Chapter 1

Winter tyres on a four by four are all very well but against ten centimeters of snow the only real option is chains. Despite the signs warning ‘en cas de neige’ he had packed none and conditions were getting worse. He figured that turning round now would be the worst option. After all it’s far easier to skid out of control going downhill than up. There was also the distance to consider, far less to travel climbing… at least in theory.

The first part of the journey should have been a warning, even the relatively major routes were difficult. And as the roads started to wind up towards the mountains Turner could have taken a tip from the many abandoned cars littering the roadside and people turning back, but instead he soldiered on eventually turning off the N route on to a smaller D road and then to an even thinner, winding track.

This was truly a blizzard. Visibility was impaired to the extent that he was traveling at no more than 20km/h. Not helping was the fact that there were no tyre tracks to follow. For much of the time it was difficult to tell what was road and what was field, real danger lying in the fact that many fieldside ditches had been drifted over.

The car was being driven to its limits switching from first to second climbing hard with heaters on full blast. Even the windscreen wipers were working overtime, shifting huge masses of snow with each swipe. Petrol wasn’t a problem but overheating was. And a night in the car, even with the extra clothes he’d packed was not an attractive option. So he ploughed on sometimes with unfathomably steep drops to his left and right, other times across farmland. One thing for sure about the estate agent’s description, it was certainly isolated.

Despite having lived in Haute Savoie for ten years Turner’s life was mainly on the plain surrounding Lake Geneva. Apart from the occasional skiing trip, he had spent his years in the area relatively near sea-level. These were certainly not roads he knew. 

Chapter 2

It was getting dark, the road wasn’t busy, but the cars that drove down it, travelled at a speed that suggested that they didn’t expect to find pedestrians in their path, and there was no street lighting. Between Saint Antonio and Ibiza Town lies a rather featureless landsacpe. Just a collection of tracks off to the north and south leading to small island villages or in some cases expensive villas belonging to rich bankers from Barcelona. The occasional roadkill was a reminder, along with the speeding vehicles and lack of pavement, that this wasn’t perhaps the most sensible time to be traversing the island. But, needs must. Somewhere on the main road was a place that was becoming legend to a certain cognoscenti. A place where the sophistication and love of nightlife belonging most unarguably to the Spanish meshed with some drippy hippy love and peace attitude, a smattering of English eccentricity, Chicago house music and binding it all together a mystery ingredient invented by a German chemist.

Turner and his fellow pedestrian had been lured to Ibiza by word of mouth. They’d been seduced by basically the same promise that had led them previously to Glastonbury, and other such open air events in the UK. Simply the prospect of fresh air combined with alcohol, various other intoxicants and a lot of other like minded people. In getting to those events they’d often endured discomfort, perhaps not putting themselves in quite as much danger as this, but certainly a few blisters had been endured before. They concurred that this escapade was far less likely to end with them getting a soaking.

In the bars of Ibiza Town they’d realized that they didn’t really match-up to the other players in this game. The long hair was a match but the scruffy t-shirts and holey jeans signaled theirs’ was a different world. Their appearance made them a target for the drug dealers but most of the designer clad throng were interested only in their own. Their isolation made them feel a little uncomfortable but they were enjoying the ambience and the sense of the exotic. Alcohol may have helped but being of limited funds and without the criminal wherewithal to beg or steal they’d make each beer last as long as they could while taking in the extravagant displays of designer clad flesh. For Turner at least the women populating these bars were a serious improvement on the patchouli perfumed flower girls he normally hung out with.

A favourite hangout was the Rock Bar where a relaxed hippy of no obvious nationality held court. Here at least the music came from a place Turner and Jo understood. The clientele as well was less oppressively trendy. More to the point here they stood a good chance of hooking-up with Turner’s associate Michael. 

