by Angela Dyson
I located the rear of the launderette and the Korean food store that sandwiched the club. Knights’ rear entrance was just a single door. There were no parking spaces directly outside and even if there had been it would have been a bit obvious just to plonk myself there. I continued and then circled back pulling up three spaces down and on the opposite side of the road.
I switched off the engine and waited.
A few cars came and went. Some loud young male and female voices and shrieks of laughter emanated from the direction of the tower block, but the group to which they belonged weren’t visible to me. Other than that, nothing happened.
I checked the time. It was now nearly half past one. What the hell was I doing choosing to sit alone in my car in a seedy backstreet in the middle of the fucking night in the hope of catching persons unknown in the act of carrying out operations unknown, over having another hot sweaty bout with Not-So-Tiny Tim? I honestly didn’t know, except that Simon and Chris’s dodgy dealings made me want to stand up for those who are cheated and exploited. People like the vendors of those houses and Dan and Sheena and Maggie, and Paula… and whoever it was that had sobbed behind that locked door.
At twenty-five minutes to three a van drove slowly past me and then stopped outside the club. I slouched down in my seat and watched as a man got out of the driver’s side. All I could make out was that he wasn’t very tall and was wearing a dark bomber-style jacket. He walked around the front of the van and disappeared from view.
Five minutes later he reappeared at the rear of the van, the aspect most visible to me, joined by a second man and three women (or girls). The driver unlocked the rear doors and he and the other man ushered the women inside. This manoeuvre, I noted, was carried out swiftly but not furtively and without obvious force or inducement of any other kind. The women appeared to be docile and weren’t putting up a struggle, but what did that really indicate I wondered.
Winding down my window a crack, I craned my neck to listen but was too far away to hear anything other than some words pass between the two men in a foreign language. That was it. Both men got into the van and the driver switched on the engine. I had seconds to decide. I followed the van.
Even in the early hours of the morning, London has quite a few vehicles on the road. Delivery lorries, night buses ferrying people home from a late shift or on their way to an early one, taxis with occupants both sober or drunk, voluble or comatose, and a certain dirty white Citroen van that I endeavoured to keep a space of two cars behind.
We travelled through Kensington and Paddington until we hit the Edgeware Road and then up we went through Kilburn, Cricklewood, and Neasdon. On the Hendon Way, we joined the A41 and then hung a left taking the road signposted Watford, Wood Green, and Brent Cross. Where on earth were we heading I wondered, beginning to feel tired and more than a little thirsty.
We passed the giant shopping centre heading north until, eventually, we were on the M1. Usually on a motorway I stick to the middle lane, but for long stretches the van stayed in the right-hand one and so I had to weave in and out of traffic that, although not heavy, came nevertheless in a steady stream.
Now, anxiety about driving over the limit really began to concern me and that coupled with the strain of eyeballing the van and maintaining the appropriate speed restrictions to keep up with it, was making me sweat under Tim’s shirt and my too tight dress.
At junction 7, I seriously considered giving up and going home. We could be going anywhere. Nottingham, Manchester or Scotland even and I wasn’t sure I was up to the drive. I needed a cup of tea and an aspirin but most of all I needed to get this bloody dress off. At junction 9, I was sorely tempted to take the exit and by the time I spotted the signpost for junction 10, I’d had enough. I indicated a left and switched lanes and as I did so, I realised that the Citroen was also swapping lanes to come off.
As we left the slip road, it was now only one car in front of me and continued to be so as we entered the outskirts of Luton. We drove on. I could feel the adrenalin that my body had manufactured to see me through the demands of the motorway drive begin to dissipate, and that tiredness was taking its place. I’d had no sleep. I was badly in need of a shower, had the parched mouth that results from too much alcohol, and my nerves felt brittle and on edge.
Just stop, I told myself. Turn around and mind your own bloody business, it’s nearly daylight. But I can’t I argued, I’ve come this far, it would be crazy to quit now.
We passed a stadium, and signs to Luton airport and to the city centre. Then the van, now two cars ahead, took a left on to a quiet residential road, leaving me no choice but to follow and for the first time without the barrier of another vehicle between us. It was doing about 30 miles per hour and so I slowed to 25 trying to keep as much distance between us as possible. It took a right. Another street and a very rundown one. Several cars had broken windows and there were overflowing dustbins everywhere.
I followed more cautiously now, letting my speed drop to 20 and then to 15, but still I felt highly conspicuous. Would they realise that they were being tailed? How much notice does one take of other vehicles on the road? None if you were just an innocent person going about your business I thought. But what if you weren’t?
My arms ached from holding tightly on to the steering wheel and I could feel a fist of tension flare between my shoulder blades. Somewhere nearby had to be the van’s ultimate destination. Let’s just get this over with I prayed. It can’t be long now. Another right and then a left and then we were in a rat run of streets, part of a sprawling estate that appeared to be only semi-occupied.
