| 'Tanit' Punic Goddess................................................. | Es Vedra the Space/Time Portal off the coast of Ibiza |
'IBIZA'
Chapter 3
'LIFE IS A BEACH...............THEN YOU DIE !
Paul disgustedly gazed at the oiled lard and beached whales otherwise known as tourists.
"Leute von Ibitza, wir sind leute von Ibitza, na na, nana nana, na na."
The Tarot cards, the mystery, the assasin. Hassan-I-Sabah and his society of assasins coming
Paul declared to himself that the world considered him an oddity that had to be removed. A
Aimlessly he glanced at the people around him. Happy tourists, no worries. His third beer
A tourist flopped in a chair nearby. Soon became engrossed in a book about the ill fated ship
Paul tried to apply logic. If the character leaving the Tarot cards was to be his assassin why
"Cheer-up senor," the smiling barman tried to be helpful as Paul settled his bill. Paul
Continuing his trudge along the beach the sand became rock. He stubbed his toe on a small
Pine again, the strong smell crawled into his nostrils and began to clear his head. He felt
Nearly falling amongst the rocks in his careless descent. He found his spot with a huge bath
Fool ! He had slept. How long ? He must be burnt. His watch told him only 20 minutes
These two on the 'game' thought Paul. The depressive philosopher had suddenly taken a hike.
"Allo -vous etes anglais ?" The two girls knelt next to him. This time legs held firmly together.
"Come on !"
Chapter to be continued...........
Trying to get a that 'tan' in two weeks. The Mediterranean rushed up to him and filled his
right trainer. He grunted disapproval and took both shoes off, tied the laces together and threw
the sodden shoes across his shoulder. His toes mingled amongst seaweed, sand and cigarette ends.
The human generated pollution that left its mark on every beach. Spying a distant bar that wasn't
crowded Paul's thirst returned. Thirst or escape ? How long coould he kid himself that he was not
being followed ? That someone somewhere wanted him out of the way ? Dejectedley he crossed the
baking sand that scorched his feet. He did not care. He had more important things on his mind.
How long would his money last ? He hadn't realised that his psychology would be different
when he was away on holiday without a job. It felt different when there was work to return to.
Work in Spain ? He spoke the language, but with Spanish unemployment 25% and rising. The
price of the continually stalling single European currency the 'Euro'. Euro is also the Aboriginal
name for a kangaroo, both hopped about. Lazy ? He not only found it hard to get a job but when he
did his mind wandered all the time from sheer boredom.
The bar, a typical wooden floor with shade from a matted roof. The tiny bar area for serving
bergers made from reconstituted reconstitution dripping in fat. MMmmm healthy ! Beer, chips
and various other concoctions brewed over a single stove. He had just been to the basic toilets.
Floor and pan covered with sand and water, toilet paper stuck on a nail or hanging from a piece
of string. Odd bits of paper lying around and a stench left by a tourist trying to cope with a change
of food. A bucket of disinfectant ? No better to torch it ! Here come the flies for lunch.
" Si ?" The waiter of sorts in grubby T-shirt proclaiming another continent given by a grateful
girlfriend topped mauve shorts down to the knees. Tanned and sandy feet grabbed at the flip-flops
by oversized toes. Dark features, long straggly hair, Paul took in this Spanish cliche with suspicion.
"San Miguel por favor," more beer.
How long could he try to push the boundaries of reality away by pouring beer down his neck ?
An expanse of twinkling azure sea winked and smiled at him. Bland rhythmic ?Euro-techno?
music blared from speakers hung like shrunken native heads from the wooden posts that supported the roof.
Not that awful German record AGAIN ! He lost count the times he had heard that rubbish.
Tourists without a care in the world cavorted or turned over to be fried a little longer on another side.
Every fear and paranoid thought seemed to be rushing into his mind like a cavalry charge. The
tough looking character with folded arms and a moustache. Strong legs apart, eyes looking out
to sea. Militarily trained he could break Paul?s neck in an instant, as if it were a chickens?. The
barman, he might be an innocent looking local Spaniard or Ibicencan as they liked to be called.
