A Blind Man's War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘Sure. TCs. Friendlies . . . well, most of ’em, anyway.’

  ‘How do you tell the difference between them and the Greeks?’

  ‘They talk Turkish, of course.’

  ‘So a Greek Cyp talking Turkish could fool you?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. But he wouldn’t fool these guys.’

  In the café we got into a heavy argument about Miss World with a group of hard-looking middle-aged men, all of whom were going for the moustache of the year award. Money changed hands. I managed to get an each-way bet on the girl from Cuba. Pat said it was a fix, and was taking money against Miss Venezuela.

  These guys were drinking an aniseed drink identical in all respects to the Greek juice Watson had served me in his office. It had been invented in Turkey, they told me, and stolen by the Greeks. Their heavily accented English was more than adequate for the usual men’s conversation about dames, football teams, or for whom Fangio and Hawthorn were going to drive next year, and by the time they blew I had added a few Turkish words to my vocabulary as well. Later Tobin warned me, ‘Watch yourself when you’re around these guys – they’re heavies. They support the Turkish resistance to EOKA, and they’ll try to get you into a fight with some Greeks. Then they’ll accidentally slit a few Greek throats as they rescue you, and a riot will break out.’

  ‘How much did you take against the Venezuelan girl not winning?’

  ‘Too much. I gotta lay some off.’

  ‘How will you get anyone to do that? She’s not fancied.’

  ‘Go into a bar on Murder Mile, and tell them the Turks are all betting against her. I’ll get buried in her instant supporters putting money on her to win. You ever ate kebabs?’

  ‘No. What are they?’

  ‘Meat pieces on skewers. You put them in a flat bread envelope. Tonight’s your night to discover Turkish meat cooking.’

  When we got back to Tony’s, Collins was up at the bar on a high bar stool with Steve. There was a vacant seat between them, and I slid onto it. Steve said, ‘Where have you been, sailor? I been waiting an hour . . . don’t expect me to do that again.’

  ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t know you cared.’ I supposed she’d recognized Pat’s wagon in the forecourt.

  ‘I don’t,’ she told me, ‘but a customer’s a customer, in both my language and yours. I don’t let go of you that easily.’ Then she began to laugh. So did Collins. So did I. The bottles of Keo began to do the rounds – Pat found David, and asked him when the dancing girls were coming on. Two musicians in traditional dress emerged from a corner and struck up a tune. It was going to be a decent night.

  I awoke in her room again at about three. She yawned, and woke up at the same time. I lit one of her American cigarettes, Luckies I think, and we shared it. We still hadn’t exchanged a word. Then I broke the spell.

  ‘We’re getting on all right together, you and I, aren’t we?’

  Nothing. A stream of tobacco smoke climbing away.

  Then, ‘Don’t know what you’re getting at, Charlie.’

  ‘I’m telling you that I feel comfortable with you and trying to say thank you.’

  ‘Nothing sloppy?’

  ‘Nothing sloppy, Steve. I’ll warn you in advance before I say anything sloppy.’

  ‘You do that.’

  I leaned on one elbow, looked down at her and ran a couple of verses of ‘Careless Love Blues’ in my head. I couldn’t work out whose version I liked best, Bessie Smith’s or Neva Raphaello’s. I think the Dutchwoman just had the edge.

  ‘I love this time in the morning,’ Stephanie said. And then, ‘You don’t want to go back to sleep just yet, do you?’ She reached up suddenly, looped an arm around my neck and kissed the bottom of my ear. Then she whispered, ‘Don’t think because I’m in this line of business that I don’t need sleep, just like regular people.’ And made a small sound that was halfway between a smile and a laugh.

  Right at that moment something happened. I don’t know what it was, but something happened. And whatever it was she knew it too.

  We slept deeply and late, and when we walked downstairs looking for breakfast she slipped her hand into mine.

  Does luck come into it, or does God just sometimes deal you some very nice cards?

  ‘Nicosia is a shitehole,’ Tobin told me. ‘You’ve driven through part of it once, and round it once. That should be enough for anyone.’

  ‘I still want to see it. When I get home everyone’s going to ask me what Nicosia’s like. They won’t ask about the sea and the mountains. They won’t even ask me about Famagusta. They’ll ask about Nicosia.’

  ‘That’s because of the Brits getting killed there. It’s in all the papers. Why indulge them? The papers should be encouraged to report uplifting and interesting things instead.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as cricket matches, or golf.’

  ‘Golf?’

  ‘What’s the matter with golf?’

  ‘It’s infantile, a game for living corpses. Someone hits a ball towards a minute hole in something like somebody’s lawn . . . and then fifteen minutes later they take a hike and do the same thing all over again.’

  ‘You got something against golf, Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah, I got something serious against golf.’

  ‘Good, ’cos I got somethin’ against Nicosia. Understand now?’

  Stephanie had been smiling good-humouredly at both of us.

  ‘I’ll take you into Nic, Charlie. I know an old Maltese banker there. He’s always pleased to see me.’

  I put my hand over hers on the table; couldn’t stop myself. Her fingers curled around mine. I asked, ‘Is there a downside to that offer?’

  ‘You might have to wait outside until I finish work.’

  Pat’s laughter always erupted in small bursts. I laughed too. Then I looked away across the garden. Birds were sitting on the rim of the fountain where Laika had tried to weave a spell. Dipping their heads, and drinking delicately. Tipping their heads back. Whistling more like caged songbirds. She squeezed my fingers again.

  ‘I’ll take you tomorrow morning, Charlie, before EOKA is properly awake. Pat will lend us his jeep.’

  ‘Will you?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why not? As long as you wash the blood off before you bring it back. I’ll still be in bed, so if anyone asks I’ll say you stole it.’

