by David Carter
‘Jesus H Christ! You mean he...?’ Midge ran to the open door and pushed it closed so hard Coral almost jumped out of her silks. The landing was pitch dark and she daren’t turn on the light. She pressed her ear to the door to hear more above her crashing breathing. When Midge spoke she heard every word, and though Coral knew it was wrong to listen and should return to her room, she could not. She strained her ears to pick up Lisa’s moping voice.
‘When he’d gone, it hadn’t taken long. It was the old man’s turn.’
‘Oh, my Lord! I can’t believe what I am hearing!’
Midge began pacing to and fro across the bedroom like a caged wild animal, his eyes afire; his chest muscles heaving as if he’d been vigorously exercising as he snorted through his nose.
Lisa looked pathetic and sniffed into a handkerchief.
‘There’s more, Midge.’
Midge glared back at her, his face blood red and angrier than she’d ever seen him befrore.
‘You’ve been gang-banged by half the Greek nation and now you say there’s more. How can there be more, Lisa, how can there be any more?’
Coral held her breath and pressed her ear to the door, desperate to hear Lisa’s reply, for she’d guessed what was coming next.
‘I’m pregnant,’ Lisa whispered through heavy tears.
‘Yep,’ murmured Coral, ‘right again.’
That was more than Midge could cope with, more than any reasonable man could be expected to bear. He made towards her, his arm drawn back. How could this girl make him so angry? How could she treat him this way? He would strike her; he would hit her so damned hard he would knock her into next week. She would never forget it, and when he’d done that, he’d throw her out into the street. For that was what she deserved, and good riddance. Or at least he thought he would. A tap came to the door, and without waiting, Coral slipped into the room.
‘Hi, guys,’ she said. ‘I heard voices. Is everything all right?’
‘Leave it, Coral!’ snapped Midge. ‘Get out and leave us alone!’
She glanced down at Lisa, who stared pitifully up.
Lisa moped, ‘No, I’d like her to stay.’
Coral sat beside her on the bed and linked her arm.
‘When I was in Greece...’ Lisa began.
‘I know, I heard.’
Midge returned to prowling the room.
‘The dirty filthy Greek bastard, the pervert!’
‘The thing is,’ said Coral. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘She’s having an abortion for a start! And while that charming event is occurring, I’m going out there to sort the bastard out!’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Coral.
‘I’m going to kill him, that’s what I’m going to do, murder the ugly git!’
The girls looked up into Midge’s crazy face, and neither of them doubted he was capable of it. But would he do it?
On the spur of the moment, Coral said, ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Oh no you don’t.’
Lisa butted in, ‘That might not be such a bad idea, if you’re serious, if you’re really going. He’s besotted with English girls. He won’t be able to keep his eyes off Coral. She could prove really useful.’
Midge sat on the end of the bed, his mind in turmoil, and for once he had to agree. He could see her point. It would be easier for him if Coral was there as a distraction.
‘Yeah, Coral, and me, I’ll book the flights tomorrow. We’ll go the day after. Don’t tell mum and dad, I’ll fill dad in with as much as he needs to know.’
He went to the bedside table and jerked out a writing pad and a pen from the drawer.
‘You!’ and he grabbed Coral by the shoulders, ‘get out and leave us alone.’ He led her to the door and pushed her gently out and closed it. ‘And you,’ he said, turning to Lisa. ‘Get writing!’
‘Write what?’
‘Names, dates, places, descriptions, the whole shebang! Don’t you dare leave anything out! If you value our relationship one speck, you don’t leave out a single thing! The truth, mind. The whole sordid truth!’
It took her just over an hour to finish her story, and not a single word passed between them. He brooded and stretched out on his back on the bed, his eyes jammed closed, as he imagined what lay ahead, and what needed to be done. When she’d finished, she handed him the pad. He took it from her without glancing at it and threw it in the drawer.
‘Will you still want to marry me, Midge?’ she moped.
