Imagine seeking a monumental change in your life, one that takes you far from all you've known and far from the law. This sentiment rings true for one such person who left the hustle of the Metropolitan Police and the burdensome chains of covert work behind, seeking to start life anew in Tenerife, a paradise island off the coast of Spain. Supporting themselves by working in Los Cristianos' Dinastia, and then migrating to La Pinta in Torviscas, before looping back to Dinastia, the journey was anything but simple and bland. 

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"Simultaneously fascinating and terrifying, are those times when you are compelled to swap identities and there's a distinct thrill to it, but the relentless shadows of the past continue to linger, and the risk of getting exposed lingers,"

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It's a tale of perseverance through adversity, dabbling with the dangerous allure of cocaine, encounters with imposing figures, and life-threatening attempts on your life. Yet, it also offers a potent glimpse into the power of familial love and acceptance even after enduring a roller coaster of perilous ventures. Brace yourselves, as we dive deep into this remarkable journey.

 

I vividly recall February 13, 2001, a date significant for not only being my Stepfather, Daron Humphrey's birthday but also serving as the marked day of my exodus to Tenerife in the Canary Islands. I endeavoured on a quest for a fresh chapter in life. The flight was prolonged to over eight hours courtesy of a glaring warning light that mandated us to loop back to the UK mid-air. My eventual arrival in Tenerife was met by a unique spectacle of Moroccan winds carting a load of Saharan sand, impairing visibility for several days. 

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The profound excitement coursing through me about this fresh endeavour was palpable. I was determined to make every effort count towards cementing this new undertaking. I had parted ways with everything except family, my past littered with numerous gaffes and thus offering me nothing to return to. Barely scraping by, my economic resources consisted of a meagre few hundred pounds and anticipated mobile phone commission that could potentially add a couple more. Starting life anew with sparse funds was an ominous sign, highlighting the imminent need to kick-start an income stream, though I was painfully unaware then of the onerous struggle this would turn into.

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A few weeks ago, my eyes caught an enticing job offering in the Evening Standard. It was an opportunity to work abroad, with a month's accommodation and travel expenses covered. Two names were listed at the end of the advertisement, a Brett Ridges and an Alan Hopkins. As I dug a little deeper, I discovered that Brett Ridges was a pseudonym for Brett Ridger, but the authenticity of Alan Hopkins still remains a mystery. My excitement got the better of me and I made a call, soon finding myself at an interview with Brett Ridges, set in the Swallow Hotel, Waltham Abbey. Something felt off during the interview, but I couldn't quite pin it down. When Brett pulled out photos of a place called La Pinta, assuring me that this would be my new workplace, my reservations melted away. I was told my job would be in promotions, tasked with attracting tourists to the hotel. It all seemed legitimate, but the harsh reality was that I would have to be skilled in the art of deception to lure those tourists to the Hotel.

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As I exited the interview table, I was intercepted by one Alan Hopkins, who had been lingering in the hallway with an air of intrigue. Our conversation began innocuously enough, with him inquiring about my interview process. However, as the conversation progressed, he seemed keen on measuring my commitment level to the job. As I stepped out of the hotel into the snowy winter afternoon, I felt a glimmer of hope and a chance to rebuild my life, completely oblivious to the fact that it was far from reality. Truth be told, I was grappling with my own unhappiness and saw this as a window to a better life. Looking back, I don’t think I've ever felt so desperate in desperate times. My relationship with Spain has always been one of fondness, mostly nurtured through my numerous holidays in Salou. It's as though Spain has a magnetic pull on me, its proximity makes it all the more appealing, not to mention the lovable Spaniards who amusingly splash into their pools when it rains. I've learned to overlook minor cultural misunderstandings like children, hurling seemingly rude gestures before vanishing into thin air. My childhood memories in Spain are plentiful and delightful, and for that, I am grateful to my mother.

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On my first assignment, I was handed a pair of scratch cards, indistinguishable from each other, both bearing the image of inter-crossed golden keys. They touted an array of awards, yet the actual win was an unappealing timeshare sales vacation, sans flight. My colleague Brett demonstrated the trick: a slight punctuation discrepancy marked the winning cards, hidden deep within the print. His advice was to keep the victory cards safe while holding a stack of losing cards, subtly topped with a winner. This was a clever ploy to debunk any suspicion or accusations that most cards were winning ones, by inviting them to pick a few more. Despite the red flags dotting the scene, I consciously chose to ignore them, single-minded in my pursuit of a new beginning. Brett extended his lecture to cover SPIF’s, Special Performance Incentive Fund, a certain kind of cash incentive offered for having the first tour of the day or thrown in by the employer on slow days to trigger tours. There was a SPIF for every possible occasion, but seldom did it reach anyone, acting merely as a phantasmal lure. It dawned on me that I held a formal designation - OPC or Outside Personnel Clerk, though the moniker found a quirky variety of interpretations, including the amusing, Over Paid Cunt, a title I embraced with humour despite its paradoxical nature. 

