The Devil's Legacy

The Devil’s Legacy

by

Tom Jackson

Published by Tom Jackson at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2011 Tom Jackson

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, photocopying, file-sharing, and email, without prior written permission from the Publisher.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The chapter epigraphs are from the works of Constantinos P. Cavafy (1863-1933).

This ebook is dedicated to my wife Flora, my daughter Natalie, and the people of Greece.

My sincere thanks to Laura Shinn for the wonderful cover design, and to my editor Michael Garrett.

This ebook is a work of fiction.

If you enjoy this ebook please feel free to write a review at Smashwords.com

Chapter 1

‘. . . the while he greatly felt the misery of much palaver

all bottled up inside of him.’

A Leader From Western Libya

13 January 1892 – 2330 Hours – Sandringham, Norfolk.

It is not every day you collude in the murder of your elder brother. Not every day you sacrifice truth for the sake of family honour. George stared through the window at the night’s serene sky as if in a dream--or nightmare. Surely, this could not be happening. There was no place in this room for murder. The whole idea was absurd like Jules Verne’s rocket-man to the moon.

Behind him the two standing men and three seated women resembled conspirators in a candlelit Rembrandt painting. He turned reluctantly, the silence oppressive and impatient as they waited for the demise of a member of the dynasty. That it was inevitable had long been accepted within the wider family circle. However, only those present were a party, willing or perhaps not so willing, to the unfolding iniquity. And all the while the pungent odour of bitter almonds heralded the tantalizing prospect of final and complete closure.

As the lungs of Prince Albert Victor, son of Edward Prince of Wales, gasped for the air that barely maintained his hold on life, the poison, with its telltale aroma, discharged its designated role like an attentive and dutiful bridesmaid. For years, arsenic had been prescribed to relieve the agony of the Prince’s terrible and secret affliction. Seeking now to provide a more enduring resolution to the sordid dilemma, it had, over recent days, been administered in systematically larger and more meaningful doses.

God, there must be another solution, George thought, as he searched the sombre faces in desperation. His accomplices seemed reluctant to make eye contact. Nor did they give any attention to the Prince’s ignobly thin and tortured body as he tossed and turned, struggling to break out of the drug-induced stupor.

In the faint, shifting light, Alexandra, his wretched mother flinched at the salvo of irrational and evil ramblings forced to the surface from the depths of her son’s depravity by the poison coursing through his veins.

Meanwhile, grandmother, the stoic Victoria, sat immobile, epitomizing regal fortitude despite the menace to the Monarchy represented by the insipid and egotistical black shoelace of a moustache on the bed.

Mary, the girl who was to have married the ailing Prince, sat trance-like, unable to hide the lines of utter despair etched on her artless face. Abruptly she shivered.

In distinct contrast the Prince of Wales stood by the door displaying a blank, emotionless expression. His left index finger languidly caressing the vein-like seam of his trousers almost, or so it seemed to George, as though his father believed the action would somehow accelerate the flow of their profane salvation.

Only the good doctor appeared unaffected. It went with the territory.

Prince George, still and forlorn, simply stared down at the broken and forsaken soul through unfocused brotherly eyes.

Suddenly, startling his family, Albert Victor regained consciousness; his gaze fiercely riveted on his sibling. The tempest within instantly dispersed like the wind-swept vapours of the battlefield.

"George, he muttered, a glaze in his haunted eyes, Pandora holds the secret. Pandora holds the di . . ."

Words died, and Albert Victor, a soul possessed, departed this life. With the notable exception of his brother, all present uttered a collective sigh of relief.

Then, aided in part by her son, the reigning monarch, lace handkerchief in hand, struggled to her feet, issuing as she did so her only comments on the pitiable event.

A quiet service, I think, will do nicely. ‘The Family’ is once again stainless and secure. ‘The Country’ is safe.

Queen Victoria turned, and despite the handicap afforded by her stout frame, exited the room, elegance personified. All, save one, of the stainless and secure Family, followed.