Michael and Turner worked together in a tour operator called Galaxy Tours. Galaxy’s clients were generally the bucket-and-spade brigade, jetting-off for a cheap week in the sun, where they could get a nice full English breakfast and none of that foreign muck. While the remuneration wasn’t anything to get excited about there were other benefits that made the toil worthwhile. Michael headed-up the operations department of the company which put him in the position of knowing exactly when and where there were empty seats going to particular destinations. If the day before a flight was due to go there were seats available Michael and to a lesser extent Turner would let it be known on their respective grapevines and sell off the seats to their friends for a tidy profit. It was a simple case of writing the tickets out and letting the airport rep know to turn a blind eye. They in turn would have the favour returned and the occasional bottle of duty free gin. The scam also meant that Michael and Turner could take full advantage themselves, with Ibiza top of the list of their chosen destinations.

For Turner the scam was a good way to ship his mates out on a few jollies. For Michael however it was a business proposition and he was always looking for ways to expand. A philosophy which would eventually lead to his and the scam’s downfall.

Michael was the older cooler but not necessarily wiser of the pair. A dapper, blonde, but gaunt and skinny figure with firsthand experience of the emerging Balearic scene and contacts that opened doors that would certainly have been otherwise firmly locked to the likes of Turner and his pal. He was trusted in his professional capacity at Galaxy Tours, and while there was tacit acknowledgement that some flight seats were given out to friends, the management saw that he was doing a good job and left him alone. Turner on the other hand was viewed with suspicion. Seemingly permanently stoned, more often than not of very unkempt appearance he had and displayed a dislike of authority that was never going to make him popular with the staid old gits that held the top jobs in Galaxy.

In the Rock Bar Michael was well known and when the hippy barman mentioned the fact that Turner was a mate there were soon enquiries about flights and banter about what nights were worth going to on the island. Amnesia was the club de jour. An open air affair in the centre of the island, in fact in the middle of nowhere, it was already a legend. English DJs had started a series of nights that would shape the lives of many of the people that went and many more who didn’t. Like any revolution there were ingredients rather than a single element that contributed to the end result. Amnesia and the like were a platform for selling a new youth cult. And that youth cult got high on a new blend of music and a new drug.  

On the road Turner and Jo were realizing the tedium and the dangers in equal measure. The occasional joint did nothing to help their road awareness. And lorries now seemed to be driven at increasing velocity and with decreasing levels of control. They were thirsty, dusty and getting pissed off. Whatever lay ahead it had better be good. Despite proffered thumbs not one speeding Spanish driver stopped. And the tourists were all in the bars of San Antonio and xxx getting pissed by now. They bet each other on how many more dead dogs or cats they’d see on the way. And they sang the words to Pink Floyd’s hippy epic Echoes and the Beatles’ Rocky Racoon. Cool cats they were not. Turner’s hair was turning from well groomed – he realized he had to make an effort – to matted, and his partners perennially unkempt look was being rendered tramp like with lank greasy hair now looking a shade beyond filthy and rarely washed jeans now taking on a rather more solid and grimy look. All of this served to increase Turner’s anxiety and self consciousness to a level of despair.

With amnesia on the horizon they decided to look for somewhere to stash the camping store knap sacks that held a change of clothes. In the corner of a field they found a pallet, hid their bags and marched up towards the club.

Amnesia had been around since the mid 1970's when it cost 4 million pesetas for a local entrepreneur to buy the magnificent old finca that would soon become such a key part of a new youth culture. Being green and English Turner and Jo had arrived a good two hours before anyone else and had no trouble gaining entry into a virtually empty nightclub.

As people started to arrive, and in an uncharacteristic display of gregariousness Turner approached a group of girls.

“Hey, when does it all kick off in here?”

The girls were bubbly with eyes as wide as their grins. A friendly reply came from one of the prettiest of the group: “Things don’t really start happening until two, but as more people arrive it just builds and builds. I really like to watch it all build-up. Where are you from?”