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It looked straightforward on surface level: a £40 equivalent in Pesetas per resort tour, along with the lucrative promise of further increments if the guest ends up buying a holiday package. The more deals I could secure in a single week, the higher my bonuses and basics would be. At first glance, I was struck by the financial allure of the arrangement, given my confidence in scaling to the apex of potential earnings. However, a devilish detail lurked in the fine print, concealed by a singular, seemingly innocuous word—Qualified. My payment was tethered to the qualification of the touring couple. Such qualification required ticking off an exhaustive checklist, with prerequisites like marital status, home ownership, and credit card ownership, among others. This extensive roster of qualifications made the folks I needed to locate and lead into the resort as scarce as fresh water in an arid desert.

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Imagine those enticing snapshots of La Pinta, presented to me during my interview. Now picture me being led to my actual work location, Dinastia in Los Cristianos, which was nothing more than an ongoing construction site. Their excuse? "Oh, it's okay, we've been at this since this place was just a gaping hole." I should have questioned when exactly that was, considering they were still far from completion even after a decade. I should have heard the warning bells tolling, but my desperate desire for this to pan out made me selectively deaf. Now, the challenge was getting the tourists from the town centre to this unfinished resort, but there was a supposed arrangement in place. Dinastia was to foot the bill for a courtesy taxi, with my role being hustling the tourists into these cabs. They gave assurances like, "Not to worry, we'll cover your taxi fare anywhere on the island once the tour is done." But it was all a farce. A couple of pounds in pesetas was all the taxi drivers received if a deal hadn't been struck with the tourist. Once the fare amount ran out, the tourists were left stranded wherever they were, unless they were willing to pay for the remainder of their taxi ride.

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My initial encounter was with a couple of teammates, one of whom resided with his partner, whose folks had bought her a residence in Tenerife. He was a decent fellow, despite suffering from a gambling addiction. On day one, I was eager, poised to absorb all I could. I intercepted three couples with my scratch cards, herded them into taxis, though none turned out to be qualified clients. Rather than feeling dejected, I held onto the long-term vision I had in mind, comforting myself with the idea that I had a month's worth of finances to back me up. I commenced my work in the central square of Los Cristianos, near the commanding presence of the Parroquia Nuestra Senora del Carmen. With my alluring and effervescent character, I found it easy to engage people. But gradually, it was clear most folks were aware of these strategies I used, and I felt a disconcerting feeling of self-deception. The silver lining of being an OPC was the flexibility it offered, I could step away anytime and retreat to a bar or a familiar spot like Burger King. From there, I would perch myself on the upstairs seating, watching the walkway along the beach and observing folks engrossed in their various preoccupations. This spectacle of everyday life would captivate me for hours, as I gleaned what a taste of what might be standard life, a sensation that felt alien to my unorthodox existence.

 

I had the good fortune of being the earliest recruit to arrive in Tenerife from our group. This afforded me a couple of days of solitary enjoyment in our sponsored Parque De La Reina residence. While it wasn't near any beach, the apartment boasted a delightful Spanish vibe and a spectacular view of Mount Teide. With only me as the occupant, I snagged the double room, which was a small victory in itself. Sharing quarters with a stranger in the room with two single beds wouldn't have aligned with my preferences. A few days after my arrival, Dean Fox, my next roommate showed up. Instinctively, I felt a sense of mistrust towards him. One day I left my wallet unattended on my bed to take a shower, only to find a Cinqo missing from it upon my return. With only the two of us present, it was clear who the thief was. It wasn't much later that karma caught up with him, resulting in his expulsion from the Island.

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Following Dean's arrival, a fellow from Spain made his entry, properly equipped with his mountain bike, which he'd shipped right to Tenerife alongside him. Subsequently, there was this Aussie chap - he broke loose and dove into the nightlife within his first days, only to find himself stripped of possessions along the strip. I recall this clearly as the poor bloke faced quite the ordeal trying to procure a substitute credit card from his bank. Now, something about these guys that piqued my interest was their air of negativity regarding the job, yet perhaps they were simply realistic — maybe I'd isolated myself in a blissful sphere of ignorance. Despite not working shifts together during the day, we'd often regroup in the evenings, and it was evident to me that they were all financially stretched — quite literally, not a spare penny among them. As it turns out, Dean's motivation for the job was spurred by his girlfriend's upcoming vacation in Tenerife — he simply wanted to keep tabs on her. Meanwhile, the biker from Spain sought to explore Tenerife pedal by pedal, often prioritizing his cycling adventures over his work shifts. As for the Aussie, he was on a mission to tick another box on his global travel checklist. 