Swiftly, the door closed, echoing the finale of Albert Victor’s all too brief existence. George and the dispenser of life and death were left alone with the death mask on the pillow, ashen and black contours on a virgin canvas. A face twisted and tormented in death, as its troubled soul had been in this world.

Was it necessary? George’s voice cracked as he voiced his thoughts and his head sank to his chest. Was Eddy’s murder so unavoidable? He was of royal blood, my own brother, for pity’s sake!

I had my instructions from Her Majesty. To serve my Monarch above all else is my trust and my privilege.

George exhaled slowly, almost painfully, and fought to control agitation and grief, his mind balking at the sheer finality of the trite words . . . a desolate shake of the bowed head his only riposte.

Death offered the only realistic solution, the doctor continued, delivering his evil prognosis and perhaps seeking a measure of justification for his actions. We couldn’t permit it to continue. How long were we to keep him incarcerated? Four years it’s been since the syphilis took hold, with no signs of recovery.

George felt incapable of continuing the discussion as he fought to clear his mind. He stood, feet in stone and wits in ice, transfixed by his brother’s dying words. A codicil entombed in a vault of deception. Nothing less than an unwanted legacy that a few weeks before would have meant nothing to him, but alas now . . .

Pandora, he murmured through tight, compressed lips, what on earth possessed you, Eddy?

The Present – Wednesday, 16 January – London

The Beatles music blared out: vibrant, melodious, full of life and brimming with hope.

It seemed surreal to Natalie to have such music at a funeral; but that was what her father had wanted, what was expressly decreed in his will. He had always taken pleasure in shocking people, ‘to knock them off their smug, middle-class perch’ as he put it. With bowed head she smiled inwardly at the fond memory.

Honesty and openness had been her father’s steadfast formula all his life. He had insisted on telling it the way it was, the way he saw it, without reservation or compromise. However unpalatable it might be. Even as far as his only child was concerned when, in his opinion, she had slipped from the high standards he rightly demanded of a ‘Sinclair’.

For Natalie this had occurred more frequently than she cared to recall, or admit. After all, she often told herself, a lawyer is habitually forced to give precedence to the client’s interests over the pursuit of truth--whenever, or wherever, that might be! Her hand automatically drifted down to her black Gucci handbag, but then froze when she remembered her mobile was switched off. Forget business today.

Honesty and openness--qualities of her father she would always remember and respect. She wondered if she could find it in herself to emulate him more closely in the future. It was a tall ask. She bit her bottom lip defensively.

Then, raising her head, she glanced toward the altar.

Charles Sinclair had certainly hit his mark today with a pinpoint, long-distance, Exocet . . . from the grave. The white-haired, rather crumpled, priest set a less than fitting example for his flock. Discomforted by the alien music he pulled at and fiddled with his dog collar as if it was over-starched and a size too small.

Directly in front of the uncomfortable man of God, was the coffin--all shining varnish, bright burnished brass and semi-draped in the White Ensign. Her father, like his father before him, had served as an officer in the Royal Navy--discharging his duty. Two rows of towering candles and billowing clouds of incense provided the informal guard of honour.

The anguish and ache returned. Hastily she averted her eyes, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Thank Heavens she had decided to wear her over-sized designer sunglasses today. They afforded some semblance of much needed privacy, some modicum of self-detachment and control-- an essential barrier to the real world.

Orphan is such an absolute, no future, black hole of a word. God, she thought, I am too old to think of myself like that! Annie was an orphan, Oliver Twist was an orphan and even Harry Potter suffered the same, less than magical, fate!

Standing ramrod straight, she grasped the top of the pew for support, claw-like. The polished wood and the warm smell of incense seemed somehow calming, reassuring. She forced herself not to bite her lip.

Naturally, the wake followed the church service and visit to the cemetery. A meal of boiled fish and vegetables in the usual Greek tradition, interspersed with a surfeit of banal condolences and topped off with the formal, embarrassing, leave-taking. Her mother would have approved the choice of meal. Dad would have enjoyed the taste of the fish and wine, but not the usual empty words and bland sentiments.

Cousin Spiros was the first to approach.

My dear Natalia, my sincere condolences.

