don’t like mossies, and I don’t want them having a party on me.

Quite right, said her mother, resisting the temptation to chuckle.

She opened the door. The hall and lounge lights were on, but the apartment was quiet. She put her finger to her lips, telling her daughter to remain silent, and edged toward the open bedroom door on her left. She had thought she would share this room with her husband, Jon.

Her hubby was sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep, with a child at each side. The three wore few clothes. Jon wore the shorts he had changed into earlier, Charlie wore pants, and Harry had on his nighttime disposable nappies. He was getting better in the potty training department, but as they had only borrowed the apartment, his parents thought it safer to revert to him wearing nappies to bed.

The trio looked contented. The boys’ heads rested on Jon’s shoulders, and their little bodies lay sleeping, curled up in a foetal position, one the mirror image of the other.

But the boys are supposed to be in my bedroom, Daisy whispered.

Not to worry, love. I’ll sleep in with you tonight. We’ll have a girly night in.

Great, replied an excited Daisy, softly clapping her hands. What’s a girly night in?

Leah quickly improvised an answer. Well....we’ll have supper... Daisy started a question, but Leah was ready with the answer, Yes, I bought tomatoes. Then we’ll play a game and perhaps draw some pictures. Afterwards, we’ll go to bed and discuss what to do tomorrow. How does that sound?

Brilliant, said her daughter, wrapping her arms around her mother’s leg. I love a girly night in.

Let’s leave them here, and we’ll unpack this bag. She caught her daughter’s hand, and they walked to the lounge/diner. I’d better plug a mossie killer in their bedroom before we close the door. She placed the carrier bag on the counter and picked up her mobile. But first, I’ll take a quick photograph of the three sleeping beauties. What do you think?

Yes, said giggling, dancing Daisy

At the other end of town, Isabella Sanchez sighed into her third glass of wine. It had been an eventful first few hours in Majorca. She would make damned sure things improved.

The so-called boyfriend she had travelled thousands of miles to see had called her a selfish, arrogant bitch, told her he never wanted to see her again and asked her to leave his apartment. He no longer wanted anything to do with her.  

She regretted speaking to Carlos in the way she had, but if the stupid prick didn’t understand that she would never allow him extended credit, that was his problem. She had warned him of the dangers of mixing personal affairs with business dealings. It was not as if he couldn’t afford to pay his bills. He was enjoying an affluent lifestyle; if he could afford that, he could pay her what he owed. She suggested he relax and enjoy her company while she was visiting the island.  She would be off to Bilbao in a few days to visit family. She had made a massive effort to come and see him. He should shut up and be grateful.

It was not his response that had upset Isabella; it was the fact that she never thought he would have the nerve to say those things. She felt foolish initially, but that turned to anger. By the time she had left, she had been fuming because he was the first man to finish with her and, to rub salt into her wounds, she had travelled halfway around the world on a journey that never seemed to end, for the privilege. Her only consolation was that travelling business class meant a comfortable flight. Isabella pitied the losers in economy.

Jet lagged, weary, and with nowhere to stay, she wandered about, dragging her case behind her. A friendly, well-dressed German man stepped out of his jeep and asked if she was okay. Isabella had encountered enough Germans for one day and told him to mind his business. When he suggested that he was only trying to help, she said he could help by fucking off. She was no stranger to tough-talking. It had been part of the reason why she was so successful. People knew she was nobody’s fool.

Isabella spotted a sign in the window of a rundown bar advertising internet services. She found a clean seat, ordered a bottle of white Rioja, and paid in cash. First, she asked to see and taste the options. Isabella ignored the change but obtained a wireless access code. Then, she took out her laptop to search for nearby hotels.  

The Hotel Mediterraneo in Sa Coma looked like the best hotel on this side of the island. It had great reviews and all the facilities she needed. Isabella made a reservation for a prestige double room for two nights via the online booking service, which she charged to her business credit card.

Isabella asked the barman to arrange a taxi to take her to the hotel, but his boss interrupted their conversation. He said he would be happy to give her a lift. He was heading to Sa Coma anyway, and it would be his pleasure to take her. The journey would take no longer than 5 minutes. He insisted she was not inconveniencing him. The hotel was en route. Spotting her unfinished wine, he said there was no rush; he could leave when she was ready.

Isabella thanked him. She guessed the man was in his early twenties. He looked very young, tanned, and confident, considering he was English and seemed genuine enough.

