After coffee and the usual cigar there was no option but to go showerless to bed, useful in any case for an early start in the morning. The hotel being at the junction of two main routes, hundreds of lorries were grinding their way by all through the night, to the whistles and clanking of mile-long goods trains on the nearby trunk railway. Then, in case I doubted God’s intention to give me no rest, a storm with thunder and lightning was thrown into the mix.
There was no water in the morning, either, and I dreaded to think where enough was obtained to make coffee. As for finding a phone to put me in touch with Moggerhanger, that was the least of my worries. Breakfast was skimpy, so I soon shot out of the place.
I felt bereft on the road without the stalking presence of the hatchback, whose occasional appearances had given some excitement. Instead there were French caravans to worry about, one in front with a lifeboat on top and six bicycles strapped to the back door, and another behind with, I supposed, similar holiday and survival equipment. Much scenery was lost in winding along the valley, though the few spectacular drops to the right would have been perfect for pitching hatchback — accidentally — over the edge and bouncing him through rocks and bushes to the river.
In places where the road narrowed, quarter-mile tunnels reduced me to slow driving. Lorries coming from the opposite direction dazzled me with their thousand-watt headlamps, and I didn’t want a scrape that would burst me into flames.
After a short wait at police and customs I was back in civilisation. The sky seemed lighter in Greece, and it seemed ages since I had felt so carefree. In fact I appreciated the improvement so much I would have volunteered for the expedition to Troy, if it was about to leave. Glossy magazines festooned racks in the cafeteria, so many naked bosoms displayed bringing Sophie sharply to mind, since I was, after all, only human.
Still hungry after the sparse Macedonian breakfast, I flipped open the envelope of drachma currency — thanks again, Alice! — so that I could stuff on coffee and honey cakes. As scruffy as a tramp after no water at the last place, I had a good wash in the toilets, then waited for a couple of lorry drivers to finish telling their girlfriends umpteen times how much they loved them and what they were going to do to them when they got home, before dialling Moggerhanger.
“This is an unusual time of the day for you to come up out of the blue, Michael. Whose young lady’s arms were you in last night?”
“It was impossible to get through. I spent three hours trying.”
“I waited up.”
“The phone where I stayed had been vandalised.”
“That’s as maybe,” he sighed, “but it’s just not like you to leave no stone unturned, even if there’s a scorpion under every one. I’m surprised. I’ve never known you to let anything stand in your way. At least spell out the name of the place you stopped at.”
I did.
“And where might you be at this moment?”
I told him that, as well.
“That’s a blessing.”
“I’m making progress.”
“You certainly are.”
I stood on the other foot. “Tomorrow I’ll be in Athens for sure.”
“I like you, Michael. You always had a flair for telling me what I want to know. And the little mobile pram giving you aggravation yesterday, and attempting illicit intercourse with your backside, what happened to that?”
I laughed, for as long as was considered suitable.
“Such a noise presages good news. Tell me about it. Make my day.”
“I dumped him.” I related my adventure. “He must at least have a bloody nose.”
“Not seriously injured though, I hope?”
“I did my best to avoid that.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You know how much I deplore violence. As Mr Clausewitz says: ‘Violence is a sign of failure by any other means.’ Though I know I shouldn’t say this, there was a time in my life when violence kept me young. It’s nice to have a little chat with you now and again, so tell me what happened to my Rolls Royce in the encounter.”
“Not a scratch.”
“Now I know why I sent you. Ah, I’ve just found the place for last night’s pin. What a trail they’re starting to make. I expect you to call me this evening, without fail.”
I distrusted his approval and praise, never knowing what lurked behind his words, though it was true enough that none of his other employees could have got this far. Toffee Bottle would have been pulled in by the police for going ten times the wrong way around Milan cathedral. Kenny Dukes might have reached Venice, but he would have sunk the car in the Grand Canal thinking it was a short cut to Jugoslavia. Cottapilly and Pindary would have tried to sell the car in Russia and got twenty years in the Gulag. Only Bill Straw would have done as good if not better than me, but he wasn’t on Moggerhanger’s payroll.
Nothing famishes me as much as driving, so I needed another bout of cakes and coffee. Back on the road, I weighed up the chances of my long distance pick up going wrong, hoping however that all would turn out well. The next moment I doubted that it could. In spite of Moggerhanger’s smooth tone it was hard to believe he hadn’t sent me out as some kind of decoy, a pawn in a game I was too far down in his hierarchy to fathom. Such a strange and uncomfortable sensation on my part was close to paranoia, yet I needed to be paranoid so that my easy-going nature could click into a state of self-preservation.
Glad at any rate that I had got rid of the vicious-looking hatchback, I went down a dirt road to the beach. Salonika was behind me, and I sat under an almond tree, sliced some bread, and opened a tin of sardines. I was relaxed and happy that all had gone well. The most difficult part was over. I’d made it from sea to sea, so what could touch me now?
The blue Aegean lapped at my feet, and I recalled how Frances had read me the Matthew Arnold poem in her lovely expressive voice. Two thousand miles, and here I was, hearing the sea that Sophocles listened to. I took off shoes and socks to let my toes murmur their appreciation, though they weren’t allowed to soak for long — not wanting to spoil them.
I drove by Mount Olympus, and slowed at the sight of an English Peugeot Estate parked at the Vale of Tempe. I waved to a fair haired young lad chasing butterflies with a net, and he gave one back before going into the bushes. When his lovely dark-haired mother blew me a kiss (maybe it was meant for the Rolls) her husband looked daggers.
A mile further on a black hatchback coming up on the port bow showed in my mirror. I own to a shock, and felt a lick of despair. This time it would be murder, or near enough, him or me, I was too enraged to care, but when it got closer I noticed there was no aerial, and the front was undamaged, so I couldn’t think it was the same car, when the woman driver overtook so nippily and turned off at the next fork. To celebrate my deliverance (or the hatchback’s) I stopped at a village and bought a three-kilo melon from a toothless old woman in black, who smiled as if wanting to take me home when I told her to keep the change. After eating a good half, and washing my sticky fingers at a pump, I took off my jacket, for it was getting hot, and considered unravelling my tie, but Moggerhanger had stipulated that we should always wear one when driving cars that belonged to him, and who knew when a hireling of his wouldn’t pass by and report the dereliction?
South of Volos I brewed tea, and looked at the map. Well off the main road and on the coast was a place at which Alice had indicated a small hotel. Anyone still after me would never imagine I’d pass the night at the end of an eight-mile cul de sac, the perfect place to shake them off my trail.