Thank you, she replied, removing her sunglasses. And also thanks again for making the trip from Athens. I really do appreciate it.

She ran her left hand through her hair, pushing it backwards.

You’re holding up well.

I’m trying.

And managing it very ably, as always.

I’m fine. She hoped she sounded convincing. "Really, I am!"

Okay. Whatever you say, but don’t forget I’m only a phone call away. Plus you have relatives in Greece who love you . . . and are there for you. Are you still with the same law firm in London?

Absolutely, ever since law school. Why?

Look, why not take some time off and come over for a few months, or even a year? I’m sure your firm will agree, under the circumstances. You need to be with family.

"Thanks. But it’s just not on. I’ve far too much on the go at the moment to take any leave. Let alone ‘a few months’."

He sighed.

Okay, but if you change your mind.

That’s not likely. You know me.

Indeed I do, my dear. Spiros shrugged in apparent capitulation, turned and moved away in the direction of the buffet.

Sir George was next, brandy glass in hand.

How’re you doing, Natalie? he asked, eyes reflecting his concern.

I’ve had better days, Uncle George.

She bit her lip. It had been years since she had called him ‘Uncle’.

He nodded sympathetically.

Did your father ever tell you how we first met?

I presumed at the British Museum?

He shook his head. No, it was long before Charlie became a Trustee.

She saw what she took for a faraway look colour his eyes, suggestive perhaps of nostalgia . . . or melancholy.

It was back in ’79, in Iran.

Iran! What on earth was my father doing in Iran?

I never did find out. Business I guess. But thank God he was there, or I wouldn’t be here with you today. I was on a dig at Susa when the Revolution broke out. Those damn fanatics wanted to lock me up as a spy and throw away the key! Just when I thought I’d bought it in walked young Charlie, acting as though he owned the damn place, and in no time at all I was a free man again.

He raised his glass in a silent toast and downed the cognac in one.

Let’s get together soon, he added.

She nodded. That would be nice. It’s been too long.

It was Sir George’s turn to nod.

I’ll give you a ring. We’ll make it lunch. There’s something I’d like to talk over with you, to do with the Museum. I want to twist your arm on something.

Fine, I’ll look forward to it. She attempted a smile, but was not sure quite how successful she had been. The lunch, that is. Definitely not the arm-twisting bit!

He smiled back, nodded, and strolled toward the bar, presumably in search of a refill.

She turned, only to be confronted by her father’s partner--now former partner--feeling her face muscles tighten and her body go rigid. Breathe, Natalie, she told herself; he is not worth the agro. As usual she heeded her own advice.

Miss Sinclair, my poor girl. He started with that typically patronizing smile. His voice was caring and warm. Yet the eyes were impassive and she sensed an underlying insincerity beneath the surface of his civility. The hand was offered and the handshake, as usual, was a reflection of his character: quick, precise, giving nothing away.

Natalie yet again craved a set of razor-sharp claws and the audacity to put them to full use.

Kindly do accept my sincere condolences on your sad and tragic loss. Charles will be greatly missed by all who knew and respected him.

Like a member of the Opposition Front Bench he always did talk down to her, simultaneously evidencing condescension and pomposity.

She forced a smile and shook hands with him, but inside she was angry and lonely. How was she to now fill the vacant place in her heart? How was she to get by?

Thank you for your kind words. She could be just as hypocritically polite.

Not at all, Miss Sinclair. Now I know it’s not the most appropriate of times, but Charles’ unfortunate accident has left . . . I mean . . . we do need to resolve some important issues in respect of the partnership. Perhaps I can telephone you next week to take matters forward.

Of course, whenever you’re ready. Tomorrow if you wish.

"It’s not that urgent, my dear Miss Sinclair."

So, she thought, why raise it today for God’s sake.

Natalie felt her face give the semblance of a smile. Let me know when it’s convenient.

I’ll be in touch then, he said, as he turned to leave. Good day.

Suddenly she was in demand, she thought wryly. No problem though. So long as nothing interfered with her regulated, organized life . . . so long as she could carry on exactly as before.

