Pagan Justice

Foreword

All profits from the sale of this book will go to Rottingdean and Saltdean Lions Club

Rottingdean and Saltdean Lions Club is one of the 46,000 clubs across the world that makes up Lions Clubs International, which has more than 1.35 million members in 208 countries. Lions Clubs International is a global network that raises millions of pounds each year for good causes. These range from global disasters, which get a global response such as the typhoon in the Philippines, to support for local organisations and individuals.  Lions volunteer their time to humanitarian causes helping those less fortunate than themselves and are proud to say that no money raised for charitable purposes from the general public is taken for administration: every single bit goes to worthy causes. Administration costs are met by Lions themselves from their own pockets by way of a membership subscription.

In over forty years, Rottingdean and Saltdean Lions has raised many hundreds of thousands of pounds  towards such specific causes as a local children’s hospice, the Kent Surrey and Sussex Air Ambulance, providing days out for disabled children, support for local youth clubs, scouts, guides, etc. and Christmas lunches and coach outings for senior citizens who would otherwise be lonely. On an international level they have provided water purification and emergency shelter units for disasters across the world and supported initiatives to eradicate malaria and save sight in areas where eye disease is endemic.

The author is proud to be a member of such a fine organisation and will be delighted if this volume assists their work.

If you are reading a copy of this book that you have not paid for, I hope you enjoy it and will be grateful for any contribution to help our deserving causes.

Prologue

IT WAS COLD, had started to rain and the car was misting up. The driver, a scruffy, heavyset man with bushy eyebrows, a receding hairline and thickets of hair growing from his ears, reached forward and rubbed the windscreen with his open hand. Through the resulting porthole they watched the two women. The mother, whom they knew to be forty-eight but looking older, wore a heavy wool overcoat that had obviously cost a fortune but was looking tired and overused. She kept stopping, waiting for the other, nearly nineteen, to catch up. The younger woman moved strangely, her legs seemingly independent of each other, making it surprising that she could walk in a straight line. Her arms waved at odd angles and she was slack-jawed with a buck toothed look.

Jeez, Gallagher, she’s a fecking retard, said the driver in a thick Irish accent.

So what? said the other, American or Canadian by the sound of him. He was smarter, in a suit with a white shirt done up to the neck but no tie. He had dark good looks, spoilt by a scar down his forehead that crossed the edge of his right eye, pulling it down at the corner.

So nobody said she was a fecking retard. How do we cope with that?

Same as if she wasn’t.

When do we do it?

Barclay said he doesn’t know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.

Everything ready, is it?

It had better be.

They watched the two make their stuttering progress to a detached house at the end of the close. The mother opened the door and waited for the daughter to catch up. Then she closed the door behind them.

Tomorrow then. Maybe. Shit.  He started the engine, wound the heater and blower to maximum and edged out into the traffic.

Chapter One

HE DID NOT FIT in here but he was used to that. He did not fit in anywhere. Not that anybody noticed. He slipped through other people’s worlds unremarked, attracting no more attention than the potted plants: a chameleon … never a part of the branch on which it lurks but indistinguishable from it.

All he wanted was a drink so he had strolled through the hotel lobby towards the bar. He almost wished that he had not bothered. Somebody had tried too hard. The lights were dim but not enough so it just felt gloomy, tables too close together. Despite this, the place was almost full but this may have been more to do with location and timing than decor or ambience. On a weekday evening in this part of London there was little choice.

He walked through the hubbub of talk and the annoying background buzz of musak towards the bar where a group of foreign men drank, talked and gestured, waving arms and nodding heads. In one of the booths on his left he spotted a young woman sitting alone reading an Italian newspaper. On the table in front of her was a second: El País.

He approached her. Mi scusi...

Go away, she snapped back in Italian.

But I …Go away or I shall call the manager.  He knew when he was beaten and turned to go. Pity really, she was gorgeous but she was out of his league. A waiter intercepted him.

A table sir? he asked, indicating the unoccupied table next to the woman.

Yes please.  The woman looked up sharply as he spoke. Mindful of causing further offence, however, he added, Is there somewhere else?

One moment.  The waiter scurried away.

You’re English? the woman asked.

Sort of, I …

Oh God, I’m such an idiot. Look, if you want this table I don’t mind. It’s just that I thought you were one of the Italians, she waved vaguely in the direction of the foreigners at the bar. They’ve been taking it in turns to come over here and hit on me all evening.  Her voice was delightful, refined: redolent of wealth and good schools.

No, it should be me apologising, I should have thought of how it would seem, approaching a woman on her own. I was just going to ask if I could borrow the newspaper you weren’t reading.  She looked down, as if seeing it for the first time, and laughed.

Oh that. I’m sorry, of course you may. It’s not Italian, she added, it’s Spanish.

Yes, I noticed. 

