“I wouldn’t risk it dear; didn’t you notice the sign in the hardware shop saying there will be dire consequences for taking photographs of that bald chap’s goats without his permission?” Fenella said worriedly, convinced it wouldn’t be beyond Bald Yannis to install hidden security cameras in the olive trees.
“Nonsense Fenella, now go and stand next to a goat so I can capture the moment for posterity. That’s perfect; say feta,” Hamish said, snapping away.
“I’ve seen it all now, I tell you only insane people dress their goats up in bloody clothes,” Hywel spluttered.
“So you won’t be smuggling one into your suitcase with the tortoise then?” Hamish sneered, thinking any one of these goats would be better company than this moaning Welshman.
“I think it’s just wonderful,” Fenella gushed. “It’s so cheery.”
“Those goats won’t be looking so cheery come Easter when they’re rotating on a spit,” Hywel countered.
“Oh do shut up,” his wife snapped, running out of patience with Hywel’s constant grousing.
The group continued their walk, their silence only broken by the odd expletive from Hywel who’d developed a blister, and by rapturous sighs from the others, enchanted by the wild orchids and irises springing up underfoot.
“We’ve finished all the water,” Hywel complained. “We could get dangerously dehydrated in this heat without any liquid.”
“Perhaps we could ask at that house over there if they’d kindly fill up our bottles,” Fenella suggested, pointing to a renovated old house with lemon trees in the garden.
“Bloody hell man, I think we’ve only gone and got our dates wrong,” Hywel screeched in alarm. “We’re outside Astakos now and it looks like the world has ended already. Look, that chap over there has a hazmat suit on; they only wear those when there’s danger of contamination. Could be a deadly plague has ended the world. We’d better backtrack to Astakos quick sharp.”
“I think you’ll find he’s wearing a beekeepers outfit, not a hazmat suit,” Hamish contradicted. “The area is after all renowned for its superlative local honey.”
“I don’t think we should risk getting any closer,” Hywel argued, just as Quentin raised his visor and called out a friendly greeting.
“Have you got the plague?” Hywel yelled back.
“Oh, this thing? Would you believe I’m reduced to wearing it as protection from that blasted parrot,” Quentin called back, pointing to Fotini’s parrot perching on the garden wall.
Roused by the commotion the parrot took flight and with a clean sweep landed directly on Hywel’s head, clamping its claws onto his scalp with a vice-like grip.
“Bloody hell man, get the thing off me,” Hywel screamed.
“I think you’ll find there’s no budging it,” Quentin commiserated. “You’re welcome to this to cover it up. I find I look marginally less stupid with my head encased in a lobster adorned shower curtain than walking round with the parrot as superfluous decoration.”
Chapter 21
Bald Yannis the Village Protector
Mail order Masha had spent an uncomfortable night on Melecretes’ inflatable air bed in Fotini’s spare room. Dinner with the dastardly Dastan had completely riled her usual composure, leaving her disconcerted. She was more accustomed to besotted admiration than veiled threats from overly possessive types with possible mafia connections. Melecretes had been more than happy to give up his bed to a damsel in distress, but suffered an even more uncomfortable night than Masha, sleeping on the floor by the front door clutching a steak hammer in lieu of a deadly weapon. If Masha had known the Kazakh had spent half the night camped on her doorstep determined to seduce her, she wouldn’t have slept a wink.
Fotini and Nitsa spent several hours speculating on Dastan’s villainous nature, further adding to Masha’s uneasy sensation of fear. “There’s somethin’ dark about ‘im an’ he was a definitely a bit free with the way he suggested ‘aving Mel bumped off.”
“That’s most likely ‘is mafia side comin’ out,” Nitsa suggested.
“If I’d known he wanted Mel bumped off I would have poisoned ‘is food,” Fotini cackled. “The best thing yous can do Masha is lie low ‘ere today, dont’s risk going up to the ‘ospital. Mel an’ me ‘ave to get to the shop now.”
“There’s something I ‘ave to do,” Masha said. “I ‘ave to fill Bald Yannis in on Dastan’s plans to turn the rubbish dump into an environmental disaster zone an’ warn ‘im the greasy mayor is on the fiddle.”
