Also in the gang were Alan and Sonny, two other English boys, who worked at a gaming palace on the Avenida Menendez, which was also owned by Hunter. Sonny still had his British passport but he had come to Spain at the age of ten and had quickly learned Spanish in school, although he still remembered his English, which he spoke to other members of the gang. His quest for girls was insatiable and his many affairs were legion. He didn’t have a permanent girlfriend at all.

Alan was really the ‘brains’ of the outfit. Actually, Chaz had slightly more intelligence than Alan but, although he was very ego-centered, was not the killer that Alan was. Alan was really a psychopath. That made him a born killer. Psychopaths are totally without conscience. They kill at a whim, when it suits them. Alan had killed three times in Croydon, where he had been a small-time member of the criminal underworld. Then he had fled to Spain. Just over the border from where the British flag flies in Gibraltar. He had also known Chaz in Croydon and had simply come out to join him, getting a job at the gaming palace working for Hunter, Chaz’s boss. He, it was, who had recruited Rodrigo as Hunter’s powers were plainly on the wane. Alan manipulated everybody. He used his brains to do that. And, although Chaz was very independent, he could see the advantages of having Alan along. He knew that Alan was a killer and he respected him for it. He just made sure he didn’t live in the same apartment as him so that he wouldn’t be going out feet first one day. Alan was outwardly a very pleasant guy, charming and very personable, but inside a cess-pit of broken, rancorous feelings. Psychopaths generally are.

Alan meanwhile entered the restaurant run by Chaz and Robert. He had taken the afternoon off. The gaming arcade was being run by Hunter. Sonny was snoring in his bed. Alan smiled at Chaz, who dropped his head and meanwhile swept up as a sign of obsequiousness. It was a sign all the Spanish waiters used. Robert looked on keen to garner all the news. He had not noticed Alan much that evening having taken the supa-soma early on and fallen into a reverie of deep snoring by the time Alan had gotten in from the gaming palace. “What’s up?” asked Chaz.

“Dunno. You tell me,” replied Alan setting himself on a chair to one side of where the kebabs rotated and it was mercifully a little cooler. It was around three in the afternoon and the little place had not one guest, all the Spaniards taking their lunch or their siesta someplace else. “I guess you haven’t made a score,” said Chaz, choosing his barbed, double-entendre with care. “Nopes,” said Alan. “You have?” “No,” agreed Chaz, turning the double-entendre on himself. “And Robert hasn’t,” he added. “Not till tonight, do you?” “Guess I might go out. Looking,” agreed Robert, who was fairly dumb but not so dumb as not to guess the gist of what they were talking about. He was just beyond caring, though.

“So, we have no money,” said Chaz. Alan thought this was repeating things, so he didn’t reply. Anyways, they would get money when Hunter chose to pay them. In principle, they paid him and then he paid them. Occasionally. Also, for the work they did in the restaurant and the gaming palace. But only occasionally. When he felt like it. Or when they pressed him. Which they did now relentlessly. His mind was going, they figured. He was getting soft in his old age. He wasn’t really all that old. At some point, mid-forties. But that was plenty old for supa-soma.

“I’ll have a coffee,” said Alan. So, Chaz fixed one for both of them. It was free. Robert was left out so he helped himself to a can of beer. “Business is going down,” said Alan. “There’s a new guy in town,” agreed Chaz, omitting that Hunter had told him on the basis of what Samuello had communicated to him. Hunter was not the only one of the gang, who had any contact to Samuello. He had forbidden the other three to talk to him. And Rodrigo didn’t bother, though he passed by quite frequently on his way to Gibraltar and the two could have talked in Spanish or English, if they had been on speaking terms. “They must be getting a lot of supa-soma,” mused Alan. “Sure?” questioned Chaz. The two discussed how much they might be getting and how much Rodrigo’s catches brought in. if you didn’t have the stuff to sell, you wouldn’t have many customers, they concluded. Robert sat by all the time, listening to their conversation, and quite forgotten and left out. His head was quite clear now of the supa-soma but he felt high all the same and supremely elated about something, he knew not what.

At that moment, Rodrigo walked in, his knapsack on his back. “Well, here it is boys,” he said. He didn’t have to say it was from Gibraltar. They already knew. He didn’t mention anything either about his sources. He didn’t want them to find out about that. He considered himself the head of the group. The others knew better: it was every man for himself. Alan knew it best of all. He was the great Manipulator. The man with the ideas. That all the others listened to. They didn’t always follow up on them but then alan just thought of some more, which they did follow up on. “Here it is,” said Rodrigo again. So, Chaz took the knapsack off him and bore it to his cubby-hole, where he took out the supa-soma and stashed it. The three of them would sell it by and by. The money for it – less what they stole – they would give to Hunter to pay Rodrigo his cut for going for more and also enough to pay for a new consignment. Money stuck to everybody’s grubby paws and everybody knew that somebody was stealing but since they all lied, they really didn’t know how much, which only caused them to re-double their efforts to steal theirs. In that way, the band was getting poorer and poorer. Without a center to hold, the respective planets were just spinning off into the void. Rodrigo was talking now. Pompously. So, they didn’t rightly listen. Except fro Robert, who was starved for news not really speaking any Spanish at all, and who was dumb enough to listen to anything. Even Rodrigo. So, he listened, thinking how clever the guy was, and how much more clever than he, Robert, was.

