WHAT GOES AROUND

WHAT GOES AROUND

David J Christopher

With grateful thanks to Hannah for her incisive critique of earlier drafts, to Martine for her invaluable comments, and to Miranda for her encouragement.

Thank you as well to my resilient editor Fiona who probably knows this manuscript better than I do.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Author: David J Christopher

Cover design: Canva.

ISBN: 9789463981965

© 2020 David J Christopher

Chapter One

Low levels of lighting and no mirrors are distinct positives this morning. If I look half as bad as I feel, then reflection avoidance is the best policy. It wasn't so much last night that was to blame, more the preceding three days. What people often refer to as a bender. I struggle to remember the details, but ouzo featured heavily and food not so much. It was my friend Agnon's fault. He owns the taverna on the other side of the bay. He was celebrating something or other, opening for the season or a new Godson or such like. He's Albanian, has lived in Greece for over thirty years, works like a trojan, and knows how to party. As I gradually rejoin the land of the living, I am aware that my right hand is throbbing painfully. A hazy memory returns. Some posh bloke telling me that I was the mirror image of Worzel Gummidge. He insisted on pulling up a picture to emphasise the point on his swanky telephone. Having done so he invited the others in his party to agree that the scarecrow character and I could have been separated at birth. He thought it was hysterical, and so did they. I failed to grasp the funny side at the time though in the cold light of day, the comparison is perhaps not entirely unfair. There was however something about the smarmy git that just hit a raw nerve. A memory is reforming in my mind of taking a swing at him.

I'm pretty certain I missed but from the sensation in my hand I must have struck something solid. Soon after that Agnon rowed me back across the bay, laughing the whole way before staying on for a couple of night caps. Well, I had to return his hospitality didn't I?

At some point he must have gone and, somehow, I must have made it into my cabin because I'm sure that's where I am now. My head is fuzzy. My face feels flushed and my mouth parched. Not an entirely new sensation if truth be told. I open my eyes, one at a time trying not to allow panic to get the better of me as I realise I can't see very much. Paranoia and hypochondria being two of my closest friends, I start running through what the hell I would do if I have been blinded by the homemade ouzo. Fortunately, just then, Kitty decides it's time to go ashore and jumps off my face onto the floor. Panic over.

I groan out loud. Once the cat decides that we're getting up, we are. No chance now of turning over and going back to sleep. If I choose to ignore her she will complain vocally at first and then find a dark hole somewhere hidden deep in the boat to do her business.

Come on then.

I live alone so about 75% of the conversations I have are with Kitty. We discuss all sorts of things from the weather, crucial to all sailors, to politics and religion. Kitty agrees with most of what I say. We find it works better that way.

I pick her up with my good hand, peering at the injured one as I do so. Sliding back the cabin door, the boat is filled with glorious morning sunshine. My head hurts and I groan aloud.

Where the fuck is the dinghy? I demand of Kitty, as if she might have popped ashore with it in the night. It should be tied to the back of the boat ready for the twenty-meter row to shore. I stare at the empty space.

Doh!

I smack my forehead with my bad hand, a stupid move on two counts. Of course, Agnon brought me back last night. I squint into the sunlight looking towards his taverna and the little pier his guests tie up to. There is one dinghy still there.

Looks like we're swimming Kitty.

You fuckwit, she replies.

I'm only wearing boxer shorts and frankly they could do with a wash anyway. The morning is warm, and the water will be a reasonable temperature. What the hell. Holding Kitty and a scrunched-up t-shirt high above my head I leap into the crystal-clear water which immerses my head for a brief revitalising second. Kitty and t-shirt stay dry as I wade ashore. Slowly I begin to feel at least a little human. I put Kitty on the beach and without a backward glance she trots off into the olive tree wood that covers the hillside to my right. I sit down on a handy rock and scratch my stubbly chin. I need a shave. I catch sight of my reflection in the gently rippling water. Even that slight distortion cannot hide the reality of my appearance. Worzel Gummidge might have been generous. My hair is too long and standing up in odd places. My face is weathered from the scorching Hellenic sun and wrinkled by my sixty-three years of daily usage. I grin at my reflection. My teeth are my own but stained yellow, maybe even green, by the twenty roll-ups I smoke a day, often with a little something extra inside them, and the fifteen cups of Greek coffee.

Roydon mate, you look like shit, I tell the face staring back at me.

Morning Roydon how are you today? A cheery voice from behind me.

