Читать книгу WHAT GOES AROUND - DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - Страница 4

On reflection I guess I could have said something that would have conveyed more appropriate concern. But the idea that such a crime might have occurred on the sun blessed holiday island we all call home, struck me as ludicrous and I said so. More forcibly than intended. Perhaps I could have sugar coated things a bit more. Lucy pouted, dropped her shoulders, spun round, and muttered something inaudible as she stomped back up the path to the road.

"I think you might have upset her," suggests Camille.

"No shit Sherlock," I reply.

I'm running the risk of upsetting two of my friends in as many minutes which, even for me, was going some. Friends are not something I'm over endowed with these days. Fortunately, Camille is made of sterner stuff and the offer of breakfast is not rescinded. We come alongside Faith.

"Guess who I've brought for breakfast Phillippe."

Phillippe, bless him, does his best to appear enthused when he comes to see who the guest might be. He almost manages to keep the smile in place, as he gives Camille minute directions to avoid scratching either the dinghy or the side of the boat. However, there's no mistaking the withering scan he gives me up and down. I can't shake the notion that an untreated piece of sewage might have been more welcome on board.

When we go inside, he lights an incense stick whilst muttering something about a strange odour. Breakfast for me is three strong black coffees, but Phillippe and Camille tuck in heartily whilst chatting away to each other in French, involving me every so often in English. I recall that they also speak Spanish and Italian in addition to inexorably more Greek than I have picked up in the last ten years. The cooking smells mixed with the incense, nearly cause me to throw up, which really would make me popular, but thankfully my iron stomach holds.

An hour later, suitably revived by the caffeine; I accept Camille's lift to collect my own dinghy. After taking advantage of the shower block at Agnon's, I row back to Achilles, cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth. A further two coffees and three roll ups later, sporting a fresh t-shirt and shorts, I make my way back to shore. I catch sight of Kitty who gives me one of her looks.

"The cupboard is bare at present, I'll bring you something tasty back from the village, I promise."

"I'm not holding my breath," she replies, "don't worry about me, I can take care of myself."

The path up from the bay to the road is steep, especially for someone like me who rarely takes unforced exercise. It used to be covered with trees and bushes but one day last spring these were bulldozed, and a rough track opened up. Shortly afterwards a "For Sale" sign the size of a house was put up but so far there have been no takers. If I had the necessary million and a half euros maybe I would join the long list of German and British ex-pats who are buying up most of the prime sites on the island. I'm a little short just now so I won't be putting a luxury villa here any time soon.

Though significantly out of breath, I can still admire the view from here over the new residential meditation and yoga centre that Belgian couple, Antoinette and Eric, are building, to the brilliant blue sea and the mountainous mainland beyond. Immediately below me is our bay. Faith and Achilles are anchored here, as they have been all winter. Now that Spring is with us, we have been joined by three or four other yachts and, God forbid, a motorboat or as we yachties call them, "Stinkpots." To my immediate right lies a sleek modern sailboat, luxurious with all mod cons. The chap on board seems okay though we haven't spoken all that much. From the flag on the back and his propensity for swimming nude and cooking sausages, I think he's German.

I turn my mind to Lucy. A little guilt is nudging me because I've upset her. Whilst she can be a bit of a pain at times, her heart, as they say, is in the right place. I don't want to fall out with her. I've burned too many bridges in the past. Despite being thirty years younger than me, sometimes after a few beers I think she may have a small soft spot for me, before sobriety and common-sense kick in. She's a tall girl, not overweight but not skinny either. She is English but has lived in Greece for ten years or so, first in Athens and then moving here four years ago to open her own business. Her first entrepreneurial brainwave was a spray tan salon, thinking the locals and ex-pats might want it in winter but, fortunately for Bank of Mum and Dad, thought better of it before signing the lease for the machines. Her alternative health salon has been a smart move, although I'm not sure she needs to change the colour of her hair so regularly even if she does use organic dye. She keeps threatening to give me a reiki treatment. The promise of quietening my mind is appealing but the need to avoid alcohol before and after the treatment in addition to drinking lots of water means I've avoided it so far. The sensible thing is she doesn't compete with the locals, whereas Antoinette who has opened a wine bar is constantly at war with the islanders about one thing or another.

