Chapter 10

The following morning I awoke to a loud thudding going on somewhere in my head. The inside of my mouth was feeling like the bottom of a parrot's cage and smelling like a dirty bar towel. I just about managed to get to the toilet bowl before hitting the floor and hurling the contents of my churning stomach down the white porcelain. My head ached horribly. My poor guts felt as though they had been dredged. And my eyes? Oh God my eyes. They adamantly refused to focus on anything at all and felt as though they were about to jump out of my skull. All in all, not a great start to a day...

Archie, on the other hand, looked absolutely wonderful when I eventually returned to my bedroom after having managed to wash my face and brush my teeth without throwing up again. Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, he looked like an older version of James Dean. Hair combed back and gelled, freshly shaved, and smelling of an expensive cologne. The only concession to our previous night's drunken debauchery seemed to be the aviator-style sunglasses covering his eyes.

"Good morning my friend," His voice resonated around in my head, his amusement unmistakable as he greeted me with all the cheerfulness of a fresh-faced six-year old, "And how are you this fine morning?"

I looked at him through the one eye I managed to focus with through its half open lid, "How the fuck do you manage to look so fucking normal?" I snapped, falling back onto my bed and moaning loudly.

"Ah ... That would be all the practice I get dear boy. Now get showered and get yourself dressed. We have places to go. Things to do." he replied as he threw me a large, fluffy white towel.

"Oh fuck..." Was all I managed to say before I had to run to the toilet and once again try to turn my stomach inside out.

"I'll be waiting for you in the breakfast room," I heard dimly through the closed bathroom door and the buzzing in my head.

Much, much later, I finally staggered out of the lift and was told by the concierge that "Mr. Squires is waiting for you outside sir."

I found my much too cheerful friend sat outside in his convertible BMW with the top down and some heavy rock music blaring out of the sound system. I gingerly fell into the passenger seat and immediately turned off the radio, much to Archie's amusement.

"Fucking lightweight." he chortled as he set off out of the car-park at speed, spinning the wheels and sending gravel flying in all directions behind us as he did so.

We went shopping. I needed new gear he said. I needed to look as though I was a human being and not of some poor drunken down-and-out he said. Despite my frequent protestations, he bought me a complete new wardrobe from the most expensive shops he could find. When I tried to complain and tell him he didn't need to do all that for me, he angrily snapped back that he owed everything to me. That if it hadn't been for me taking care of him in the nick, he probably wouldn't even have been alive never mind rich and famous; That if I hadn't advised him to go straight he may even have been back in prison; That I was as close as he had ever had to him having a family: - "So shut the fuck up and enjoy it." - I turned away to hide the sudden moistness in my eyes and did as I was told...

We eventually stopped off at a delightfully old-fashioned country pub for lunch. Actually it was after 4pm so calling it lunch is stretching it a bit. I was ravenous. I hadn't eaten since dinner the previous night and what I had eaten then was probably swimming around in the local sewage farm by that time after being deposited down my hotel room loo.

"OK my young friend," my benefactor announced after we had finished eating and were relaxing in the empty pub restaurant, "We need to talk about your future."

"What future? I'm almost 50, a convicted murderer, no skills I can use and I've been locked away for the last 20 years. So just what fucking future do I have?" I grumbled in reply.

"Exactly ... I know you can go work for the McVie's in London as some sort of hit-man stroke gangster or whatever, but you're better than that. Come work with me instead. I need a P.A. anyway the way my social life is."

"And just how do you expect me to do that?" I replied, "You travel all over the world and I can't leave the country until my parole is up in 5 years time. Anyway, Billy's invitation to work for his brothers was actually more of a command- and you know what happens to anyone who disobeys a command from him..."

"All taken care of my young friend ... Here ... By the way, you were convicted of manslaughter not murder just in case you've forgotten."

Archie had reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be an old, well-used EEC passport before tossing it on the table in front of me. I gave up my attempt at arguing about what the perception of any future employer would be to the difference between murder and manslaughter and picked up the small red booklet, opening it to find what looked like a picture of me, but with shorter hair and a goatee beard and moustache.

"What the fuck? ... How the hell did you get this?" I demanded incredulously as I stared at what looked like my genuine passport.

"Well ... Let's just say I like to keep my hand in," he laughed, "Have you noticed the name?"

I examined more closely the official looking document. "Oh very funny." I chuckled at my grinning friend.

"Well I thought so." he chortled in reply, rising and announcing he needed to go for a slash.

I stared at the passport. I knew it couldn't possibly be genuine. I hadn't had a passport since I was sent down and no-way would Archie have been allowed to obtain one for me legally. I had to admit though, if I hadn't known better, I would have been convinced it was me in the photo. Maybe it could work. Maybe I could use it to get away from the clutches of criminality that I seemed to be heading for. I knew damn well I couldn't leave the country legally because of my parole conditions, but just maybe...

"Well... ?" I snapped out of my thoughts. Archie had returned and sat opposite me once more, then questioned me enthusiastically "What do you reckon John Riggs? Shall we travel the world and have some fun?"

I took a few moments, staring at the brilliantly forged passport I held in my hand and considering the possibilities of what my mate had just proposed. Eventually I made the decision that was to change my life.

"Fuck It ... Let's go for it..."

Archie jumped up and hugged me, much to the amusement of the overtly gay bar-man who obviously thought we were part of his lot, "Wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful..."

A few weeks later we were ensconced in Archie's villa. A beautiful four-bedroomed place with a large pool situated up in the hills just behind the small, up-market resort of Puerto Andraitx. On the south-west corner of the Spanish holiday island of Majorca, it was just about 40 minutes by taxi from the airport and the island capital Palma...

Life was great. I had a deep tan, I had grown the goatee, had my hair cut and looked exactly like my passport photo. I worked out every day, swam several laps of the pool each morning, ran at least 15 miles a week in the hills surrounding the villa. All in all, I was as fit as a butcher's dog and looked great, even if I say so myself.

Archie wasn't always there. He had commitments to fulfil, commissions to paint, etcetera, etcetera. Consequently, as I was still nervous about using the passport he'd forged for me, I was left on my own for days at a time. He liked to keep his villa as removed from his public life as possible and only a very few of the locals knew he actually lived there. They pretty much kept that to themselves. Archie got on great with all of them, being able to speak fluent Spanish by then and endearing himself to them with his generosity and his natural ability to enter the hearts of anyone who ever met him.