I'm in the bath, with a cigar, looking at my bright white crotch shouting against my tan. It's three weeks now, and the tan is holding up nicely, in fact; it's as good as new. It proves you get what you pay for, even if I'm still paying for it. It's great to get away from blighty, and the waves of immigrants flooding the place. It's my first time to St.Lucia, a lovely island. It's deeper than a Mediterranean tan and looks vintage compared to a sun bed job. I get out of the bath, and there's a tingle as water runs down my back.. I look in the mirror, smooth my moustache and wink approval at my aging carcass. Trim, good enough for Marjory the manageress at the Conservative Club.

'You look after yourself Monty, don't you ?'
She's right. I bought some new pants, I love the dark tan meeting the white cotton, vibrant and a bit erotic. I whistle when I'm dressing. Bow tie then blazer, check the wallet for a johnny and cash, you never know when you might get lucky. Downstairs, crombie, brogues and into the Jag. Put on Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway to Heaven', it's only ten minutes to the club.
'I'm not sure I like it, Monty'', Marjory sneered. 'I mean it was all right, but it should have faded by now. You look a bit Asian, Monty'.
I laugh it off, buy a round for the usual suspects, and pop to the soldier's room. I sense Marge isn't up for it tonight, and have a good look in the mirror. She's right, the tan isn't fading at all, and now that it's getting colder it does look a bit odd. I go home, and pick up a bottle of gin on the way.

Raki runs the shop at the end of my street, seven till eleven, she works all hours. She makes sure there's some Gordon's for me. Reliable Raki, I don't know what her real name is. She lost her husband eighteen months ago, so we've got something in common, what with my Gloria passing away. Raki's attractive, good figure, but not my cup of tea. I popped in for a bottle the other night, and there was a power cut. She lit some candles. It poured out of me like a river, it must have been the darkness. I don't know what came over me, her being Bangla Deshi and that, but she could have been a priest, the way I opened up. She made some tea and told me about her life, her arranged marriage and stuff. He had another wife in India. I think she was relieved when he popped his clogs, though she didn't say it. I didn't go in for a while after that, felt a bit embarrassed. She'd smile at me and it would go too deep, touch me somewhere raw.
But, I did go in last week, needed some milk. She saw my tan, and said I looked like Imran Khan, even though I'm hopeless at cricket.

Marjory has got a bit more distant lately, decidedly frosty, and she's put a bit of weight on. I don't know who she thinks she is, getting so critical. What's wrong with a bit of a tan anyway, I'm not a bloody foreigner am I?
I'm sitting in the Doctor's, it's over a month now, and the tan's still as good as new, if not getting darker. I thought I'd better seek a medical opinion just in case it's something weird. There's an old couple sitting near me.
'They come over here have the operation, then piss off back to wherever they came from. Don't pay any taxes, and jump the queue. That's why you gotta wait eighteen months for a new hip, Dolly', the old man rants.
Then he turns to me and gives me the stare, like I was a piece of dirt. I'm uncomfortable, as if my clothes don't fit anymore, a stranger in my own country. I get up and leave, then sit in the Jag playing Sinatra. I watch a strip of my dark face in the rear view mirror, outlined by the suburban street with neighbourhood watch stickers in the windows. I drive to the Conservative Club, but there's nobody there. Roy, the cleaner, says they've gone to the races. Why didn't anyone tell me? I say I'd only bring them bad luck, and laugh it off. But back in the car, I spit in my hand and rub it on my arm, trying to clean the tan off. Harder, but still it won't lighten, no flakes of skin.

I'm laying low, and keeping to myself. I drive up for the monthly quiz night. Marjory, has taken a shine to Barty the old solicitor, she's all over him at the bar. She pours me a G and T and I go to join a table, but the seats are all taken.
'Nothing personal, Monty, old boy', says Henry shuffling his papers.
Now, I'm last to suggest that I'm a genius but I'm quite good at the sports questions. I mingle, but all the tables are spoken for, and then George with the glass eye says he could use an assistant scorer. Nice of him, really, but I feel a bit of a prune. I stay for the first half, then excuse myself, saying I've got a touch of something.
'Probably got a dose on holiday,eh?' Says Henry chortling.
On the way home I see the light on in Raki's shop, and decide to get a bottle. Good thing I stop, as she's in a bit of a state. Her bathroom has flooded, and she asks if I can hold the fort.
It's an Aladdin's cave in Raki's. I help an old couple with slices of ham and half a dozen eggs. Then a young mother comes in desperate for nappies. Thank god she knows where they are, 'cause I couldn't find them. It's a quiet area, except for a dog howling in the distance and the occasional motorbike without a silencer. There's not a lot of noise given the population, mostly foreigners this end of the street. It's a bit better up my end. I find a cigar in my breast pocket and light it up. I sit back and marvel at the sheer quantity of stuff she manages to pack in the little shop. The door opens slowly and two youths enter, one black, and the other white with a dreadful complexion. I'm enjoying the cigar when suddenly there's the flash of a blade.
'Give us it here, Paki! The till man, and no messing.'
He's as high as a kite and he's hyperventilating as he talks. I'm thinking, he can get lost and reach down by the counter. Then I lob it in his face. A two-pound bag of flour bursts, covering us all in white dust. His mate lobs it back and before I know it, I'm throwing one bag after another, shouting at them. They throw some back and pull down shelves, as they scarper. The shop's in chaos and I'm trapped under boxes, covered in flour. Raki comes down from upstairs, and when she sees me, she bursts into laughter. Not a light chuckle but a deep felt joyous release that tickles me somewhere, and I erupt in helpless laughter. She shuts the shop, moves some stuff to help me up, and leads me through to her bathroom. I've still got my cigar on, they didn't get that. She puts my blazer and shirt in the other room, and fills a bowl with warm scented water and very slowly takes a cloth, and wipes the flour from my face.

'We must get rid of this pale ghost', she whispers.
I feel her soft hand against my cheek, as she removes the last of the white coating to reveal my dark skin. She looks me in the eye, and kisses me, like a messenger, an angel. Raki takes off the rest of my clothes and fills the bath, adding drops of lavender oil. She lights some candles and removes her clothes. She helps me in to the large Victorian roll top bath, and eases herself into the other end. I inhale my cigar and look at her beauty, luxuriating in the water as she pins up her long black hair.

'You're very forgiving ' I say, thinking of the youths and the abuse.
'You have to be', she says, massaging oil into the soles of my feet.

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