Please, she smiled, gesturing to the unoccupied chair. Nina Moran.  They shook hands and he caught a hint of her perfume: light, exotic, doubtless very expensive. She had a firm, dry handshake. His hand, she noticed, was hard like a manual labourer’s but without calluses.

Karl Pagan.

How terrible ungodly, she grinned.

It could have been worse. My uncle called his eldest son ‘Christian’.

Christian Pagan?  That’s weird.

Yes. At school his friends called him ‘Oxy’.

What did his enemies call him?  She spotted the trap too late. Moron! they said together and laughed then she added, Yes, school children can be very cruel.

True. But in his case, it was the teachers. This caused more shared laughter.

She changed the topic. "You’re unusual, an Englishman who speaks Italian and Spanish.

He smiled. Well, I did say ‘sort of’ when you asked if I was English. Only my father was English, my mother was Swiss. What about you?  You seem to be multilingual yourself.

Just picked it up. My Italian is not bad but my Spanish is pretty rubbish.

The waiter returned and saw that he was now seated.

Sir, I’ve found … but the woman interrupted him.

It’s all right, Marco, he’s staying here now.

The waiter gave a slight bow, little more than an inclination of the head. Shall I get you a drink sir?

Would you like to share my wine?  It’s quite good but I shan’t drink it all.  She picked up the bottle and handed it to him. It was more than ‘good’ if he knew anything about wines and he nodded agreement. Just another glass then please Marco, if you’d be so kind.

Certainly Ma’am. Will you be eating?

I don’t know yet. Maybe later.  Again he gave the little nod and departed, returning shortly with a fresh glass. Pagan topped up hers then poured a measure into his own. Salud.  She lifted her glass to him.

Salud.  They sipped. It was very good. She studied him and liked what she saw, but only just. He was quite tall, about six foot she guessed but was not handsome: square jawed and masculine but, she thought, ‘brutal’ – a face that made her think of boxers and rugby players. His dark brown hair needed a trim. He looked fit but this was disguised with an oversized, grey jacket. He wore dark trousers, white shirt, buttoned at the cuffs without cufflinks: old fashioned, chain store clothes. His shoes, black brogues, were for an older man but well-polished. He wore no jewellery except, incongruously, an expensive, stainless steel Rolex watch. It was almost as if he had made an effort not to look anything other than ‘average’, nondescript. The effect was spoiled as soon as she looked into his eyes: golden-green and, as he held her with what seemed to be a cold ferocity, she shivered. She had often heard that ‘eyes are the windows of the soul’. If that were true this was a soul that had been to places she did not even want to imagine.

What brought you here tonight, Karl? she asked.

I’ve just moved into the area and was looking for a gym. The hotel has one next door, he nodded towards the foyer. I’ve just signed up and thought I’d drop in for a drink on my way home to my lonely abode.  He tried an expression of melancholy and she thought it made him look, in stark contrast to a few seconds earlier, like a little lost boy. You?"

Flew into City Airport this afternoon – from Italy, she twitched the newspaper, and thought I’d stay overnight here before travelling home.

Where’s that?

Norfolk. Where have you just moved from?

I was in the army and now I’m not so I’m unemployed. A friend has a flat near here and offered to let me stay. He’s out of the country a lot – he mainly lives abroad to keep his tax liability to a minimum and only returns about sixty days a year – so  it works out quite well as I look after the place while he’s away and get cheap board in exchange.  I wouldn’t be able to afford to live there if I had to pay market rent.

Army?  What were you doing?

Nothing much. Marching and saluting mainly.  She saw shutters descending and decided to terminate that line of conversation.

So tell me how you come to speak three languages. Is it just three?

More but I suppose it depends on how you count. I’m more fluent in some than others.

That’s unusual, isn’t it?

Not really. Nearly all Dutch, Belgian and Swiss kids grow up speaking three or four. There are some countries where people use six or seven. When you’re introduced to a language early enough you sort of ‘absorb’ it rather than learn it.

So what’s your background?  How did you ‘absorb’ them?

My parents were something to do with banking, I was never very clear what, but they met when my father was working in the Zurich office of the bank for which they both worked. It was quite a strange upbringing. They were both fluent in each language but Dad would only ever speak to me in English – his German accent was not great. Munti – that’s what I called Mum – only spoke to me in German. They were determined that, unlike them, I would speak each language unaccented.

As he began speaking, she moved from her seat and occupied the one opposite him. Her deep blue eyes studied him with an intensity that made him feel as though he were the most interesting person on earth.

When I was two we transferred to Paris where we lived for the next five years so, along with speaking the two languages with my parents, I spoke Cantonese with my nanny and French with everybody else.  She could not help feeling that this was a story polished by frequent retelling: a gloss paint finish that covered any imperfection. Next was Madrid and they just plonked me into the local school. It was a bit rough but it worked. I was speaking Spanish soon enough and by the time we moved back to Switzerland, Geneva this time, I was pretty fluent.  He paused, recollecting the sequence. The next move was to Rome, when I was twelve and again I went to the local school. Then I ended up at a boarding school in England when I was fourteen. After I left school I went to Paris for a couple of years. Then the south of France, Spain for a while and then back to UK and joined the army. 