But, just why her father had gone into business with such an obnoxious, self-centred man she would never know, or even understand. It was hardly necessary; her family had been financially independent for generations. And it was not as though he respected the man above all others, or even liked him. In fact, it appeared, from conversations she had had with her father, after he had consumed several glasses of wine too many, to be quite the opposite.

No doubt the man had some admirable, super-duper, redeeming qualities! It was just that she had not identified any as yet; and she had known the consultant, who insisted on calling her ‘Miss Sinclair’, for all her twenty-seven years.

Now she would never know why, because the only person able to truly provide the answer--Charles Winston Sinclair--had deserted her. Had left her an orphan.

Monday, 19 May – London

That is it. I am finished, just finished. My life’s work down the tubes! He flinched, eyes no doubt mirroring his inner misery. This was not the way it should be. Not how he had always planned to end his long and distinguished career. Serpentine despair rose before him in coiled layers, a spiral staircase to black oblivion. Hell, I am not ready to call it a day yet! Not by half.

The moustachioed Keeper stole a glance at the other occupant of the room. His friend of many years, one of the most respected figures in archaeology, sat perfectly still, face devoid of expression, his thoughts apparently treading the same fractured pavement. Without doubt the Director looked his years, bathed by the unkind sunlight streaming through the Downing Street windows like shafts of naked accusation. Bony fingers, spastically separated, lay immobilized on the arms of the chair.

He glanced down at the nearby coffee table only to be confronted by the Prime Minister’s smug face beaming at him from the cover of Time Magazine like some cocky comic strip character. Prime Ministers, he thought, are all alike the world over. They do not believe they are important and men of influence unless they see themselves in some fancy periodical on a regular basis. But it was the morning papers, blazoning the news that had compelled their presence today, that caused his heart to beat faster.

The Keeper surreptitiously ran the palms of his hands along the sides of his trousers, once, then a second time, in a vain attempt to remove the distasteful perspiration. Forget the customary MBE on retirement, he thought, the ancients had it spot on when they slew the bearer of unwelcome news, and they were the grave messengers this bright spring day. They would always be regarded no, accused of being ‘the ones’ who carried the brunt of the blame, the ignominy for--

Gentlemen . . . proclaimed the PM’s secretary with all the pomposity of a newly appointed head teacher.

At her sudden appearance in the open doorway, he practically jumped out of his chair.

His friend, on the other hand, pursued his resolute and impeccable impersonation of suspended animation.

If you’ll kindly follow me, the Prime Minister will see you in the White Drawing Room. Not so much an invitation, more a command, tossed with deliberation over her shoulder as she exited the room, now more akin to a determined primary school teacher taking charge of her little ones.

Like good kindergarten boys, they obeyed.

Not nervous, eh, William? a now apparently energized Director asked, as they walked side-by-side toward the rear of the building.

No, not a bit of it, the Keeper whispered back with a wan smile that testified to its own insincerity. But I will leave the talking to you. It is going to take some explaining away.

Come on, cheer up, old friend. You look like the flood’s started and you’ve just got word Noah’s rescinded your complimentary pass for ‘the Ark’.

William Eastern managed a tired smile in reply, his thoughts suddenly drifting to his beloved tabby cat.

I will need to make the necessary arrangements for Sylvester.

Sir George nodded. Indeed.

The Director of the British Museum, the secretary declared as she preceded them into the Prime Minister’s sanctum sanctorum, and the Keeper of Greek and Roman Antiquities.

They hesitated momentarily on the threshold before stepping forward.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, boomed the Prime Minister in evident euphoria.

They would soon change all that, mused the Keeper, giving the politician the once over. The Prime Minister was of medium height, medium build and a great deal less prepossessing than he had expected. Amazing, he thought, what television can pull off. After all, public life is a sham like everything else, just smoke and mirrors, heavy on the smoke.

I don’t believe, the Prime Minister started, you’ve met the Home Secretary, have you?

They shook heads in unison and turned to make the acquaintance of the person who was about to become an integral element in resolving their dilemma.