The girls were from Manchester, and were waiting for their fellas – “beer monsters” – to join them from the cheap bars of San Antonio. The thuggish downing of pint after pint of beer held no appeal for Turner. He was disheartened to learn that the girls kept such company, believing that it somehow lessened his chances with them.

They all knew of Michael either directly or indirectly such was the notoriety of the flight seat scam. While Turner could see the advantages of this he could also see how it could collapse the whole deal very quickly. Biff as Michael was know to this gang was already quite a face on the island.

“Are you on one?” the girl, Lucy, said repeating the newly emerging catchphrase of the movement.

“No. Do you know where I can score?” asked Turner.

Lucy told him that an Argentinean guy would probably be arriving later who would sort him out. “Stick with me and I’ll point him out.”

Turner was more than happy with this arrangement, knowing that it would give him some cool points for when Michael arrived. Jo meanwhile skulked in a corner, soon to be christened “tag along” by the sharp tongued Mancunians.

Lucy and Turner shared a joint and watched as the club started to fill-up, the volume rising with the size of the crowd. For Turner the music was a revelation. His previous experiences of nightclubs, or rather discos, had been limited to dingy suburban hellholes with names like Flicks, T’s, Stella’s etc. Cheesy disco music ruled the dancefloors with the lack of sophistication of the music a selling point for most of the punters. This was a different thing entirely. DJ’s were using the cut and paste techniques imported from hip-hop and Chicago house and mixing a wildly eclectic bunch of music. English indie sat comfortably alongside classic disco hits, hip-hop, Spanish flamenco even country and western. It often seemed the more bizarre the musical choice the bigger the reaction from the dancefloor.

Indeed as the club appeared to be reaching capacity the DJ dropped Jimi Hendrix’s Gypsy Eyes to wild screaming and frenzied dancing. This was a musical policy that Turner could happily live with confining the likes of Five Star and Billy Ocean to the dustbin of his mind.

By this time Jo looked lost, almost frightened and out of place, while Turner took it all in, eating up the detail and enjoying every second of it. Everything looked great, the place oozed sophistication. There were no pissed-up girls dancing around piles of handbags. These were the beautiful people, swanning about as confident as if they had just stepped off a private jet. And much to his surprise Turner was completely taken-in. It seemed every nationality was represented, all young and beautiful, coming together to do what exactly? To Turner it seemed little more than an exhibition, the superficiality of this realization making it all the more attractive.

Lasers cut into the dry ice and the night air. The thumping and disorienting bass adding to the atmosphere and quickening Turner’s pulse, increasing his hunger. The vista from where they stood was now a writhing mass, some hands were raised to the sky. It was surreal, psychedelic, beautiful. There was a remarkable air of excitement created by something quite intangible.

As Hendrix was mixed into the next track, Turner spotted Michael in the distance with a small crowd. They were moving towards him so he stayed put with Lucy and the other mancunians. Lucy pointed out the fact that he was with Erno, the Argentinean dealer. 

Michael approached them with the hugest grin and the widest eyes Turner had ever seen. His enthusiasm on seeing Turner quite a revelation considering his usual air of indifference to his subordinate. He rounded on Turner pressing something into his hands and whispering: “Just one for you, Erno’s had a great night and he’s sorted me out.”

Turner realized that he held in his hand the fuel of this club and this zeitgeist. And he wasn’t going to share it, despite the pleading looks of tagalong in the corner. Jo would have to buy his own… find his own way in this new world.

Certainly the world looked different in the light of an MDMA haze. Soon sporting a grin the size of a house himself and telling everyone in sight how much he loved them, Turner was having the time of his life. Never much of a dancer he took to the dancefloor for lengthy periods returning to rehydrate and maybe smoke a joint with some of his new friends.

The boyfriends of the mancunians had turned up and in their bloated, stumbling, burping drunken state they looked a world apart from the beautiful people in the club. Barely able to move they reclined on some sofas ugly and incoherent. In contrast the conversations that Turner was striking up with complete strangers seemed intimate and deeply meaningful. E was gliding him through the crowds and giving him empathy for others and a confidence that he’d never had. 

