as well because the track down to the boat is littered with small rocks. Someone under the influence might well have a mishap here. Lucky I stopped at my eighth. There's a plaintive meow from my left somewhere. Kitty has joined me. She rubs herself against my legs as I walk. I reach down to stroke her silky fur.
"What have you got for me?" she asks.
"I'm really sorry Kitty," I reply, "I was going to buy you some cat food but then I saw Terry and he made me have a drink with him. Then Lucy turned up and we had to go up to Helen's house, and then bloody Fotis chose tonight of all nights to shut early. If it's any consolation I haven't had anything either."
Kitty looks at me.
"What about that chocolate cake?" she asks. She must have followed me into the village, she does that sometimes I think.
"Guten Abend, hello."
My heart jumps up to the base of my throat and misses a beat or two. I'm getting too old for surprises. To my left, sitting silently on a large rock is my new neighbour. He is probably mid to late thirties and looks a bit like that football manager in England that I've seen featured in Terry's newspapers. He's sporting a short beard and floppy light brown hair. Thankfully he is wearing clothes now and around his neck he has expensive looking night vision binoculars. He sees me take them in.
"Wonderful birds," he explains, "in the trees. It's my hobby."
He speaks near perfect English with the slightest hint of an accent. He could be Austrian or Swiss instead of German. I have no idea. I consider speaking to him in German. I spent a fair time in Switzerland in a German speaking area before a disagreement with some locals, so I'm pretty reasonable at it or thought I was. I lost a bit of confidence when Phillippe, who of course speaks excellent German, once remarked that he wished I would speak either German or English to him, but not a mixture of both. I realise that a few moments of silence have passed. In best British fashion I fill the silence with small talk.
"On holiday?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies looking at his yacht.
I try again. "Staying long?"
"No, not long," he replies.
Last try. "Lovely here isn't it?"
"Yes, lovely." That's it. I've tried.
"Right, well goodnight then," I say and begin to move off.
"Oh, by the way," he starts, "I hope you do not mind but I fed your cat earlier. It was very hungry. I spoke to Phillippe and he said that you were hopeless at feeding her, so I went to the village and bought some cans. I will drop them over later, or if you think it is better, I can feed her for the next few days. Perhaps it will save you the time if you are busy."
Supercilious dickhead. I try humour; "I don't suppose you've got some steak, and some pomme frite on board too for an older, larger two-legged cat?"
"I do not."
Kitty has jumped onto his lap as if to rub things in. She nuzzles against him and he strokes her behind her ears. She likes that best of all. She looks at me with her piercing green eyes.
"Now he would make a good owner," she says, "unless you pull your socks up you'll be doing it all alone again."
Suppressing my irritation, I thank him for his kindness and start to explain the reason that I could not get to the shop. He stops me by raising his hand.
"Yes, I heard when you told the cat. Goodnight."
Once dismissed I realise that we have not swapped names. Oh well. Kitty stays with him purring far louder than I can ever remember. She seems to be drowning out the cicadas tonight. I reach my dinghy. Like me, it's looking a little deflated. I really should mend that slow puncture. Maybe tomorrow. I can feel my neighbour's critical eyes on me as I reach into the boat and pull out my aged foot pump. This would be the perfect moment for the procedure to go well but I just know that is not going to happen. As I lean into the boat to undo the air valve, I forget that there's no pressure in the sides of the dinghy. When I rest my hand for support it collapses under my weight. I topple forwards and end up lying flat in the boat.
"That's one way of doing it," I say.
"It is," my neighbour says humourlessly.
Having pulled myself into a seated position, I slightly regain my self-esteem and pump up the dinghy. As the sides inflate, I call out to Kitty. "Are you coming then?"
"I'd better go with him," she says to our neighbour, "someone's got to take care of him, he clearly can't do so himself." She trots over to the dinghy and jumps onto the prow.
I pull us back towards Achilles using one of the two ropes that run from boat to shore at the stern to keep her from swinging around on the anchor. Just my luck. The ropes have been in the water today so I'm getting an unexpected salt shower as I pull hand over hand. The tiredness hits me. It feels like I've been whacked on the back of the neck with a wooden plank. I guess the alcohol is wearing off. My body is shouting at me that it needs nourishment but mostly sleep.
It's all I can do to climb up out of the dinghy onto Achilles. I tie the dinghy to the cleat and sit on one of the bench seats at the stern. Time for a quick roll up before bed. Kitty goes below ahead of me. I twizzle the Rizla between my fingers and carefully spread out the tobacco. I reach into my top pocket for the something extra but think better of it. Not tonight. I want to think a little. I lie back. It's bloody uncomfortable so I go downstairs and return with a couple of cushions and a sheet too. That's better.
My mind flicks from one thing to another like a spring butterfly before landing on the subject of Helen. I confirm to myself that I am right. There is absolutely no reason to suppose either that she is in any danger or that Lucy and I should go on some bloody goose chase to Preveza. Terry is almost certainly on the money; Helen is probably staying with some friends or relatives. The most likely explanation is that she did tell Lucy, but Lucy just forgot or didn't hear. After all, she's always prattling on about some new idea or other so that's a perfectly possible if not probable explanation. At some point my body gives up for the day, and I fall asleep out in the open.
I dream vivid dreams with unconnected snatches from my past flashing across my alcohol-soaked brain like disjointed scenes from an underground movie. In one of the scenes I am stark naked in the middle of some town looking for my parked car and an ex colleague from my London days is calling my name repeatedly. His voice is pitched higher than I recall it. My eyes flick open. The bright light hits me. I pull the sheet over my face. My head hurts. My dream is still running. "Roydon, Roydon, Roydon!" As my brains clicks slowly into day mode I realise that this is no dream. It must be morning because it is light. I pull the sheet from my face and sit up. Ouch. My head. My neck. My back. Lucy is leaping up and down on the shore like a peroxide giraffe playing netball, goal attacker probably.
"What the fuck do you want? Do you know what time it is? Actually, what time is it? I told you. I'm going nowhere. Not Preveza, not fucking anywhere."
"You said you would, or at least you didn't say you wouldn't, and that's the same thing," she replies.
"Not in my book, not the same thing at all," I shout.
"Will you shut up for a moment. This is important. Helen's in trouble."
"You told me that yesterday. Tell me something new."
"OK, I will. I've had
