Chapter One: Ocho Rios, Jamaica 1982 continued...

                  Back at the hotel, silent tears of amusement flowed down Angelika’s face as Peter replayed their adventure. She exhaled ganja smoke and passed him the joint. His fingers shook as he nervously grabbed the spliff.

                                  “It was not fucking funny, Angelika.” he said, toking hard and coughing painfully in the process. Angelika and Sophie burst out laughing and Raphael, who was furiously chopping out long rails of coke on an upturned hotel mirror, suddenly leapt up.  
                   

                                  “No, man I'm telling you, it was fucking in..cred..ib..le...He goes like this..” he points his fingers, “and they all...poof...back off! No shit!”

                 Peter snorted a line from the mirror while checking out his diminishing hairline then he stood, puffed out his flabby chest and cocked his gun-hands. 
                  

                 “True. I'm the fucking man! Say hello to my little friend, suckers!”

                 Peter passed the mirror and a rolled up banknote to Angelika, who eyed it suspiciously.

                 "This is wet, Peter? What's with the wet note? Drooling uncontrollably again?"

                 Peter shrugged, “Fucking humidity. Even the coke melts.” 

                 Angelika calmly walked to the mini-bar, found a drinking straw and professionally snipped it into thirds. She then snorted a line and passed it to Sophie who was still giggling inanely. Raphael started pacing, evidently freaked out by this piece of late-breaking news.

                 “Wet? The coke gets wet? What the fuck are we going to do, man? This is the shit problem, man...Turn the air conditioning on, rapido!”

                 Sophie hoovered up a line and passed the mirror to Raphael. 

                 “Relax, darling, come here...” she breathed. Raphael, ever obedient when it came to sex, snarfed the biggest line and dutifully sat with Sophie; they then proceeded to devour each other.

                 Angelika and Peter shared an uncomfortable glance and Angelika took another hit off the joint. Long moments passed, as she heard Sophie and Raphael’s tongues slapping together and her stomach churned. She realized that she hadn’t consumed any solid food in hours. Angelika breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so great; her heart was pounding. She was way too fucking high. 

                 Angelika opened her eyes. Peter was chopping out yet another set of fat white rails. Sophie and Raphael were staring intently at her, both emanating a disquieting predatory demeanor. Who were these people? Angelika tried in vain to control her rising panic.

                 Sophie alluringly patted the seat next to her. “Are you okay, darling? Come over here...”  Angelika blinked her dry eyes and looked hard at Sophie and weasel boy. She felt extremely vulnerable.   
                  

                 “I'm cool really, no problem.”  Peter noisily snorted another line and sucked it back with gusto. He then handed the smeared mirror to Angelika.

                 “Angel! Have another line! That'll set you straight.”

                 Angelika shook her head and shakily got up from the bed. “That's enough excitement for one night, guys. Think I'd better get some sleep.”

                 The others found this statement an absolute riot. Raphael eyed her knowingly.

                 “You'll be lucky....if you're lonely, cara, you know where to find us. Room 101 for non-stop fun.” He laughed maniacally at his brilliant joke and blew at her what was evidently supposed to be a suggestive kiss.

                 Angelika smiled weakly as she edged towards the door.

                 “’Night. See you in the morning. 7 am call, right?” Angelika closed the door behind her and fled down the corridor towards the haven of air conditioned calm that was her hotel room.

Raphael was right about something, there was no fucking way that Angelika could sleep and she lay in bed sweating miserably, her heart threatening to burst through her chest. Every night sound was amplified a thousand-fold; especially the resonant basso profundo of the incongruously tiny fucking tree frogs.

                 She obsessively replayed the evening in her head. Angelika could still feel all of their dilated, vulpine eyes boring into her. She shifted her position in the sweat-soaked sheets and wished again that Athena was here to talk her down. But her sister would be so disappointed with her. Everyone would. What was she doing? Almost gang raped by lust-crazed policemen then narrowly avoiding a menage a’ trois with a pair of decadent Euro Trash? Well she’d asked for it, hadn’t she?  She hadn’t wanted a dull evening.

                 Suddenly, there was a strangely new and unnatural noise coming from outside the window. Angelika crept under the bedsheets, hoping desperately that whatever it was would lose interest and go away. She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, deciding to adopt the ostrich approach.

                 It didn’t lose interest.

                 “Darling, are you OK? Can I come in and help you get to sleep? I’ll sing you a lullaby.” It was Peter calling from the balcony next door.

                 Angelika breathed out in irritated relief, “No, bugger off Peter, really I’m fine.”

                 “Are you sure, Angel? It’s no bother, I can climb right over.”  He then attempted to do so, somehow managing to shatter a glass in the process.

                 “Fuck.” said Peter, this rapidly followed by a muffled yelp of pain.

                 “Thanks, Peter, but I really must sleep.” squeaked Angelika, who was now fighting escalating hysteria.

                 “OK, see you in the morning, then.” A moribund Peter then crashed back over to his side of the dividing wall.

                 Angelika tossed over onto her right side, facing away from the offending balcony and sighed resignedly; it would be dawn soon, she was going to look just fabulous tomorrow. Or rather today. Her door handle suddenly rattled. Jesus, that was quick, she thought. Angelika sat up, pissed.

                 “Oh come on, Peter. I’m not interested, give it a rest. Please let me get some sleep!”

                 “No, darling, it’s Sophie. Raphael and I were just wondering if you’d like to come out and play with us. You must be awfully lonely in there.” Sophie! Angelika was incredulous. Christ! Since when had she become the one person in Jamaica that everybody was just desperate to shag?

                 “Sophie, that’s really nice of you both, but I’m knackered. I’ll see you in ..tomorrow. Er, later. Okay?”