Her face lit up in a grin. Wow!  That’s amazing!  What a life!  Any other languages?

Some. Picked up here and there. A bit of Mandarin at the boarding school and the army sends you to some fairly exotic places … like Oman and Afghanistan.

So you can march and salute in Arabic and … what is it?  Afghani?

Pashto, mainly, and Tadzhik but yes, that’s about the size of it.

Whilst they had been speaking he took the opportunity to study her. She was, he had noticed as she moved seats, quite tall – although she was wearing high heels. He had already taken in the mass of long blonde hair, halfway down her back, the oval face with full lips and cheekbones that a model would die for. Her eyes were a deep, Caribbean blue. She was slim with full breasts, all in all what the tabloids would have called ‘a stunner’. She wore a simple cream blouse with high neck and long sleeves, detailed in gold thread. The skirt was plain black, short and pleated so that it swayed and slithered enticingly as she moved. Her jewellery was simple and elegant: plain gold studs in her ears, a gold chain hung outside the collar of the blouse with a matching bracelet on her right wrist. An expensive Swiss watch decorated her left.

One of the Italians walked past and half-turned as if to enter, saw the situation and backed away with a muttered Scusi. She sighed.   He thought that it was no wonder that the Italians felt they had to try their luck with her, it was built into their genes. He felt happy and privileged to be sharing this table with her.

That’s the fifth one.

He grinned. Well that means there’s one more to go because there are six of them.

How do you know?  Did you reconnoitre them as you walked in?

More or less. It’s my party trick. I remember things. Let me see. He allowed his gaze to drift up to the left. The one that I guess is in charge is about 60, one metre-sixty, eighty kilos with short grey hair, brown framed glasses, grey suit, white shirt, brown shoes, drinking red wine. The next one is taller, about one-seventy, brown hair, brown eyes, black suit, needs a shave. The third ….

One by one he described them: their dress, how they stood, what they were drinking. As he did so, her smile spread and on one occasion she leapt up in order to verify one of his assertions. That was enough to spur him on.

You must have been watching them. You can’t do that for everybody in the bar.

Yes I can. Try me.  So she stood again and peered around the edge of the partition. Right, she said as she reseated herself, leaning towards him, arms crossed couple at a table near the bar …

… sitting next to each other, just to the right as you walk in the door?  She nodded. OK, he’s about 35 and slightly balding. About ninety kilograms and one metre eighty or so: not so easy because I haven’t seen him standing. He’s wearing a dark blue suit jacket with non-matching trousers. She’s a bit younger, pretty but a bit plump, grey business suit. They’re both married but not to each other. They’re sharing a bottle of white wine. I would guess they work together nearby and are having an affair.

She grinned in disbelief. How can you tell all that?

They’re sitting much too close to be just friends: hip to hip, heads nearly touching. If they were on a normal date I would have expected them to have dressed differently, smarter perhaps, so I guess they have just come from work – an office by the way they are dressed. They are both wearing wedding bands, but hers is white gold and his is yellow and it would be strange for a married couple to have non-matching rings. Want any more?

She laughed. You are either a second Sherlock Holmes or the biggest bullshitter I’ve met in years … and I’ve met a lot of them let me tell you. Is it natural or did you teach yourself to do it?

"A bit of both. I think Munti noticed it at a party they held for my fourth birthday for all the kids in the area. She set up a game for the older children … you know the one where there are a dozen or so items on a tray, she takes the cover off and they get a minute or two to memorise them. The winner is the one who remembers most. I just kept winning. One of the other mothers insisted there was some sort of cheating going on but when she set the tray up with about thirty items I still won."  He laughed. She liked it – the way his eyes crinkled at the corners gave her a warm glow.

She finished her wine and they realised that the bottle was empty.

Would you like to eat? he asked.

That would be nice. But not here. The food is not particularly good.

Anywhere you fancy?

I know a little Spanish restaurant a little way away and that seems quite appropriate.  He readily agreed so she stood and made for the door.

What about the bill?  He turned towards the bar.

That’s OK, it’ll go on my account. Did you want the newspapers?

No, I’ve got something far better to do now.

In the foyer the concierge rushed to fetch her coat and, as they waited, they chatted. At one point she made a microscopic adjustment to the strap of her shoe, lifting the heel high against the other thigh in a uniquely feminine mannerism that he found exciting. His eyes were drawn as the short skirt fanned, like a curtain, across her upraised leg. He felt guilty as she glanced sideways and caught him looking but she just smiled.

In the taxi she asked if they could speak in Spanish as the practice would do her good and this continued through the rest of the evening. The staff seemed to know her and they were shown to one of the better tables. In a passable Spanish that belied her assertion of incompetence she told them to bring tapas and that she would leave the choice up to them – unless you have anything special you want? she asked him.