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Despite the initial differences and quirks, life with the crew proved mostly enjoyable. We even established a foodie tradition, where each of us would take turns whipping up meals from our respective home cuisines. After all, we all needed sustenance in our day to day.

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The memory etched strongest in my recollection was the day Trevor and his companion showed up, bragging about their recent military stint in Northern Ireland. Their assertions might've held some truth, yet I found myself questioning the legitimacy of their narrative. Trevor, however, struck me as incredibly loyal, and my respect for him grew despite his friend eventually succumbing to the grip of drug addiction down the Veronica’s Strip. They shared an apartment in my apartment complex, later joined by a young man named Richard Fenlon. Richard seemed to possess a knack for being a bit of a troublemaker, and between the four of us, our evenings were well-filled. In this period of dire financial times and the slow realization of scarce earning prospects, our survival instincts started stirring.

 

Richard and Dean rapidly formed a close bond, driven perhaps by Dean's ambition to secure a job on the Strip before his girlfriend's arrival. Meanwhile, Richard was feeling the pinch and needed to scrape up every penny he could. They found jobs on Veronica's strip, working gruelling hours from 9 p.m. till 2 a.m, before kicking back with a few free drinks. They would stumble home around 5 a.m, only to wake up, shake off the hangover, and clock in at the timeshare job at 9 a.m. This job covered their accommodation and would not end until 6 p.m. Looking back at this taxing schedule, it's a marvel how they, and eventually, I, managed to sustain it.

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After spending a few weeks in Tenerife, I was nearing the end of my savings and hadn't managed to make any money. I determined that it was time to take on additional work and joined Richard and Dean to help manage the lively strip. Richard secured for me a position at Soul Train, nestled between Tramps and Brannigans on the Starco development. My responsibilities as a PR officer included consuming as much complimentary alcohol as I could handle—a rather exciting part of my compensation package. I found that I had a natural flair for this job and quickly became one of their top performers, which certainly paid off. The inherent issue was juggling two jobs, while the earnings from the PR role weren't substantial enough to afford housing. Therefore, I knew I needed to maintain both roles to secure a place to live. Eventually, with a steady influx of cash, I felt more at ease and with each passing day, I moved a step closer to achieving my aspiration—crafting a fulfilling life for myself on this island birthed from volcanic activity. What I treasured most as a PR agent was interacting with peers within my age bracket and the tranquillity of simply directing them to a place where they could unwind with a drink.

 

Dean's counterpart arrived, and it was clear why Dean had been anxious about her holidaying alone without him—she was genuinely attractive, a proper sort. Unsurprisingly, she was unimpressed and ended up succumbing to Richard's charms—a perfect example of karma's sting. Things spiralled downwards between Dean and Richard from there; it seemed Dean wanted to return home, but he hadn't factored in plane fare. Once his girlfriend flew back, tension simmered between Dean and Richard, culminating in Richard physically assaulting Dean multiple times. Dean, however, never staged a fight back. Instead, he attempted to gain Richard's sympathy. He even went to the lengths of claiming an old left ankle injury that, if aggravated, could supposedly be fatal. It seemed he was trying to gauge exactly how far Richard was ready to push.

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During my stint at Veronica's strip, it's no exaggeration to say I had the time of my life. The post-work celebrations at Bobby's place were the epitome of carefree youth. It didn't take long for me to start questioning the relationship between my employers and the strip, especially since I regularly spotted Brett heading to Starco where he would loiter all night in Lineker’s bar, which just so happened to house Soul Train also. It soon became evident that maintaining this double life was not sustainable, as the lack of sleep was starting to wear me down. It was clear that a choice had to be made between the two.