It wasn’t the best timing.
‘I’ll let you know when I return. Get to bed, and don’t speak to me again tonight!’
IN THE MORNING, THE household acted as if nothing had occurred. Midge hurried to work and immersed himself in trading, Lisa seeing him off at the door. The frenetic dealing couldn’t obliterate images of Lisa being violated, but it dulled the pain.
At half-past eleven, he knocked on his father’s office door.
‘Dad, can I have a quick word?’
‘Course, son, what’s on your mind?’
Midge hustled into Vimy’s office and sat in the big chair that was a permanent fixture in front of the boss’s desk. A base for frequent visitors who came and went, paying their respects, asking favours, bringing titbits of news and gossip, in exchange for a contract or two, and an occasional glass of neat malt whisky.
He told his father everything. He told him he wanted to fly to Greece the following day and have it out with the Greek.
‘Are you sure she’s worth it, son?’
‘I wouldn’t be going if I didn’t.’
Vimy didn’t approve, but he did understand.
‘You want some money?’
Midge nodded.
Vimy stood and opened the wall safe secreted behind a Monet print.
‘Twenty grand enough?’
‘Make it twenty-five, to be on the safe side? I’ll probably bring most of it back.’
Vimy agreed and threw bundles of cash on the desk.
‘Do you want a gun?’
Vimy glanced back in the safe as if to check the two polished handguns were nestling there.
Midge didn’t know his father kept guns, though thinking about it, he wasn’t surprised, and he’d sure like to have taken a weapon.
‘Nah, we’ll never get one through customs.’
‘Your mother’s never to know any of this.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good luck, boy, and take care of yourself.’
‘Thanks dad, I will.’
MIDGE TOSSED THE MONEY in the briefcase and hurried away. He didn’t mention Coral’s involvement, for he knew his father would have forbidden it. He’d square it with his dad on his return, but in twenty-four hours Vimy couldn’t forbid a thing, for they would both be in Greece, on business.
Chapter Eighteen
BULENT VOLUNTEERED to drive the young Vimy to the international airport at Ankara. It was known as Esenboğa and in 1974 no British airline flew there. Vimy gladly accepted, for the thought of crossing Turkey by public transport was a nightmare not to be contemplated.
He was booked on flight seven-one-seven with Swissair, and he couldn’t resist regularly glancing at his Rolex, a Christmas present from his estranged father.
The journey through Turkey took hours and was hot, dry, and dusty. They stopped once to refuel both themselves and the car, but were soon back on the road, hurtling north-west, conscious time was pressing, for the London flight left at noon.
Bulent drove the Mercedes one handed, and once they’d connected with the new tarmacadamed expressway, he drove like a man possessed, using his spare hand to preen his greased moustache. As they entered the suburbs, Bulent said, ‘Esenboğa’s 28 kilometres north-west of the city. We’ll make it, don’t worry, Mr Ridge, Bulent will not let you down.’
He thrashed the car all the way and ultimately it objected to the treatment. Five kilometres from the airport, the engine began knocking as if Satan was incarce
rated within. Bulent ignored it, a brave decision, Vimy thought, but one he welcomed as the Turk pulled the car to a halt with a screech outside the main terminal building, scattering a group of porters and passengers loading tourist bags into the bowels of an old green coach. They glared across and shouted at Bulent, but he waved his arms and smiled back, then shouted again, and finished off with hand gestures. Vimy glanced at his watch. He had twenty minutes before the plane departed, pass through check-in, customs, find the plane and board. It would be a close thing. He pulled his bag from the back seat and made to dash away. But Bulent would have none of it, insisting on a grand bear hug as if they were long-lost brothers.
‘Bulent will never let you down, Mr Ridge,’ he repeated. ‘We will make many money together.’
He kissed Vimy on both cheeks, and as if suddenly remembering the plane was scheduled to leave, he stood back and shouted, ‘Go now!’ pointing vigorously towards the correct gate. ‘There, English flights go there!’ He smiled and pointed again and watched Vimy hurry away before propping his hands on his hips and taking out another cheroot.