I pull out my mobile telephone from my pocket. My only concession to technology. On board all my navigation is by paper charts. I won't be caught out when the Americans next turn off the global positioning system to fight some new war. I flip up the cover and peer at the tiny screen trying to find Lucy's name on the contacts list. Holding the phone fully at arm's length, I take a stab at what I think is her number. I should have reception here on the top of the hill, before I go down the steps into the village. I hear the dialling tone before Lucy's business answerphone kicks in. She's using her lowest sexiest voice. I wait for the message to finish and leave her a reply telling her that I'm sorry if I was a bit rude earlier and that I will be at Billy's in an hour or so. I flip the phone closed. I saw in Lefkas last week that they've started selling phones just like mine all over again, calling them retro.

"Billy's" isn't called "Billy's" at all, but none of us ex-pats call it by its proper name, instead we use the name of the owner. Except that "Billy" isn't "Billy's" real name either but his Anglicised nom de plume so to speak. The ex-pats congregate at his cafe by the harbour most afternoons. In the winter we are mainly here because the sun warms it up, there being no other form of heating, and because the drinks are reasonably priced. To his credit Billy keeps his prices constant throughout the year, not for him the practice of some of his competitors who have a winter price and a summer price (for non-locals). Walking through the little village square I remind myself that I must get to the supermarket which will be closing at two o'clock for the afternoon siesta. I've been caught out many times before and been obliged to sit it out at Billy's until it reopens at six in the evening by which time I struggle to remember what I wanted in the first place. But not today, today I'm not going to drink. It will be coffee and only coffee today.

"Alright you old bastard?" A noisy bright orange moped pulls up beside me.

"Yeah. I'm really OK now," I reply. "Though first thing was a bit rough."

"Yes, I'm wondering if the chicken souvlaki was properly cooked. I felt a tad rough myself."

Given that my friend Terry had been on most of the three-day bender with me, blaming how we felt on the possibility that Agnon might have undercooked his chicken seems a bit disingenuous, but I let it go.

"You going to Billy's?" he asks.

"I'm going to pop in. I've arranged to meet Lucy there. I'm not drinking though. I've got to get to the supermarket first or else Kitty will be the latest in a long line of ladies to leave me."

"Jump on, I'll give you a lift if you want."

Billy's is at most only two hundred yards down the road, but on the other hand I have just walked about a mile, and earlier rowed another half. I'm tempted.

"I'll buy you a coffee."

That tips it. I'll catch the supermarket later.

"Don't let me forget the cat food," I tell him as I jump on behind Terry and he pulls away leaving a puff of diesel fume behind him.

"Two beers Billy, parakalo," cries Terry as we arrive and before he's turned off the engine.

There is a small group already sitting outside drinking coffee. A mix of Greeks and a few expats all talking loudly in various languages. I spot Antoinette sitting alone at one of the tables and join her. Terry follows me.

"Where's Eric?" I ask.

Antoinette's French accent is much more pronounced than Camille's and as a result much sexier. In her early forties she is also a bit of a looker.

"Where do you think 'e iz?" says Antoinette, pouting as she speaks.

Different options cross my mind. Talk has circulated of Eric having a ding-dong with an Italian who has a big house on the other side of the island. More likely is that he is working on his rock formations at the disastrously behind schedule new venture. I'm told they're something special. Who needs completed buildings if you've got stunning rock formations? Thinking better of stirring the pot with Antoinette, I say nothing, instead I look at her enquiringly.

"Wiz ze architect naturalement," she says. "I think 'e is in lurve with 'im, he spends more time with 'im than with me. Et toi?"

"Oh, I'm just having a coffee and Lucy wants to ask my advice on something, have you seen her?"

Billy brings the two beers that Terry ordered on our arrival and Antoinette orders another one for her. She and Lucy don't entirely see eye to eye on things. If Lucy operates at 100mph then Antoinette is dawdling along at 10. She runs her wine bar cum boutique for four months of the year and employs a bar man to help her. This year a young lad has arrived. I'm told, by female friends, that he is impossibly handsome and has the cutest French accent. I don't get what the fuss is about but there you are.

"And what does Lucy want with you?" asks Antoinette.

"Don't ask, all just so ridiculous," I start.

"Mai oui, elle est," she replies.

"Lucy thinks Helen has disappeared, been kidnapped in fact. Bonkers."

"This is very strange," Antoinette frowns as she speaks.

"What is?" I say, "not you as well."

"Je ne sais pas, mais, Panos the butcher tells me today that Helen hasn't collected her meat order for her party. He also went to her house, but zer woz no reply."