A sudden knife , a blade between the shoulders while he sipped his beer and Paul would be
no more.
to get him. Did the Tarot cards warn him of the next situation or were they some sick joke by a
clever killer leading him to his doom ? The whole world out to get him, he had no right to live,
he did not fit. A mixture from a bygone age and something from the future. None culd bare to be
with him. No room for eccentrics now. One must conform. Look the part. Act it . Pretend it. Do
Do what is expected. The system works for you not against you. Love the system, love ?big-
brother?. It will supply the rewards now. Not in heaven.
wart on the face of corporate perfection. The ?rubbish? music finished and a wise soul put on a
golden oldie. Annie Lennox sand ?Why? . Why indeed ? Why life ? Why anything ? He drank in the strains of a true artist, discovered during adolescence.
and things did not seem so bad. Sunny day, pretty girls. A man rubbed sun lotion into the back
of his beautiful girlfriend. Super-assassin poses as tourist before eradicating key witness. Stop
it Paul. The professor in the museum had been the first time he had confronted a dead body.
Quite calm about it at the time he had thrown up violently later that evening. Convinced the
police knew more than they had let on. The inspector's final comment about staying with
relatives abroad seemed at once hollow and at the same time threatening. He did not like
staying with his nice but boring aunt in Madrid. Avenida Generalissimo rich and respectable,
Franco's thought police gone forever. Madrid, an oven in summer and a fridge in winter. What
a place to build a city. Mingle with the tourists. Beer became a depressant . Dead professor no
hiding place. Two days of pretence, delusion. More beer. How many drunks were escaping
something ? One time he thought them losers. Not now. In the gutter. Dead or drunk. Maybe
dead drunk.
Titanic. A subject made popular by the discovery of the wreck and the subsequent very successful
film, a few years back. He looked at the warm sea beckoning him to bathe. He felt strangely
cold. The sea around Titanic was only 31 degrees fahrenheit. The temperature at which the
metal of her hull would have been most brittle. Brittle things break. Bodies snap. 1500 souls
in 1912 still waiting to be heard. Followed by several million in the First World War two
years later. Even more in the flu epidemic that followed the war. A culling. Those poor
people on the Titanic eventually knew they were going to die. All they had to do was wait.
All he had to do was wait for the mysterious assassin. Probably leaving a Tarot card stuffed
in his mouth. 'The Grim Reaper' no doubt. Paul wondered if the film-makers had known what
a character Charles H Lightoller, Titanic's second officer, had been. Hollywood annoyed him at
times. Like his scolding mother when he watched an umpteenth video.
Paul raised his glass. "Here's to you Charles Lightoller." There was cat with nine lives. The
tourist with the book gave Paul an odd look. Lightoller would have known what to have done in
Paul's position. By Paul's age he'd frozen in a schooner's rigging from the age of 16. Been
shipwrecked on a deserted island. And gone gold prospecting in the Klondyke. Not cloistered
in a unversity and had a nice cosy home to go to. No wet bunks ,biscuits with weavils and
rats gnawing at the blisters on the feet while sleeping for Paul. That which doesn't kill you
makes you strong. Nietzshe was the first Nazi and a git and probably misquoted. He did not
like right wingers. He thought left wingers had some funny ideas but at least they listened
and it was possible to communicate with them. The World had taken a sudden and strong lurch
to the political right and he'd stayed in the same position. Leaving him on the left of something.
He had already spied some neo-nazis on the beach. Skin-head haircuts ,aggressive attitude and
tattoos proclaiming 'Blood and Honour'.
had he not done the job sooner ? Perhaps the killer had a perverse streak . Like a cat playing
with a mouse before killing it. A warm day but Paul shivered a cold sweat. Something hunted
a little boy not a man. 'Street-wise' isn't learnt from books. Something out there waited to
pounce.
answered in fluent Spanish that 'life' had just caught up with him. The barman frowned
looking concerned making a mental note. Fluent Spanish from a tourist. He may need help,
all latinos are family.
jagged piece. Replacing his trainers he kicked the next small rock away in disgust. The bright
shiny sea smiled at him twinkling a thousand points of light.