Isabella finished her bottle of wine and asked for his name, the vehicle's make, and the registration number. With this information, she phoned the hotel to tell them she was on her way. Isabella said if she hadn’t arrived in ten minutes, the hotel would call the police and instruct them to question Donny Kingston, who was driving a Porsche. She checked, and they took down the correct vehicle details.

Louise, Becky and Candice spotted and latched onto Gemma, Kylie and Sara as soon as they arrived at the club.  Introductions were made, and the gang’s attention turned to the serious business of enjoyment.

The six downed a second round of shots and threw back their heads, laughing.

Another, shouted Kylie.

Same again, said Sara.

Candice and Becky exchanged knowing glances.

This is going to be quite a night, said Candice.

Louise focused on two men who left the VIP area to survey the crowd. She smiled at them as she nodded. She gently placed a hand on Kylie’s shoulder, looked back at the shorter, olive-skinned man and nodded again. The man held up a thumb.

When the new round of drinks arrived, Louise squeezed between Kylie and Sara to grab a glass. Emptying the contents into her mouth, she turned to face the two men and subtly pointed at Sara’s back. She nodded toward the taller man. He smiled before he became distracted by something in his pocket.

The taller man held out his mobile for his friend to see. The men shared a joke, laughed and slapped hands in a high-five.  Neither man ordered a drink as they leaned against the stage bar, studying the six girls. They knew three of them and guessed the others had just arrived on the island. There was no rush to get acquainted. They would get to know them soon enough. The taller man had to return to his lady companion and introduce her to his friends.

Tracey Stone’s boyfriend, Jordan Stevens, was waiting to meet her when she arrived back at Stansted Airport after two weeks in the sun of Majorca.

A broad smile spread across his face as he saw Tracey walk through the door marked ‘Arrivals.’

Hi babe, welcome back. I have missed you so much.

Tracey kissed him and wrapped her arms around him.

I’ve missed you too, hun. She started to cry. I’ve missed you so much. I never want us to be apart again.

"What’s the matter, babe? Didn’t you have a good time?

She pulled him closer and whispered, It was okay, but I wish I had stayed with you.

Were your friends no fun?

They were okay, but we wanted to do different things. Tracey could not tell him she had not gone with work colleagues, as he believed. Jordan had no idea that Tracey had travelled to Majorca alone to see someone she had met online.

Where are they anyway, Jordan said as he looked around. I was hoping to meet them.

They err must have passed you. My luggage arrived after theirs, so I told them to go on. I’ll see them next week.

Never mind. He kissed her again. I’m glad you’re home.

Me too, said Tracey, speaking the truth for once.

Twenty minutes earlier, Tracey contemplated catching the first flight back to the sun. Life in Majorca was so much better than at home. The people were more adventurous, and she could be whomever she wanted and do as she pleased.  

Everything changed as she waited for her luggage on the carousel. With nothing else to see or do, she switched on her mobile and looked at her messages. Her heart skipped as she noticed that her lovely new man had sent her a text with a photograph. She opened his message, and her heart sank. Her beautiful new man was nothing but a dishonest lowlife shit. Her dream of a new life disappeared.

The picture was hardly flattering, and the text beneath was disturbing. Tracey knew a return to the island was out of the question. Chastising herself for being so stupid, mentally thumping herself for her gullibility, Tracey fretted about what Jordan would do if he found out what she had done. Her guilt and shame overwhelmed her when she realised how pleased he was to see her again.

Her island lover had no idea she was an auxiliary nurse. He believed she was a successful landlord with several properties.  What was she thinking? How on earth would she have maintained the pretence? She could not afford the lifestyle. She had splashed the cash, wiped out her savings, and was close to her credit card limit.

She should have realised that her false claims would have repercussions. What was her father’s adage? If something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. She should also have known the gorgeous Portuguese man who contacted her out of the blue was only chasing the money she claimed to have. All his fawning over her at the resort, making her feel special, was just a ruse to access her cash.

Why had she registered with that dating site? Jordan was a decent, hard-working bloke who treated her well. He was a bit boring, a typical lad’s lad, but he would never hurt her. Jordan could never find out what she had done.

Tracey would close the account and get a new mobile number. If the lover boy tried to contact her again, he would be disappointed, she would forget about him, and he would give up soon enough.