No, I’m happy with their choice. In the army, you have to learn to eat whatever there is and I’m sure that everything here will be better than anything the army dished up.

She ordered a wine by the number without consulting the list as a man played Spanish gypsy guitar on a raised platform at the end of the room, occasionally augmenting it with a song – usually about lost love. Waiters pushed between tables, took orders, poured wine. The air was filled with the smell of garlic and spices.

Have you tried these?  She spooned a second portion of albondigas onto her plate.

No, not yet,

They’re excellent.  She cut one of the spicy meatballs in half, skewered it on her fork and lifted it, covered in the creamy tomato sauce to his lips in a gesture at once both intimate and nurturing – almost as a mother would offer food to her child. He took it, chewed.  So what brought you here? she asked I mean, why London?

A number of reasons. The main one, as I only found out quite recently, is that when my parents were killed they left me a substantial inheritance. My father’s brother, Gordon, is a solicitor and Dad’s executor so I came to London to see him and get it.  A look of bitterness crossed his face. I found out yesterday that he now seems to have somehow got hold of the money and fiddled me out of it. I’m trying to see if there is anything I can do to get it back but I fear the worst.

Her face was a mask of outrage. But that’s awful. How can he do something like that?

Ah!  He knows the law and I don’t. It seems that when an inheritance is unclaimed for more than a certain period then it goes to the next in line – him!

She banged her hand on the table causing several other diners to look round. But that can’t be right. Did he know that you were still around?

Oh, yes. When I was about eighteen I came back from France. It was he who persuaded me to join the army. Probably for exactly that reason.

The swine. You must feel like using some of your army training on him.  She made a fist and swung it in an arc in front of his face. It seemed so cute that his ill humour vanished and he laughed.

I have, believe me, but eventually I suppose I shall just have to accept the inevitable.

A woman, in traditional dress, danced Flamenco as the man played for her, joined by a second. Together they formed a small band: her heels crashed staccato notes, like a drummer hitting rim-shots, accompanied by the steady rattle of castanets with the two guitars playing melody and rhythm. The two men harmonised their wailing song and her body added a descant line as she swayed and weaved.

They spoke in generalities and she thought that, despite the tough shell he presented to the world, he concealed an underlying vulnerability. He appeared to have few friends and was probably quite lonely – although that may have just been a result of moving to a strange city.

After the meal, which he insisted on paying for, she invited him back to the hotel ‘for one last nightcap’. He needed no persuasion and, despite the December chill, they walked. She clung, uninvited, onto his arm – each enjoying the contact. Once more in the bar, in the same booth, they ordered brandies and he realised that he still knew nothing about her. Every time he asked her about herself she answered noncommittally then steered the conversation back on to him.

Tell me about Norfolk and Italy and how you come to be commuting between the two.

It’s just a job like any other. How long were you in the army for?

No. You keep doing that.  She tried to look innocent but knew that he would not budge. You’re obviously very successful at whatever it is you do. What is it?

She was silent for a long time and then said, very calmly, I sleep with men for money.

He wanted to laugh. This was a joke of course but she just held his eye and there was no sign of humour. But … and he could add nothing.

But what?  I’m too beautiful?  That’s a fairly common reaction. But, as you said, I’m successful at my job, and being beautiful is my primary asset. I seem like such a nice girl?  How much would you pay for one who was nasty?

They lapsed into silence, still with eyes locked. Then he sighed. I suppose we’re the same really, he said at last. I sold my body to the government and you could argue about the morals of being paid to go and kill foreigners against the morals of what you do – and with less chance of being blown up by a roadside bomb.

That sat in silence for a long while. He glanced across at a lone woman sat at the bar: too much make up, too much to drink. If your mind's going along those lines, she nodded towards the woman, you'd better forget it.

It wasn’t. I don’t suppose she gets too many trips to Rome. Private jet was it?  He sounded bitter and realised that he had no justification. She was her own woman and he had just met her. I’m sorry, that sounded awful.

Yes it did and yes it was. A private jet, I mean.

Then he broke the mood. Do you know what?  I don’t care. I don’t know you and have no standard to judge you by. If that’s what you want to do and it makes you happy then bloody good luck to you.  Smiling, he raised his glass and she did likewise.

Would you like to spend the night with me? she asked. He was silent for a second or two and was just about to speak when she stopped him, placing a gentle hand on his wrist. If you mention money you will have just turned down the best night of your life.  She regarded him for a moment and then added, In any case, Mr Unemployed Soldier, if you had to pay you couldn’t afford it.

*

The next morning he was awoken by the sound of the shower. Normally he would have roused at the slightest sound or movement in the room but she had slipped out of the bed without disturbing him. Plenty of practice? he wondered before mentally rebuking himself.