Everything had become so colourful and beautiful. His body absorbed the energy of the music and the crowd seemed as one. This was a magical moment and a magical time. Everyone in amnesia that night knew that they were part of something new and something fabulous. The dark days of the eighties were coming to a close with something altogether more vibrant, fun and less superficial. In later years the word tribal was often used to describe the oneness of these gatherings, bound together in collective narcoses. But, by then Turner would have grown weary, it was the newness of this thing that made it special for him. 

On a table a bearded fat man with long grey hair and a sailor’s hat danced. Sixties era hippies mixed with wide boys from South London. Sexy Spanish couples brought incredible latin energy. Gangsters in Jean Paul Gaultier suits looked menacing at the bar and chopped out massive lines of coke in the VIP suites for leggy blondes. If anything it was a coming together of different tribes.  

Lucy pointed to her man snoring quietly to himself in an armchair. “That cunt’s getting the chop,” she said. Turner understood the significance of her telling him even more so when she said: “Come on let’s do one. We can to a beautiful beach I know and watch the sun come up. I’ve got another e so we can do a cheeky half as well.”

Needing no persuading Turner flashed Michael a wink and they headed for the exit. Lucy had one of the ubiquitous yellow mopeds from island hire outfit called MedPed. They hopped on smiling and giggling their way out of the car park and on to the main road. While the drug’s effects were far from at their peak a warm glow enveloped them both and Turner clung to Lucy relishing the feel of her body. As her hair whipped his face he surveyed the brightening landscape and enjoyed the red hue of the fields and some flickers of crystal from the ocean.

The beach was at the bottom of a dirt track and indeed it was beautiful. Clearly not a destination that many tourists knew of, its narrow stretch of sand followed the coast for no more than five hundred metres and was punctuated with large rocks and little alcoves.

They parked up and ran down to the sea. Turner threw himself into the sand face first and flipped over to meet Lucy’s lips. They kissed and she rolled off him. They both lay there watching the sky hearts thumping, hearing still fuzzy from exposure to amnesia’s sound system but most of all overwhelmingly blissful. Turner sat up and started to roll a joint. Lucy fished around in her purse for the MDMA tablet. Finding it she broke it in half and gave one section to Turner who quickly swallowed it.

After finishing the joint Lucy stripped naked and ran into the sea. Turner followed suit. The feel of the cold water on their bodies was amazingly sensual. They kissed and frolicked in the water but most of all they swam, Turner like a fish underwater fascinated by the patterns that the light was making on the surface. Lucy liked to float staring at the horizon and the few clouds in the sky. It was a long time before the day would warm-up but they were not cold.

On dry land Turner quizzed Lucy on the sleeping beauty back in amnesia. She didn’t care to share much, he was history as far as she was concerned. He was a gas fitter and she had higher aspirations. She said she wanted to get out of Manchester and move down to London. They talked about how magnificent Amnesia was, what a cool vibe Ibiza had. She said she loved Turner’s hippy threads and promised to show him the hippy market in Es Cana before she flew back.

Sometimes the newly replenished ecstasy buzz rendered conversation difficult. Various peaks or rushes were so intense that they just had to lie back and enjoy.  

After a couple of hours, their reverie was broken by a German couple that had the same idea as them. They dressed and got back on the bike heading to Playa den Bossa and a club that Lucy said would only just be opening.

The sun was fully up by now and while the night cloaks well the intoxicated, daylight brings it sharply into focus. Weaving through the early morning traffic in Ibiza Town is was more than a little obvious to the commuters what fun these two revelers had been having. Not that they cared. Self consciousness was a distant memory for them both.