Climbing into Jordan’s van as he placed her bag in the back, she realised things were not simple. Although she had not used her real name, her photos appeared on several of her friends’ social media pages. The guy was good with IT, so tracing her would not take much effort.

There was no alternative but to do as the message instructed. She would pay him monthly. Tracey would need to create a fictional crisis in her pretend business. It would have to be severe enough to convince him that Tracey couldn't pay the whole amount. The guy would have to accept that something is better than nothing. She would pay what she could. There was no way those images would appear on the internet.

Ben Moran stood back to admire the complex.

It consisted of three accommodation blocks arranged around the pools and gardens in a horseshoe shape. The rear block housed the one-bedroom apartments, and the two on either side contained two or three bedrooms. The apartments increased in size the closer you were to the beach.

Underwater lights illuminated the two pools in the centre of the horseshoe. The smaller pool was circular, with steps on one side and a small ladder on the other. The larger rectangular swimming pool was attached to it. Several tiled pillars blocked the path between the two pools.  The larger pool had a diving board at the far end and ladders around the perimeter.

The surrounding grounds looked immaculate. The area around the pools was concreted and had sun loungers scattered around. Beyond the concrete were large grassed areas littered with colossal palm trees lit by spotlights at the base. All the balconies of the ground-floor apartments had ladders that allowed easy access to the grass and pools. 

Ben was very impressed with the accommodation and had mentioned the fact to his daughter and son-in-law over dinner. They stayed in a three-bedroom apartment with views overlooking the beach and the pool. The balcony would be in the shade in the morning, and Ben thought he might enjoy breakfast outside.  He wondered who Will would know who would have a place like this but would not ask too many questions. He rarely got answers.

His son-in-law had many contacts and could always be relied on to get to the front of the queue if someone offered a bargain, no matter how dodgy the transaction. The mysterious benefactor must trust Will. The apartment was on the market for over a million euros. His daughter had joked that Ben should make an offer, but it was too late.  

Ben admired the view one last time before returning to the bar. Will and Shirley had undoubtedly done him proud. Their first day had been delightful, and he felt everything had gone smoothly. The food and drink had been as good as Ben could have wanted. The resort had everything he needed. The apartment was plush and roomy, with intense water pressure in the shower, and was ideally situated. The flight from Manchester had been on time, and he had not felt any nerves during the trip.

He usually became nervous during a flight but quickly settled into this one. He enjoyed the view from his little window and relaxed. He guessed that his state of mind was because he intended to die on this holiday and did not care how or when it happened. In some ways, it might be easier if the ‘plane crashed as it would save him from looking for a way to make his suicide look like an accident.

Less than a mile away, behind the hypermarket, Isabella Sanchez roused from a stupor, pulled her body upwards and blinked hard as she checked her surroundings. She was on a wooden bench under a large tree.

Isabella was relieved to see she was dressed and pleased to find her bag and shoes beside her. Her head was swimming. Her bottom, tops of her legs and private parts felt a little tender. Fear began to grip her as she checked her underwear.

How the hell did I get here? What happened to me? Where is Donny? Where am I? She thought, comforted that her clothing appeared intact.

The last thing she remembered was kissing Donny at the Cavern Club. The next thing she woke up here. Had she been drugged? Had Donny laced her drink? Why would he do that? Why was she here? Whatever the reason, she didn’t want to remain there longer than necessary.

She grabbed her shoes and bag, stood up and looked around. She saw a hypermarket but had no idea where she was or how far away the hotel might be.

The ground between the bench and the hypermarket car park was uneven, with many deep holes, so she took her time and worked hard to maintain her balance.

Eventually, she reached a solid concrete path and put on her shoes, ready to walk to the hotel, wherever that might be.  

A voice called her name.

Isabella, Isabella, wait. Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.

She turned and saw Donny running at her. His shouting made her wince.

I...I’m not sure. One minute I’m with you in the club, the next I wake up there...on that bench. What did you do to me? How did I wake up in there?

What do you mean? What have I done? Where have you been?

Shh! Can you stop shouting? My head is banging.

Donny did as she asked, talking in more muted tones.

But where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you?

Wasn’t I with you?

Yeah, but then I grabbed your arse, and you were outraged...

She touched her backside, wondering if that was why it hurt.  She felt groggy. Her mind was foggy, making it difficult to think clearly.

...and then you stormed off. By the time I told the others I was going with you, you were gone.

