‘Hello, Tony,’ from the priest. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving. Did you bring your mother’s olives?’
‘She insisted – and gave me a bottle for you to take away. She sends her love.’
‘My father would have sent his greetings if he knew we were about to meet again.’
Too bloody much.
‘Another one of your brothers?’ I asked Warboys.
They both laughed. I suppose that was better than one of them throwing a pink canary.
‘No.’ It was the priest who spoke as he smiled. ‘My mother is much too sensible for that. Tony and I were at school together – TES. We studied in each other’s houses. He helped me with Latin, and my father taught him Greek.’ Then he gave me a shrewd sort of look and said, ‘You must be Charles Bassett, the radio man.’
Betrayal is a very odd thing. Although it creeps up on you slowly and unnoticed, when it happens, it happens very fast. Bastard. We were sitting down by then. The priest was offering me a glass of wine. I half stood, and swung on Warboys demanding, ‘Why did you bring me here, you bastard?’ Might as well use the word.
The shrewd look was from Tony this time. He said, ‘Because they asked me to. Sit down again, and eat your lunch. They’ll be offended if you don’t.’
We ate. On my part it was a sullen affair. Warboys and the priest talked as if I wasn’t there. EOKA was the enemy: they had murdered British servicemen, policemen, civilians, women and children . . . and we were sitting down to scoff with them. The food was probably very good, but it tasted bitter in my mouth – like lemons. They talked about school, and mutual acquaintances. Families. Tony had a sister.
‘I was in love with her once,’ the priest laughed. He told me, ‘My parents were horrified.’
Warboys grinned at the recollection.
‘What about your sister? Half the boys in the town were crazy about her.’
‘And she was in love with you, but you never noticed.’
There was an odd moment of silence. Warboys looked away over the plain.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I never knew that.’
The priest looked at me. The expression on his face said he wanted to explain something.
‘We are all mixed up, you see, Mr Bassett. Those boys outside the gate, Tony, me . . . we went to school together. Lived in each other’s houses, seduced each other’s sisters – or tried to – shared meals. Cribbed each other’s exam papers. Loved each other . . . there is no other word for it. Now we are killing each other over a few conflicting ideas. It is quite mad. Have you read Dante?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Get a good translation of Inferno – Tony will get one for you – read about Hell, and recognize it as Cyprus.’
I perked up at that. I had been trying to work out how to get away on my own, and save my skin, but at least he was speaking of me in the future tense.
‘Just stop,’ I said. ‘Tell the politicians and the lawyers and the accountants to fuck off and leave you in peace. Stop fighting.’
‘Come off it, Charlie.’ That was Warboys. ‘You’ve seen this sort of thing before. You know it’s gone too far for that. The politicians had a chance to avoid bloodshed three or four years ago, and they fluffed it. I think they do it on purpose. They’re so mentally impoverished the only thing that gives a politician a stiffy is his own cute little war. It’s the only logical conclusion – politicians take us into wars so often because they want to. They need to be able to cause the deaths of a few hundred people, and get away with it . . . to legitimize themselves, I suppose. I hate the bastards.’
‘I hate the bastards too,’ Adonis said, and raised his glass, ‘even though I’m not supposed to swear, and I’m not English.’ I wondered if he was supposed to drink either.
‘And so do I,’ I told them, and held out my glass for a refill. The wine was thin and vinegary, and exceptionally refreshing. ‘Pour me another drink, one of you.’
The priest obliged. ‘Retsina – the sharp flavour is pine. From the mainland. Not all of their ideas are bad.’
I knew that they’d get round to telling me what I was there for eventually, but I decided to shorten the odds. I asked Warboys, ‘Why did you tell them my name?’
‘I didn’t. Adonis sent me a message asking me to bring a Mr Charles Bassett, RAF, retired, to see him. I was rather intrigued, and came through to ask your gaffer this morning. He OK’d it as long as I guaranteed to return you in one piece.’
‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’
‘Because you’re not stupid. You would have said no.’
Not a betrayal then. Something else. I sipped my wine and studied the priest. His move.
‘Well?’ I asked him.
‘I needed to see you face to face – again, as it turned out – to help me help some others to make a decision.’ It was one of those moments when you know you should keep your mouth shut. I was never any good at them.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘We have to decide whether it will be in my friends’ interests to have you killed, or kept alive.’
Bugger. Still not out of the woods then.
‘If you killed me I wouldn’t be able to read that book about Hell you recommended.’
‘You would find out personally. You wouldn’t need a book.’ Bloody priests and parsons. Have you noticed it? They have an answer for everything. ‘Please understand that your death will not be a tactical decision – it’s nothing to do with the civil war.’
I think he was the first person I heard use the words aloud. I put my glass on the table, and
