Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  George felt pleased with himself. Two telephone calls and he was making real progress; Susanna would be pleased with him and he could look forward to the gratitude of the four girls. He decided his reward would be a visit to the taverna so he did not have to cook. Or be alone. Or worry about why he was so worried about being alone. And he might find out more about the new waitress.

  Her name was Deborah. George thought it rather suited her. She was from Sofia. Her mother was Bulgarian and her father was German. She was a lawyer; at least she had a law degree and wanted to be a lawyer and to specialise in human rights cases. She could not find the job she wanted in Sofia so she had decided to take a year off, travel and get some experience of the world. She did not have a work permit. So what? Andreas did not care either. She had two sisters and a brother who had just gone into the army. George nodded encouragingly as these pieces of information were provided, one by one like a succession of dishes, at visits to his table or those of his fellow customers seated nearby. George had smiled, nodded, grunted or murmured, ‘really!’ as each titbit was delivered but he was dumbstruck at the last nugget.

  “It is not busy tonight so I can finish at eleven. You can cook me some dinner. And I would like some wine, too if you have any.” George had been about to order a moussaka but shut his mouth again, reopened it, fish-like, gathered his wits and mumbled,

  “Yes, fine, eleven then. Er, I’ll wait shall I, as it’s nearly ten already?”

  The village was sleeping as they drove in. The locals tended to retire early and rise with the sun so eleven-thirty felt very late. And George felt like a criminal – out late and doing something illicit and shameful. He almost bundled Deborah into the house and quickly closed the door to the street more noisily than he had intended. Deborah bounced heavily on to the sofa and tucked her legs up under her, immediately at home.

  “Do you have a cold beer, George? It’s so hot. I’ve been working since eleven this morning and I need to get out of these clothes.”

  George didn’t think she was wearing all that much as it was but turned away to the fridge. “Beer. Of course. What do you want to eat?” He had been planning his menu while he waited. “I could do some pasta, or a pizza. How about an omelette? I‘ve got cheese and mushrooms and things like that.”

  “Look. I’m tired. Could we just have a salad or something. Have you got any olives? It’s really only a snack, isn’t it? Tell you what; I’d love a shower. Do you mind?”

  No, no. Of course not. Use the downstairs bathroom over there on the other side of the courtyard. I’ll find you a clean towel.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll be fine,” said Deborah, rising and swaying through the half-open doors of the living room towards the door opposite.

  “What sort of music do you like? George asked her disappearing back.

  “I don’t mind. You decide.”

  Looking along the rows of CDs George considered what would please Deborah at the same time examining his own intentions, listening to the sound of the shower and trying to match a music selection to the situation. He had gone to the taverna mainly to avoid sitting alone in the empty house but also to try to seek the company the waitress – Deborah – she had a name now. He was uncertain about what to do. He hadn’t got as far as thinking what to do if he ’pulled’. In fact, he hadn’t expected to get anywhere. It was more of a game, the thrill of the chase rather than the expectation of a kill, something to fantasize about in a lonely bed where he could imagine all the things he might do to please her. He slid a compilation album into the open compartment and pressed the ‘play’ button. On the one hand, Deborah was there, in his shower and had volunteered… he was not yet quite sure what, but definitely some sort of relationship. On the other hand, this was his and Susanna’s home. Right now Deborah was using Susanna’s shower gel and towel. And this was a village. There were no secrets. For sure someone would have heard him coming home and peeped through the shutters. By lunchtime tomorrow, everyone would know he had taken an attractive young woman home while Susanna was away. He turned the music lower as if to prevent its reaching Susannah’s ears. But he was convicted anyway. Even if he resisted the temptation, nobody would know about his sacrifice and would assume he was playing away from home; at home. If he was to be judged guilty anyway, he may as well commit the crime. But then, could he… did he want to lie to Susanna?

  “I’ll make a salad if you like. I do it twenty times a day so I must be quite good by now.” Deborah was wearing a towel. It was a hand towel wrapped around her body but it wasn’t quite long enough. Oh, God, thought George. Oh my God! “This is nice. What is it?”

  “It’s called Yellow.” (Oh, God! thought George, am I?)

  “George, forget food for a few minutes (Oh, God. Oh, God) Come and sit down. (Oh, God!) I must give you an explanation. (You must?) I needed to get out of the taverna tonight. Andreas is a bit of a problem. You know what some of these guys are like. They couldn’t touch a local girl without having half her family round shouting at them or worse, but a foreigner… They assume we are all available and have come here just to have sex with them. I had only been there two days and he started the touching and pushing against me. I’m used to some of that; men are the same everywhere. (Don’t I know it!) Maria, his wife, is ill. Did you see her? She cooks. She is very ugly too and I know she does not like me. I think she knows what Andreas does but she says nothing. She just watches me and looks angry. Last night something woke me. I think it was Andreas trying to open the door to my bedroom but there is a key and I had locked it. Then I heard a key go in from the outside. Luckily I had left the key in the lock so it wouldn’t open. Nothing else happened but today I see the key has gone from my room and I am frightened for tonight. When I saw you on your own, I thought, ‘there goes my hero’. If Andreas thinks I belong to somebody else, he will leave me alone. I could not ask you to come to my room. There would be a scandal. So I invited myself to your house. (‘And there won’t be a scandal now?’) Andreas told me who you are but he did not say you are married. I see your wife’s things in the bathroom. Where is she?”

