‘I was in Lancasters in the war. Night after night over Germany with people trying to kill me. I was just thinking . . . nothing changes.’
He gave me his grin again.
‘You’re right. I believe the French have a phrase for it.’
‘Bugger the French. Haven’t they run away from Suez even quicker than we have?’
‘No, they were just slower at getting in, that’s all. I believe it was their lunchtime.’
I asked him a question that had been on my mind for a couple of days. It was just one of those boxes I had to tick.
‘I don’t suppose there are any lions loose on Cyprus, are there?’
He was already looking for his papers; I had been dismissed.
‘No, I don’t suppose there are. Why?’ But he wasn’t interested in my reply, so I didn’t give him one.
Pat took me to an equipment warehouse, and I came away with light KDs. Shirts, a jacket, shorts and regulation-length trousers. And a decent pair of lightweight boots. Don’t forget that bloody webbing belt which always dug into your guts, and a webbing holster. They refused to give me a cap, but that was all right – I still had my old faded RAF cap pushed down at the bottom of my kitbag. I looked up at myself in a mirror and grinned.
Then I realized that I’d been wrong about something all my life – I’d always said that Mrs Bassett hadn’t had any stupid sons. I was wrong. One was grinning right back at me, and looking curiously pleased with himself back in a semblance of uniform again. What had I asked Collins half an hour before? Haven’t we learned anything? Pat was grinning as well. I snarled, ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You are, Charlie. Look at yersel’ again. Pleased as punch to be back in the colours.’
‘I must be mad.’
‘We all are. Ain’t you worked that out yet?’
‘Collins wants me to carry a gun.’
‘I’ll sort that out when we get back. Colt or Browning?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
‘Colt then. Easier to strip and clean, and it jams less.’
‘I want one that won’t jam at all.’
‘Bow and arrow then. Quit worrying – it’ll all work out in the end. It always does.’
I had this thing about having the last word when I was in my thirties.
‘That’s what worries me.’
He took me back along the Nicosia–Famagusta Road. My head was dancing on my neck like nobody’s business. There was a terrorist behind every white-painted cottage, olive grove or goat pen. I remember a small boy in ragged clothes slowing us down with a flock of scabby goats he’d spread across the road. Pat reached for his waist, and unclipped the cover on his pistol holster as we slowed, but the boy gave us a cheeky grin and played a tune on his home-made flute as the animals parted. Relieved, I smiled back.
‘I know that tune,’ I told Pat. ‘I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know where.’
‘The Olympics,’ he told me. ‘It’s the Greek national bloody anthem!’ and put his foot down. We only slowed once more, and that was when we saw the cyclists coming back towards us. They cycled slowly in orderly pairs. Two of the men were smoking pipes, and left a trail of aromatic tobacco smoke. I watched a couple of the girls. One waved gaily to me.
‘You ever heard of a painter named Picasso?’ I asked Tobin.
‘Sure. I even got a couple of his small drawings – an investment, see? Probably never be worth nothin’. Why?’
‘I met him once. I thought about him just then. I think he’d understand what was going on here. This whole island has gone mad – it’s a living example of surrealism.’
‘We all are. Fancy a Keo in a safe bar in Famagusta? Too late for you to go to work today.’
Later he took me to the armoury, and had me fixed up with a .45. It hung on my belt like a diver’s lead weights: wearing it, I felt as if my body was inclined permanently to the right. The armourer would only issue me with twenty-five rounds, but Pat gave me another couple of boxes from a locker he had in the motor pool, ‘Just to be on the safe side.’ As he turned them over to me he said, ‘Silly to ask, I know . . . but I suppose you do know how to use that thing?’
‘I had a short course at Lydd a few years ago.’ I wasn’t about to tell him that short meant less than an hour.
‘I’ll take you over the range tomorrow evening. You can put some time in. You never know when it’ll come in useful.’ Sometimes you have to wonder where the human race is going: we shouldn’t be living in a world where pistol practice is considered useful.
I felt more or less secure