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Reflecting back, the last encounter with Dean remains vivid in my memory. Our circle had dwindled down to myself, Dean, Trevor, and Richard, sharing a single apartment as everyone else had called it quits. Dinastia only needed one dwelling by then. On a day marked by indulgence, Dean and Richard had partied a little too hard the night before, resulting in a morning hangover and a missed day of work. Though Trevor's involvement remains speculative, it's hard not to suspect that he tipped off Dinastia. What followed was a harsh surprise; Dinastia's muscle, a group fondly referred to as 'the clumpers,' arrived to forcefully eject Dean and Richard for their perceived moonlighting. The clumpers were notorious for their role in flexing Dinastia's power on the resort, primarily charged with handling any unruly guests or staff. Needless to say, that was my final interface with Dean. His financial situation was shadowy at best and the details of his departure remained shrouded in uncertainty. Richard, on the other hand, reappeared that evening, visibly distraught, to gather his belongings. Thus, it became a duet of Trevor and I from the original team. An atmosphere of confrontation lingered, Richard seemed on edge, possibly spoiling for a fight. Both Trevor and I braced ourselves, ready for a showdown. But eventually, Richard backed down.

 

I met Trevor who was engaging in friendly conversation with a couple of young women, Kate and Sophie, who had been in Tenerife for a few months longer than Trevor and I. Looking back, I realize they took advantage of my kindness, though they gained little from doing so. Kate was a delightful person, and something might have developed between us if I had pursued it. However, my priority was to build a trustworthy circle of friends, rather than exploring romantic relationships, considering my previously tarnished life. Ensuring a solid foundation of friendships was my stepping stone to improving the overall quality of my life.

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Upon my first month in Tenerife, the moment finally arrived for a transition. It was time to begin our employment at La Pinta, a luxurious beach resort owned by the Italian Mafia. The resort was in the process of opening its sales deck in a few weeks. Feeding off the electric energy from my previous stint on the strip, I dove headfirst into my new position with enthusiasm. However, the need to earn, even modestly, was evident. After all, while pasta is economical, it isn’t free. 

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During this period, I found companionship and trust in the form of Kate and Sophie, my closest confidantes. At La Pinta's entrance, my newfound duty was to engage customers through dance, a tactic which initially seemed promising. My spirits were skyrocketing, largely attributed to having the bustling and lively hotel as a testament worthy of showcasing. As I reflect on my stint at Dinastia, it's striking that I received a measly sole tour payment, resulting in a dismal weekly earnings average of £10.

            

Even La Pinta presented significant challenges and Trevor and I resorted to arranging evening engagements, trying our best to schedule tours for the following day. But nothing seemed to be effective. Trevor's ambitions were high and he shared dreams of becoming the next John Palmer, the gold finger, while I was merely aiming to make ends meet. However, things started looking up when I got the opportunity to work at Orlando Corner. That's where I managed to excel in timeshare, or at least it appeared so at that time. I had a stretch where I was securing deals almost every day, and thanks to the bonus structure, I pocketed around £2,000 in a week, marking it as my highest ever legitimate weekly earnings. The finance started flowing in, but I was on the brink of making decisions that would profoundly impact my life.

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There I was, partying on the Costa Del Silencio beach together with my comrade, Trevor. An unexpected altercation erupted, pitting the Brits, including us, against the Germans. We stood our ground fiercely, emerging unscathed and victorious. Over time, Trevor and I formed a bond akin to brotherhood. I entrusted him with my life, confident that he had my back no matter what.

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From my associations, I discovered that these folks I served had another, darker line of work – they were involved in narcotics, specifically cocaine. I was introduced to Chewy, a well-known dealer, and was told he'd be my go-to if I ever needed anything, especially with my burgeoning wealth. The cocaine I obtained from Chewy was incredibly potent, better than anything I'd previously encountered, signalling its high purity. Shortly after sampling his stock, I purchased a substantial amount of the stuff from Chewy spending a monkey. I was precariously close to joining the ranks of established dealers. If not for a couple of detrimental monetary transactions, I would have easily continued down the path to becoming a full-fledged cocaine dealer. Indeed, had I proceeded, I could have ended up behind bars in a Spanish jail. But a glimmer of providential intervention might have been the false belief that I had navigated the timeshare obstacle course and was on the verge of reaping substantial profit from my dealings.

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That evening, Trevor and I decided to venture from our place to Guaza, hoping to catch a bus to Veronica’s strip. Unexpectedly, a cab pulled up next to us, the occupants two delightful ladies on holiday from the UK, delighting in a stay at an apartment in Costa Del Silencio. They were undeniably fetching, but I found myself immediately drawn to the one Trevor had set his sights on. Trevor enthusiastically spun a tale about us being entrepreneurs on a business trip, a story I wish he hadn't bothered with. We decided to hit Bobbys. However, once it became clear that I was getting along remarkably well with the same woman who had caught Trevor's eye, Trevor decided to bow out, making an excuse about exploring Tramps. Enjoying myself immensely, I chose to linger back. As the evening came to a close and the ladies had to catch a taxi, I escorted them to the cab, stealing a lovely moment with the woman who had captivated me, Leanne Gallagher. Realistically, I should have grabbed that opportunity and hopped into that taxi with them. But life's a series of choices and missed opportunities, leading us down the path of regret, a course I know all too well. As the night wore on, I tried to locate Trevor at Tramps, but ended up cabbing it home all by myself.