  George was still preening himself at the idea of being somebody’s hero and was slow to respond. “She is in England. Her mother has to have an operation. She’ll be back in a few days, a week at the most. Susanna, not her mother. Susanna. That’s her name and she is not my wife. My wife is called Susan. She’s in England. I mean she lives in England, all the time, not here.”

  “Why, George, you are quite a playboy!” Deborah smiled alluringly and drew up her knees underneath her on the sofa revealing a dark shadow below the inadequate towel. (‘Oh, God. Oh, my God.’) George needed physical as well as emotional intimacy. He also needed to earn Susanna’s approval for his loyalty to her but he didn’t know when he was going to see her again and Deborah was here now. His indecision was obvious to Deborah and she took pity on him.

  “I think I am embarrassing you, George, putting you in a difficult situation perhaps, and myself too. I will get dressed.”

  Chapter 9

  Susanna did not recognise either of the young men on the doorstep. She had answered the doorbell while moving from one room to another half way through her breakfast, and she realised she was still clutching a half-drunk mug of instant coffee. With her other hand she automatically pulled together the edges of her dressing gown – an apple green, frilly nylon number borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe. She experienced a sudden panic. Perhaps they were from the hospital to tell her something dreadful about her mother. Impossible, she told herself. The operation was not even due to take place until later this morning.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, Miss Parson. We wanted to make sure of catching you before you go to the hospital and, come to that, we have a deadline to meet. I’m sorry. Let me explain. I’m Tony Georgiou, senior features reporter and this is Bob, my photographer.” He proffered an ID card with his photograph, the name of a well-known Sunday tabloid paper and the word ‘pre
ss’ prominent in heavy capitals. “Could we speak to you for a minute. It is quite important and it won’t take long.”

  Susanna hesitated but conscious of the inadequacy of the flimsy dressing gown and the sidelong stares of early-morning passers-bye, hurrying along the pavement beyond the open gate on the way to their offices and bus stops, she stepped backwards, pointing with the coffee mug towards the living room door in the middle of the narrow hall. “Just a minute please. I’ll be right back.”

  “White with two sugars please,” called the reporter after her retreating back. “No sugar for Bob. He’s already as sweet as we can make him at this time of the morning.”

  She returned in jeans, finishing the buttoning of her cardigan while running the fingers of her other hand through her hair. Glancing down, she quickly kicked off the fluffy, pale green mules – more of her mother’s bedroom attire – that she had absent-mindedly put back on while hurriedly dressing.

  “What can I do for you?” She asked.

  “I’ll come straight to the point. I believe you were the hostage in the people-smuggling incident in Corfu on Monday. We’d like to print your story and in exchange for the exclusive right to do that, I’m authorised by my editor to offer you five thousand pounds.” As he spoke he reached into his inside pocket and produced a cheque that he placed, face up, on the coffee table. It was already completed and payable to Miss S. Parson. Taken completely by surprise, Susanna stalled.

  “How did you find me? I thought my name was being kept confidential. Anyway, I’m not sure I want this all over the papers. It was all over in a couple of hours.”

  “It’s my job to find people, Miss Parson, and I have very good contacts, family contacts, in Corfu. And can I call you Susanna? Don’t you think, though that something should be done about the slack security at the airport that allowed someone almost to the steps of the plane with a gun, not to mention the coastguard or whoever allowed these traffickers and the girls to get past them. I mean… the Italians seem to have got the problem under control, don’t you think it’s time the Greeks got their act together?”

  From corrections about how the traffickers really got hold of the guns and generalisations about security, Susanna found herself drawn, little by little, into talking about the girls and their minders and her own role and experiences. She noticed the dictating machine, its red, recording light blinking occasionally, that had been laid on top of the cheque but it did not seem to matter now. She was just giving basic facts to dispel misunderstandings. She did not want people to get the idea that she had done anything brave or, indeed, done anything, really. It all seemed so matter of fact, almost an everyday occurrence looking back on it now. She was surprised to find that she was crying as she describing the moment the gun had gone off and black-overalled and masked policemen had crashed through the windows of the airport office. Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the cardigan, she realised she had not told anyone the full story since the day it happened and somehow she had opened the emotional floodgates.

  “And how did the police treat you?” asked the reporter, gently.

  “Well, okay, actually.” Susanna sniffed. “In fact they seemed pretty anxious that I shouldn’t be delayed and should get back to my mother as quickly as possible. She’s having an operation today, you know.” She pulled herself together, straightening her shoulders. “And I’ve got to go an see her before the operation, so if you’ve got everything you need…”

  “Of course. Could we just have a couple of photos? We could wait while you go and get ready. A picture is better than a thousand words, eh Bob? Brings a story to life, somehow. And you’ll want to get off home soon, I expect. Back to your boy friend, George, isn’t it?”