Isabella folded her left arm across her ribcage and rested her right elbow on it as she pulled at her face. I remember kissing you at the bar....

Yeah, you came to give me a hand to carry the drinks.

...and what happened after that?

You tried to climb on the wooden partition but came down heavily. I almost cried for you. He put his hand to his groin. It looked excruciating.  You seemed to find it funny and carried on as if nothing had happened. I ordered the drinks, and then I kissed you.

I remember that, but not climbing on anything.

You can ask the barman. He thought it was hilarious.

Okay...so what happened after that?

We had a bit of a snog, and I got carried away. I grabbed your arse in both hands and squeezed it. You went apeshit. You pushed me away, saying I should not grope you in public and that you deserved more respect. Then you stormed off.

The bit about her not liking being fumbled in public struck a chord; she had always been the same. Why can’t I remember? I feel dopey. Could someone have spiked my drink?

Not that I know. You drank a lot of Sangria at the club, and they make it strong.

Maybe that’s it then. I’m just drunk. She rubbed her temples, not convinced by the explanation.  Overindulgence in alcohol had never previously left her feeling this way.

I’d say so. You had already downed a bottle of wine at my bar, and then we had a couple more glasses at your hotel.

She remembered both these things but could not recall leaving the club. I can’t believe you let me go off alone, she said.

You didn’t give me a chance. I had just ordered the drinks and couldn’t run off without paying for them. I returned them to the gang and told them I was going after you. I thought you would be outside waiting for me. I had the shock of my life when there was no sign of you. I’ve been looking everywhere. How did you end up here?

As I say, I don’t know.... She yawned into her hand. I think I must have been confused. I might be jet-lagged. What time is it?

Just after four.

It had been a long day. What time did I leave the club?

Around midnight.

I’ve been missing four hours...Fuck! I have no idea how I got here.

Well, at least you’re safe now. Come on, let’s get you to the hotel.

Is it far from here?

Not at all. He pointed to a junction beyond a bar. If we nip down that road, it’ll be right before us.

She looked around the deserted car park and the neighbouring area.

But why here? I would have no idea where I was going. Why did I end up here?

Don’t know. You might have caught the free train to the holiday village.

Train?

It’s a tractor that looks like a train engine, pulling carriages behind it.

But I wouldn’t have known where I was going. I would have taken a taxi, surely.

Donny shrugged. I have no idea what you did. Perhaps you couldn’t find a taxi and spoke to the train driver who let you off there, but you took a wrong turn.

That seemed plausible. Does the train run at that time of night?

There is one at midnight. It brings the party animals down from the holiday village into town. The train drivers are helpful and often pick up stragglers going this way. They’ll drop you off on the way. If I’ve been fed up and wanted to go home, I've caught it myself.

This seemed a credible explanation. But why can’t I remember getting the train.

You did have a lot to drink. The air might have hit you for six when you stepped outside.

Maybe...but it’s strange how I cannot remember storming off. That would have happened indoors. I can remember you kissing me, but then nothing until now.

Let’s not worry about it tonight; I’m just really pleased...and relieved that you are safe. Come on, let’s get you to your hotel.

She let him put his arm around her waist and lead her. Her head was thumping, and her throat was dry.

You know you’re not coming to my room?

Donny stopped dead. I never expected to. I want to get you to the hotel safely. I’ll leave you at reception and call you later.

Okay. Isabella thrived on certainty and found that she could not remember the last four hours intensely unnerving.

At the hotel, she kissed Donny’s cheek, thanked him and said goodnight.

Entering the lift, Isabella hoped to summon more memories by the morning. She despised not being in control.

The man stretched and then scratched his bare belly. The workouts had produced positive results, but he could lose a few more pounds. He listened for noise. The room was as silent as the world outside. He had expected the surroundings to be more raucous, but he wasn’t complaining. He liked quiet. It helped him focus on the tasks at hand. This job required his undivided attention. This one promised to be his most significant challenge for many years, possibly his most dangerous assignment ever.

He looked again at the list of tasks he had prepared and couldn’t think of anything he wanted to add. Work would start the following morning. It was time for sleep.

SEIZURE

(6 YEARS AND 6 MONTHS BEFORE THE HOLIDAY)

The day began like any other at St David’s Private School. Fourteen-year-old Nicholas Montgomery Kingston registered his attendance