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At roughly the same time, a new batch of fresh OPCs arrived, along with an experienced group from the mainland. The group's leader, a guy named Junior, eventually became my team leader. I spent some time working with Michelle, a newbie OPC, which led to my meeting Chris Baxter. As a representative at the La Pinta resort, he played the role of a guide for couples, advocating the countless perks of timeshare before passing them to the closer. More often than not, Chris Baxter handled the majority of my deals. Surprisingly, it turned out that he had some feelings for Michelle, and through some casual chitchat and a bit of matchmaking assistance from me, they soon started dating. Throughout my life, I often played the role of a matchmaker, but never seemed to benefit from this skill myself, explaining why I've spent so much of my time in solitude.

 

During my time at La Pinta, I encountered a situation where a couple, whom I introduced to the club, realized they were unable to make the necessary payments. They approached me the next day, seeking advice. Knowing what I do now, I would have assured them of their right to cancel within a two-week window. However, at the time, the best counsel I could offer was to downgrade their package from a hefty £15K to a more affordable £3K. I suggested they negotiate directly with the resort, but as it turned out, the management would have preferred I advised them to defer the matter until they got back home; by which time, it'd likely be too late to leverage their legally afforded cooling off period. 

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I speculate that it was around this time that the resort management began to bear a grudge against me. In line with the odd turn of events, I found myself out of the tour loop and without any deals, leading me to suspect foul play. The only explanation I could account for was the possibility of the company engaging in illegal activities such as drug trafficking and money laundering. My suspicion grew as I discovered clear connections between several individuals, drugs, and even prostitution. I even wondered if my employers had territorial dominance over parts of the strip, including establishments like Bobby’s, Yate’s, and Lineker's, and used these as fronts for their illicit drug operations. The more I delved into it, the more pieces fell into place, yet, I chose to stay, which signalled trouble. I had willingly remained in the company of these criminals, a decision I must take responsibility for, that almost cost me my life. 

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In a moment that should've been a flashing sign of alarm, I found myself amidst a dinner party gone awry. An exciting evening was planned with crispy, delicious Paella to enjoy amidst the mystic lanes of Parque De La Reina. A rude awakening awaited me, however, as the night went awry, starting with the deplorable act of a man flinging a bottle of tabasco at the face of an unsuspecting young associate. A stomach-churning mix of surprise and unease filled the air, replacing the cheerful buzz.

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His appalling act was simply a ruse to dodge his share of the bill, prompting a chain of quick escalations and cringeworthy refusals. Each participant, one after the other, chose to depart, leaving behind an unsettled bill for an innocent Spanish restaurant owner to shoulder. As the lot vacated, I found myself as the last person at the table with a sizable debt staring at me. 

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In my humble financial state, I could only afford to pay slightly more than my own share, hoping it would be enough given the circumstances. Pushing these unsettling events into the farthest corners of my mind was not an act of ignorance, but rather a desperate attempt to believe in my overseas venture. However, with every passing day, the truth became more evident - the grotesque behaviour of Brits abroad was a disgrace that nudged me, day after day, back towards the idea of returning home.

 

The profound discomfort of skipping out on a meal I'd savoured, without compensating those who'd prepared it, twisted my conscience. The concept stands at odds with scenarios where food is freely provided, devoid of any expectation for equivalent recompense. Recalling my youthful adventures with a good friend, Tariq Sami, whose parents ran a Turkish kebab place in Maryland, brings this point home. Tariq and I, accompanying his father in his shop, relished generously crafted meals. It was there that my fondness for Lamb Kofte took root, presented in the unique form of patties rather than skewered. Witnessing the dedication that fresh food preparation demanded was humbling. I experienced the warmth of freely given sustenance, without any future claim. This is perhaps why I couldn't escape the restaurant in Tenerife without paying– I'd imagined an owner with a family to support and responsibilities paralleling Tariq's father. Regrettably, my resources fell short that day, but it was undoubtedly an eye-opener regarding the company I was keeping. Even as I convinced myself of their goodness, stemmed from a desperate need for inclusion post my UK life, I was paving a thorny path for myself. A path that would test my resilience for the majority of the days to come. I can't help but wish for Tariq's presence in Tenerife, perhaps his company could've preserved me from the monumental failure awaiting me.