Having avoided crashing the bike Lucy parked among the many other MedPeds and other assorted rent-a-bikes and beach buggies at Space on the other side of Ibiza Town in Playa den Bossa. It hadn’t occurred to Turner to worry for one second about Jo, and perhaps more importantly the fact that they were supposed to be flying from the nearby airport that day.

In Space it was more of the same except slightly more relaxed. There was a notably larger gay clientele, energetically dancing after who knows how many hours. But Turner and Lucy got a beer each and headed for the terrace where they smoked a joint and enjoyed the incredible spectacle of this ‘night’ club that apparently opened at 5am. They were soon joined by some people they’d met in Amnesia earlier and Lucy disappeared to the dancefloor, returning dripping in sweat. Michael and the Argentinean, Erno, were quickly on the scene. The ever business-minded Michael reminding Turner that he had a shift starting tomorrow morning and that he needed to be there to make sure that a few friends of Erno could ensure their free passage.

Turner nodded not really taking on board the logistics. For a start he needed to find Jo. And he also remembered that they’d stashed their bags under a pallet in a field who knows where.

Lucy was starting to make it clear that she needed Turner’s private attention which also presented some logistical problems. She was sharing a room with her boyfriend. And Turner didn’t have accommodation of any description. Michael however did, and with some persuasion he handed over the key. Turner knew that this little favour wouldn’t come for free, but right know his mind was being driven by a throbbing between his legs.

Back on the scooter it was a short ride to Michael’s place in Playa den Bossa. The room was immaculate with made-up bed and clothes hung on rails or neatly folded. They showered together, running their hands over each others bodies and enjoying the water trickling into their mouths as they kissed. At first they fucked frantically, with Lucy screaming and holding on to the back of the bed arching herself up to meet him better. The three or four more times after that were more leisurely flowing affairs spooning or up against the bedroom wall enjoying the sea view and breeze. On the balcony they drank some lemonade finally succumbing to the dying sensation of the MDMA in their bodies and the need for sleep.

Waking with the realization that he needed to be at the airport in a hurry Turner shook Lucy awake and demanded a lift to the airport. He’d have to hope that Jo had picked his bag up. At least he had his passport. Checking in just in time he exchanged telephone numbers with Lucy and kissed her good bye. Spotting Jo in the departure lounge he sprinted over.

“Well you’re a right stupid cunt aren’t you,” said Jo.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Where are the bags?”

“I thought you had them?”

“Nope… well whatever”. Turner thought that he’d have little use for the uniform of his old life. One night in Ibiza had changed all that.

“You might not care but my best Led Zep t-shirt was in that bag.”

Turner had never heard anything funnier in his entire life. He collapsed on the chair in front of him unable to control an extreme fit of giggling. It was clear that the uniform wasn’t the only thing that he’d be losing.

Chapter 3

Rounding the third of a series of increasingly tight bends Turner could see through the snow lights from a house. Since he understood the house that he was supposed to be viewing was the only one on this track he knew his destination was within reach.

The house was pretty much as he’d hoped and in fact viewing it in these conditions showed at least that there were no real problems with draughts. The huge hearth warmed the whole ground floor. And upstairs while cold was not as freezing as one might expect. The elderly owner explained that his son had done a lot of work in double glazing the place and making it more resistant to the cold. The massively thick walls helped.

There were no carpets, in fact no concessions to comfort. In some ways it was very stark but in others cosy. In all of the work he hoped to do he wanted to be able to retain some of this character. This would be some achievement given the transformation from working farm house to the luxurious pad that he had in mind.

But the most important part of his project lay underground. And Turner couldn’t disguise his delight from the farmer at the near perfect conditions that the sous-sol presented. Here was exactly what he was looking for, the floorspace and height were exactly as described. An unusually large waterproofed cellarspace with four separate rooms and storage. Access, also important was either via an outbuilding, a hatch behind the house and also a more traditional set of stairs from the house itself.

The farmer offered a bed for the night. And as Turner lay in it he reflected on the set of events that had led him to this particular juncture in a rather remarkable life.