                 Desperate whispering ensued. “Darling...” Sophie was obviously trying to placate her delightful new boyfriend. 

                 “Raphael will simply not take no for an answer.”

                 “Soph, he’ll have to,” replied Angelika, “I mean it. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Trust me, that gives you plenty of leeway.”

                 Then Angelika dramatically thrust a pillow over her head as Sophie stumbled off into the gathering dawn to sample exotic and possibly illicit physical pleasures.

 At 7 am sharp, Angelika, ever the consummate professional, was dressed in black RayBan Wayfarers and ripped 501 Levis and was slouched by the location van that was parked in front of the hotel. She was smoking a Marlboro and desperately trying to hide her mounting paranoia and blearly eyes behind a veil of practiced insouciance. Two other models, nice clean-living girls from Manchester, girls who’d had the requisite eight hours sleep, and who were already seated inside the van expertly applying make up while yakking animatedly about last night’s phonecalls from their respective car-dealer boyfriends, while Angelika silently prayed for some blessed respite from her pounding cranium.

                Angelika couldn’t exactly see herself joining in on that conversation, so she lit another cigarette from the dog-end of the first and then watched immobile as Peter’s asthmatic assistant, Mike wheezingly loaded heavy silver metal camera cases into the back of the minivan.

                Then the French stylist, a cool and efficient bitch named Joelle, huffily appeared pushing a rail of garishly hued and decidedly flammable polyester catalogue clothing towards the van. On arrival, she did a silent head count and then glanced pointedly at her Cartier tank watch.

                “Where the fuck are they? Assholes.”

                Angelika shrugged in response as she was incabable of actual speech just yet. At that, Peter hastily exited the hotel’s main doors and ran tripping and sweating up to the van, while frantically buttoning up his sodden shirt. Angelika noticed that he was already sniffing loudly and she surreptitously rubbed her nose, hoping that Peter would get the semaphore message as his nostrils were caked with an encrusted white powder.

                “Breakfast of champions,” he mouthed at Angelika, “Right! Sorry everyone. All here? Good, let’s go.” He then inelegantly leapt into the driver’s seat of the van and proceeded to start the engine.

                Angelika took a seat behind Peter and quietly whispered to him, “Sophie’s not here. Sleep well, did we?”

                “Ha, ha, ha, very funny. I'll go get her.”  At that, Peter painfully fell out of the van, hurriedly righted himself and then shuffled off down a path towards the patio of an ocean view room that was situated on the ground floor of the hotel.

                Peter arrived breathlessly outside room 101 with his enlarged pores leaking stale alcohol. He suddenly caught sight of his depraved reflection in the glass sliding door and realized, not for the first time that he really ought to get some sleep at some point during the ‘80’s. He wiped his nose and then he ran his shaking fingers through his insane hair.

                The curtains were drawn tight as Peter rapped upon the glass. There was no response, so he tried again.

                “Sophie? Darling?” mewled Peter weakly.

                Not a sound was forthcoming from within. Peter tried to force the patio door but he found that it was already open. He gingerly slid it wide enough to let himself through, entered the hotel room and then he gasped as all the remaining blood drained from his already pallid complexion. Peter felt faint.

                Room 101 was a charnel house; it was brick red with dried blood. Two lifeless bodies lay entangled in the blood-soaked sheets; bloody hand prints patterned the walls and bloody clothing was twisted obscenely on the palm-frond patterned carpet.

                “Jesus Christ, no...” gulped Peter in bereft horror, simultaneously wondering how he was ever going to explain this shit to the clients back home.

                Suddenly, one of the bodies moved....a bloody but beatific Sophie blinked up at him. 

“Peter, darling, close the curtains, would you? Awfully fucking bright...”

                Peter didn’t know whether to kiss her or strangle her.  “Sophie, what the.. fuck?”

                Sophie looked bemusedly around at the blood-bath that was her room. 

                “Oh shit...that's right. Got the bloody curse, didn't I, darling?” 

                Peter retched. “Just get it together, will you, please?”

                “We’ll join you there in just a minute...” smiled Sophie, languidly stretching her magnificent and bloodstained naked torso. Peter then tripped over a bloody Maud Frizon sandal and fled the carnage.

                  Angelika sat by the pellucid pool at the expensively calm Jamaica Inn watching Peter and Mike set up the camera and tripod near some lush, shady foliage. It was bone-strippingly hot for 8.00 am. A white-gloved waiter appeared at her side with a black coffee in fine white china. She smiled gratefully and took it from him. After a few gulps of the strong Jamaican brew, she began to feel marginally more alert. Angelika fished in her purse for her cigarettes and shakily popped one in her mouth.

                   “Light, cara?” It was Raphael, who had mysteriously materialised from somewhere in the direction of the poolside bathroom. He was snuffling and scratching twitchily at his unshaven face. Angelika nodded, as she was in no position to argue. Raphael then proceeded to produce a box of matches from out of his too tight jeans’ pocket and clumsily opened it to reveal several pale green and aqua capsules that were nestled amongst the matches.

                   “Quaalude, Angel?” slimed Raphael, meaningfully.

                 Angelika eyed him, incredulously. “Bit early for me, thanks, Raphael. Maybe after lunch, si?”  This guy was a fucking machine.

                 “Where’s Sophie?” she continued. Oh please God let him remember he has a girlfriend, thought Angelika, just for a couple of minutes.  Raphael then indicated the pristine, open air Jacuzzi and Angelika tentatively looked over.

                 Sophie, who was dressed in a blood-soaked and transparent gauze nightgown was singing along to her Sony Walkman while elegantly attempting to wash the blood stains from off of her long tanned limbs.

                “She ees so hot, no?” said Raphael admiringly, while subconsciously touching his dick.

                Angelika's mouth dropped open.