  One of the other dancers walked up behind him; a blonde with a fresh citronade in her hand. She put her arms around him, and bent to kiss the nape of his neck. She had been rehearsing, and was dressed for dancing. Very beautiful. Filmy blue silks. Where her flesh met the air I could see the faint sheen of perspiration on her arms and her legs. The curious thing was that in this old-fashioned garden it was the rest of us who looked out of place, not her. Pat hooked out the fourth chair at the table for her with his foot, and nodded her into it.

  ‘This is Inga. She’s from Uppsala in Sweden.’

  ‘Are there any genuinely Middle Eastern belly dancers left anywhere?’ I demanded.

  ‘Only in Vegas,’ Steve said. ‘They still like the big ones there. Would you like to come for a walk around the walls? There are some stupendous views towards Turkey, and you’ll meet some nice people.’

  Collins walked from the hotel deep in conversation with his officer Thirdlow. The garden was beginning to feel crowded. I glanced at Pat – he was still my mentor here, the guy who knew how things worked. He nodded. A walk with Steve would probably be OK. I could have made all manner of a witty acceptance speech, but I simply smiled at her and said, ‘Love to.’

  Ledra Street in Nicosia wasn’t crowded at that time in the morning, but I’d heard too much about it, so I rode with the flap of my holster loose. It was a long, dirty shopping street, and the hundreds of telephone and electricity cables close overhead made a net that would have defeated any but the smallest bird. No one had cleared away the day before’s litter – it was like Borough Market the day after market day. Steve nosed along it quietly. Occasiona
lly locals would have to move aside for us – mostly women out buying early-morning treats for the breakfast table. A few of them smiled as we inched past. Most of the men scowled, or refused to meet our eye. For a few minutes we crept along behind an Orthodox priest who strode lord-like along the centre of the road, deliberately keeping us in our place behind him. That raised a few smiles.

  Steve looked a bit rattled for the first time, and whispered, ‘If anything happens I’m going to cream him,’ and hooted the horn twice before he deigned to move over. That just served to draw even more attention to the stand he was making, and he was wearing a smug smile as we passed. A small boy suddenly grabbed an apple from his mother’s wicker basket, and hurled it furiously at us. I fielded it instinctively – a nice high left-hand slip catch, half standing – bowed to him and shouted thanks before I bit into it. That didn’t go down at all well: a young man stepped into the street behind us, and shook his fist. Another joined him. They began to run. Steve put her foot down, and shot us out of the lower road towards Eleftheria Square.

  ‘Touchy lot, aren’t they?’ I asked her.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to catch the apple – you were supposed to be hit by it.’

  ‘Pat was right.’

  ‘About Nic?’

  She was wrenching the car from corner to corner, out through one of the Old Wall gates, heading west.

  ‘No, about cricket. If that little bastard had been exposed to the game at an impressionable age he might have been able to hit me.’

  ‘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 me.

  ‘White-eared bulbuls. I don’t know whether they’re residents, or only like us.’

  ‘Like us?’

  ‘Just passing through.’

  ‘Do you know a lot about birds?’

  ‘A bit.’ It was odd seeing a domestic side of a tough policeman. I thought I’d rather like him for a neighbour. I don’t know why, but my mind glanced back to the woman again. Would I like her for a neighbour as well? No, I definitely wouldn’t. In fact, the very thought made me shiver. Collins noticed.

  ‘What’s up? Someone walked over your grave?’

  ‘No, it was just something I thought on.’

  He read my mind. ‘I know, she can do that to you, can’t she? Two hundred years ago they would have burned her. When’s your next shift?’

  ‘Tuesday. Late. Another day yet. Do you alwa
ys stay here when you’re off duty?’

  ‘No, just occasionally. Some of my people are working at this end this weekend, so I decided to be around. It’s an excuse to get away from the office, but they know where to get me.’

  ‘A change from Spam with everything?’

  ‘You said it, son. Have you tried the bean salad Yassine serves here?’

  ‘Yes. He had a place in Ismailia. I first had it there. He used to call it Beirut Sunshine then.’

  ‘It’s Salamis Sunshine now. That scans better, but it’s probably the same.’ He’d answered my questions but there was still something missing.

  Collins left. Pat Tobin replaced him about half an hour later, and Pete slithered in half an hour after that. The woman recovered her book, smiled a mysterious smile and went to find a bench at the other end of the garden.

  Pete was dressed like me now, in anonymous KD thins, although he undermined them with his hallmark highly polished black shoes. I stuck with a pair of comfortable old suede desert boots. They were a bit smelly by now, but I could wear them all day without sweating up. Pat asked me, ‘Anything planned for tomorrow, squire?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘We have, an’ someone asked me to invite you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Warboys.’

  ‘I suspect Warboys is bad news, Pat. He has a fanatical gleam in his eyes.’

  ‘That’s why the GCs don’t fancy him. He out-fanatics the fanatics – most of those SAS guys do.’ At least we’d reached the stage of calling a spade a shovel. I’d worked with a couple of Australian Special Service guys a few years ago, and recognized the type. I respected their stubborn professionalism.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘To take another drive.’

  ‘Purpose?’

  Pete leaned forward; his small dark eyes were positively glittering. ‘Get that girl back. Maybe even the pilot. He says he knows where she is.’

  ‘Why us?’ I asked Tobin.

  ‘Me,’ he told me, ‘because I can lay my hands on the equipment we need, no questions asked. You and Pete because you’re not constrained by Queen’s Regs any more, the way we are . . . an’ all three of us because we got a day off tomorrer, an’ no one will miss us. Good enough?’