Alan, in the meantime, was thanking Rodrigo ingratiatingly. His service, in fact, was invaluable. He, of all of them, was the only one, who could make the trip to Gibraltar. Their British passports were no good. The British government had a nasty habit of impounding British passports. Not that it was a passport either, it was just a chip in your neck like dogs have. If you were wanted by the police in London or elsewhere, that was it, they cancelled your chip. Instead of going bleep, when they checked it with the hand-held machine, it didn’t and you were hand-cuffed and led away. However, the Spanish machines were not programmed the same. They registered the presence of a chip but not that you were wanted by the British government. Britain no longer shared that kind of data with the Europeans now that they had Brexited. Of course, if Interpol, the European international police organization, ever caught up with you, that was different because all the European countries shared a common data base there. But otherwise, the Spanish police lacked that data, which the frontier control post between Gibraltar and Spain – be it ever so small – did. The band, there fore, stayed out of Gibraltar. However, Rodrigo could pass to and fro freely as long as he was not stopped and his back-pack searched. However, it was a risk he took a couple of times a week and he was nominally head of the gang for that reason. He made a profit on it and that was all he was interested in. the others ran a risk when they pushed it to their ‘customers’.

Hunter then entered. Four pairs of eyes turned on him. (There were still no customers.) “I’ve left the gaming palace in the hands of Sonny,” he said abruptly. “He got up,” said Alan softly. Ignoring that remark, Hunter went on. “There’s a new guy in town.” Chaz was not particularly impressed. He was a lot more concerned about what his deal in the whole was worth. That he was paid properly. And not piece-meal as was the case at the moment. He kept his mouth shut though. So did the others. The Godfather was now speaking so all listened attentively. Including Rodrigo. The new Godfather? Even though the powrs of the old Godfather were waning, no one crossed him openly. “His name is James,” said Hunter slowly. “He’s getting some good stuff as well. Lots of supa-soma. Unlike us. Before long, he’ll be stealing our customers.”

The phone rang. Chaz answered it. He smiled a thin smile and spoke briefly in Spanish. “it’s a client,” was all he said. He rummaged briefly in the cubby-hole before emerging with a packet that he secreted in his trousers. “Adios,” he said and was out the door. The others didn’t bother to answer. Hunter prepared to work at the bar watched by Robert, who would help with the orders if need be. Rodrigo said, “I want paying,” so Hunter extracted a roll of bills, which he peeled some off, before handing them over. “More,” said Rodrigo, so Hunter took out the bills once again to peel off more and hand them over. Then Rodrigo left. Without saying anything. Alan meanwhile had finished his coffee and was wondering when his cut would come. It came very irregularly. But ti was enough to live off. Hunter paid the rent anyway. When he was in. But the owner had a way of tracking him down.

After an hour or so, Chaz returned and took over the bar. Hunter held out his hand and Chaz thrust a wad into it, which Hunter wanted. “Where’s the rest,” he grunted as Chaz coughed up. “I’ll take over about eight. We’ll close one as usual.” Then he left. Alan also left to take over the gaming palace from Sonny. He guessed he would make some money on the deal because Sonny could be relied on to cheat. Hunter didn’t mind any more. His brain was addling on what the others were giving him. He had been losing so much money on the gaming palace that half the machines had had to go back. The main thing, the others knew, was to keep him on as a front man. He knew so much Spanish and spoke to so many Spanish women that his going would definitely be missed. This way of getting rid of him – bit by bit – so that the outward shell remained but what was inside drained slowly away was much to be preferred.

At about five, customers began to drift by. They didn’t order much. And it was still hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk in front of the café. Not to mention inside, where it was even hotter because the kebab spits twirled. Of course, a robot could have done the work so much more efficiently. They couldn’t afford a robot. Everything had to be done by human hand. As eight came along, the day was cooling. At nine, a cool breeze was blowing down the street, making its way along the Straits of Gibraltar from the Atlantic in the west. The light was turned off from about nine to nine-thirty. Just like that. It happens that way in the south. Sunrise and sunset are very brief. Alan turned up toward one. “Hola, amigo,” he called friendlily. But custom was just not giving. Around one, Chaz shut up the bar and called on a client on his way home. Alan and Robert drifted off home together. Sonny was where Alan had left him that morning. In bed asleep. Another day was over.

