Playground of Delights

(Chapter 17)

"Playground of Delights" (circa-1986)

When he told his brother Frank he was going on holiday to Spain with his friend Chris Hall he wasn't surprised to see him in the departure lounge at Newcastle Airport but he didn't expect to see him carrying his seen-better-days forces suitcase.

The roar of the Rolls Royce engines in reverse thrust and the shudder of friction brakes providing deceleration signalled that the Boeing 747 Jet had landed in Malaga Airport.

After a fanfare of applause from anxious passengers, one of the cabin crew opened a pressurised door while the chief stewardess thanked everyone for flying with British Airways, reminding passengers to remove all their hand luggage and belongings from the overhead compartments before disembarking from the aeroplane.

Impatient holiday makers hastily unbuckled safety belts and lifted from seats, pulling their baggage carelessly from overhead compartments, a human tide of people hustling in the aisle, preparing to do battle with each other, elbows against elbows, pushing and shoving, as if their very survival depended on them being one of the first to escape through a small hole in the side of the cabin.

A stream of eager passengers descended from the aeroplane, their footfalls clanging in a noisy rhythm against the portable steel stairs, the intense heat of the mid-day sun and the watery hot air mixing with the smell of aviation fuel greeting them on the macadam surface.

By the time they reached the terminal building they were bathed in a sea of humidity.

The taxi drive from Malaga airport to Marbella would normally take just over an hour, but with a maniac behind the steering wheel, weaving aimlessly through traffic at fear inspiring speed, ignoring traffic lights and finger gestures from other motorist, the journey took less than forty-five minutes.

The Palm Beach Hotel was everything and more that the holiday company had described in their advertising literature. Air-conditioning bedrooms with panoramic views over the Mediterranean Sea, two swimming pools, coloured fountains and water sculptures all set within private landscaped gardens.

With a compulsion for sleepwalking and a fear of heights, Chris claimed the bed farthest away from the sliding doors to the balcony. After unpacking his suitcase he walked onto the terracotta balcony to take in the views over the Puerto Banus Marina.

An impressive arrangement of smaller crafts nestled in the blue water next to bigger and more prestigious boats. A luxury cruise ship sat motionless on the horizon. Sailboats charged in the breeze. A long pointed speedboat with a tanned man at the wheel and a gaggle of teenage girls wearing micro-bikinis flew by.

Life on the Mediterranean Sea seemed so exciting.

"That'll do for me," Frank chirped from the adjoining balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of socks, pointing a finger at a magnificent luxury motor yacht heading slowly into the harbour, pulling on a cigarette and flexing his muscular forearms, the tattoos on his arms mementoes of his many tours in Northern Ireland and the Middle East, the ugly scar on his left thigh a cruel reminder of a piece of shrapnel that ended his career in the British Armed Forces.

"Rich bastards," Frank added, watching a smart waiter skipping around the deck serving food and drinks to eight people on a smoked glass table at the stern of the boat, a speed boat with six young girls aboard circling the launch, zigzagging in the swirling wake, the white spray from the sea splashing over the boat.

"If we stare long enough we might get an invite to lunch," Frank mocked, blowing smoke over the balcony. "We'll gate crash later. After we've had a few drinks," he grinned.

"Where's Chris?" Frank asked.

"Vertigo," he replied, placing his hand on his brow and feigning nausea.

"It's only seven fucking stories," Frank sniggered, pulling on his cigarette and scratching his balls, his suggestion to shower and change into fresh t-shirts and shorts and take a leisurely stroll along the sea front getting Chris on his feet.

Weaving their way through a knitted maze of never ending streets, music ringing out from the many bars and restaurants, the streets buzzing with an electric mix of vibrant tourists all anxious to spend their hard earned cash, rubbing shoulders with young people, old people, rich and poor, street sellers, artists, touts and beggars, the heat becoming unbearable, the mere mention of the air-conditioning inside the Palm Beach Hotel and a welcoming cold beer at the bar prompting an urgent change in direction.

A smart young man behind an impressive circular bar in the Palm Beach Hotel greeted them like long lost friends. "Ramon Cortez," he smiled, pointing proudly at the nametag pinned to his black waistcoat, wiping a cloth across the counter before placing mats in front of them.

