‘Okay. I promise.’
I squeezed her hand on the gear stick.
We had driven about two miles from Naoussa when I recognised two men on the road, trying to hitch a lift. I glanced at the big Hublot on my wrist; it told me there was just enough time for a bit of payback.
‘Pull up,’ I told her. ‘I know those two guys.’
‘They’re the hooligans from the town?’
‘Two of them, anyway.’
‘Please, Scott, I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘Actually, it’s an excellent idea,’ I said. ‘All the same, stay in the car and if they come after you, don’t wait for me, just drive away. Okay?’
Svetlana said nothing.
‘I mean it. Just drive off. Don’t think twice about it.’
I took off my watch, laid it carefully on the dashboard, buttoned my shirt to the neck and got out of the car; the road was empty and there was no one about, which suited my purpose. In the distance I could just make out the blue glow of what was likely the Hotel Astir’s floodlit swimming pool. And somewhere far away — possibly the same place — there was music: it sounded like Pharrell Williams. The two men were already running to where we were parked under a twisted olive tree thinking that they’d landed a ride home. But they stopped when they realised exactly who and what they were hurrying to.
I walked towards them in the moonlight, clapping my hands and singing a song to the tune of ‘Cwm Rhondda’; a joyous, taunting song you could hear at every football ground, on any match day in the season.
‘You’re not singing any more. You’re not singing any more.’
The one wearing the Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL T-shirt was about six feet tall, heavy-set, with a gold chain around his pink neck and so much golden stubble on his mug it looked like a newly harvested wheat field. The other one — the one wearing the Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt was taller and thinner, his mouth as thin as a slash in a potato, his forehead curled up into a knuckle of irritation and concern. He tossed away his cigarette without a thought for the forest fires that often ravage that part of the world; he deserved a smack just for that. The best and the brightest they weren’t; but they looked tough enough.
‘We’re not looking for any trouble, mate,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘No. We’re not.’
‘You should have thought of that when you were back in the town,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like what you were singing. It’s fuckers like you that give English football a bad name. Who spoil it for decent people. But I’m not here for me. I’m here for my friend, Bekim Develi. My friend didn’t like your singing either.’
‘Listen, Manson, get back in your fucking car and drive on, you stupid black cunt.’
I grinned; any doubts I’d had about what I was going to do were now removed.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ All this time I kept walking towards the pair. ‘Just as soon as this black cunt has sorted you out.’
The one thing I learned in the nick was how to fight like you mean it; that’s the only way you can fight when you’re in the nick. It’s not the kind of fighting that you see hooligans getting up to in the street, if that can even be called fighting at all. That’s the same way chimpanzees fight and most of it is just for show; they run at each other, shove a bit and shout and then stop, take a few steps back and then run at each other again, egging everyone else on, looking to see who’s really up for it, where the weaknesses are and, as a corollary, where to attack first. But in the nick you go in fast — before a screw has a chance to interfere and put a stop to it — and hard — hard enough to inflict real pain; and you don’t fucking care if you get hurt because there’s no time to think about that. Once you’re committed to it, you have to stay committed no matter what. The other thing you learn about violence in the nick is to keep your feet firmly on the ground and use your head and your elbows to aim at something small, because there’s not a lot of room in a cell or on a landing when you’re handing it out to another con. And there’s nothing smaller or more effective to aim at than another bloke’s nose.
Without a moment’s hesitation I launched a battering ram of a head-butt at the centre of the taller man’s face, and I felt something give like the sound of an egg breaking and heard him utter a loud cry of pain; it meant the fight was already half over because he collapsed onto the road and lay there holding his face. Les Ferdinand would have been proud of me; it was a great header.
One down, one to go.
Now the other man came at me and threw a big right hand which, if it had connected, would certainly have caused some damage; but he was tired, and probably drunker than I was, and the punch seemed to come all the way from Luton, on an EasyJet Airbus; delayed, of course. I had plenty of time to block it with my left forearm, which left me ample opportunity to bring a right elbow hard through my centre line against the left side of his face. Probably I didn’t have to hit him again, but I did — a hammer blow on the side of his nose that felled him like a pile of cardboard boxes, intended to render him every bit as ugly as he’d sounded in the Hotel Aliprantis. In spite of what I’d told these two guys, I hadn’t just struck a blow for Bekim: I’d also hit them for every banana ever thrown at me and for every racist epithet or obscene taunt yelled my way during a game. I kid you not, there isn’t a guy in the Barclays Premier League who wouldn’t like to hand out some grief to a bunch of fans now and again. Just ask Eric Cantona.
It was all over in less than sixty seconds; neither of them showed any intention of getting up and carrying on. I thought about kicking them both when they were on the ground and immediately rejected the idea. Knowing when to stop is as important as knowing when to start. I didn’t even say anything. I’d said all there needed to be said. I figured it would be a while before they sang anything again, least of all some crap about a man’s death.
I got back into the car, unbuttoned my shirt collar, calmly put on my watch again and then checked my appearance in her rear-view mirror; I wasn’t injured. I didn’t even have a headache.
‘Drive,’ I told her.
‘Feel better now you’ve done that?’
The wind took hold of the distant music and hurried it to our ears. Pharrell Williams.
‘I feel...’ I grinned. ‘I feel happy.’
And the truth is I felt great. Like I’d scored a winning goal in an important match. Even the local cicadas seemed to be cheering.
48
As the helicopter rose into the air above the Hotel Astir I took off my shoes and socks, tightened the belt on my cream leather seat and pushed my bare feet into the thick pile carpet in a futile effort to relax. On the flat-screen TV above a polished walnut cabinet I could see a map of Paros, and an altitude and speed indicator. In a few minutes the island itself had disappeared into the sky’s thick, purple blanket and we were flying just below the aircraft’s fifteen thousand foot ceiling and heading northwest at a speed of 150 mph. Cocooned in a four-million-dollar helicopter equipped with every conceivable luxury, I ought to have felt more comfortable; instead I was as nervous as a white rat in a laboratory. Already I was opening the drinks cabinet and generously helping myself from a bottle of cognac. After a few moments studying our progress on the map I picked up the remote control and found a BBC channel with a football match to watch instead; Burnley playing someone or other. I didn’t really care; it was a very good cognac.
About forty minutes later the Explorer’s skids were on the deck of The Lady Ruslana, although these were probably not as big as the ones in my underpants. I stepped gingerly out of the helicopter and onto the deck which felt reassuringly solid. Inside the ship I was met by one of Vik’s crew and she ushered me down to a lower deck where I had a quiet moment alone in a luxuriously furnished state room with Louise.