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At the twilight of my adventurous stint in a foreign land, I encountered Jemma Frisby - a young woman who had weathered an exceptionally tough life. Transitioning from her former residence in Gran Canaria, where she had spent several months with her mother, Jemma arrived in Tenerife. During her initial weeks, she was unfortunately ensnared in an unethical scheme aimed at pushing her into the world of prostitution, possibly linked to the very people I worked for. In response, I extended my hospitality and offered her refuge in my home, situated on the outskirts of Los Cristianos at the time. Jemma's past experiences with drugs made the initial phase of our cohabitation challenging, yet I endeavoured to guide her towards a healthier path. Unfortunately, an error in judgement led to me developing an emotional attachment to this seventeen-year-old, whom I had grown to care for deeply. I began with a noble intention to safeguard Jemma and improve her life circumstances, but tragically, I undid all my efforts by getting involved with her, potentially taking advantage of her fragile state. Nevertheless, I persisted in my attempts to do right by her until our paths diverged and she exited my life.

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The last time I laid eyes on Chris Baxter was on an ordinary Sunday during my stint at Tenerife, approximately five months in. I specifically remember it was Sunday because it was the bustling market day. The day when anybody and everybody at Dinastia and La Pinta had energizing pre-market day gatherings to spruce up for the tourists flocking to the Los Cristianos market. First would be the OPC’s meeting, followed by the Liners. I was already stationed at my usual spot by the bus station in Los Cristianos when the Liners were wrapping up. That's when I saw Chris Baxter in the passenger seat of a car, driven by an unknown female liner. That moment, he was as near to me as you are when you're engrossed in a face-to-face conversation. 

 

Only one other time had I seen someone with the same ghastly, bluish tint of grey countenance that Chris bore that day—an acquaintance from Loughton I'd lost a couple years prior. Our encounter was eerie. Chris Baxter stared at me, his jaw dropped, eyes wide—as if he had seen a ghost. Little did I know that would be the final time our paths would cross. He was gone just a few days later. I was dumbstruck when I was given the news the morning after — declared dead after a fatal road traffic accident on Guaza's road. At first, I thought he must have overdosed, just like my Loughton acquaintance, pertaining to their last unnerving ghastly apparition. I shoved the thought aside back then, but as time passed, this dawning realization of deaths in my life left a shiver down my spine, ultimately leading to a psychosis spell that would stay with me for years to come.

 

The time came when Alan Hopkins attempted to end my life. Though I'm unable to legally verify or hold him or his mentor liable, I hopelessly pray for divine justice. After having disagreements with fellow OPCs colleagues at La Pinta, I found myself back at Dinastia, mired in a job of creating hype for a construction-filled rip-off. Hopkins picked me up one day, citing he had business to attend to at Dinastia. Surprisingly, he showed up again with an infamous German redhead I can’t name, and another individual, Nico whom was one of the clumpers. Making an unusual stop at La Pinta, the only real activity we did was shop at Iceland, right across from John Palmer's Flamingo resort. 

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While I don’t recall what everyone bought, I vividly remember Hopkins purchasing a Ginsters pasty. He only ate half before turning to offer me the rest. You see, pasties and I have always had a bad history. My aversion mainly lies in the often-low quality, fatty meat cuts they use. If there's a pasty on my plate, you're going to see that piece in the exact same spot regardless if I'm ravenous or not. Now, Hopkins' offer came along once we were on a side road close to the Veronica strip, surrounded by other Dinastia-affiliated OPCs, all of whom were German. "No, thanks. I'm not a fan of pasties," I declined quickly. Hopkins, visibly irritated, stormed out of the car, tossing the pasty violently into a waste bin. In retrospect, the ordeal left me questioning why he hadn’t offered the pasty to any of the other OPC’s. I'm sure they'd have been more than happy to take it.

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In the aftermath of the infamous pasty event, I found myself weak and stricken with illness on the sun-soaked shores of Tenerife. The vigor and vitality had seemingly abandoned my body, compelling me to excuse myself from work and retreat to the solace of my apartment. It wasn't long before my body exhibited an alarming rash, prompting me to reach out to a confidante hailing from Chelmsford residing within the same residential complex. She and Jemma, arrived posthaste to assess my condition. In their company, we concluded it best to undertake the 'glass test'. With a regular drinking glass in hand, I subjected my inflamed skin to the scrutiny of the test, only to discover, to our shared concern, that the rash remained distinctly visible beneath the pressure of the glass--fueling fears of a possible meningitis episode. 