Sitting on stools at the bar, nursing cold drinks, settling into the holiday mood, discussing their plans for the coming week, their conversation interrupted by the sudden commotion of a middle-aged fat man crashing through a door, his dark leathery appearance synonymous with someone who had spent too much time in the sun, a breathless voice announcing to the bar manager that his corporate clientele had arrived.

The fat man paused to catch his breath and light a cigar, making motioning gestures with his hands until he could operate his mouth, his light blue t-shirt stretching over a huge stomach, a brown leather belt struggling to hold up a pair of knee length khaki shorts, white socks hanging limp over Jesus sandals, a tattoo of a dragon running the entire length of his left arm, eight stubby fingers featuring gold sovereign rings and a Rolex Oyster Perpetual gold watch strapped to his wrist.

An entourage of charismatic people of mixed ages and gender followed him into the room.

Six blonde Barbie wannabe-famous-dolls, all in their early-twenties and all wearing the same white t-shirts displaying the corporate logo of 'Millio Sports & Leisure' across their pert young breasts laughed and giggled as they entered the room.

Slim and curvaceous and sleek as cats, strutting around the room in well-rehearsed model walks, swaying their hips suggestively, flaunting their hour-glass figures to perfection, their nothing-to-hide sprayed-on lycra shorts attracting inquisitive eyes.

Two gay men walked into the room holding hands, their dazzling white teeth smiling lovingly at everyone in the room. One of them was dressed in a smart pink suit with a red flower attached to the lapel, his jet black hair heavily gelled, pulled tight over his head and tied in a neat pony tail at the back.

The other gay man was dressed casually in a blue shirt and very tight fitting blue jeans.

A chubby, loud mouthed brash woman - with a lot of mileage on the clock - wrapped in a colourful sarong, wearing lots of costume jewellery and a black beret tilted on one side of her head above a mass of bright red hair, skipped across the room in bare feet.

An older couple arrived but stood quietly by themselves. Their body language hinting that they wished they were somewhere else.

The woman looked to be in her early-seventies. She was smartly dressed in a two-piece cream suit and her grey hair was held in a neat bun at the back of her head.

The elderly man wearing a white linen suit and a jaunty fedora on his head looked a lot older than the woman. He had an unhealthy look. Withered skin hung from cheek bones and one side of his mouth sagged a little, presumably the cruel aftermath of a stroke.

He looked as if he had lost touch with reality and was hovering in a modicum of confusion and uncertainty, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Clearly too old to stand up without help, to him it was just another day nearer to death.

('Somewhere, out there, was an anxious funeral director who already has his name and date of birth scribed into a bronzed plaque, knowing fine well that the final inscription announcing the date of his untimely death was only a matter of minutes away.')

After the bar manager had finished hugging and kissing the fat man on both cheeks he was told to prepare drinks for everyone, including the three men sitting on bar stools.

In a heartbeat the bar manager stacked a row of wine glasses on the counter in the shape of a pyramid, a well-practiced hand raising a bottle of champagne over the top glass, a waterfall of sparkling liquid spilling slowly from the top before reaching the lower glasses, the Barbie-girls giggling and applauding, as if they had just seen a miracle unfold.

The welcoming hospitality of a glass of champagne and the fat man's extended hand of introduction invited some trivial conversation, a little light humour and inevitable enquiry.

"I see we have something in common," the fat man smiled, pointing a finger at a tattoo of three red and white plumes on Frank's left arm, raising his glass in salute to the familiar forces inscription, proudly confirming his former regiment in the British Armed Forces.

Handshakes and acknowledgements exchanged, glasses clinking in toasts to lost friends, war and peace stories inevitable.

"If we were all fucking instead of fighting the world would be a much better place," Frank barked, the fat man echoing his words, others around him forcing smiles.

All wonder stopped when a beautiful and seductive woman walked into the room.

A vision of perfection, a smile that could steal your breath away, a deep olive complexion hinting at a Mediterranean origin, her eyes so dark they were almost black, raven hair running in two braids from the front of her head and meeting at the back, two shapely legs growing from a pair of towering heels, finishing somewhere near the diamond choker around her neck, the bright light playing against her white silk dress, cutting through the translucent material, providing fleeting hints at the exquisite treasures that lay beneath.

