‘You’re a silly bugger, Charlie!’
She slowed the vehicle, and we moved through a wealthy suburb at a more sedate pace, not saying much. A small estate of bungalows which wouldn’t have looked out of place in Eastbourne. A Champ with a couple of policemen sitting in its access road. Who lived there? I wondered. Politicos or service personnel? Still dropping away to the west, and away from the city. We’d both just sailed close to the edge.
I asked her, ‘Where are you taking me now?’
‘The Keep. They have a decent NAAFI, and you’ve probably got enough pull to get us in. We might still be in time for breakfast. Give me a bite of your apple – I’m starving.’
‘What about your Maltese banker?’
‘I decided to give myself the weekend off, like you. Besides, it’s Sunday – he spends Sunday with his family, and goes to church.’
A maid, in her Sunday best and wearing a headscarf, was pushing a couple of kids in a big Tan-Sad. She gave us a broad smile, and waved. I could feel the sun warm on my forearms: it was as if we had passed into a different world. Normality.
‘Serves you right,’ Tobin said, ‘and I hope you’ve learned a lesson – that could have been a Mills bomb instead of an apple. Where would that have left you?’
‘Needing an upper plate?’
‘Funny man.’
‘I get it, Pat. Safety first from now on. Sorry.’
He nodded. I’d recounted my Ledra Street adventure to him. He thought for a minute before responding.
‘And it’s not as straightforward as you think. There are some Turks living around North Ledra Street as well, but in Nicosia they are well outnumbered by the Greeks, which is what makes Nic such a dangerous place – especially for you, because you wear no tabs or insignia: they’ll think you’re I Corps or an MP. EOKA’s sworn to kill every I Corps man on the island.’
‘Thanks. I thought wearing KDs was supposed to be safer than wearing civvies.’
‘It is, but not as safe as a proper uniform – as long as it’s not I Corps.’
‘Then give me some unit markings to sew on, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not entitled.’
I went to get up. Afternoon in the shady bar. I wanted to sit in the small garden and smoke. Pat waved me down.
‘I ’aven’t finished yet. I was saying that the security situation in the cities was more complicated than meets the eye.’
‘You were.’
‘Here in Famagusta there are more Turks than Greeks, so it’s generally safer . . . but there are some Greeks and they bear you ill will. Also, an EOKA murder squad can waltz in here as easy as you an’ I, do its business an’ waltz out again. Savvy?’
‘You mean I’m not safe anywhere?’
‘You’re safe behind the wire – most of the time, but don’t forget we have Cyp laundrymen, cooks, waiters . . . and many of the officers have local maids and cleaners, and more than half of them are Greeks. They’re the only jobs they can get, an’ they pay well.’
‘So . . .’ I let out a long breath. ‘Recommendations?’
‘Always keep yer wits about you, an’ don’t believe a word anyone says.’ He drained the Keo he had been drinking, and stood up. ‘I’m going out for a while. Business to do. Will you be OK?’
‘I thought I’d sit in the garden, have a smoke and enjoy the view.’ There were girls in the garden.
‘Good idea. See you later.’
Captain Collins was at a table in the garden. He had a tall glass of cloudy liquid in front of him on the table, and an unbroken pack of cards. Ten yards away the girl Inga – looking different in slacks, a modest pink shirt and a ponytail – was playing chess on a stone bench with one of the Lebanese maids. The Thirdlow woman sat on the lip of the fountain where the birds had drunk the day before, and where Alison’s friend Laika had been before that. When you looked closely at her you realized just how striking but unapproachable she was. I looked. A classic bone structure: breath-taking, in some lights. She must have been off duty, but she wore a plain KD shirt and skirt; the skirt was longer than knee length but had a small slit on each side so it swung free around her legs. Sensible shoes. Small feet.
When I slumped into the chair opposite Collins I noticed a well-thumbed paperback. It was a Scott Fitzgerald: Tender is the Night.
‘Any good?’ I asked him.
‘Hers.’ He nodded at the woman by the fountain. Then he sighed. The birds were in a tree now, still whistling noisily – they even whistled as they quarrelled. It was I who nodded in the direction of the woman this time, and I used the same question.
‘Any good?’
I meant her work, but that’s not what he answered.
‘I have no idea . . . I doubt it, actually. She has a terrible inner coldness, hasn’t she? An ego as big as an elephant. Quite the psychologist, ain’t I? Don’t get me wrong – actually I quite like her. She reminds me of someone.’ I sensed he was laughing at himself.
‘Yourself, maybe.’
He looked oddly vulnerable – something you didn’t expect of him – then he said, ‘In that case, although she doesn’t know it, she’s going to be lonely for the rest of her life, God help her . . . and God help any man who ends up with her.’
‘Not you then?’
‘Sleep with staff? No, Charlie, that way madness lies.’ He nodded in her direction again. ‘You shouldn’t either, unless you have a death wish.’
‘Thanks. I’ll remember.’ He could have been warning me off just to keep his own way clear, but as it happened I agreed with him. ‘Do you know what those birds are?’ No one had told
