But the bathroom did have its faults: like, there were no plugs for the washbasin and shower drainage, and no grilles in the plugholes. I suppose I’m quirky, but I like to see a grille in there, not just a black hole gurgling away to nowhere. It was the same in the little ‘kitchen’ (an alcove under an arch, really, with a sink and drainer unit, a two-ring gas stove, a cupboard containing the cylinder, and a wall-mounted rack for crockery and cutlery; all very nice and serviceable and equipped with a concealed overhead fan-extractor): no plug in the sink and no grille in the plughole.
I complained loudly to Julie about it.
“Don’t put your toe down and you won’t get stuck!” was her advice from the bedroom.
“Toe down?” I was already miles away, looking for the shaver socket.
“Down the shower plughole,” she answered. And she came out of the bedroom wearing sandals and the bottom half of her bikini. I made slavering noises, and she turned coyly, tossed back her bra straps for me to fasten. “Do me up.”
“You were quick off the mark,” I told her.
“All packed away, too,” she said with some satisfaction. “And the big white hunter’s kit neatly laid out for him. And all performed free of charge—while he examines plugholes!” Then she picked up a towel and tube of lotion and headed for the door. “Last one in the sea’s a pervert!”
Five minutes later I followed her. She’d picked a spot halfway between the chalet and the most northerly bay arm. Her red towel was like a splash of blood on the white sand two hundred yards north of the taverna. I carried my mask, snorkel, flippers, some strong string, and a tatty old blanket with torn corners; that was all. No spear gun. First I’d take a look-see, and the serious stuff could come later. Julie obviously felt the same as I did about it: no book, just a slim, pale white body on the red towel, green eyes three-quarters shuttered behind huge sunglasses. She was still wet from the sea, but that wouldn’t last long. The sun was a furnace, steaming the water off her body.
On my way to her, I’d picked up some long, thin, thorny branches from the scrub; when I got there, I broke off the thorns and fixed up a sunshade. The old blanket’s torn corners showed how often we’d done this before. Then I took my kit to the water’s edge and dropped it, and ran gasping, pell-mell into the shallows until I toppled over! My way of getting into the sea quickly. Following which I outfitted myself and finned for the rocks where the spur dipped below the water.
As I’ve intimated, the Mediterranean around the Greek islands is short on fish. You’ll find red mullet on the bottom, plenty of them, but you need half a dozen to make a decent meal. And grey mullet on top, which move like lightning and cause you to use up more energy than eating them provides; great sport, but you couldn’t live on it. But there’s at least one fish of note in the Med, and that’s the grouper.
Groupers are territorial; a family will mark out its own patch, usually in deep water where there’s plenty of cover, which is to say rock or weeds. And they love caves. Where there are plenty of rocks and caves, there’ll also be groupers. Here, where the spur crumbled into the sea, this was ideal grouper ground. So I wasn’t surprised to see this one—especially since I didn’t have my gun! Isn’t that always the way of it?
He was all of twenty-four inches long, maybe seven across his back, mottled red and brown to match his cave. When he saw me, he headed straight for home, and I made a mental note to mark the spot. Next time I came out here, I’d have my gun with me, armed with a single flap-nosed spear. The spear goes into the fish, the flap opens, and he’s hooked, can’t slip off. Tridents are fine for small fish, but not for this bloke. And don’t talk to me about cruel; if I’m cruel, so is every fisherman in the world, and at least I eat what I catch. But it was then, while I was thinking these things, that I noticed something was wrong.
The fish had homed in on his cave all right, but as his initial reaction to my presence wore off, so his spurt of speed diminished. Now he seemed merely to drift toward the dark hole in the rock, lolling from side to side like some strange, crippled sub, actually missing his target to strike against the weedy stone! It was the first time I’d seen a fish collide with something underwater. This was one very sick grouper.
I went down to have a closer look. He was maybe ten feet down, just lolling against the rock face. His huge gill flaps pulsed open and closed, open and closed. I could have reached out and touched him. Then, as he rolled a little on one side, I saw—
I backed off, felt a little sick—felt sorry for him. And I wished I had my gun with me, if only to put him out of his misery. Under his great head, wedging his gill slits half open, a nest of fish lice or parasites of some sort were plainly visible. Not lampreys or remora or the like, for they were too small, only as big as my thumbs. Crustaceans, I thought—a good dozen of them—and they were hooked into him, leeching on the raw red flesh under his gills.
God, I have a loathing of this sort of thing! Once in Crete I’d come out of the sea with a suckerfish in my armpit. I hadn’t noticed it until I was towelling myself dry and it fell off me. It was only three or four inches long but I’d reacted like I was covered with leeches! I had that same feeling now.
Skin crawling, I drifted up and away from the stricken fish, and for the first time got a good look at his eyes. They were dull, glazed, bubbly as the eyes of a fatally diseased goldfish. And they followed me. And then he followed me!
As I floated feet first for the surface, that damned grouper finned lethargically from the rocks and began drifting up after me. Several of his parasites had detached themselves from him and floated alongside him, gravitating like small satellites about his greater mass. I pictured one of them with its hooked feet fastened in my groin, or over one of my eyes. I mean, I knew they couldn’t do that—their natural hosts are fish—but the thoughts made me feel vulnerable as hell.
I took off like Tarzan for the beach twenty-five yards away, climbed shivering out of the water in the shadow of the declining spur. As soon as I was out, the shudders left me. Along the beach my sunshade landmark was still there, flapping a little in a light breeze come up suddenly off the sea; but no red towel, no Julie. She could be swimming. Or maybe she’d felt thirsty and gone for a drink under the vines where the taverna fronted onto the sea.
Kit in hand, I padded along the sand at the dark rim of the ocean, past the old blanket tied with string to its frame of branches, all the way to the taverna. The area under the vines was maybe fifty feet along the front by thirty deep, a concrete base set out with a dozen small tables and chairs. Dimitrios was being a bit optimistic here, I thought. After all, it was the first season his place had been in the brochures. But…maybe next year there’d be more chalets, and the canny Greek owner was simply thinking well ahead.
I gave the place the once-over. Julie wasn’t there, but at least I was able to get my first real look at our handful of fellow holiday makers.
A fat woman in a glaring yellow one-piece splashed in eighteen inches of water a few yards out. She kept calling to her husband, one George, to come on in. George sat half in, half out of the shade; he was a thin, middle-aged, balding man not much browner than myself, wearing specs about an inch thick that made his eyes look like marbles. “No, no, dear,” he called back. “I’m fine watching you.” He looked frail, timid, tired—and I thought: Where the hell are marriages like this made? They were like characters off a seaside postcard, except he didn’t even seem to have the strength to ogle the girls—if there’d been any! His wife was twice his size.
George was drinking beer from a glass. A bottle, three-quarters empty and beaded with droplets of moisture, stood on his table. I fancied a drink but had no money on me. Then I saw that George was looking at me, and I felt that he’d caught me spying on him or something. “I was wondering,” I said, covering up my rudeness, “if you’d seen my wife? She was on the beach there, and—”