Vimy was the last passenger to board the Boeing airliner. The senior hostess glanced at him as if to say: You were lucky! The door danced closed behind him as he hurried down the plane. Another hostess showed him to his place, an aisle seat, one from the window on the port side of the aircraft. Sitting in the window seat was a young woman. She barely glanced at him as he smiled down.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘just made it.’
She didn’t reply. Perhaps she was disappointed because she’d have preferred an empty adjacent seat, and returned to her book and tried not to look at him.
She was reading the latest Harold Robbins blockbuster and judging by the few pages she had turned, she’d bought it in the airport. He slapped his bag into the overhead rack and sat down. A tall, dark-eyed Swiss hostess appeared out of nowhere and helped with his seatbelt. The engines roared and shuddered; the plane jolted and moved forward, taxiing down the runway to the start point. It wheeled slowly round, paused for an incoming charter flight to land, and thrust itself forward in its terrifying screech toward the sleepy clouds.
Vimy sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He thought of Bulent and the cotton he’d seen, and the deals they’d done, and the deals they planned. When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at the International Herald Tribune, the American newspaper he’d snatched from the newsstand as he’d hurried through the terminal. The plane levelled out, and he relaxed enough to concentrate on the paper. Seatbelt restrictions were lifted, and he felt good.
On the front page was a small story tucked away at the base of the right-hand column. It related to an outbreak of fowl disease hitting chickens in the American Midwest. He made a mental note to sell November corn futures. If chickens were being destroyed they couldn’t eat, and if they couldn’t eat, demand would fall, and cereal prices would tumble. He couldn’t recall seeing anything of the story before, and he wondered if the sharp-eyed traders and raiders on the Corn Exchange in Liverpool had seen the news.
Somewhere over Greece, a meal was served. The dark-eyed hostess returned, fussing over him as if he were an incapable inmate in an old folks’ home.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Well done. There, you’ve got it now.’
The meal of chicken and rice followed by chocolate mousse and locally sourced Turkish coffee was surprisingly decent; albeit re-heated in a kitchen measuring three feet by two. When he’d done, he wiped his mouth on the paper napkin and muttered, ‘Good,’ in the general direction of the cool girl.
‘It was surprisingly good,’ she said, smiling back and proving she could speak. She was English; he’d thought so all along. While she was reading, he’d checked her out under the guise of peering across to gaze at the tumbling clouds.
She was slim and blonde, straight hair combed back and tied in a ponytail. Surprisingly girlish, he thought. Her eyes were set below an unblemished forehead and were large and deep blue. She was wearing a brown maxi skirt that flopped about her neat ankles, and on one side of the skirt was a modest slit, revealing a hint of English calf. Her top was an ethnic style blouse in orange and brown horizontal stripes. Orange was everywhere, and he hated orange, and it did nothing for her beauty. He ordered a gin and tonic and asked if she’d like one. She surprised him by accepting, and after that the book remained closed on the tiny folded down table.
‘Been on holiday?’ he asked.
‘No, visiting my father, he works in Ankara,’ and she added almost as an afterthought, ‘He’s the British Ambassador.’
Really? Vimy thought. Bet she loved saying that. Bet she said that all the time.
‘That must be interesting.’
‘I think it’s terribly boring.’
‘So what do you do?’ he asked.
‘I work for Shell in London. I write reports on the political stability of countries round the globe, those that hold oil, those that might hold oil, and those that have never given the idea two second’s thought, and before you ask, it’s terribly boring, but it pays well, and I get to see faraway places on the company account.’
‘I don’t think that’s boring at all. On the contrary, I’m fascinated. Is there oil in Turkey? I didn’t know that.’