The next day, Rodrigo dropped by with some news. “A new gang has started up,” he said. Then he explained about James’ gang (as Hunter had done). “And they’re selling good stuff,” he concluded morosely. Well, this called for a war council. They were especially incensed that Samuello should be involved. He had, after all, been one of them. They had not been sorry to see him go. It had meant one less mouth to feed. He had become impotent, too, on large amounts of supa-soma and heavily addicted. Something about kicking off, he had said. Of managing with less, in any case. And now this. The ingrate. They were all very much incensed. That a man, who they had looked upon as their brother, should be doing this. And to them. “We’ll have to kill him,” concluded Alan calmly. The others took some persuading but Alan was very adamant and they all listened to him as their unchosen leader. He had taken the place of Hunter as the real leader of the gang. Hunter had always relied on him but now he was going a bit simple in his head, it was Alan that the others now automatically turned.

Alan outlined a plan. Hunter would go to Samuello with a joint of supa-soma. Talk to him friendly-like and get him to imbibe. Then Alan would go along, take his knfe and murder him, when he slept in the soporific state that supa-soma induced. What about Luigi, though. He roomed with Luigi above the little pizza parlor that Luig owned and ran. Alan had the solution to that, too. Sonny would go round to invite Luigi over to enjoy Hunter’s daughter. At thirteen, she was a peach. Luigi would not be able to refuse. Now, Hunter’s daughter was really Alan’s, although he shared her sometimes with sonny. Never mind, for this one occasion, it wouldn’t matter. Besides, Alan was rather tired of abusing a thirteen-year old with whom no intellectual marriage of minds was possible. What would Luigi do, when he got back to find the body. “Dispose of it,” replied Alan coolly. “If he has any sense.” He went on to explain that Luigi would definitely not want a murder-rap pinned on him. So, then they all agreed. Samuello was to be murdered.

The appointed day came round and Sonny went to see Luigi. He mentioned his girlfriend and how young she was. Luigi’s eyes went round like Catherine wheels. Sonny saw his chance. “We could both have her, if you like. You could watch me making her and I could watch you.” Luigi was definitely interested in the deal. “How much does she cost,” he asked. “First time’s for free,” said Sonny. And he waited for the effect. “OK. You’re on,” said Luigi and that was that. The two ‘friends’ then went back to Avenida Menendez Pelayo to have their girl. The time was a little after nine and Luigi shut his pizza joint around nine.

Hunter turned up at about ten to accost Samuello. He found him alone shutting up shop. “How are you, amigo mio?” he began with a broad smile. Now, Samuello was not sure of himself. However, Hunter assured him there were no hard feelings. He made great play with the fact that Samuello had joined a new band and had gone up in the world. Now this was too good to be true thought Samuello and started to relax a little. Then Hunter took out the joint of supa-soma, he had brought with him for Samuello to smoke. Samuello was only to eager after it for he really could not get enough of the stuff. Satisfied that Samuello really was smoking it, he made his excuses and left. Samuello finished lockin g up his bar and smoked his supa-soma greedily at the same time.

Then along came Alan. The two of them laughed and joked a lot and made their way along the few steps to Luigi’s pizza parlor, where Samuello was staying. Night had by this time fallen and Boulevarden was deserted. Alan was satisfied that no one had seen him follow Samuello inside. Inside, the little apartment with two beds cramped together, Samuello collapsed onto one of the beds and Alan sat on the other one waiting. He didn’t have long to wait. Samuello lay on his back drawing gasping, sobbing breaths. His throat was exposed. Alan looked at it thoughtfully. Stroked it lightly with two fingers so as not to wake Samuello. Then he took out a small switch-blade from his pocket and flicked it open. The blade was only four inches long but lethally sharp. Alan made a couple of passes with the blade. Then he slit Samuello’s throat with it. Not very deeply. Samuello’s mouth filled with blood and the he started to wake up choking on it. So then alan stabbed him twice in his throat. After nthreshiing around wildly, samuello soon subsided into death. Alan stabbed him through his heart. Or, where he thought the heart was, for it had stopped beating by now. Then he stabbed him in the stomach for good measure. Then he just went crazy in a blood frenzy and half cut his head off with his little knife so it was lolling to one side. Sitting back, he surveyed himself. He did not have much blood on him. It had all been almost surgical, he thought. (Though never would a surgeon have made the mess he had left behind.) as an afterthought, he opened up Samuello’s trouser. Then he pulled them down depositing them on the pillow by Samuello’s dead half-hanging off head. Coolly, he wiped his blade on the sheet, which was all that covered Samuello’s bed and then he went home. He slept well that night. The blood had sated him.