A surreal brightness shone from the Med, a large polluted pond. Intense whiteness of
reflected sunbreathed from the rocks as he left the beach behind. The smell of pine strong in
his nostrils as he noticed little coves with sandy private places. Nakid bathers all with partners
Out of luck again. Sky almost purple. Gazing at the Mediterranean, he could walk into the water
and walk forever. Sink down not glide across the surface. Washed ashore like a poor shipwrecked sailor from the days of sail. Puffed and bloated, drowned and gone. The physical body like puffed
wheat. A dead man in heaven or hell. No body. No fears. No emotions. No loves. No hates.
dizzy as the cicadas chirped merrily at him from the rough vegetation. A sudden wind wiped
his perspiring face as he drifted into mental unreality.
I drifted with the breeze.
Fell amongst the trees.
Wrestled with the leaves.
Paul stumbled towards the edge of a small cove with deserted sand . Nakid privacy. The sea
caressed the shore. Green-blue pools of transparency navigated by eager crabs.
towel that said 'Zakinthos'. Hot burning sand in Greece as well. He began to think of souvlaki
and ouzo sa he rubbed 'factor-15' lotion into his already tanning skin. Half Spanish genes
slowed the process that turned many an Englishman into a lobster colour. Lying nakid on his
towel with a book on ancient Sumeria covering his head Paul began to murmur. "Should have
gone to Greece," this time thoughts of dolmades and retsina. The occasional Greek ruin.
had past. Panic over. The cowardly virgin had avoided a roasting . A sudden movement to his
right caught his eye. He let out a long sigh as his body began to react. Two bronzed young
ladies were staring at him from about ten metres away. Their arrival had gone unnoticed. They
lay there nakid and giggling like two naughty school girls. He thought he heard French being
spoken. A picture from the side of some Greek pottery. One had short hair bleached white and
looked almost six feet tall. The other had permed hair full of curls. Both well endowed , fine
chisseled features and high cheek bones. Obviously continental they came from either France
or Spain. Attractive they insisted on the modern fashion of tattoos. They girl with the mass of
curly hair laughed, turned and spread her legs apart. Like a flower opening its leaves to the rain.
She had no pubic hair. Wow 'Lap-dancers' thought Paul and they are turning me on for fun.
Should he risk it ? Damn, he left his forever unopened packet of condoms back at the
apartment. His heart and blood thumped and roared like the 'Flying Scotsman' steam
locomotive. He began to shake. Lust and guilt. Guilt and lust. How would he describe this
at the confessional ? On the rare occasions he went. Paul closed his eyes as the one with the
white hair stared right into him. He felt like the next item on the menu.
"Er sort of," his voice a high pitch. He tried to lower his voice with a cough with an
impersonation of a very masculine sound.
"Spanish mother , German father . Born and grew up in England. " They showed no interest.
"Ooh-la-la!" Came the cliche. 'Curly-head' lifted the book from Paul's head.
"We studied archaeology at the Sorbonne."
"And psychology," said the goddess with the white bleached hair.
"May I look at your book?" Paul shook as he nodded . He stayed face down on his towel. Fearful
of displaying a sexual responce.
"Have you heard of ENKI?" Said 'Curly'.
"The Sumerian Water god, ENKI is also an anagram of NIKE!"
"Oh tres bon mon petit beau," said the tall white haired one. Paul dug his toes in the sand ,
swung his foot up and dropped it back again. His body seethed
"And ENKI is also an Alien!"
"Legal or illegal," he quipped.
"Non! Like with the UFO's.
"What ?" Paul exclaimed in surprise turning to face them. Both girls drew breath. Now they were
nervous, rolls reversed. They had planted themselves next to him, flowers closed. The chemistry
became intense.