“I’ve an idea, I’ll go and fetch Bald Yannis in my taxi and bring ‘im ‘ere, that way yous wont’s risk running into the Kazakh what might be lurking to get yous alone with ‘im,” Nitsa suggested, thinking her offer gave her a wonderful opportunity to be alone with Bald Yannis.
“I know it sounds wimpish but I dont’s fancy being all alone ‘ere knowing Dastan could ‘ave his eye on me,” Masha cried.
“Yous wont’s be alone. The parrot’s ‘ere, Hattie’s in the kitchen, and Quentin and Deirdre are right next door,” Nitsa said, dashing out to the taxi with Mel and Fotini.
After dropping Fotini and Mel off at Stavroula’s taverna, Nitsa headed over to the hardware shop.
“Yous do ‘ave a way with ladies underwear Yanni,” she cackled, watching Bald Yannis pulling mail order Masha’s stolen silk thong up the legs of the blow up sex doll.
“What do yous want, old crone?” Yannis snapped.
“I ‘ave to borrow yous and takes yous ‘ome with me,” Nitsa replied with a saucy wink.
“Yous ain’t takin’ my husband anywhere,” Soula piped up. “Dont’s yous think it’s time yous stopped chasing after my man, yous disgraceful old hag?”
“But this is serious, the mail order floozy sent me to get ‘im. She found out what that dastardly Dastan is up to an’ now she’s too afraid to leave the house ‘cos he gave her the willies.”
“Ooh Yanni, yous ‘ad better go,” Soula advised. “After all it was yous what encouraged poor Masha to go out to dinner with the mafia chap.”
“So he’s up to no good then. I knew it,” Bald Yannis crowed. “Yous ‘ad better drive me to Masha’s ‘ouse then.”
“She stopped with us last night, she was too afraid to go ‘ome. She’s worried he’s lurking out there desperate to get ‘is hands on ‘er. Not to mention he threatened to ‘ave Mel bumped off.”
“’Ere Soula, pass me the spare chainsaw, it sounds as though Masha could do with a bit of extra protection,” Bald Yannis demanded.
“If my life was in danger yous is the man I would want to protect me,” Nitsa simpered, undoing the top button of her hideous old lady dress to reveal a new crop of alluring chest hairs as soon as she had Bald Yannis alone in the taxi.
“Dream on, old woman,” Bald Yannis snapped. “Ere, do a detour past Masha’s house so we can see if the Kazakh is lurking.”
Nitsa drove the old Mercedes taxi to Masha’s house, but the only sign of life was Iraklis who had rushed over to tend to the donkey after receiving a frantic phone call from Masha.
Bald Yannis was apoplectic with rage listening to mail order Masha describe dastardly Dastan’s intentions to bribe the mayor to gain his stamp of approval for the landfill site to be turned into a gold mine.
“Yous got it wrong Yanni, Dastan isn’t into oil, only bathing in it. He’s into gold, that’s why he’s dripping in the stuff,” Masha clarified.
“So that’s ‘is game. Astakos would be ruined if he turned us into the next Skouries. We wouldn’t see sight or sound of any tourists with all the environmental damage it would cause, not to mention we’d all likely come down with arsenic poisoning from the nasty flash-smelting they do to get the gold out of the ground.”
“Ooh Yanni, yous is so clever bein’ so knowledgeable about the destructive methods they use to extract gold,” Nita gushed.
“Can yous stop ‘im?” Masha asked, thinking if Dastan’s gold mining plans were thwarted he’d have no reason to hang around th
e village.
“I’ll round up some muscle and we’ll go an’ see the mayor. This time we wont’s shift until we ‘ave answers.” Bald Yannis promised. “None of us wants to see Astakos destroyed for foreign greed.”
“It might be good for yous ‘ardware shop to ‘ave lots of new blood in the village all tooling up,” Nitsa suggested.
“Po po, yous really think them big corporations buys local?” Bald Yannis sneered. “They’d put me out of business by building a foreign owned mega-store. Smelting would poison our land and sea, an’ all the profits would be siphoned off back to Kazakhstan. The only ones to gain would be those like the greasy mayor who put their greedy ‘ands out for brown envelopes.”
“Ooh Yanni, yous will be a hero if yous saves the village. I knows ‘ow oil drilling destroyed some of the pristine areas of Siberia, wreaking environmental havoc an’ leaving untreated sludge to defile the water,” Masha said.