The ruby-lipped Minister presented a striking figure. Her tailored, charcoal two-piece suit accentuated her vivacious figure and platinum blonde sculpted hairstyle; reminiscent, the Keeper thought, of a mature Grace Kelly. She seemed to survey them through steady, watchful eyes of hazel that gave little away. The calculating look only succeeded in magnifying the Keeper’s apprehension. Her face creased into a thin ministerial smile.

Handshakes were again exchanged.

Like a psyched up surgeon with a sharp-eyed scalpel, the PM wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter.

Look, gentlemen, I appreciate you may be disappointed, even dismayed, to relinquish the Museum’s prize possession.

The Elgin Marbles aren’t-- the Director attempted to cut in, however, the PM was having none of it.

No, he insisted with a decidedly political voice, obviously determined to get it all over with as quickly as possible. Please let me continue, Sir George. Her Majesty’s government is resolute and committed on this. The Elgin Marbles must, and will, be returned to Greece, it’s long overdue. We all know they should’ve been handed back years ago, but quite simply none of my predecessors had the guts to do it. Parliament will ratify our decision tomorrow. It’s final and irreversible and there’s an end to it.

The PM, with shoulders squared and chin extended, sounded like a man who knew his agenda.

And the Marbles will be returned later this year . . .

He stopped, temporarily losing both his way and conviction, and turned raised, shaggy eyebrows on his Cabinet colleague.

Shipment is scheduled for early December, Prime Minister.

Just before the European Summit in Athens next January, the Keeper thought cynically.

Exactly, in December. The tone of mild steel was back. So while it’s always a pleasure to see you, Sir George, I’m afraid your visit’s rather superfluous. I’m sure you understand.

Absolutely, Prime Minister, the Director acknowledged, "I fully appreciate your position."

Good, the PM declared with a smug smile. Then if that’s all, gentlemen, we’re rather busy today. You know how it is.

The meeting was deemed to be over.

Inhaling slowly, the Keeper gritted his false teeth and swallowed.

With a smile a door-to-door salesman would have envied, the PM started to ease his frame out of the chair.

However, the two academics made no move to leave.

We have er . . . absolutely no objection to repatriating the Elgin Marbles, the Keeper broke in with a voice noticeably decibels higher than normal, and deviating from his proposed and eminently sensible plan of imitating an ultra reticent mute, at any time the British Nation should desire.

The PM stopped in mid-air like a DVD on instant pause control, before reluctantly going into slow reverse drive.

Excellent, the Minister chimed in coolly, her tone echoing her perceptive gaze. Then we’re of one mind on the subject. And I’m sure something appropriate can be arranged for the Museum, by way of compensation.

It dawned on William that the politicians believed the question of financial loss had been the driving force behind the urgent meeting. He felt his face reddening.

With the greatest possible respect, Madam Home Secretary. Even given his agitated state, the Keeper wondered if that was the correct form of address. He did not wish to appear sexist, certainly not at his age. Additional funding is absolutely the last item on our agenda today.

Thank you William, the Director interrupted. However, I think I should explain.

Angling his head slightly, he faced the country’s leader.

Prime Minister, he started slowly and warily, seeming to the Keeper to chart his words as if they were fraught with moral reefs and legal quicksand, as my colleague has already stated, the position of the Museum in respect of the artefacts referred to as the Elgin Marbles is quite clear and uncompromising. They will be placed at the disposal of the government whenever you require.

His words were deliberate, precise and impassive.

In response he received contented nods of political consensus.

However, the Parthenon Marbles cannot and will not be returned now, nor at any time in the immediate future.

What do you mean? a now highly suspicious Home Secretary shot back. I fail to understand.

You’re talking in riddles, Sir George! the PM pitched in, lines erupting between his eyebrows. What the devil are you getting at?

We can’t return something we don’t have. Quite simply, Prime Minister, the Parthenon artefacts taken by Lord Elgin are not the same items that were shipped two centuries ago. They are not the same items that reside in the Museum. And, most certainly, are not the same items our Greek colleagues expect to see restored to their safekeeping.

"What’s the damn difference? The Elgin Marbles are the Parthenon Marbles." Nonplussed, the PM emphasized the names to ensure there could be no misunderstanding and exchanged glances with an equally baffled Minister.

