Chapter 8

About the same time that Susanna was taking calls from the bank, George was making a call to a former colleague there.

“Hello, Nicholas. It’s me, George.”

“George! Bloody hell! You’re the last person I expected to hear from!”

“Yes, well… Look, there’s no easy way of saying this. I’m after a teensy favour; not for me of course but for someone, well four girls, actually, who are in deep trouble…or will be if we don’t help them. It’s something you could easily do with hardly any effort and no risk of any comeback on you. And you owe me, don’t you, Nicholas? For a start, you wouldn’t have that job if it weren’t for me, not to mention a few times when I’ve covered up embarrassing little slips for you. Shall I tell you what I need?”

“Okay, George. No need to labour the point. Tell me the story of your four totties. But no promises, mind.”

“Thanks, Nicholas. I’ve always said you’re a good bloke. Now, you’ll remember that the bank was looking at opening a Balkan office and one of the places under consideration was Albania. I don’t think the project was ever officially abandoned so, technically, it’s still alive. All you have to do is write a letter to Maurice Blomer at Potting and Cutts saying that you want to bring over a nucleus of office staff for up to six months for familiarisation training – procedures, communications, culture – all that sort of stuff – so that they’ll be ready to rock and roll if the Balkan office project does go ahead.”

“So what’s the real reason? I can’t believe you are into people trafficking or need four hand-maidens to look after your needs.”

“You’re not far off the mark, as it happens. The girls were being trafficked and it went wrong. To stay out of gaol, they will have to tell the police what they know about the criminal smuggling ring and then they can’t go home – which is Albania for three of them; the fourth is from Macedonia – without the probability that they will be badly beaten up, or worse. The only solution I can think of is to get them to the UK and that means work permits, or at least visas. That’s where you come in.”

“This is all very public spirited of you, George. Why exactly are you their knight in shining armour?”

“Well, because there was a hostage situation when their illegal trip went pear-shaped. In fact, Susanna was the hostage and it was all rather nasty. She could have been killed but now she feels some responsibility for them, some sort of shared experience thing, I suppose. I’m not sure I should tell you that, so keep it to yourself.”

“That was Susanna? It was on the news here two or three days ago but I didn’t hear a name. In fact, they didn’t give one as I recall. That was really her? Okay. I wouldn’t normally do this kind of thing but give me the details and I’ll write your letter. Just don’t expect me to actually put them to work though, will you?”

“No. I don’t think it will come to that. Thanks, Nicholas. I owe you a pint. Or two.”

The road to the taverna took George past a newly-erected advertising hoarding – yet another desecration of the countryside, he thought. The hoarding carried an advertisement for a private college and depicted three teenagers in their early thirties smiling inanely and posing woodenly while staring at something outside the picture. One was pointing something out to the others as if drawing their attention to a distant mountain peak or an approaching aircraft. The ‘point at something to give the shot interest’ technique had been very popular in home movies a generation before and had figured prominently in all his father’s cinematographic epics of family holidays. There had been one in a houseboat on the Thames near Reading. The houseboat had been a converted World War II landing craft painted sky blue, the colour widely used in Greece. If that houseboat been the first maritime excursion of a future Greek shipping magnate, it had not been very successful because the boat broke down on the second day and, despite his father’s Herculean efforts in a cramped and oily engine compartment, had never started again. They had been towed back to their willow-hung moorings where the overpowering smell of diesel had mingled with the damp river odour of rotting vegetation to give George a lifelong dislike of both. He remembered clearly being frightened by the purposeful approach of successive flotillas of smoothly-gliding, black-eyed swans that had seemed sinister and enormous to a seven year old who did not understand their curiosity and hunger: another lifelong phobia to be kept secret. And why was the water so green and sluggish and thick? All water in his life so far had come quick and clear from a tap or was blue-green-grey and incessantly mobile at the seaside. Determined not to be depressed by these disturbing phenomena, George had responded to parental urgings and spent much of his time swabbing the decks of the houseboat with a mop doused in a bucket of water drawn from the river over side. The water was a lot less threatening when spread thinly over pale blue paintwork. For this activity he had worn his new, navy-blue and white, hoop-striped tee shirt. His mother had thought this had a nautical air. Although he had not understood the reference at the time, his father had wondered whether a mask, a jemmy, and a bag marked ‘swag’ might not complete the ensemble. The swabbing shots had featured prominently in edited holiday highlights shown to adoring – or, possibly, terminally bored – aunts and uncles at family get-togethers for several years. Other memorable images had included some of his mother pointing out of shot to draw the viewers’ attention to an approaching alien spaceship. The soundtrack had been separately recorded and was added to the much edited and spliced film as a voice-over that matched the action only at the very beginning of the epic but George’s father had apparently been oblivious to the fact that his commentary described his wife as a popular local beauty spot only spoiled by an unsightly erection…[pause]… a block of council flats. George could not remember any music – he could not remember any music at all in his parents’ lives – but perhaps the Reading holiday had somehow been the inspiration of subsequent visits to the annual Bank Holiday weekend rock festivals there.

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.”