Banging his glass on the bar counter, waiting patiently for silence and clearing his throat, the fat man announced that he would make a short speech followed by some introductions.

"Joseph Mellio and his corporate team have spent most of the day on my yacht launching their new range of Millio Sports and Leisure" he confirmed, glancing at his expensive watch before continuing. "Because the day has been such a success we have decided to continue the campaign into the late evening." He paused and smiled. "Or for those who have the joie-de-vivre... into the early morning."

For the next twenty-minutes he talked in length about his loyal clients, introducing members of the corporate team, his speech punctuated by too many toasts and too much information about how successful he had become and how he had to struggle in the early days to build up his business empire, making no secret that his success couldn't have been achieved without the removal of certain obstacles along the way.

When he realised most of his audience weren't listening he decided to bring his speech to a close. After receiving an enthusiastic round of applause from his admiring followers he pointed a finger at the ceiling announcing to his guests that they were all welcome to join him and the corporate team in the penthouse conference suite to celebrate the continued success of Joseph Millio Sports and Leisure.

As the evening gathered speed he discovered that the fat man's name was Jack Griffin.

Jack had grown up in North London where he had spent most of his working life. He was the owner of one of the largest scrap metal businesses in London as well as the owner of three car dealerships in East London. One showroom was exclusive to prestige cars featuring Porsche, Ferrari, Aston Martin, BMW, Jaguar and the occasional Rolls Royce or Bentley.

The other showrooms were devoted to the run-of-the-mill new and used family type cars.

He was also the chairman and main shareholder of Griffin Construction Ltd, a multi-national building construction and civil engineering organisation, with offices in London, Glasgow, Birmingham, Liverpool and Belfast. And although Jack's business affairs with Millio Sports and Leisure were never discussed, his controlling influence over Joseph Millio indicated that he probably had a financial interest in the business.

The beautiful woman was an Italian called Martina Sasso. She came from a small village on the outskirts of Tuscany. One day Jack called into the restaurant for a business lunch where she worked as a waitress and made her an offer she couldn't refuse. They had been together for almost six years.

The gay man in the sharp pink suit was no other than Joseph Millio the owner of the fashion and leisure empire Millio Sports and Leisure. His boyfriend was a young man called Julian Greco, son of the shipping magnet Andrea Greco.

The chubby brash woman with a cavernous mouth and red hair was Sally Morgan, the agent and P.R. advertising executive for Joseph Millio.

The dead looking man was a retired entrepreneur called Max Holden who had made his fortune in the textile industry. The grey haired woman linking his bony arm was his wife and accomplished author of a dozen crime novels.

During a brief conversation she told him that she had a new book coming out in a couple of months. She said it was full of murder, mystery and intrigue. After giving him the title of the book she said she hoped he might find the time to read it.

The Barbie girls were invited for their playground skills.

The penthouse suite and conference centre took up most of the top floor, boasting eight bedrooms, three bathrooms, a large kitchen and dining area, a cavernous living room with a full length sliding door providing access to a huge terracotta balcony offering breath-taking views over the marina and the Mediterranean Sea.

A middle-aged man dressed in a black suit, white shirt and bow-tie played soft jazz music from a white Steinway piano.

Four waiters in stiff white jackets looked after the guests. Two waiters served drinks behind a bar while the other two waiters weaved their way through crowds of spirited people, offering hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne from silver trays.

In the dining room a chef dressed in a smart white tunic with the obligatory tall hat stood behind an imposing buffet table serving a delicious spread of hot and cold meats, fish, savouries and deserts.

The bar manager entered the room through a haze of cigarette smoke and a wall of bubbly people, his trusty employee Ramon Cortez following quickly on his heels, pushing a trolley with two cases of Dom Perignon and Bollinger champagne.

Jack Griffin was clearly not ashamed of having lots of money and he certainly didn't feel guilty about spending it.

The six Barbie girls suddenly appeared from the bathroom, scantily dressed in white lace panties and wet t-shirts, their risqué outfits prompting a few raised eyebrows and several furtive glances, Joseph Millio announcing to the guests that a photo-shoot was underway.