"I am Monique," said the curly one.
I am Clara," said the statuesque one. They both offered hands. Paul shook them realised his
predicament and fell flat to his towel again. "Paul, just call me Paul."
"We can see that mon petit virge."
Femail intuition, it had to be. For the next two hours they discussed his favourite subject,
archaeology. His other favourite subject burned inside him like a volcano. Waiting for
release. A flow of lava. One of the girls had a'cool-bag' with iced drinks and rolls. Paul
"Wasn't it terrible that the Americains bombed Iraq and destroyed so many important
archaeological sites back in '91 & 2003?" Monique looked wistful.
"And the death of 700,000 innocents just because of oil. The bombing of '98 and '99 just
destroyed a lot of dummy installations made of concrete and corregated iron. Plus a few
faked heat signatures and radio transmissions. 'Maskirovka' as the Russians call it must
be convincing. The mood had a danger of becoming gloomy.
"And the portal in time/space." Clara piped up.
"The what ?!" Paul turned in astonishment. Whoops ! He drew his knees up to himself.
"Iraq, Sumeria, Mesopotamia is-was a portal in time space where the aliens came through
to teach civilisation. Enki was one. I believe anyway." Monique shrugged her shoulders.
"Look at the cylinder seals of that period. U.F.O's in the background."
"I thought you two were serious about archaeology. Fighting over a time/space portal. You
sound like a friend of mine. That type of archaeology is just to sell cheap paperbacks. Read
them on the beach. It's as daft as the Lines of Nasca in Peru being runways. Don't know any
Swiss hoteliers who are writers by any chance ?" Monique looked unhappy as if she knew
something but could not explain further.
"Ever been to Egypt ?" enquired Clara.
"Ever messed about with Tarot cards ?" Joked Paul taking a chance.
"No, " laughed Clara. "The only cards I've messed about with is in a casino.
Clara looked at her friend. Monique had fallen silent. A smile slowly formed on Clara's face.
She got up and walked up to the top of the cove and looked around. Satisfied that there was
nobody about she threaded her way back to the now silent couple. An unreal silence hung in the
air. The sea became becalmed. Birds no longer circled overhead. Clara poked her friend with a
toe.
"Initiation ?" She smiled as she looked Monique knowingly in the eyes.
"The coast is clear!" Enthused Clara.
Monique let her legs part to display herself for Paul again. His eyes flashed at her displayed
moistness and he looked away and began shaking. Casually she closed her legs, the temptation
over. Clara lent back on an elbow and did the same. Keeping her legs apart she displayed
herself shamelessly and giggled.
"We are part of an esoteric group with the rich, the very rich and the famous. We are called the
'Sisters of RA'."
"Sisters of what ? Initiaton ? Rich people , esoteric what ? What initiation ?
"This !" Monique pushed Paul on his back and sat astride him. Clara caressed herself and
began to mutter an incantation. Monique began to gyrate her hips ever so slowly. Paul's
mind began to race. "Yippee, great at last, at last. I'm not afraid for once." His heart soared.
he had waited so long for this moment. His body stirred in a way that ensured the continuance
of the species.
"OOh-ouch!"
"Oops, sorry my little virgin," smiled Monique.
"How does she know?" Thought Paul.
Clara became excited by watching.
"What exactly are the 'Sisters of RA' ?"
"What are the 39 Steps ?" Monique's back arched and she growned in pleasure.
Monique giggled. Paul drew in breath. "Well ?"
"Ok, ok , I have seen the film. I know you are a clandestine security operation. Dedicated
to gaining secrets of the French aircraft industry via pillow talk."
"Swallows !"
" I beg your pardon ," Paul unaware what Monique meant. "Is this 'sex-talk-sex-initiation' or
'talk-sex-talk-initiation' ?" Clara began to position herself behind Paul's head.
"Swallows, the old K.G.B 'honeypot' entrapment game , always works. Paul should have
remembered because of Robert's Russian uncle's. His mind now on other things. Did they put
something in his drink ? He possessed an endurance he did not believe he would be capable of.