I turn my head slowly so as not to reignite my hangover and squint straight into the sun. Putting my hand up to shade my eyes, I can make out that the speaker is Camille. Much as I love her, and believe me I do, if there is anyone I would less like to meet looking and feeling as I do at this minute, then I can't think of them. Camille is amazing. She's probably my age but you would never guess it. I'm told that in her youth she was a model in her native Switzerland, and I can believe it. She's one of those women who has allowed herself to age gracefully eschewing chemical assistance in the process. Of course, it helps that she never smokes, rarely drinks, is a vegetarian, and exercises every day. She is my neighbour here in our little piece of paradise. She lives with her husband, Phillippe, on Faith, a beautiful wooden boat which they built themselves. Like me, they live on the island pretty much twelve months of the year. Unlike me, they are virtually self-sufficient. They've anchored here for so long they have a strip of land on the shoreline on which they cultivate vegetables. They collect water from Agnon's taverna and Camille rows across the bay regularly at speeds that would put Steve Redgrave to shame.

She surveys me now with just a hint of the disappointment in me that I know she feels. I realise that even by my own standards I must look bad this morning.

Can I offer you a lift? she asks. In fact, can I offer you breakfast? Phillippe is cooking some of the mushrooms he collected last Autumn from Kastos.

That's incredibly kind of you but I'm not up to eating much at the moment. Whilst speaking I silently assess the chances that Phillippe might poison all of us having picked the wrong type of mushroom.

As if she is reading my mind Camille continues. You don't need to worry; Phillippe has a book and has become quite an expert.

This does not surprise me. As much as I am a huge fan of Camille, I find Phillippe less appealing. He is French and has that confidence his compatriots appear to have in natural abundance. He is an expert on virtually every subject I've ever discussed with him from boating to botany and back again. Our conversations are thankfully well spaced as they tend to go less well than those I have with Kitty. Mind you, if I'm honest, that can be said of many of the interactions I have with males. Obviously Agnon is different, but then I can't understand much of what he says. I've always got on better with women but given that I am once again living alone with a cat, those relationships clearly have their limitations too.

I'll take a coffee off you though, I say as I pull on my t-shirt. Never let it be said that I would allow an opinionated Frenchman to get in the way of a free coffee or two. Today might have to be an eating day given that as far as I can remember I've had nothing much to eat in the last three days, unless you count olives. Mentally I think about the cold store I have on board and picture it empty other than a couple of cans of beer. I'll pop into the nearest village later to pick up some provisions from the little supermarket.

Can I ask you a favour? I sound like a whining schoolboy.

Naturalement.

Any chance you could row me across to collect my dinghy afterwards? Only I left it over at Agnon's last night.

He wanted a break from Silvija for a while, so he'd insisted on bringing me back to Achilles, my boat. I named it when I bought it at a steal of a price from one of the sailing companies that ply their holiday trade in these waters. She needs a bit of work and the windows leak, so I've covered them with cling film. I really must get around to repairing them, if only to stop Phillippe giving me that stare every time he rows past.

Mais oui, not a problem. I am going over to the taverna anyway. I promised to give Silvija a hand cleaning up after the little party.

Silvija is Agnon's long-suffering wife of five years. She comes from Romania. Romania and Albania, an interesting and often seismic combination. Camille and I potter twenty yards or so along the beach. She pulls her wooden dinghy effortlessly from the shingle into the water, making sure so as not to scratch the bottom. I wade out and climb in. Camille follows suit as soon as the dinghy is in deep enough water and begins rowing us towards her floating home. I feel a little underdressed, but Camille doesn't seem to mind and I'm already almost dry. Ahead of us smoke billows from their little chimney.

Ah, Phillippe has started cooking I see, says Camille.

The couple have a small wood burning stove on board. Phillippe designed and built it himself. This keeps them warm and dry in the winter and allows them to cook without gas or electricity all year. They collect the wood they need and store it on their piece of land. Perfect set up.

About halfway out a voice calls out from the shore.

Hi Roydon, hi Camille. Kalimera.

We both turn at the same moment. As we do so the balance of the small boat is disturbed, and it lurches to the right. I come close to my second swim of the morning and the clock hasn't even struck nine. Standing on the shore waving her arms in the air like a deranged giraffe is Lucy. She's literally jumping up and down.

Keep rowing, I urge.

That is not so kind, replies Camille with a hint of a smile.

I'm sure you're right, I agree, but I'm not in the mood for her right now. I love her to bits, but she's just so…. frantic.

Possibly you are right, but I think we should see what she wants nonetheless.

Ok, here goes, I sigh.

Hi Lucy, what's up. Everything OK?

This question, when asked of Lucy tends to open the floodgates. I wait for the tidal wave. Perhaps it's because she is between boyfriends again, but the norm is a long list of mundane challenges she faces. Normally the list ends with a request for assistance in some form or other.

Not really, she replies, Can I catch you later for a cup of coffee, only I need some help.

Here we go I think, what will it be today. Putting up a shelf, wiring a plug, emergency sailing trip to the vet in Lefkas?

Alright, I silently curse myself as I commit. I'll be at Billy's around noon. I need to buy a few things from Fotis in the supermarket anyway. You can buy me a coffee. What is it anyway?

Lucy looks pained, even more than usual.

It's Helen. She's been kidnapped.

Chapter Two

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