present from a very good friend of mine. The best friend I’ve got.’
‘All right,’ Lomax said. ‘Have it your way.’
He moved down the cobbled streets towards the harbour and Yanni trotted beside him. ‘Where do you want to go first?’
‘A place called The Little Ship’
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t want to go there. That’s a bad place. Not for tourists. For fishermen.’
‘Where would you suggest?’ Lomax said.
‘Lots of places. There’s a Roman temple on the other side of the island, but we’d have to hire a boat. It’s a long walk.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Sure – the Tomb of Achilles, for instance.’
‘They buried him here, did they?’
Yanni nodded. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘It must have been a long haul from Troy.’
The boy ignored the remark. ‘We could always visit the monastery of St Anthony or what’s left of it. They blew it up during the war.’
‘So I’d heard,’ Lomax said, and his face darkened.
‘Of course that would mean climbing the mountain. You’d probably find it too hot.’
‘That being so, I think we’ll make it The Little Ship for the time being.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Yanni shrugged despondently and led the way along the waterfront.
The Little Ship was on the corner of a narrow alley and when they reached it, he hesitated at the entrance and turned appealingly. ‘Let me take you somewhere else, mister.’
Lomax ruffled the boy’s hair with one hand. ‘Don’t look so worried.’ He grinned. ‘Shall I let you into a little secret? I’ve been here before. A long time ago. Before you were even thought of.’
He turned from the boy’s astonished gaze and went down the stone steps into the cool darkness of The Little Ship.
Just inside the entrance a young man sprawled in a chair against the wall and sang in a low voice, his fingers gently stroking the strings of a bouzouki.
He wore a red and green checked shirt, the sleeves rolled back carefully to display his bulging biceps to better advantage, and his hair curled thickly over the back of his collar.
He made no effort to move out of the way. Lomax stared down at him for a moment, anonymous in his dark glasses, and then stepped carefully over the outstretched legs and moved inside.
The first person he saw was Captain Papademos sitting by himself in a corner drinking red wine. Lomax raised a hand in greeting and Papademos deliberately looked away.
It was then that he became aware of a curious fact. There were six people in the room including Papademos, four of them sitting together and yet no one was talking.
The man behind the bar was small and wiry, his skin tanned the colour of Spanish leather. The right side of his face was disfigured by an ugly scar and the eye was covered by a black patch.
He leaned on the bar holding a newspaper and completely ignored Lomax. The strange thing was that his hands trembled slightly as if he laboured under some terrible strain.
Lomax removed his sunglasses. ‘Is Alexias Pavlo about?’
‘Who wants to know?’ the man demanded in a hoarse voice.
‘An old friend,’ Lomax said. ‘Someone from his past.’
Behind him, the bouzouki player struck a final, dramatic chord. Lomax turned slowly and saw that everyone was watching him, even Papademos, and Yanni’s white, frightened face peered round the edge of the door.
In the heavy silence, the whole world seemed to stop breathing and then a man stepped through the bead curtain that masked the door at the side of the bar.
In his time, he must have been a giant, but now the white suit hung loosely on his great frame. He moved forward slowly with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a walking stick, and the heavy moustache was iron grey.
‘Alexias,’ Lomax said. ‘Alexias Pavlo.’
Pavlo shook his head slowly from side to side as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. ‘It is you,’ he whispered. ‘After all these years you’ve come back. When Papas told me, I thought he was insane. The Germans said you were dead.’
The bead curtains parted again and George Papas moved out. There was sweat on his face and he looked frightened to death.
‘It’s me, Alexias,’ Lomax said, holding out his hand. ‘Hugh Lomax – don’t you remember?’
Pavlo ignored the outstretched hand. ‘I remember you, Englishman.’ A muscle twitched at the side of his jaw. ‘How could I forget you? How could anyone on this island forget you?’
Suddenly, his face was suffused with passion. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but the words refused to come and he raised his stick blindly.
Lomax managed to ward the blow off and moved in close, pinning Pavlo’s arms to his sides. Behind him, a chair went over with a crash and Yanni screamed a warning from the door.
As he released Pavlo and started to turn, a brawny arm slid around his neck, half-choking him. He tried to raise his arms, but they were seized and he was dragged backwards.
The four men who had been sitting together held him in a vice half-way across their table. Papademos got to his feet and started for the door, but the man who had been playing the bouzouki shook his head gently and the captain sat down again.
The bouzouki player propped his instrument carefully against the wall and came forward. He looked down at Lomax for a moment, his expression perfectly calm, and then slapped him heavily in the face.
Lomax tried to struggle, but it was no use, and Pavlo pushed the bouzouki player out of the way. ‘No, Dimitri, he is mine. Lift up his head so that I can look at him properly.’
Dimitri grabbed Lomax by the hair, pulling him upright and Pavlo looked into his face and nodded. ‘The years have treated you kindly, Captain Lomax. You look well – very well.’
The little man with the scarred face and eye-patch had come from behind the bar and stood beside Pavlo and looked down at Lomax. Suddenly, he leaned forward and spat on him.
Lomax felt the cold slime on his face and anger boiled inside him. ‘For God’s sake, Alexias. What’s all this about?’
‘It’s really quite simple,’ Pavlo said. ‘It’s about my crippled leg and Nikoli’s face here. If you prefer it, there’s always Dimitri’s father and twenty-three other men and women who died in the concentration camp at Fonchi.’
And then it all began to make some