Paul pulled himself up by his elbows to be met with erect nipples. Then thrust down to his towel
again. The motion became more intense. "You're too quick Monique we don't want to spoil the
moment."
"I cannot help it Clara , I'm hungry for the roast-beef, " she moaned in French.
Clara began to caress Paul's upper regions with any part of her body that took her mood.
"Now !" said Clara and clasped Paul's head between her legs.
They had drugged his drink. He was on a high now in more ways than one.
A knife. An ancient relic with a very sharp blade. Monique panting slit her arm then
Paul's. So fine a knife he felt almost nothing. The two crimson streaks mingled. Clara
held Paul like a Saturday afternoon wrestler. She copied Monique. Another fine line of
blood. Paul moaned in ecstasy. The girls began to chant towards a fever pitch.
"We are the Sisters of RA.
Daughters of the architect PTah.
With minds that see far.
Winged Pharoahs of the New Order.
We take the seed of our new brother.
We are bound together for ever.
In life and in death.
Incarnate together
Bound together to create a New World.
Till penance of death unfold>
Sisters of RAAA --AAA!"
All three bodies enmeshed , entwined.
A shadow of another fell across the sand , silently observing.
Monique screamed in pleasure. Paul's volcano erupted, lava spilling forth. Monique drank down.
The drug had worked well , Paul ready again.
"Now I'm hungry !"
Clara pushed her friend off Paul and mouted him. Monique lay back for a moment panting
gathering thoughts. Then she scurried around and held Paul's head and shoulders in her arms.
Clara made slow rhythmic motions and muttering how just wonderful as Paul's eyes opened
and closed.
"Paul darling, Oh Paul sweat boy I am sorry , we should have never involved you." Monique
covered Paul's face with kisses.
Sorry, for what ? He thought. He was having the time of his life. Where did all that energy come
from ? The two girls cuddled one another panting. Clara pushed Monique gently away. The
movement increased she also leant back and screamed. Paul's volcano released the final
flow of lava.
"Wow, double wow, triple wow even !" He just lay there. Both girls lay next to him cuddling
and cradling him like a child.
Nothing was said for half an hour. He must have slept. They were sitting upright in
swimming costumes and looking far out to sea at some imaginary point.
"Will you come to a party tomorrow night ? A luxury affair on a yacht."
"I'm willin' for a shillin'," he laughed.
Clara gave him a card. It just said 'Weltmeister' Invitation. Friday 23rd. 9pm
The card had a number, 33. The thirty-third guest.
"Look I'm sorry . We should not have involved you in our mystery school, please
forget it. Sometimes desire clouds reason." Monique pleaded.
"Don't worry 'mystery schools' went out with the ark and the Victorians. Theses days
they are the domain of the right-wing 'Conspiracy Theorists' in anoraks. The drug still
made Paul feel high. I think I'll just float up and have a word with that seagull thought
Paul. "Jonathan !"
"Ark of the.....!" Monique silenced by a quick kick to the shins by Clara.
"We have to go now."
Paul watched as the two girls headed in the opposite direction from whence he came.
Monique would occasionally stop, wave her arm about and be dragged on by Clara.
Strange beasts, women. Thought Paul. Bound together forever. Wouldn't be long before
they issued him with a twenty-four hour pass to go down to the pub. No you cannot go out
with your mates tonight !
Monique and Clara trudged through the sand. Leaving Paul in the distance.
"That was stupid!"
"I know it was both our fault," said Monique.
"I want him Clara, I want him. Are we going to spend the rest of our lives being screwed
by the fat, the ugly and the boring just because they have power and influence ?" Monique
started to cry .
"I want him, I want a normal life." She kicked at the sand. Clara dragged her along.
"You know that is not possible. We cannot turn back the clock. We should have kept
our 'Remote Viewing' to ourselves. We were attracted to the luxury, the wealth. I'd love
to be a poor student again. But it is too late, and you know it."
