The Turkish Trap: A tense and intriguing action thriller.

by Jack Dylan

  Alex and Liz both approached breakfast with a positive and determined air. They both had the hint of a smile not quite formed, but twitchingly ready to appear. As soon as Alex saw Liz he recognised the incipient smile and knew that she had been thinking the same sorts of things that he had. He was preparing the reconciliatory response he would graciously utter. Perhaps he should get in first and reassure Liz that all was forgiven and things were going to be better.

  As soon as Liz saw Alex she recognised the slightly cocky swagger in his step, and the twitching hint of a grin that he was hopeless at controlling when he had some good news to break. He was a hopeless poker player. But she was relieved. He had obviously been building up to this break-up just as much as she had. He probably had already phoned whoever it was he currently had as a secret soul-mate to say he would soon be free. They both tried to speak at once.

  “Don’t worry about last night – you were really justified in having a go,” was Alex’s start.

  “Well this is it at last,” was the simultaneous contribution from Liz.

  She was standing in the kitchen with a mug of the freshly made coffee clutched in her right hand, her fingers wrapped around the warmth and poking through the unused handle. It was a typical pose and Alex’s heart was ready to melt. They each processed the words from the other and smiles disappeared as they wondered if they had heard what they thought they had heard. Both had been so focused on what they were going to say that it took them time to register, analyse and comprehend what was happening. At one level it seemed to take seconds. At another level they both saw instantly what was going on. The croissants and pain au raisin were wasted that morning.

  .

  Chapter 12

  Alex London:

  Summer/Autumn 2003

  Alex found living on his own an odd mixture of tentative pleasure at being in control of things and occasional depressing emptiness. He was well organised and his new flat was still satisfyingly clean and fresh. He had the first floor of a redeveloped terrace house close enough to Clapham Common to be accessible. Once they had agreed that this really was the time to separate, Liz had taken control. Her estate agency know-how meant that Alex found himself being told what was going to happen rather than planning it himself. Liz was going to buy out his share of the Chiswick house. He argued that he had paid more of the mortgage than she had, but his lawyer persuaded him that such an argument would get him nowhere. So the property-savvy Liz ended up with a big house in Chiswick to split into modern apartments, while Alex was found an attractively converted apartment in Clapham – but crucially with no debt. Liz had happily taken on a loan to buy him out, and it was enough to buy outright the new apartment. Although he resented Liz being able to stay in Chiswick, he knew that he was in no position to take on another mortgage. Another year or two and he might start again, but with his business winding up, and arguments with his office landlord about continuing payments for the now empty office, he was well and truly cornered. Liz, with her steady salary, had been able to turn the whole situation to her advantage. He was sure that in a couple of years the value of the two, or was it four, apartments she would then own would dwarf the loan she had needed to sign up for. She was building her own property business on the wreckage of their marriage but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Irreconcilable Breakdown” was the official terminology which apparently would eventually lead to an uncontested divorce. More legal fees, more depressing realisation that his place in the world had shifted. He started to realise how many parts of his old life had been based on the marriage. The simple availability of someone to talk to in the evening had never struck him as something he would miss. But like someone bereaved, he often found himself in the strange metachronistic thought pattern where he realised he had been looking forward to telling Liz about the amusing incident during the day, or the idiocy of the bank clerk. Almost daily he found his brain going through the anticipation and the almost instantaneous correction. At times he could laugh at it, and bizarrely even found he had anticipated telling Liz about the crazy process. But it chipped away at his inner self. It chiselled out an empty space inside him, which sometimes felt physically painful and empty – but he couldn’t find any way of filling it.

  He created routines for himself. Differentiating between work days and weekends became an obsession. On weekdays he had his strict rule about being at his desk by 9:30 in the morning. He still received professional journals redirected from the office, and still logged on to the websites where he trawled through the notifications of contracts that he could bid for. He had quickly found that just applying for jobs wasn’t going to work. He was too old for most of them – even though employers were trumpeting their equality policies. He could absorb himself in one form of activity after another, and found that the emptiness could be ignored for hours at a time. On good days, when he had found something that interested him and needed some reading and research, he could even carry the feeling of positive purposefulness through his solitary lunch and into the afternoon. It was as if the positive momentum could be kept moving right through the freewheeling parts of the day. If he achieved something purposeful in the part of the day he labelled work-time, he could go to the kitchen in the evening with an air of success. He moved positively. He was decisive about what he was going to cook, and prepared it efficiently and with enjoyment. His movements were brisk and competent. He cooked well, and enjoyed the process. He could sit and eat while listening to Radio 3 or sometimes Radio 4 before settling down with a book and some background music from his collection. He had at least been able to hang on to his Linn hi-fi and most of the CD collection that he had built up over the years. A warm glow of positive achievement could leave him feeling energised and motivated, which later translated into proper relaxation and rest. Sometimes these good spells lasted for several days, and he woke in the morning looking forward to getting to the desk, looking forward to the feeling of progress, and eyeing himself in the mirror to see someone building a new way of living and a new sense of himself.