When she came back, wrapped from chest to thigh in a huge, soft towel, she smiled at him. Morning, sleepy head. How are you this bright sunny day?  He saw the rain running down the window but, he had to admit, it felt sunny in here.

Great.  He grinned. She let the towel slip from her and stood naked in front of the wardrobe. He took a deep breath. Fantastic.  She walked about the room unselfconsciously, gathering her things, comfortable in her body. He watched her dress with fascination. In many ways it was more erotic than a striptease. He saw a tiny tattoo in the small of her back: a plump cherub with halo, wings and harp held hands with an equally chubby imp with horns, tail and trident. Pretty, he said, touching it.

Gemini, the twins.

Aren’t Geminis supposed to have split personalities?

I have, believe me. But, as it happens, I also have a twin.

You mean there’s another like you out there somewhere?

He wouldn’t think so.  She finished dressing.  If you want breakfast, just call room service. It’s all on my bill. I haven’t got time. I have to catch a train in about half an hour. You can sort yourself out. She shrugged on her overcoat, closed the suitcase she was filling and leaned over him, kissing him full on the mouth. They’ll be up to collect my case in a few minutes so you’d better make yourself decent. Goodbye. Thanks for last night, it was great."  He tried to grab her but she swerved her hips out of his grasp, giggling, and headed for the door.

Will I see you … ?

No, she said too quickly but stopped in the doorway. Her face softened and she tilted her head a few degrees. I’m sorry. You’re lovely and I could really go for you, but no man could – or should – put up with my lifestyle. We had fun. Remember that.  She blew him a kiss and was gone.

He went into the luxurious bathroom where he found a pack labelled Pour Homme containing all the toiletries he needed. A few minutes later, as he was showering, he heard the room door open and, when he emerged from the steam-fogged bathroom, her case was gone.

He ordered a light breakfast and, as he sat looking out over a rain-soaked London park, decided that the only regret he had about last night was that he wouldn’t see her again.. The rest was, indeed, a very happy memory. As he ate he remembered other things: deep memories that she had stirred up and had now got him thinking about.

Chapter Two

HIS VERY FIRST memory was of a park. He was about three so it must have been Paris. His parents were calling him as he rode his tricycle along a tarmac path. Komm, mein liebling, his mother called. His father, beside her, said, Come on, son.  And that was the pattern of his relationship with his parents. He did not know if his ability with languages was due to this upbringing or just a talent he had, but he found that, as his mother had told him, he did feel gratitude to them for the way they brought him up. His childhood was strange, disrupted but, as he remembered it, idyllic. Although his parents worked long hours and, until they left Spain, he had had a fulltime nanny – a Chinese girl called Wing Su – they spent as much time with him as they could. From an early age he was included in their social life, frequenting restaurants and theatres and often, if the evening went past his bedtime, falling asleep in the back of a limousine under the watchful gaze of Su.

During holidays they would climb, ski or hike in the Alps, canoe, sail or swim in lakes or oceans in far off places around the world. He learned to dive in the Indian Ocean at the age of nine and, the following year, his father even let him drive the Jaguar around the grounds of a villa they had rented outside Geneva. His greatest, most satisfying holiday activity, however, came when, at the age of ten, his father bought him a 50cc trail bike along with a more powerful one for himself. With the more relaxed attitude of the Spanish to the rules about who could drive what and where, they started riding the trails deep into the mountains. Often they would camp overnight. These trips continued, on ever better and more powerful machines until he was twelve. The most memorable was the last. On this trip, they had started out early in the morning and by the afternoon had found themselves high up on a mountain trail. His father waved him to a stop and, dismounted.

What is it Dad?

Look, a bear’s been here recently, he said. Then bursting into laughter, added: At least we know the answer to the question about bears’ lavatorial habits.

The European Brown Bear had once been common in this part of the northern Iberian Peninsula, but loss of habitat and the ravages of farmers seeking revenge for massacred cattle had brought it to the verge of extinction. From the size of the footprints they decided it was probably a young animal, maybe a female. They chained their bikes to an old oak tree and set off on foot to track the animal. After an hour or so, they lost the spoor, and had to abandon their adventure.

Karl, we’re going to have to admit that it’s better at this backwoods stuff than we are.

Does it know we’re here?

No doubt about it.

It was getting late so they trekked back to the bikes and, driving down into a heavily wooded valley, found a clearing by a small stream. They set up camp and washed the summer sweat off their arms and faces in the ice cold water. They then set up rods and caught two fish, which they grilled over an open campfire.

As darkness fell they sat, hip to hip on a fallen tree trunk as they ate.

Why is it so empty around here, Dad, he asked. There are hardly any people.

It’s been slowly depopulating since the end of the Second World War. The younger generations are moving away to the towns and cities. Life is just too tough here. It can be backbreaking toil trying to eke a living from such poor soil and unforgiving climate.  Pagan asked about the war and his father smiled at the maturity of his son’s perspective on life, realising that his ‘little boy’ was growing up.