Luigi returned home after a good evening. All his seed had been expelled. He felt good and uplifted. He really, he decided, liked Sonny. He used his key to open his small apartment. He simply screamed at what he saw. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth. Then he vomited violently and retchingly into the sink. Then he just sat there dazed. Then, thinking quickly, he grabbed his smart-phone to ring James up on ‘What’s App’. The phone rang for what sounded like an eternity before James answered. “Samuello,” he gasped, “is dead” “What?” said James. It was as if a powerful hand took over Luigi and he could observe himself speaking calmly and easily. He described the situation in the apartment and the body lying there blood-drenched. “I see,” said James, similarly buoyed up by a giant hand. “I’ll come over.”

He walked the few blocks up the Calle de Gibraltar across the Plaza de la Constitucion and on up Boulevarden. It was about three at night by now and there was no one to be seen. He was aghast at what he saw of Samuello’s body. He phoned Ramsey up right away. “Come on over. To Luigi’s.” Ramsey couldn’t understand what was going on. Wanted explanations. James, tiring of it all, just rapped, “Be there. At Luigi’s,” and hung up. Ramsey showed after a half-hour. His eyes mooned like flying saucers, when he saw the body.

There were now three of them. And the body. It would have to be got rid of was all James could think. Now Luigi had a big, shopping basket that he used to shop with at Mercadona’s. so, they man-handled Samuello down the steps and into the shopping trolley. Then they covered it with the bloody sheets. They trundled the shopping carriage down the Esplanade and along past Club Lineanse, the marina, along a break-water on Poniente, the second beach of La Linea, and down toward the sea. Then they swam with it - all three of them – to get it out beyond even the end of the break-water, which jutted far into the sea. It would not, however, drift far in the sheltered bay, which looked out to Algeciras on the other side. The body was bound to be discovered. Probably, sooner rather than later. James cursed the fact that he did not have a car. They could have burned the body in the desert. It would, however, give them a couple of days grace before the body was discovered.

“Who knew that Samuello was living with you?” interrogated James. “Virtually no one. We kept it secret. Besides, he wasn’t with me every night. There were the flea-dumps he visited. Slept rough on the beach sometimes.” “Sometimes slept on the beach,” mused James. “That’s your only alibi. He was murdered sleeping on the beach.” Arriving back at the apartment, James phoned his brother up, explaining the situation as succinctly as possible and describing their very great need of a car. James’ brother was very angry but he agreed to drive over with the pick-up. It was an electric car as were most in these days. They loaded the bed onto that and drove it out in the desert, where they made a fire and burned it. Meanwhile, Luigi set to scrubbing everything in sight in the apartment with the strongest bleach he could find. All of Samuello’s gear had gone with the bed to immolation in an unmarked spot in the desert. Far from the road. It was all very makeshift and extemporized but James guessed it would be enough to stop the police making further enquiries. Luigi was to tell them that sometimes he had given Samuello a roof over his head but mostly he had slept at cheap hotels or rough on the beach. They would then assume he had been knifed while sleeping on the beach.

The next day, the rosy sun kissed the bosom of the ocean and the body stayed down. The sun rose in about half-an-hour, spreading warmth very quickly throughout everywhere but especially reserving it for the early afternoon, when it baked. The people sat under the awnings of the restaurants on the Calle del Sol and ignored the eat-house of Chaz and Alan, which positively broiled.

True to form, the body did show up about three days later. The crowd of sun-bathers and bathers were shocked out of their minds, when the body floated up. Someone immediately phoned the policia, who came down to retrieve it from the sea. It was taken away in an ambulance to be ferried off for identification. Of course, enquiries had to be made. Now Samuello had been working at a one-man café in which he stood for everything. So, there was no one to ask about his whereabouts at nights. None of the others on Boulevarden could rightly recall where he was sleeping. He had told no one. When the finger of suspicion pointed at Luigi, he told them that Samuello had occasionally slept on the floor downstairs in the pizza parlor but not frequently. The police didn’t check Luigi’s place because a DNA check would have revealed the presence of Samuello and very quickly, too, all the bloodstains would have shown up because you just can’t remove blood that easily. However, the police didn’t have a search warrant and couldn’t get one either because there was no justification for it. Samuello had never lived there.

Alan followed developments from far off. He was reasonably tensed up about the police finding him. However, he figured he could also ditch and run, if need be. It was not, however, necessary. On the whole, he had enjoyed the killing immensely. It was what made him a psychopath. This longing to kill and torture. It was different from sadism. It was just a lust to kill. A Jack-the-Ripper feeling to leave behind a body all messed up and mutilated as he had done Samuello’s.