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Perhaps it was foolhardy bravado or simply the draining exhaustion that clouded my judgment; I opted to sleep off the malaise rather than seek immediate medical intervention. The lack of access to Spain's healthcare system might have played a role in that decision too. Fortunately, a prolonged respite bestowed upon me the remarkable gift of recovery, the menacing rash a relic of the past. In hindsight, my decision-making wasn't always judicious. Had I known then about the trials I would face in the forthcoming days, I would likely have made a point of obtaining a blood test at the hospital. Not only to identify the culprit behind my sudden illness but, more significantly, to figure out how I had contracted it in the first place.

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I recall another morning during that extraordinary week, where I sat with my team to break our fast. Alan Hopkins, our motivational guru, was unusually preoccupied with the kitchen. Being none the wiser, I simply chalked it up to him having some conversations there and ordered my customary Full English. However, out of the blue, Alan emerged from the bar, cradling a box with undisclosed contents, abruptly excusing himself. Shrugging it off, I dove back into my meal, only to encounter a strange taste when I had a bit of the egg. Sensing it might be spoiled, I left it half untouched, and finished the rest of the breakfast. 

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That day, my workplace was the nearby bus station. Before heading there, I did maneuverer through the hustle and bustle of the Apollo shopping centre, grabbing a bottle of thirst-quenching water. Once at the bus station, an untraceable feeling of unease started occupying me. Admitting defeat to the bizarre malady, I decided to retreat back to my apartment. As the day cascaded into the evening, my dear friend, Jemma, had vanished, and the shocking worry gripped me. Not one bit peckish, but grappling with a fierce stomach ache when sipping on fizzy beverages, I ventured out, an ominous feeling eating me away. My intuition guided me to a bar - Jemma's known haunt, and sure enough, there she was, immersed in the bar's convivial buzz. 

 

In the midst of my illness, I noticed that my numerous employers had influenced Jemma remarkably, enticing her with a wealth of free funds and subtly suggesting that she should travel to see her mother in Gran Canaria. Fortunately, my inquisitive nature prompted me to dig deeper. I started becoming more suspicious and began questioning if Jemma's anticipated departure would leave me alone and vulnerable. The alarm bells in my head started ringing louder, indicating that something was amiss. In a prudent move, dictated by the situation, I used the last of my resources to accompany Jemma. This not only created the much-needed space for contemplation but also ensured my safety. Our trip to Gran Canaria was a preventive measure, and I am certain that if it weren't for this carefully planned getaway, my life might have prematurely ended that weekend. The reason behind this perceived threat continues to be shrouded in mystery, however.

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While biding my time for the ferry in a room cooled by air conditioning, I found myself unable to achieve comfort - the chilly air left me riddled with goosebumps. Suspicious that I may be pursued, I took the precaution of slightly altering my name on the ferry register. The alterations were minor, with only a few letters changed and, to be honest, today I can't even recall the exact guise under which I penned myself.

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We found Gran Canaria to be an enjoyable place, spending quality time with Jemma's mom, aunt, and cousin. I even attempted devouring a McDonald's meal, but the chest pain was too intense to bear. During our time there, we took a trip to the local market. A particular painting caught my eye, which I ended up purchasing and eventually gifted to my mother in celebration of her birthday. This painting, in many ways, perhaps served as a subconscious emblem of my internal contemplations. Our weekend trip seemed to go by in an instant, and soon enough, we were en-route to the airport for our return flight to Tenerife. A sense of doubt and suspicion clouded my thoughts, given the recent happenings. However, I felt composed, maintaining a stance that I could handle the situation. Although I wasn't prepared to confront these people fiercely, an unsettling feeling lingered, suggesting that all the events collectively were not just mere coincidences.

​

Upon our return to Los Cristianos, the immediate step we took was to notify our employer that we wouldn't be clocking in after spending the entire night at the airport waiting for our flight. Once I got back to my apartment, I was mystified to find three individuals. One gal had previously crashed on my couch for a couple of nights a few weeks prior and I knew her as working in the Leopard bar. The others, however, were complete strangers to me. One stood out—a man in his mid-twenties, identifiable by a missing little finger on his left hand which he unsuccessfully tried to hide from me. The final female individual was conked out on a bed, a bloke of ambiguous nature.

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The individual lacking a digit wanted to coerce me into setting ablaze some tissue placed amidst the digits of the female characters feet whom was sprawled on the bed. There's no way I'm inflicting such harm on someone merely for occupying my bed without my consent. Let's be clear about one thing - the world is quite skimpy on beds, but personally, I've never really had an issue with the concept of bed sharing.