I could see derelict flats in a low-rise block, with boarded up windows looking, even as the sun was rising, stark and forbidding. Jagged gaping holes had been cut in the chain link fencing that bordered a disused children’s play area, where a lone swing hung lopsidedly from just one chain. And then, without indicating, the van suddenly swung a left disappearing around a corner. In pursuit, I picked up speed and swerved after it only to find that it had come to a halt right on the bend. Urgently, I pressed down hard on the brake pedal but it was too late, I was going to ram straight into it. Forcing myself back into my seat as if somehow, magically, the movement of my body could prevent collision with the rear of the other vehicle, I ground my foot down again and pulled desperately at the handbrake. The wheels spun for what seemed a very long minute but in reality could only have been a few seconds. My old Renault rocked violently on its axis but I had missed hitting the van, and with only inches to spare.
I took a long ragged breath. Nausea threatened and briefly I closed my eyes trying to force it down. Instantly, I opened them again at the sound of the van door being opened. The driver was getting out. I could see now that his bomber jacket was of shiny leather and that he was in his thirties with black receding hair. My hand shot out automatically for the door lock and I pushed it to. He was standing on the other side of the glass from me now and was shouting and gesticulating, but with all my windows closed and deafened by the panic that shrieked and numbed my brain, I couldn’t hear him.
I pawed at the ignition, switching the engine back on. But I’d forgotten that I was still in gear. The car shot forward and not only hit the van’s bumper with a thud, but also crunched down upon the shouting man’s foot. As he screamed and fell back, I released the handbrake and tried the engine again. It caught. Frantically I started to reverse as the passenger door to the van flew open and the second man, younger than the first and skinny in a pale grey tracksuit, jumped out.
He looked in disbelief at his companion still screaming and lying in the road clutching his foot and ran towards him. In those precious vital moments that he wasted, I had just enough time to pull the Renault back and execute a clumsy three-point turn. As I shot off in the direction I’d originally come from, I registered, in my rear-view mirror, something small and white that floated out and down from the van’s nearside window, to la
nd amongst the scrubby grass that lined the edge of the kerb. Somebody in that van had thrown out a piece of paper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I drove blindly, going I think in circles for a while, until I found that I was clear of the estate and I pulled over. The nausea I’d been fighting resurfaced and, releasing my seat belt and opening the car door, I heaved and threw up into the gutter.
I’d run a man down. I’d driven over his foot. I’d done that. I shivered and switched on the engine. I couldn’t drive home in this state. I had to steady myself and I had to get something to drink. A couple of streets down I found a small twenty-four-hour convenience store where I bought two bottles of water and a bar of chocolate.
Back in the car, I wrote down the Citroen’s registration number which I had memorised and then forced myself to dismiss everything else from my mind except the piece of paper I’d seen tossed from the window. Was it just a piece of rubbish or could it be some kind of message or cry for help? I didn’t want to go back for it. Hell, I didn’t even know if I could find my way back to it, but reluctantly I acknowledged that I had to try. Or should I just phone the police and report what I’d seen? But what had I seen that amounted to anything? They’d laugh at me. It was just three women being driven somewhere in a van. That was all. They could be going anywhere for all kinds of reasons, it didn’t necessarily mean anything sinister.
However, every instinct told me that it did. Somehow, I just knew that it did. But how, I asked myself, would I even explain to the police my reason for following the van in the first place? Not only that but I probably still smelt of booze and almost certainly of vomit and wouldn’t come across as exactly credible. They might even breathalyse me. No. For the moment, I was on my own in this or at least until I had found that bit of paper.
It took me nearly half an hour to locate the right street. Just when I was about to chuck it all in I found the abandoned children’s playground, its swing swaying on its one chain, a symbol of a sense of defeat that seemed to permeate this neighbourhood. I slowed down to a crawl and took the left turn where I’d followed the Citroen. I think I half expected to see it still there, because this could have been its ultimate destination for all I knew, but there was no sign of it. I parked and then got out of the car.
This is probably a complete waste of time I told myself. There was a light breeze and the bit of paper could have blown away, or fallen down a grating or been carried off by some huge scary dog. Or, and this was the most likely, retrieved by the man in the grey tracksuit. I thought the bomber-jacket guy would have been too consumed by the pain in his foot to pick up litter. This thought cheered me slightly and I sprinted across to where I thought the van had pulled up.
I found one fast-food burger box, several globs of chewing gum, and a receipt from a supermarket, which I examined in case there was something handwritten on it (there wasn’t), a wad of tissues (used), and a page torn from a newspaper and folded into eight pieces. I opened it out but I couldn’t read it. It was in Greek.
It was too early to hit the worst of the rush hour, but it still took me over two hours to get home where, being too tired to shower, I fell into bed and crashed out until nearly lunchtime.
Bathed and fortified by scrambled eggs on toast and two mugs of tea, I checked my phone. Tim had left a message asking why I had bailed on him and there were two missed calls from a private number.
I looked again at the newspaper. The date at the bottom of the page was just under a week ago. On one side, there were half a dozen articles with headlines followed by plenty of exclamation marks, but of course I couldn’t understand a word of them. The other side was clearly a page of advertisements. Some were in small bordered boxes and others just a couple of lines in the classified section and it was one of these that had a tiny cross printed in blue biro beside it. I squinted at it. There wasn’t a phone number, just two lines of text.