Strictly speaking, that is not quite correct, broke in the Keeper, the scholar in him getting the better of his overall judgment of priorities. The Parthenon Marbles actually refer to those pieces which owe their origins to the Acropolis. Whereas the term Elgin Marbles is the label attached to those artefacts which form the broader Elgin collection and which the good Lord . . . the Scottish one, I mean, not the one in Heaven . . . accumulated from a number of sources in the Levant.

William Eastern had always liked to be precise in his thought processes, speech and actions. He was fully aware that junior colleagues often called him Mr. Bumble . . . behind his back. Yet, he did not mind, that much. He thought of himself more as a British Jacques Cousteau--competent, accurate and punctilious.

The Prime Minister scowled while his normally assured Cabinet colleague looked perplexed.

The Keeper turned to his friend and shrugged.

The Director replied by way of a pensive nod of acknowledgment combined with a bleak look and again slanted his head to address the politicians.

You see, between the physical removal of the Marbles and their arrival here, a substitution was cleverly perpetrated--

What the hell are you going on about? the PM blazed, cutting off the Director’s voice like a guillotine. Damn it, we’ve had the Marbles, however you choose to call them, for two hundred years. We all know it as a fact. Now you’re what, trying to tell us they’re fakes?

As fake as, the Keeper ran his tongue over his self-consciously dry lips before continuing, grandmother’s false teeth.

But only, the Director hastened to add, "as far as the Parthenon Marbles are concerned."

You can’t possibly be serious? The Home Secretary objected, an edge creeping into her voice.

How do you know this for certain? The PM interrupted. Why didn’t you let me know before I committed . . . what do I tell the Greeks now? How the hell do we get out of this mess?

The questions flew from the PM in rapid-fire, staccato fashion like an overly zealous host on a television quiz show.

Shit! he spluttered, eyes blazing. The Dailies will stitch me up quicker than you can say ‘patchwork quilt’. I can see it now, they’ll . . . they’ll . . .

"Call it Marblegate," William chipped in before he could stop himself.

The Prime Minister gave him a hard, not too friendly look.

"The answer to your questions, Prime Minister, is that William and I have been compelled to open Pandora’s Box. The Director spewed out the words like a flatulent frog, anxious to disgorge them from his system. And we wish to God we had not."

Now it will get interesting, thought the Keeper. We are about to enter political hot potato land . . . once more.

On the Prime Minister’s desk, his phone croaked in empathy.

Chapter 2

‘. . . we melt and plan how to act

to elude the certain

danger that so terribly threatens us . . .’

Finalities

Monday, 19 May – Island of Aegina, Greece

"Is fish dead?"

"How do I know? Bloody well check. And take care you don’t tip us over. We’re here for fishing not swimming!" The man glanced in loathing at the pristine sea and cloudless light blue sky. How the hell could it all seem so idyllic, so perfect and so in harmony? He turned back to the boy.

"I don’t fancy a dip today. And you should ask, ‘Is the fish dead?’"

The man removed his sweat-stained, floppy hat, cautiously massaged the back of his aching head and continued before the youngster could come up with a response in the alien language.

I’m supposed to be teaching you how to bloody well converse in the Queen’s bloody English, not bad, eh, for a bloody Scot?

The boy wisely held his tongue.

Look, Yiannis. You know it’s a simple arrangement. I give you lessons, and your father allows me use of his boat.

Walker helped himself to a mouthful of water from the bottle, grimaced and spat it out in disgust. The devil of a sun had made the liquid as insipid and unappetizing as if it had been extracted from a hot-water bottle the morning after the night before. Struggling to focus, he surveyed the boy through eyes that he knew had once been intense and resourceful, but were now little more than blood-shot circles of pain in a ‘leather and hide’ face.

Hell, Walker, he reproached himself; he’s only a kid.

"Sygnomi--Sorry, Yiannis, it’s not your fault. It’s just I’ve got a bit of a hangover today."

The Greek smiled.