Monique burst into tears again. "I want him, Iwant him, " she sobbed and clenched a fist.
She could get very angry if she did not get her own way.
Clara put her arm around Monique and kissed her cheek. She lifted startling blue eyes
skyward and sniffed the air. There was a storm brewing in more ways than one. That she
knew for certainty. She cast her mind back to her student days, poor but happy in a one room
bedsit near the Bastille. Discovering her sexuality, she liked boys and girls. She swopped her
Italian boyfriend for a Russian girlfriend who liked to quote the Soviet Leader Brezhnev, "Why
do I drink? If you knew what I know you'd drink and still not sleep well in your bed."
She also like to quote the old Russian proverb, "Life is your best teacher."
Clara had not long learned the significance of both statements.
Paul felt as if he walked on air as he made his way back to the bus stop, hotel and bar at the
entrance to 'Las Salinas'.
He ordered a double espresso from the girl behind the bar. "O.K," she said with her back to hm.
A blackboard listed cocktails, third one down said, 'Sex on the beach' ,Paul smiled to himself. He
an inner calm, a relief. "At last."
"At last what ?" Said the girl in T-shirt and jeans.
"Yelitsa ! What are you doing here ?"
"Filling in for a friend, sugar?"
"Er-yes, two brown." She scooped heaped spoons into his cup.
"Enough ?"
"It was, I-I mean whoa I don't want the spoon to stand up in the cup."
"You like things standing up, have a good time on the beach ?" Came the throw-away line.
"Yeah, great ," a look of satisfaction crossed his face.
Yelitsa held Paul's hand. " I think you're sweet. You're an innocent, please be careful. Be very
very careful. I sense you are in some kind of danger." Said the fashion model, occasional bar-girl
and natural psychic from Brazil.
"I'll be alright, " he dropped his spoon on the floor and bent down to pick it up.
"Listen, as I was saying ?" There was nobody there. "Yelitsa !" He looked over the bar, no
Yelitsa. Funny she was here a second ago. A waiter ran from the hotel.
"Lo siento senor , I'm sorry. My staff always going walking, what would you like?" Paul settled
the bill. "How long the Brazilian girl worked here?"
"What Brazilian girl senor ?There no Brazilian girl here!"
"Yelitsa, the girl who served me, filling in for a friend or something ," this time Paul spoke
fluent Spanish.
"No senor I think you been dreaming." Paul held his council.
"Oh maybe I made a mistake."
"I certainly think so senor."
Paul made his way to the bus stop, in reality an area of gravel with bus times selotaped to
a shop window. The crackling of tyres chewing up the stones announced the vehicles' arrival.
The dirty blue bus stopped then hissed and grunted like a dissatisfied wart hog.
The flapping of wings caught Paul's attention on the top of the hotel Sol y Luna. Strange looking
bird. Another escaped pet parakeet no doubt.
Boarding the bus something bright caught his eye, he bent down picked it up raised his
eyebrows and thrust it into his pocket. Paying the disinterested driver he made his way to the
back of the bus, past oily plastic seats covered in sand and chirpy gays, suntan, shaved heads
and earrings. trilling at each other.
The bus bounced along a road, the very same bus literally that had lurched along carrying him
when he was fifteen years old, mother in tow, making sure he kept away from the naughty ladies.
The sun flashed through gaps in hills ,palm trees and the occasional building. Paul stared
through the dust coated window. Fifteen, every day , every experience gave him a feeling of
renewed expectation. It took from then and a promise by a swimming pool that never
materialised till now for physical fulfilment. A time for everything. In between holidays in
Madrid with aunts and uncles. Fed as if a starving man with hours of boredom at the 'street cafe
without desire'. He pulled the object from his pocket. Oh no ! Another Tarot. He thought that
joke had ended.
Card number 6 'The Lovers'. The man and the woman naked , the man representing
conscious intellect who looks at the woman , she represents the unconscious. More was released
on the beach than he realised.
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