  The fragility of the good days frightened him. The simplest failure could sabotage his mood and leave him unable to function. One Thursday he had started well enough, but when he opened the morning’s post he was notified of an outstanding account for the old office telephone. It wasn’t a large amount, but if he paid it, he wouldn’t have enough in his account to buy wine for the weekend. His mood spiralled down. The derailing of his plan for the day deprived him of the activity that kept his mind off the negatives always lurking there to depress him. He couldn’t create his feeling of achieving something, and the absence of that feeling meant that the vacuum inside could take him over. The pain returned, the feeling of worthlessness felled his fragile confidence, and his personal vicious circle of being disabled from doing the very things that rescued him from this state, left him hurt, limp and pointless.

  He shambled into the kitchen confused by the emptiness. Sometimes it felt as if it was his empty stomach, but it didn’t translate into appetite. Quite the reverse, and he had to remind himself that if he didn’t eat he would feel even worse. He opened the fridge and moved the jars of pickle to the side to see what else was there. He rejected the eggs, and thought the pate looked old. He closed the fridge and opened a cupboard. After closing the cupboard he stood leaning with two hands on the edge of the worktop, shoulders stooped, and physically inches shorter than he had looked and felt the previous evening. He couldn’t decide what to eat. Nothing appealed. He could make a sandwich but didn’t feel like it. An omelette would be easy and quick. He could take something out of the freezer, but he couldn’t be bothered to hunt through it or to defrost anything. He walked heavily out of the kitchen and into his living room. The papers from yesterday were still lying around and he spiralled further down as he hated the messiness but couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up. He kicked the papers out of the way and sat on the edge of the settee. He hunched forward, hugging his stomach like someone with a p
ain. He cursed and rocked back and forwards for a minute. Then with a burst of energy he stood up and went to the hall cupboard where he pulled on some outdoor shoes and a jacket. He hauled angrily at the front door and went down the stairs to the outside world knowing that he had to walk, to keep moving, to make his limbs work or he was lost in the wallowing emptiness and grief for something vague that was no more.

  He walked with his head angled down, not looking at other people other than to avoid bumping into them. Making his way to the Common he walked along to the Underground Station but didn’t go in. He thought of going somewhere but nowhere seemed worthwhile. He crossed the road because the pedestrian crossing beeped and beckoned him rather than because he wanted to. He walked along the High Street and purposelessly walked into Sainsbury’s, picking up a basket as he went. Walking along the aisles he thought he should buy something to eat. Some bread? Some ready-made soup? A salad? He was paralysed by an inability to decide and hated himself for it. The impatient mothers with their push-chairs sighed pointedly as they manoeuvred past him. At last he decided he would buy a sandwich and take it back to the flat. He lifted one of the wedge-shaped plastic boxes and put it in the basket. As he walked to the tills he imagined the lonely flat and put the unappealing box on the nearest shelf. He walked back out of the shop and wondered how many degrees of difference there were now between him and the homeless tramp in the dirty red sleeping bag in the next doorway. The way he felt today there wasn’t much further to fall.

  Alex wandered along Clapham High Street getting in the way of the busy pedestrians and reacting huffily to the impatient exclamations as people had to slow or turn to avoid him. It was lunchtime, and there was a pub across the road. With a burst of decisiveness he went more briskly back to the pedestrian crossing. Walking more uprightly and purposefully he crossed the road and made his way into the newsagent to buy a paper to read with his lunch. He reached for his usual copy of the Independent, changed his mind and went for the Guardian in case there were public sector jobs he should check, and went to the counter. Shamefacedly he stammered his apologies and put the paper back when he realised he had no money in his pockets. He cursed himself again and strode angrily back towards the flat. At least he was moving faster and looking as if he had somewhere to go. He looked back across the road to the red sleeping bagged figure and shuddered slightly as he turned away.

  He opened the door of the flat to hear the last ring of the telephone. Just missed it. He threw his jacket into the cupboard and dialled 1471. It was a number he vaguely remembered with a Bristol code, so he scrambled back to the old filofax to scan through the people and companies that he knew there. Eventually the number matched – of course – one of his old contacts who had used him to run training sessions for the management team from time to time. He dialled the number and asked for Ron.

  “Hi Ron, sorry I missed the call – just working on something else. Good to hear from you.”

  “Alex – you are a hard man to track down. I tried that office number of yours and couldn’t get any sense out of them. They said you had left but didn’t know where. I actually remembered about Liz working in the estate agency so I tried her. Hope I haven’t put my foot in it!”

  “Don’t worry. All water under the bridge now. Liz and I separated in June and I’m working from my new place here,” he lied.

  “So how’s business? Any chance of doing another little job for us?”

  Alex tried to control his breathing but failed. Rather breathlessly and hoarsely he said,

  “Sure. What would you like and when. I’ll come down and chat unless you want to trek all the way to London to talk.”

  He was still in business.