“Leave it to me Masha. I’ll sort out the oily Kazakh and the corrupted mayor,” Bald Yannis proclaimed, revving his chain saw enthusiastically.
Chapter 22
Well Meaning Busybodies
Iraklis blushed down the telephone line when mail order Masha telcephoned to ask if he’d pop by to see to the donkey before starting his supermarket shift, flattered the Russian beauty had thought of him.
“Ooh Irakli, yous ‘ave gone all red, was that young Sofia on the phone?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked.
“No it was Masha, she needs me to go round to see to the donkey, Mrs K,” Iraklis replied
“Well dont’s let ‘er take advantage of yous, I can see ‘ow easy it would be for yous ‘ead to be turned by her silicone charms. At the end of the day Masha’s a married woman and yous crush would be better directed at young Sofia. She’s such a nice girl an’ Thea says her uncle is big in coffins.”
“She wasn’t half as frightening as I’d imagined,” Iraklis agreed. “I’d like to get to know Sofia better, but I’ve no idea how to talk to girls. Mother always made me promise to keep away from them.”
“Yes, well yous overbearing mother isn’t ‘ere now and yous ‘ave yous own life to lead Irakli. Sofia is likely just as shy as yous. The thing to do is man up and ask her out for a coffee.”
“But I wouldn’t know what to say,” Iraklis cried, imagining the picture of a tongue-tied mess with sweaty hands and pulsating acne he would present. Before he could object, Mrs Kolokotronis had dialled Thea’s mobile number and announced to Thea that Iraklis would like to ask Sofia out for coffee later.
At the other end of the phone line Sofia panicked, telling her godmother she couldn’t possibly speak to Iraklis at that moment as she looked a mess. “He cant’s see yous down the telephone, yous silly girl,” Thea admonished Sophia, before telling Mrs Kolokotronis to inform Iraklis that Sofia would be delighted to meet him for coffee at the kafenion before her shift in the beauty parlour that evening.
“That wasn’t so ‘ard was it, all yous ‘ad to do was pick up the phone and ask her out on a date,” Mrs Kolokotronis said smugly, ignoring the fact the date had been arranged by two well meaning busybodies, without the young couple even exchanging a word.
Slipping a carrot into his pocket as a treat for the donkey, Iraklis tricycled off to top up Onos’ saucer of ouzo, suddenly full of the joys of spring and tingling with nervous anticipation at the thought of his date with Sofia. The sight of a naked mannequin flashing its parts caused him to blush profusely as he tricycled by the hardware shop, nearly running Evangelia over as she crossed the harbour to Stavroula’s taverna.
It was very unlike Evangelia to lock up the beauty parlour and pop out for coffee during the working day, but the memory of Mel’s twinkly eyed offer of coffee caused her to throw caution to the wind.
“How nice to see you again, do come in and just call me Mel,” Melecretes invited, before rushing back to the kitchen to ensure Fotini didn’t spit in Evangelia’s coffee.
“I hope you dont’s mind me saying but yous look a tad flustered,” Mel opined when he brought out the coffee.
“It’s a strange morning. I mislaid some fish,” Evangelia admitted, admiring the nifty turn of Mel’s moustache. The arrival of more customers sent Mel into abject apology mode that he wouldn’t have time to join Evangelia. “Another time,” he said, dashing off to the kitchen.
Evangelia worried she’d perhaps been a bit forward. It wasn’t her usual habit to go out for coffee; she didn’t think it was seemly for a divorced woman to cavort in coffee places. She was about to depart with her coffee untouched when Petros the postman made his entrance, shouting out, “’Ere Evangelia, yous ‘ave got some more of them love letters bearing foreign stamps. Yous is a dark horse. I always say to the wife it’s the quiet ones yous ‘ave to watch out for. ‘Appen yous ‘ave more than one fellow on the go, the handwriting is different on all the envelopes.”
Mel felt a twinge of disappointment when he overheard the postman’s words. He’d asked around and established Evangelia was single; no one had mentioned likely lovers sending letters from overseas, but it was hard to imagine such a good looking woman was without any admirers.
Snatching the letters Evangelia snapped at the postman to mind his business. Feeling a frisson of excitement as she looked at the envelopes Evangelia decided to read her letters whilst she drank her coffee. She had some free time to kill as mail order Masha had cancelled her morning appointment.