For the first time that day the Scot’s sun-brown face broke into something akin to a smile, and the boy extended the compliment with an ear-wide grin.

Walker laughed, which in turn induced a wince from the excruciating pain that shot from the back of his head to the right temple with the ferocity of a demented pneumatic drill.

The sun was high overhead, their fishing expedition over. Walker started the dinghy’s outboard motor and pointed the bow homewards. It would not take long, twenty minutes or so round the headland and back to Perdika.

"Please, Kyrie Walker, the boy said, finding his voice. Why you drink so much?"

In that instant his young brown eyes clouded with concern, seeming to study Walker as though their roles were now reversed and he was the teacher awaiting a satisfactory explanation.

Oh so many times had Walker asked it of himself, day after wearisome day, night after interminable night, yet always failed to find an answer that offered even the pretence of justification, the promise of salvation.

"Is no good for you. My Mama, all time tells so to Baba, and he no drink nothing like you."

For years, Walker had hoarded his demons like a blind miser, keeping them safely locked away in his personal subterranean vault, screened from the intrusive light of day. He knew only too well that torment and despair are the refuge of a spiritless man, yet he felt unable to fight the lethargy of desolation haunting his every waking moment. Now he sensed the boy’s innocent pity burning through him, scalding water on flesh, acid on the metal armour with which he had chosen to clothe himself.

Walker feigned a smile, tired yet calm.

How old are you?

"I be thirteen in Avgustos--August. Three months, I be man."

The boy’s pride in his coming manhood was touching, even to a hardened and abrasive Scot.

John Walker reflected on the circumstances that had sentenced him to a solitary and lonely existence on a foreign island at the age of fifty-seven, on the grief that had ambushed him when he had least expected. How that grief had swiftly turned to despair, and how despair had plunged him into endless nights of drinking to help him forget. But, of course, drinking failed to absolve him from pain. And the oblivion he craved never came. So the wheel of hopelessness continued to spin: grief . . . despair . . . drink.

It’s a long story and not one for a young b . . . man.

While he had been speaking, the boy had lowered his head.

She dead now.

Walker found himself engulfed in a clammy sheet that numbed his senses and immobilized his brain, as if he had been struck down with both hypothermia and paralysis.

Marie. Oh, Marie! Why, oh why, did you desert me?

She dead now, see. the boy repeated. See, I pick up.

He brandished the fish aloft.

The teacher’s face was expressionless.

It must have weighed the best part of a kilo. At least I will have fresh fish tonight, he thought, one fresh fish, one forsaken old man and one ageless bottle of ouzo. All different . . . and yet, three of a kind, each suited one for the other. Where will it end? Where will it all end?

Monday, 19 May – London

It was all glass and aluminium, a barrier between two contrasting worlds, two diverse climates. On the inside, the past, sterile air-conditioned luxury and pain; outside the future, the intense sweet fragrance of blue hyacinth from the nearby street stall, and hope. Whatever that might turn out to be!

Natalie Sinclair approached the revolving glass doors holding her black Gucci handbag firmly, pushed more forcefully than was really necessary against the bar, and exited the techno-monstrosity box of a building. Taking two quick, tense steps to the side, she closed her eyes tightly and inhaled sharply several times trying to think.

Thank God it was all over. She bit her bottom lip.

Her final meeting with her late father’s partner had concluded satisfactorily for both sides. He was now the sole proprietor of the business; Lord, Sinclair & Associates, and she had severed an unwanted, distasteful link to the past. Of course, he was the Lord bit. That is to say Lord did not actually exist. He had dreamt the name up, thinking it had a certain ring to it from a marketing perspective. And not many potential clients spotted the comma after Lord, only finding out after they had been signed up . . . so it had kind of worked.

She opened her eyes and looked at the mass of humanity swirling around her like a benign blizzard; imprisoned in their natty one-size-fits-all business suits, intent on inhabiting their own grey little worlds, with their distinct one-track lives, revolving round their daily routines.

Just like her!

The delicate and distinctive aroma of the hyacinth was almost intoxicating. Natalie closed her eyes again, soaking up the moment and allowing her body to sway in rhythm with the light breeze.