Hearing a rustling in the bushes, Karl jumped up. He took a couple of tentative steps towards the forest and peered into the gloom. After a moment’s silence, he looked down at his father and whispered: Do you think it’s nearby?

Not likely. It’s probably miles away by now.  His father also stood and, moving beside him, put his arm around his son’s shoulders. Scared?

A bit.  He didn’t want to show his fear, but the tremor in his voice and the white face, now lit only by moonlight, told his father a different story.

He guided his son back to the log, sat him down and put more wood on the fire. As the dying embers fired up the new twigs and branches into crackling, yellow flames, his father explained that there was nothing wrong with being frightened. "The difference between bravery and cowardice is control. A coward realises he may be hurt and, being unable to control his emotions, runs away. Heroes also realise the danger … but control the fear and do what has to be done despite that fear. A man who cannot control his emotions will be controlled by his emotions. For instance, an uxorious man – one who loves his wife or girlfriend to excess – becomes her puppy dog."

Karl, as he had seen his father do many times, smirked and winked; nudging him with his elbow. What about you and Munti then? he teased and saw his father’s smile in the firelight.

I rest my case. Look how she has me running around after her, he protested and Karl saw the soft look in his eyes and knew that his parents would lay down their lives for each other … and him. But seriously Karl, if you can’t master your fear then one day it could mean the difference between life and death.  Pagan knew his father was speaking from personal experience in the army. He had seen active service in Korea and Malaya. Although he would have been happy to listen for hours more, he also knew from previous experience that when his father looked at his watch and sighed it could only mean one thing.

Go on, Karl. We’ve got an early start in the morning. Bed.

As he snuggled into his sleeping bag he could hear the sound of his father clearing the site. When they left in the morning he knew they would leave no trace of their occupancy. By the time his father slipped into his own sleeping bag next to him, he was asleep.

He awoke with a start and was about to speak but his father’s voice, no more than the smallest whisper a millimetre from his ear, ordered silence.

Painstakingly, tooth by slow tooth, his father eased up the zip of the tent until the two: man and boy, lying shoulder to shoulder, temple to temple could peer out into the clearing, brightly lit by a full moon.

He smelt it: a strong, sour, animal smell. Opposite the tent, no more than fifteen metres away, the bear rummaged around the base of the log on which they had been sitting. Comparatively small though it was, its four inch claws could disembowel a man with a single swipe and, despite the reassuring presence of his father so close, sheer terror gripped him. Air became solid in his lungs. Blood thumped in his ears. He felt as if his bowels would betray him.

He had never seen a bear, even in a zoo, but a hundred thousand generations of hominid had passed down the instinct in his genes. Just as a rabbit, which has never left the hutch in which it was born, will cower at the cough of a nearby dog fox, so he felt an almost overwhelming inclination to flee. Tell me what you see, his father commanded sternly in his ear and, when he did not answer, poked him firmly in the side and reissued the order.

It’s a bear, he murmured, voice tremulous.

Go on.

It’s about fifteen metres away.  The animal was trying its luck with the box that held their food stocks. It could obviously smell the contents and had been harassing it for a few minutes. It knocked it on its side and, still unable to gain access, raised itself to its full height and slammed both front paws down on it.

Magnificent, breathed Pagan senior. How tall is it?

A-a-about one and a half metres, maybe slightly more.

Male or female?

I can’t tell. I can’t see its … bits.  He heard a small chuckle, like a slight sniffing.

Is it bulky for its height or gracile?  Look at its face. Hard, male features or softer and female?  How heavy?  Males are bigger.  The boy had no idea how to judge the weight but knew the Cantabrian subspecies rarely exceeded two metres tall and one hundred kilograms for a male. This was much smaller.

I’d say it’s a female. About sixty to seventy kilos.  He realised that the sex of the bear was immaterial as his father had been deliberately distracting him and, caught up as he was in analysing the scene, his fear had totally fled and been replaced by a feeling of fascination and wonder. He had learned a lesson.

The box was made from carbon fibre to withstand the harshest treatment, even a crash, and proved equally resistant to the bear. Finally giving up on the recalcitrant container, it wandered around the clearing for a while, aimlessly following scents before making its way towards the tent. He felt his original trepidation returning but his father calmly slid the zip down and rolled away. I’ve got a flash-bang, he said. If it starts getting too hairy I’ll slide it out under the edge. You remember what to do?

Yes.

As always, his father had prepared meticulously for the expedition – including equipping them for just such an unlikely eventuality. The ‘flash-bang’ that he mentioned was a small grenade that made a lot of noise and emitted a bright flash but was otherwise fairly harmless. On the first day of the trip he had demonstrated one of them to his son.