  Chapter 13

  Alex London: September 2003

  Alex and Jack in the wine bar

  Alex finished the phone call, put away his filofax and threw himself on the settee. He uncharacteristically punched the air like a reality show winner, and leaned back on the settee.

  “Yes,” was all he could say, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  The flat suddenly seemed too small, too confining for his expansive mood. Remembering to lift his money and credit cards from the bedside table, he once again grabbed the jacket and closed the door behind him. He exuded energy and positive intent as he strode back towards the Common. A date in his diary for a meeting next week, a 3-day event a few weeks hence, and “the usual” allowance of preparation and writing up time had changed his world. The pubs in Clapham seemed too depressing for his good mood, so pausing only to phone his old friend Jack who worked at the top of Regent Street, he set off by tube to Oxford Circus, from where it was a short walk down Regent Street and behind Liberty’s renovated shop-frontage, to the welcoming intimacy of Kingly Street and his favourite old wine bar.

  “’Bout ye!” shouted Jack from the dim rear narrowness of the bar. He was from Northern Ireland and, especially when having a drink, tended to use deliberately exaggerated colloquial phrases like the abbreviated “what about you?”

  Jack had already bought a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, and a chilled glassful was waiting for Alex on the mellow wooden elbow-shelf.

  “Bloody wonderful,” sighed Alex as his shoulders relaxed and his face beamed with a strength of emotion fuelled by the earlier depression. The soaring rise of his mood was better than could be appreciated by anyone who hadn’t shared the depths of the empty, lonely wasteland earlier in the day.

  They settled in to a warm, philosophical late afternoon and evening of reminiscence, swapping stories of their mutual friends from years gone by. Jack maintained a coruscating disdain for any sign of soft romanticism, so was a good resolve-stiffening partner for Alex. He quizzed Alex about the state of his business and just as dispassionately about the relationship with Liz.

  “Just as well out of it,” was his verdict.

  “Out of what, the business or the marriage?”

  “Bloody both of them. Reckon Liz really screwed you over the house because she knew you couldn’t do a thing about it. And so far as the business is concerned you might scrape by with the odd bit of work but only if you have absolutely zero overheads. I really don’t know why you held on to that office so long, and I reckon you should change the sort of work you target. This guy Ron is a good example. Like everybody else he probably has a spending threshold below which he doesn’t have to go to tender. So if you try to sell all your work in small chunks, each of which is below the limit, you’ll do far better than you were doing competing for the big jobs.”

  “But I don’t know what that limit is. It’s bound to vary from one firm to another, and to be lower in the public sector where I got lots of work.”

  “You haven’t thought of ringing each of your old friends and asking them have you?”

  “Shit.”

  And so the evening went on. It seemed at the time to be reasonably sober and to be a good mixture of serious thinking and analysis, interspersed with enjoyable and light hearted story-telling. The Viognier made a good follow-up to the Sauvignon Blanc, and slipped down far too easily. The Australian Brut sparkling was a mistake.

  Next morning Alex suffered as he always did after excessive alcohol. He had slept badly, felt tired, and the depressive effect of the alcohol left his mood shaky and self-accusatory. The euphoria of the previous afternoon and evening seemed a false and foolish mistake. His optimism had disappeared and he shuffled round the flat with the pointless air of the moodily disaffected.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello,” rasped Alex, realising as he croaked that it was the first word he had uttered that day, and his throat wasn’t really awake yet.

  “You sound rough! Thought I’d give you a bell to remind you that the world hasn’t come to an end, you have some work to do, and you are actually a lucky bastard.” It was Jack, who knew him better than most, and was familiar with Alex’s self flagellation following a night on the town.

  “God almighty! How do you do it? You must have had at leas
t as much as I had last night and you sound fine this morning.”

  “Ah it’s the constant supply of youthful maidens that keep me young and healthy. Either that or the constant practice. Anyway, how are you and what are you doing?”

  “I’m sick, sore and depressed. What do you think? But thanks Jack, I’m actually feeling a bit better since you rang. The head still hurts but the world isn’t ending I don’t think.”

  “Silly bugger. You have the world at your feet – well bits of it. When are you off to Turkey again by the way? Don’t forget I’m still waiting for my call to crew for you on that tub of yours.”

  “Yeah, I know, and I’ll organise something, but this year I’ve just been ignoring it. The big tour in the spring and then the disaster with Liz have all left me rather out of it, not in the mood for spending the money on an air-fare.”

  “Probably too late to go this year anyway. It’s October next week, and you have work to do. What happens to the yacht while you’re in London?”

  “Mostly it sits in the marina, but my old friend Momer uses it a bit for short charters so that it makes enough money to cover expenses.”

  “So it actually makes money for you? I always was surprised that you could bear the cost of maintaining it out there, and hadn’t realised it was quite the opposite.”

  “But it isn’t much. Momer hasn’t time to do a lot of organising, and I don’t want him to lose control of who uses the yacht, so I’m happy if there is just enough income to pay the marina and the annual haul-out and maintenance. Pretty stupid really when I’m not using it. What do you think?”