I switched on my computer and browsed the translation sites, but after patiently trying to decipher each individual word, the only thing I felt confident of, as an accurate interpretation, was a reference to flowers. There are so many nuances to a language, and words have so many different meanings in different contexts, that decoding the ad without help would be impossible.
My mobile rang. It was a private number.
“Hello,” I said and then when no one answered repeated, “Hello…”
The line went dead. Irritated, I looked back at the newspaper and then took a mental inventory of everyone I knew. No one spoke Greek. I considered friends of friends, still no one. I phoned Abbe’s and spoke to Dave, who then spoke to Laurence and Alec in the kitchen, who spoke to Tara and Ian serving the lunchtime crowd but again I drew a blank. Well I couldn’t ask Chris that was for sure and I didn’t think consulting Thanos at The Vine would be a good idea, but there was one other person I’d met recently who could translate it for me. But would she? And how much would I have to explain to get her to do so?
Nuala’s delicatessen on Camberwell Green had a simple rustic charm. There was lots of bare wood, dried herbs hung in baskets from the ceiling, and the walls were lined with racks of wine, vinegars, and olive oils. It didn’t go in for gourmet produce, but was more of a family-kitchen affair and was just the kind of place I usually like to browse in, coming out laden with individual portions of interesting delicacies wrapped in greaseproof paper.
And even though today I was here on a mission unconnected with food, I had to admit everything looked delicious. Trays of meatballs in a tomato sauce, plates of stuffed aubergines, and on a chopping board a pile of crusty rolls filled with cheese and Greek sausage. I wouldn’t have minded trying them all.
When I entered the delicatessen, Nuala, dressed in jeans, a dark blue blouse, and an apron and with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail was measuring some stuffed red bell peppers on an old-fashioned weighing scale and didn’t immediately recognise me.
I stood to one side as she finished serving her customer who took her time deciding between a portion of dolmades and some butterbeans in a creamy dressing. Eventually the stuffed vine leaves won the day and she left the shop.
“Hi,” I said stepping forward. “Remember me? I’m Clarry. We met on Sunday at The Vine.”
“I remember,” she said and the smile she gave me was a bit half-hearted.
“This is a great place,” I offered. “Everything looks wonderful. Is that baklava I see over there?
“Yes. We make it ourselves with honey from Mt. Erymanthos and with nuts from Aegina. How many pieces would you like?”
“Um…well… yes… just one please. That would be great.”
Wielding a pair of tongs she lifted a segment of the cake and placed it on a piece of waxed paper. “Is there anything else?”
I hesitated. “Well yes. As a matter of fact, there is.”
She looked at the array of food on the counter and I shook my head.
“No Nuala. I’m actually hoping that you might be able to help me with something.”
Nuala frowned. “I thought you must want something. What is it? And please be quick. My husband is out at one of the suppliers and I have customers.”
I took a quick glance around. “Not at the moment you don’t. So please, if you don’t mind, I just need you to translate something for me. Just a couple of lines. Here, look.” I took the folded newspaper from my bag and handed it to her.
“Do you know this paper?” I asked as she studied it.
“Yes. I think it’s from The Kirix.”
“Kirix?”
“It means Herald.”
“Oh. Right.”
“What is it you want translated? There’s an article here about how it should have been a record-breaking year for tourism but isn’t and another one’s about relief for investors and bail-out funds and this one’s about…”
“No,” I said. “It’s on the other side. On
e of the ads.”
She turned the paper over. “So it’s just the usual advertisements. There’s one for a dress shop, one for a restaurant on the Seven Sisters Road, and one for handmade jewellery. And then there are announcements about a couple of weddings and about upcoming celebrations for the festival of Agios Georgios on the 23rd at both Thyateira church and All Saints church and…”
I interrupted, “No. That one. See. The one with the tiny cross next to it.”
“Oh… yes… louloudia… that means flowers.
“Yes, that was the one word I managed to work out.”
She continued, “It says that there will be an arrival of freska louloudia… fresh flowers… on the 17th.”
“Two days from now. Hang on,” I said. “Let me write this down.”
I took a pen and a notebook from my bag. “Right. What else?”
“Kouti… that means box. Sto To Kouti. At the box… then it just says pétalo zária. Horseshoe dice.”
“Horseshoe dice? What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
She looked thoughtful as she handed me back the paper and said, “It must be from some company that exports flowers to the UK but…”
“But what?” I leant forward eagerly.
“Nothing I’m just surprised that’s all. I thought most flowers here came from Holland not Greece.”
“And the Scilly Isles,” I said.
“Hmm. Well there you are. So now I’ve done what you asked and so you’d better…”
“Wait a moment please.” I looked down at the notes I made. “You said the box. Is that a place do you think – The Box? Have you ever heard of it?”
“No I haven’t.” She looked at me keenly. “This is something to do with Chris Lianthos isn’t it?”