There followed a long conversation about the potential for oil drilling in Turkey. It wasn’t so much a conversation, more a presentation, made by an attractive young woman, as she spewed forth facts and figures that were probably confidential, and the property of the Shell Oil Company, and while she spoke, it reminded him he still hadn’t discovered her name. He smirked, and she saw it, and that teased her to smile too, as she continued on her merry way.
Somewhere over Italy, with the blonde in full flow, discussing, nay lecturing, on the troubled future she predicted lay in store for Iran, Iraq, and Syria, Vimy decided he’d fallen in love, and somewhere high above the snow kissed alpine peaks, he reckoned the Shell Oil Global Political reporter was the woman who would become his wife, bear his children, and between them, they would found the new Ridge Commodity dynasty. Soon after that, his mind flashed back to the fifties, and Christmastime, sitting at his parent’s feet before the Christmas tree. Every Christmas exactly the same, an only child, spoiled rotten by two doting parents. Every year, the same scene, and he imagined them, him and this young woman, sitting together in their future, with their child, except there would be more than one.
He returned to thinking of his own childhood. The conversation would always turn to how Norman, then Rocky, and Mary had first met, the young Vimy insisting on it.
‘Tell me again,’ he’d plead, ‘tell me again.’
And he would sit enthralled, listening to the story of how his father had first spied Mary pulling pints of stout behind that bar, and of how he had fallen in love with her from that first moment, and he remembered too of how his mother would say, ‘I noticed him the first time he entered The Cutlass, and especially because there was something indefinably beautiful about him.’
A man being described as beautiful was a whole new concept to the young Vimy. But that was how she explained it, and somehow it seemed precisely right, and he believed every word his angelic mother ever uttered.
The boy Vimy sat there captivated year on year, sometimes remembering the end of the story, and sometimes not, but always entranced at the possibility that two people could fall head over heels in love at the exact same moment. How could it be they knew for certain they had met the one they were destined to marry? It seemed a ludicrous idea, and as he grew older and heard the story again and again, he became more sceptical that such a crazy scenario was possible. It was nothing more than a children’s story, a fable, a fantasy, make believe, like Father Christmas. It was nonsense, something you grew out of.
Vimy returned to the present, as he glanced across at the blonde, a beautiful woman with whom he had been cast together by fate, with whom he had shared his lunch and a glass of gin, the same stunning woman he had deci
ded he was in love with, the woman who would one day become his wife, and for the first time he realised his parent’s story had been true all along.
He wondered if behind those girlish smiles, could it possibly be that she felt the same way toward him? He could hardly ask her. Excuse me: Are you in love with me? To a stranger? It was all about playing the cards in the correct order, not too quickly, but not too slowly, either. The thought occurred to him that in a few years they might be sitting around their Christmas tree, telling their children of how they met on that Swiss plane from Turkey. Of how they fell in love, if not at first sight, within an hour or so. If only life could really be like that, and then as if to interrupt his wonderful imagination, a picture of Bulent flooded back into his head. You must find the right girl, Mr Ridge, you must find the right girl. Vimy laughed silently to himself. Bulent, I just have!
She stopped talking and gazed at him through her spectacular eyes. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m a commodity trader,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in Turkey buying cotton.’
She nodded as if she were thinking about that, and then she said, ‘I see,’ as if she couldn’t think of anything interesting to say.
‘My name’s Vimy Ridge,’ he said, offering his hand. She studied the large powerful mitt and took it and squeezed it, as he pressed her tiny hand. It was perfectly clean, as ladies’ hands invariably are. A little cold too, but in its own way, sexy. She felt the latent strength hidden within his tanned sinews.
He took her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Much as a Tudor explorer might have kissed the Queen’s hand when arriving in England with the latest mind blowing discovery. What a strange man he was, she thought, as he looked at her through dark eyes. She detested dark eyes, always had; cow eyes, she called them, yet perversely she didn’t hate his eyes. Truth was, she didn’t know what to make of them, for they unnerved her, or of him for that matter, for he unnerved her too. In truth, she was already in love with him, though she didn’t yet know it.