​

In an enticing attempt to lure me out of my apartment, he dangled the offer of free cocaine, an offer that I nearly surrendered to. I was all set to accompany him on this questionable adventure, standing on the precipice of the exit, when a sudden, instinctual urge prompted me to glance down to my right, at his waist level. In that split second, I perceived his hasty effort to hide his left hand behind his back, exposing a conspicuous absence of a finger. A chilling premonition of danger washed over me, and I respectfully declined his offer, soothing his anger by alleging exhaustion. It could have been sheer paranoia, but also, possibly, a life-saving decision.

​

The realization hit me hard, conceived from weaving together pieces of recent puzzling events, that my employers seemingly had a sinister intent. The sequence of happenings was too precise to be mere coincidence. The dilemma was clear - I was cash-strapped in unfamiliar territory with potential adversaries lurking around. Given the circumstances, what was the appropriate course of action? My passport was held hostage by my employers, and while I was hesitant at first, I finally decided that I needed to report it stolen at the local Las Americas police station. Armed with the resulting paperwork, I could then make my way back home. However, the station was overcrowded that day. I was with Jemma and we had been waiting for over half an hour before I decided this approach was futile. Was it possible that they noticed my visit to the police station? After that day, the perplexing incidents stopped, although it was another week or so before I could finally leave this enigma behind.

​

Being continuously engulfed by an overwhelming sense of dread, which I hadn't felt for a long time, brought me back to my days in Junior school. I remember a distinct morning when the school had to be closed due to an unfortunate fire in one of the outbuildings. Structured with wood, the building was an easy victim to the flames. Now, the importance here is not the fire itself, but how I decided to spend the unexpected free day. Instead of heading home like everyone, I ventured out, wandering aimlessly on the streets alone. Somehow, I stumbled upon an abandoned, boarded-up dentist's office that caught my interest. 

 

Eager to explore, I found an unlocked door at the back and successfully entered the deserted building. Although stripped bare and unrecognizable for its past profession, the place intrigued me. It was during my exploration, roughly thirty minutes into it, that I heard a noise from the ground floor. The decision was before me - to hide or to investigate. I chose the latter. On reaching the ground level, I discovered a pair of older boys from the secondary school who were playing truant. 

​

Their demeanour was off, their line of questioning unsettling. There was a definite attempt from their side to scare me, and it was working. I knew I had to leave but sensed that the moment I behaved fearfully, it could inflame their peculiar behaviour further. I chose to play it cool, masking my fear outwardly. The intense fear I was experiencing inside though felt like an eternity. Eventually, to my relief, they announced they were leaving to set a rabbit trap and left. The sensation of fear I felt that day, the cold dread in the pit of my stomach, was exactly the same as what haunted my every moment in Tenerife by this time. This time, however, I doubted if acting cool would save me.

​

One of the most challenging moments in my life was when I had to make a confession to my parents. I had to admit that things spiralled out of control and I needed their financial help to get back home. Without requiring an explanation, they were more than willing to assist and provide funds for sustenance. However, there was an additional concern: Jemma. Despite having known her for only a short period, I simply couldn't bear to leave her behind. We made our way to the airport without a confirmed flight, spending days in limbo until we finally managed to bid goodbye to Tenerife at the end of August 2001. It was a tumultuous six-month stay, and the sense of relief to leave that island was indescribable. But upon reflection, I realized that many others may have experienced the same feeling, though for entirely different reasons.

​

Who would have guessed that on the day I headed back home, my mother and sister were simultaneously flying out to Tenerife in search of me? My prolonged absence and lack of contact had triggered their worry and they felt compelled to ensure my safety. When I finally reached out and made the call, plans for the trip had already been set, flights booked, and accommodations arranged. Despite their concerns, they were lucky enough to witness the more scenic and appealing side of the island, a contrast to my less than appealing experiences. 

​

Once home, I bid Jemma farewell as she boarded a train back to her own life. It turned out it was our final meeting - she was a free spirit, far too untamed for me to keep up with.

​​

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The Last Supper by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Sitting in shadows, a table set in gloom,
Laughter turns to whispers, foreboding fills the room.
Goblets raised to toast, yet the air feels tight,
For daggers hide in smiles and hearts twist in spite. 

 

Bread breaks with ease, yet trust shatters fast,
A kiss seals the betrayal, a friendship's last.
Coins exchanged for blood, innocence sold,
A story as ancient as the days of old. 

 

In every corner shadows loom;
Faces morph into masks of doom.
Every offer a potential snare,
In the darkness, beware, beware. 

 

Yet even amidst the treachery and the night,
One must rise and fight for the light.
For while the world may turn with deceit,
Truth's quiet whisper will never retreat.