by Duncan James
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The evening sun was dropping below the sparkling Mediterranean horizon as the English couple finished their meal.
It was their favourite place. A table on the harbour wall, across the dusty road from the small bar run by Davros and Athena.
It reminded the man very much of the Old Harbour in Paphos, before it had been ruined by tourists. This tiny fishing village of Kopufano was not that far from Paphos, but far enough away to have escaped the attentions of tourists, and to remain unspoilt and undiscovered by the holiday trade. There weren't many places like Kopufano left in Cyprus these days. But because they lived on the island, the couple from England were able to explore the dusty tracks and rugged coastline away from the towering hotels with their sun beds and swimming pools.
Davros still went fishing from time to time in his battered launch, but no longer made his living from the sea. He caught enough to supply his small café bar across the road from the tiny harbour, and anything left was eagerly bought by friends and neighbours in the village. Davros spoke very little English, but his wife, Athena, had attended university in Cambridge many years ago, and still had a love of the place and of the English people. The couple at their table on the harbour wall were always welcome, as it gave her the chance to practice the language. They also contributed more to the bar’s meagre income than the villagers could who chose to eat there. They were a nice couple, and Athena knew he worked somewhere high in the Troodos Mountains, but she could only guess what he did.
The English couple had finished their early supper. A simple meal of local fish caught by Davros, with a green salad and boiled potatoes. They were enjoying a glass of Keo brandy as the air cooled and the sun set.
The tranquillity was broken by Athena, rushing from the café.
“Come quickly, come quickly,” she shouted waving her arms wildly. “Come quickly, and listen. Bad news from England.”
They rushed across the road and into the tiny kitchen at the back of the bar, in time to hear the end of the BBC World Service news.
By all accounts, the explosion, or possibly a series of explosions, had been bigger than anything ever seen before in Northern Ireland, or on the mainland. Bigger than Omagh. Bigger than Canary Warf.
It was certain that many people had been killed from among the VIPs and dignitaries, and countless others injured, many seriously. It was too early to say who had died, but the news broadcast was immediately followed by solemn music.
The couple slowly retraced their steps to their table, and sat in silence for a few moments.
“Who the hell could have done that?” he asked, talking almost to himself as he looked out across the sea.
The girl shook her head.
“I doubt it was the Irish,” he said.
She shook her head again. “I suppose that’s a problem for the Americans, now,” she said.
“We’ll have to help them,” he said. “It could just be al-Qa'Aeda, getting at us and the Americans at the same time. They’ve wanted to do that for years. We may even be able to pick something up from here.”
“I suppose we might.” she replied.
“We should have been there, you know,” he said to her, quietly. “Today. We were invited.”
“I know.” she replied.
“If it hadn’t been for you, we would probably have gone, too.” he said. “In a strange sort of way, I quite wanted to go, really, although I wasn't entirely sure.”
“I had a feeling we shouldn’t,” she replied.
“You always were a canny chap,” he said.
“I just didn’t want to go back, after all this time.”
“Why?” he asked.
“We’re so happy here,” she said. “I didn’t want to break the spell.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I had mixed feelings about it myself, to be honest. About meeting the old crowd again.”
“We may never meet some of them again, after today.”
“You always had a sort of sixth sense,” he commented, “as well as nine lives. Catherine ‘The Cat’ has lost another one today. Do you realise that, Sergeant Wilson?”
“Mrs Clayton, if you don’t mind, Major.” she replied, with a smile.
They reached across the table, and held hands.
“Take me home,” she said.
They crossed the road to pay for their supper. Athena and Davros were in animated conversation.
“I’m so sorry,” Athena said to the couple. “Terrible, terrible.”
They nodded, and walked to the car, arm in arm.
Once again, neither of them noticed the two men on a motorbike.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Duncan James was an RAF pilot before eventually reaching the higher levels of the British Civil Service, in a career that included top-level posts at home and abroad with the Defence Ministry, and work with the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard.
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