MY LATEST PAPERBACK NOVEL
A THRILLER SET IN THE BEAUTIFUL ISLE OF MAJORCA
David 'Deadly' Dancing is holed up on the island trying to evade the tax man and the IRA. He meets and falls in love with Jenny McGuire, an Irish artist. Then he is captured and imprisoned by terrorists. Will Jenny McGuire save or betray him?
Published by AuthorHouse
ISBN:978-1-4389-4367-1
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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.
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