The interaction of playful gaiety, the erotic expression of unabashed youth, the efficiency and submissiveness of well-trained animals moving with graceful ease around the room, t-shirts clinging enticingly to shapely breasts, traces of dark areolas and nipples blossoming beneath the wet fabric, lace panties hugging hips and dipping between legs, offering a tantalising glimpse of the mysterious dark triangle hidden beneath the fabric.

One of the girls climbed on top of the piano, kneeling on all-fours, flashing her eyes, arching her back and pouting her bottom, the lace fabric disappearing between two bubble shaped cheeks, her mouth slightly open, her tongue sweeping suggestively over shiny lip gloss, her fingers playing carelessly with a gold chain around her neck.

A girl wearing a red bandana around her forehead posed provocatively on top of the bar counter, while two girls on the terrace orchestrated their bodies in glamorous positions, every movement carefully choreographed by Sally Morgan, ensuring maximum exposure to the seasoned professional flashing the Nikon camera.

Frank had given up his conflicts of war stories with Jack Griffin, the pursuit of Sally Morgan now getting most of his attention.

Chris was outside with one of the Barbie girls who had removed her wet t-shirt and was hanging it over the balcony to dry, two beautiful creations bouncing freely in the breeze, his wide eyes, slack jaw and bulging shorts resembling a man who had just entered heaven.

With his brother pre-occupied with Sally Morgan and his friend heading out the door with his arm around the attractive girl and a noticeable lump in his shorts, he took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, lit a cigarette and walked onto the terrace.

"Have you enjoyed the party?" a questioning voice whispered softly from the end of the terrace, the silhouette of the Italian beauty lying casually on a reclining chair, smoking a long black cigarette and sipping a glass of champagne, her white silk dress pulled up over her thighs, exposing endless golden legs and a teasing glimpse of white silk panties.

"Yes," he replied, giving her his best smile, pulling up a chair and gazing into her sleepy dark eyes, wondering if she kept them open during a kiss.

"You're husband certainly knows how to throw a party," he said, his eyes taking a quick tour over her stunning body. "Are you staying at this hotel?" he enquired.

"Jack's not my husband," she said, pausing briefly and blowing a plume of white smoke into the air before answering his other question.

"Yes and No," she replied. "We usually sleep on the boat, although we do have a permanent room at the hotel. Jack's retired to the yacht. He had to leave the party early. He has a business meeting in London tomorrow with his executives," she smiled, leaning over and flicking her cigarette into an ash tray.

"He's flying to the UK in the morning on the Millio corporate jet. He should be back in a couple of days. It'll give him a chance to see his dogs. Two Doberman Pincers - Laurel and Hardy. The dogs are the love of his life," she sighed, raising an eyebrow and stubbing her cigarette into the ash tray, an insincere smile lingering long after she had finished talking.

"Have you been to the marina yet?" she asked, lifting from the lounger, an infectious smile sweeping away the apprehensive silence, an invitation to take in the spectacular views of the Puerto Banus marina getting him to his feet.

"Not yet," he replied, returning her smile and handing her a glass of champagne. "It certainly looks impressive," he offered, sipping his wine and looking down into the brightly lit marina, the closeness, the intimacy, the warmth of her body brushing against his legs, the persuasion of touch heightening expectation, smiles and laughter genuine, flirtatious whispers increasing arousal, hormonal chaos fuelling a growing lump inside his shorts.

"Anything out there that catches your eye?" she asked, lifting her glass to her mouth, a black cigarette dancing between painted fingers, the unexpected question interrupting his hand making subtle adjustments to the untimely growth below his waist.

"That's rather nice," he replied, pointing a finger at the luxury motor yacht he had seen earlier in the day.

"Then I must show you around. It was a birthday gift from Jack," she said, rather matter-of-fact, flashing her dark eyes, flirtatious suggestion forming behind sculptured lips "But if you intend to seduce me, young man...I must know your name."

"Let's walk on the beach, Mark Brand," she whispered, offering her hand.

The promise of intimacy, the pursuit and expectation awakening the sleeping monster inside his shorts, knowing chances like this don't come round too often, aware that If he didn't act soon she might change her mind. "Fuck it," he thought, throwing caution to the wind, taking her hand and pulling her into his arms, lips melting together in a crushing kiss, the warmth of her breath welcoming his tongue into her mouth.