It’s the second time you’ve had to pee, and the fact that your stomach still sloshes as you waddle to the bathroom means it’s probably not the last. The heat inside you pulls at your consciousness, making you crave sleep or something close to it. Your food coma amuses you in an abstract way. Perhaps whatever put you here designed it in so you would be too lazy to do anything too war-crimey.

During the day, Club Deliquesce is like so many clubs on the island: An unassuming two-story building in grey or white rendering, blistered with air-con units and flanked by an electricity substation. During the night, bass seeps from the walls, animating the fairy- and neon-lit front with an insistent form of life as if the earth itself is inviting the queuing supplicants to dance. There is something primal and hallowed about it, if you ignore the giggling hen dos with their dealy-boppers and identical white dresses, the lads groups chanting football songs, and the furtive gentlemen standing by selling glow-sticks and little packets for a reasonable number of Euros.

Amelie bought the beach towel with the tree of life on it and sunbathed on it by the pool for the rest of the afternoon. Most of the branches and roots have to be tucked under the sunlounger so that she can lie on the trunk, over the figure of the woman in the centre. As a joke you wrap it around her while distracting her with a long kiss. When she realises what you’re doing she begins to struggle, shrieking and looking for all the world like someone resisting being thrown against their will into a pool.

Amelie stops in front of a stall, clutching her breast. The piece that has caught her eye is a simple but massive beach towel, back on white, depicting the branches and roots of the tree of life emerging from the abstract figure of a woman in the trunk. Celtic designs frame it, placing it squarely in the style of a third of the artifacts here. The hippy market, one of many on the island, is a ranging, chaotic, overpriced and overcrowded procession of tat, souvenirs, clothing, wood and leather.

Amelie is breathing soft and regular, somehow undisturbed by the increasingly violent complaints of Gemma’s remains that knot your insides. The work of two careful minutes repositions her so she can sleep on the bed. You tuck her in and slip away. Me-time. Spanish plumbing is hazy at the best of times. You’re going to have to go easy, but even as you’re walking, powerful internal spasms are accompanied by a discordant orchestra of phuts, purts, and tremulous piping prrrrts.

You stroke Amelie’s hair back from her pale face. Her eyes flicker open. When she first sees you she smiles. The part of you that was tense relaxes. She doesn’t fear or hate you instinctively. Another part ravens. It would have been an excuse to gobble her up right now. You watch doubt and fear and vulnerability chase one another across her sculpted features. She shivers, open as an injured child.

Breakfast is long, luxurious, and includes courses not available at the buffet. Amelie returns after a long absence with a room service trolley loaded with covered plates and glasses. She also comes wearing a floaty blue body-length sarong and a slightly shy, hungry smile. “It’s about time,” you begin. “I’m hung—” With a twitch of her shoulderblades, she reveals she is wearing nothing else. You watch the slinky fabric flow over her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, her wide hips, to pool around her feet.

You wake feeling warm, full and slightly used. These are all very pleasant in a morning. You start the day with a lazy smile and roll over, expecting your arm to fall across Clarice. She’s not there. You raise your head to look around, sleep-crazed black hair falling over your face. Your stomach has lost the definition Gemma first gave it. She spent the night converting herself into chyme and squeezing her way through your intestines, giving you a solid, heavy feeling throughout your entire abdomen.

Like a wrestler you throw Gemma onto the bed and keep her down with your weight as you spin above her. Your thighs push her head into the duvet, drowning any scream, and your hands isolate her knees and calves, pointing her toes in one convenient, helpless direction. Feet are a necessary evil. You get around them by deepthroating her calves all in one. The resulting kicking and thrashing underneath your belly excites you, makes you keener to put it inside your belly where it belongs.

The vampire is a romantic figure: creature of the night, denizen of that space between life and death, untethered from natural law yet tied to it through the lives she takes. But when you go on holiday you have to check in to a hotel, same as everyone else. Doesn’t seem fair. Maybe you should get an Igor to handle the mundanities. It does, however, afford other opportunities enjoyed by mortal men and women.

The sun slows things down on San Antonio beach. The moon and the stars bring them back to life. You’re staring at them now, stretched out on a sunlounger. It’s a good thing it’s wooden: the white plastic ones wouldn’t cope well with the weight of two people. The clubs were in full swing when you finally went out. Some drama with the friends you traveled with delayed everything until you were itching to see some action.