I’ll pull the pin and toss it into the middle of the clearing, he had said. It’s only got a two seconds fuse so, before it hits the ground, make sure that you have covered your ears and screwed your eyes up as tight as you can.  He had obeyed the instruction – Dad did not mess around when it came to things like this – but he had still been blinded by the flash, which ignored his eyelids and bored straight into his retinas. Rather than hear the sound, he felt the explosion as a solid thump through to the marrow of his bones but, nevertheless, his ears rang for several minutes. Now, with the ursine snuffling and snorting millimetres away and separated from him by no more than the thinnest layer of material, he was reassured by the memory.

The bear moved along the base of the tent wall. Neither man nor boy moved. Seconds stretched to minutes as the creature circumnavigated the tent. At one point, near their feet, it actually pushed its nose under the edge of the material but, after a few eternal seconds, withdrew. The bear meandered around the camp for nearly an hour before strolling into the woods and disappearing. They waited a few minutes more before emerging and, with the sudden release of tension, whooped and danced. His father enveloped him in a great hug, swinging him off his feet.

I’m proud of you, Son. You held your nerve, he beamed. The boy done good.  He held him at arm’s length. "The man did well."

They returned to the tent but neither slept much that night.

*

The weekend after that they flew to see ‘the English relations’. There were not many of them, just his paternal grandfather and his Uncle Gordon and family. The visit was not a success. They met at Grandfather’s house in the Cotswolds, a sterile place that always felt more like a hotel or an airport executive lounge than a comfortable abode. Like the house, the family’s relationships were formal: polite but stiff. The old man, a retired colonel, had never lost his military bearing and insisted that his grandchildren addressed him as ‘Grandfather’ or ‘Sir’.

Uncle Gordon was overweight and pasty whilst his wife, Aunt Pamela was overbearing and formidable. The nephews: Chris, 15 and Danny, 14, were horrid replicas of their father, and Pagan despised them. The three boys were sent out ‘to play in the garden’.

Are you a queer, Karl? asked Danny. What do you think, Chris?  Doesn’t he look like a queer to you?

Yeah, I reckon. Are you a pansy?  Pagan had not heard either expression.

I don’t know.

"A real man would know he wasn’t a queer.  Danny sneered. I knew by the time I was seven."

Only queers don’t know if they’re queers so I reckon you’re a queer, added Chris. Pagan knew that, whatever they were hinting at, it was intended to be derogatory. He shrugged and left them.

He had a toy, a radio controlled hovercraft that his father had bought him for his last birthday. It was a kit, supposedly for ‘Age 15+’ that had been presented with the promise that ‘we’ll build it together.’  Over subsequent months he had asked his father to help but each time the request had been rebuffed with a ‘not today, son, I’m afraid I’ve got to …’

Three months later, a miserable Saturday afternoon, his classmates were having a picnic to which he, the ‘foreign outsider’, had not been invited. Torn between ire at his exclusion and glee at the bad weather they would be suffering, he had taken out the box and started constructing the model. He worked his way through the instructions and, by Sunday afternoon, had a working hovercraft.

Overjoyed at his success he had triumphantly carried it to show his parents. Munti was effusive in her praise but his father was less so: pointing out the railing that he had fitted askew, the aerial that he had bent, the fingerprint etched into the clear plastic window where he had touched it with an adhesive-contaminated finger. He was deflated … but the thing worked.

He had brought it with him from Spain and so, ignoring his cousins’ taunts, started driving the vehicle at high speed around the lawn. Intrigued now, the boys forgot their animosity and persuaded him to let them take turns at controlling it then, when he once again had the controller, attempted to catch it or stamp on it whilst he skilfully slipped it out of their reach.

When the battery expired the model slid to a stop with a last exhausted sigh. Chris, red faced and panting, walked over to it and, with slow, deliberate malice, smashed his foot down then, with a kick, scattered plastic and electronics. He turned to Pagan with grin said, Oops, looks like I’ve broken the queer’s toy.

Do you think he’ll cry? asked Danny.

I don’t know.  He crossed the grass to where Pagan stood and towered over him. Are you going to cry, pansy?

Pagan, if he were honest, would have liked to have done exactly that but would not give them the satisfaction of showing it. Instead he drew back his fist and lashed out as hard and fast as he could. He caught the other boy squarely in the mouth, causing an instant eruption of blood and making him stagger backward.

As he prepared to face retaliation from either of his cousins a scream came from immediately behind him and he was seized roughly and painfully by the ear. You little thug, Aunt Pamela bellowed at him as she dragged him, still grasping his ear, to his father demanding all manner of sanction and retribution. He was given no chance to explain and banished to his room. Later the other boys were given money and allowed to visit a cinema in town to see E.T. The Extraterrestrial. He had to stay behind.

The lounge was L-shaped so, as the five adults sat in the main area drinking tea, he secreted himself in the offset with the relic of his toy and contemplated its repair.

So it’s Rome next? he heard Grandfather say. There was an edge to the query that made Pagan pay attention.

Yes, Dad said. We’re intending to stay in England for a month by which time the removal company will have shifted all our stuff from Madrid.

What about the boy?