  “Oh no, no. This is a bad day. Please don’t take a picture!” but it was too late.

  “Bloody hell, George! I asked you to offer a bit of moral support; not go into the people trafficking business with them!”

  “No you didn’t! You begged me, you pleaded with me to help them. Well, the help they need is getting away from Albania and that’s the help I’m organising. And with some difficulty too, I might add. I’ve had to make contact with people I would rather not contact right now, and call in a few favours too!”

  “I didn’t mean for you to adopt them, George. After all they’re only would-be hookers!”

  “No they’re not. They’re bright and well-educated young women who can’t follow a decent career in their own country. They deserve a break and as it was you who asked me to help them, you could be a bit more grateful. After all, I’m doing this for you, you know!”

  ”Well, you’ve changed your tune! You couldn’t be bothered to do anything about them until I practically went down on my knees to you!”

  “See! See! I told you I only got involved because you pleaded with me!”

  “Well, I don’t want to hear about your conquests, George, but while you’re on, I’d better tell you that the bank’s pensions people want to hear from you and I also had a call from Sir Alec who seems pretty keen you should contact him.”

  “Christ! You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?”

  “Give me credit for some sense, George. Of course not, but I said I’d tell you he wants to talk to you. And now I have! And another thing, I don’t enjoy getting malicious calls from your bloody wife. She was quite nasty and as usual you weren’t here so I had to take the flak! I’m getting fed up with covering for you. I’m not your bloody secretary any more!”

  “How the hell did Sue and Alec find out how to contact you in the first place?”

  “As you have been baring your soul to complete strangers in Greek police stations and ringing all and sundry at the bank, you might already have the answer to that question. And I don’t need your permission to have lunch with an old colleague.”

  “Bloody Jill! I might have known! Tele-phone, tell a woman or, if you want everybody to know, tell Jill!

  “As it happens she didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. And come to that, why is it? You can’t pretend you don’t know me for the rest of your life, George. You should stand up to these people, unless you’ve got something to hide. Are you ashamed of me or what? Why shouldn’t we tell people where we live? And Mum has had a mastectomy, thanks for asking. I’ll giver her your love, shall I?”

  “Oh!” said George, just as the telephone went dead leaving him breathing heavily and struggling with a cocktail of emotions. Thank God he hadn’t said anything about Deborah. One of his reasons for ringing Susanna had been to spike the gun of local gossip by being the first to casually mention that she had visited him late at night. The telephone rang, making him jump.

  “And another thing, George. You’d better have a look at the English Sunday papers because my story will be on the front page. You weren’t here so I told someone else! I made myself a nice fee, too, as a matter of fact!” The telephone went dead again.

  Susanna unexpectedly burst into tears for the third time that day. Not only was bloody George not there when she needed him, but he was also devoting all the time and attention that should have been hers to helping other women! She hated him at that moment and had he been there she would have thrown him out. What the hell did he think he was playing at? Anger, frustration and a sense of betrayal combined to send her into a fresh flood of tears and she hurled the telephone across the room, changing her aim at the very last moment, to hit the sofa instead of the mirror over the fireplace. The lead popped out of the wall. Hell!, hell!, hell! And something saved her so she burst out laughing at her own vehemence and impotence – something closer to hysteria than hilarity but better than the alternative. She wiped her eyes and briefly considered using the telephone in her mother’s bedroom to ring George again. No. Let him stew. It would do him good to know she was upset with him and with everything in general. She hadn’t lost her rag with him before. This would teach him a lesson. He might even get the point. Typical man! All over you when you don’t want them
; nowhere in sight when you do.

  Valerie never seemed to have any trouble starting her little red hatchback but Susanna had not got the knack of the temperamental choke and throttle and flooded the carburettor again. When she had told him about it, George had jokingly called it a typical woman’s car, only prepared to perform without complaint when it was in the right mood. ‘Why on earth can’t mother get a decent car?’ she thought, sitting drumming her fingers on the steering wheel? One day it would give up the ghost somewhere distant and embarrassing; then she remembered that it hardly left the garage between one weekly supermarket-shop and the next and probably never went anywhere distant, and so suited her mother’s modest needs perfectly well. Nevertheless, the wretched thing was making her late for her second visit to the hospital. She was silly not have kept the underpowered hire car. At least it was reliable. Yet again, her habit of looking for ways to save money, to be economical, had got the better of her. She also regretted not haggling with the journalist. Even at the time and in spite of her discomfort, she had noticed Georgiou’s momentary hesitation before he reached into his pocket to produce the cheque and she now realised that he probably had several different cheques in different pockets, each one of a higher value. If she had asked for more she would have got it and her ridiculous, English, middle class reticence about bargaining or asking for money had very likely cost her several thousand pounds. Viewed that way, she was not nearly so pleased with her fee as she had told George.