The first letter contained a close up photograph of Arsenic Anthony’s infected ‘EVAN’ tattoo and a plea from the serial poisoner to send him a tube of antiseptic ointment. Evangelia made a mental note to call in at the pharmacy later with a made-up excuse to account for the purchase as Vangelis the chemist was such a loose-lipped gossip.
Gonzalo the serial bigamist wife-killer, who Evangelia inexplicably found herself engaged to, once again urged her to fly over so they could be married on Kentucky’s death row. Evangelia mused it was a comfort to have three fiancés, even if she had yet to meet any of them. She had no idea she was only one of seventeen prison groupies who had accepted a proposal of marriage from the ardent Gonzalo, who boasted more fiancées than any other Kentucky inmate and boosted his prison income quite considerably by penning flowery love letters on behalf of his fellow cons. Evangelia made a mental note to check out if Idaho was anywhere near Kentucky so she could save the cost of a hotel room by staying with Quentin and Deirdre.
The final letter in the batch was yet another impassioned missive from Marvin the Mincer. In expletive laden language he demanded to know why Evangelia, who he labelled a jealous harpy, hadn’t yet sent him any of mail order Masha’s glorious hair. He promised nothing would keep him from stuffing an embroidered pillow with Masha’s long blonde locks and he had sharpened his prison shiv in readiness for hacking them off. Even as the hair on the back of her neck rose in chilled disgust Evangelia made a mental note to drop Marvin the Mincer a very brief note to let him know Masha’s beautiful hair was actually fake extensions and to inform him the use of such choice language was vulgar in the extreme.
Mel, sticking his head out of the kitchen, noticed Evangelia didn’t look happy and selfishly hoped she’d been dumped by her long distance lover, if he indeed existed.
“’Appen I’ll pop over later if yous can squeeze me in for a bit of moustache styling,” Mel called out as Evangelia prepared to leave.
“It will be my pleasure to get my hands on your tash,” Evangelia said, stepping outside with a smile.
Chapter 23
A Nasty Outbreak of Food Poisoning
“Irakli, watch out, you nearly ran me over,” Evangelia shouted as Iraklis trundled past on his tricycle with a supermarket order he was delivering to Quentin and Deirdre.
“Sorry,” Iraklis called out, distracted by anticipatory thoughts of his first ever date with a young lady.
Iraklis was almost at Rapanaki when he was flagged down by the group of Doomsday trippers struggling back to Astakos in a pitiful state. Hywel was stag
gering along under the weight of Hamish who was thrown over one shoulder, the lobster adorned shower curtain providing protection from the vomiting Hamish. Blodwyn was trailing behind them, trying to hold a desperately pasty and flagging Fenella upright.
“May I be of assistance?” Iraklis enquired.
“We’ve been poisoned by those bloody Christmas tinners the bald chap at the hardware shop flogged us,” Hamish groaned.
“You and Fenella must have had the dodgy ones. Mine seemed fine, but Blodwyn refused to eat hers, she said it smelled funny,” Hywel explained.
“Of course it smelled funny Hywel, whatever possessed someone to think stuffing bloody Brussels sprouts next to Christmas pudding in a tin, with a topping of scramble eggs and bacon, was in anyway normal? I’m just glad I stuck to the salt n’ vinegar crisps, no one ever got food poisoning from them. As for you, your guts are made out of cast iron Hywel,” Blodwyn snapped.
“That’s true, I’m lucky not to have a delicate constitution like these two,” Hywel said smugly.
“So how may I help?” Iraklis repeated, wishing the Doomsday trippers would get to the point.”
“Well we really need help getting these two back to the village for medical attention,” Hywel said. “They’re too sick to be walking and it’s quite a trek in this heat.”
“Why don’t you sit down here in the shade and I’ll tricycle over to Quentin’s house with this delivery and ask him to call you a taxi?”
“That’s very decent of you,” Blodwyn said.
Iraklis returned in no time at all, offering to stay with the sickly trippers until the taxi arrived. When the taxi pulled up Nitsa took one look at the bilious bunch and flatly refused to let them in the taxi. “There’s no way I’m risking vomit on my upholstery, the smell will linger for weeks. Not to mention I cant’s afford to be catchin’ anything when I’ve paying passengers relyin’ on me,” she protested, remembering the Scottish couple hadn’t tipped her a cent for their enforced taxi ride round the village the previous evening.
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