What about him?  He detected a note of defensiveness in his father’s voice.

I assume that, as usual, you’re just going to drag him away from his home and friends and dump him into a school where he doesn’t even speak the language.

He’ll pick it up, you’ll see.

What about friends?

He’ll make new ones if he wants them but Karl is very much a ‘loner’. He never seems to need any.

Really?  I think that you should think more about his best interests and less about your own.

We give him more than any other child his age. This year he’s been sailing in the Caribbean and only last week we went camping and he drove his own motorcycle.

Buying him ‘things’ is not a replacement for love, chimed in Pamela.

Keep out of this, snapped his Dad.

You should never have had children, said the old man. You were too old and too stuck in your ways. By the time he goes to university you’ll be well over sixty. You have both always concentrated on your careers to the exclusion of that boy. It strikes me that he is little more than an inconvenience to you.

I won’t be lectured on parenthood by you.  His father stood, pointing an aggressive finger at the others. If you remember you shipped me and Gordon off to boarding school as soon as we were seven.

You have a very selective memory.  Grandfather now rose as well so the two men stood nose to nose. When you were seven, in 1933, we were posted to India. Your mother had to come with me but dozens of army children died out there.  He walked behind Gordon’s chair and put his hands on his other son’s shoulders. "Twelve years later, when he was seven the war had been over for just a few months and millions across Europe were sleeping in ditches. My job was to stop them starving … and your mother was dying. What would you have had me do?"  He suddenly looked every second of his eighty three years and slumped back into his chair.

So what are you suggesting?  He was calmer but still standing.

Gordon joined in for the first time. "We were thinking that he could come here. I’ve had a word with School. They could take him from next term."

And boarding school is better than being with us, is it?  Because in my experience it was a pretty miserable time.

But you had stability, Grandfather said. "You weren’t dragged from one city to another, different schools, different cultures, different languages for God’s sake!  You made friends that you still have to day."

"I don’t."

Well Gordon most certainly does.

Bully for him.

Now Munti joined in. You will not take my son. He will stay with us.  So simply said but with such emphasis and finality that all further discussion was pointless.

They cut the visit short, leaving two days later and flying to Bali for two weeks.

*

It was just a few weeks after the move to Rome that things started to go wrong. As on each previous occasion, he went to the local school. Disadvantaged by his lack of Italian he had to work harder than his classmates and was put in a grade below the others of his age. Alongside his schoolwork he had Italian lessons for one hour, five times a week.

And there was Mario Mancini.

Mancini was a year older than Pagan, so two years above him in the school, and big-built. He was followed by a group of hangers-on. Most of them, typical in schools throughout the world, were younger than the ringleader, impressed by his size and physical prowess so they were about the same age as Pagan.

On the first day of the new term the bully saw the opportunity for sport with the new, foreign, boy. At the morning break he approached his target. Da dove siete? he asked. Where are you from?  Pagan did not understand and tried English, French and then German. This got a response and he was immediately christened the kraut. Each day he was subject to minor bullying of pushes and none-too-serious assaults. As weeks passed and his ability with the language increased it opened up new ways for Mancini to torment him. He demanded money ‘for language lessons’. The phrases that Pagan had to learn included, ‘please master, punch me hard,’ and ‘please master, may I lick your boots?’

But Mancini had chosen the wrong target. Pagan had long ago learned, whilst climbing, motorcycling and skiing, that pain was a transient thing that came and, sooner or later, went. This made him fearless, both facing risks and facing enemies. When climbing he would stand on the sheer edge of a precipice and would feel, first of all, the natural fear of falling but then, secure in his own abilities, this would turn to exhilaration as adrenaline coursed through him. When others would cross a narrow bridge with trepidation he would stride fearlessly forward. At school in Madrid he had encountered his first real trouble at school when he had performed a handstand on the parapet of the classroom balcony, three floors above the concrete assembly area.

There was something else, too. Years previously he had had an accident whilst climbing – a fall from about 5 metres onto a rocky outcrop that left him with a broken arm. He had walked back to the car, about five kilometres, matching his father step for step. The pain had been beyond anything he had ever imagined but he refused to let a single cry escape his lips or any indication of it to register on his face. He even carried his own pack.

The praise his father had heaped upon this demonstration of fortitude had far exceeded any that he had granted for any other endeavour. His mother had even taken time off from work to tend him … something she had not even done when he had been severely ill. He could not explain it, but had the feeling that if he were ever injured it somehow made him more of a man … more valued by his parents.

So Pagan had no fear of Mancini.

His parents gave him a very good allowance and all the time the gang were happy with the price of a few cigarettes or a bottle of cheap wine he was, in his turn, happy to pay. Anything for a quiet life, he would think. But each time he gave, they wanted more. So he started to push back.

The fights were never with Mancini but always with one of his minions who, being about Pagan’s age and size, was invariable trounced. In schools in three countries he had learned that schoolboy fights went