Then somewhere into the fifth hour of the journey, after a puncture and a scrap down at the front between the two old women, Johnny began to tune in to what the man was saying. His voice was quiet, his tone deflated now, his eye rolling exhaustedly, but his stamina and the price he was now offering were quite remarkable.
‘Did you say four pounds?’ Johnny turned slowly and stared at the carpets. The eye appeared through the pile, refocusing, blinking itself out of a trance-like state.
‘Four pound sterling, yes please,’ he said wearily.
‘It’s a deal.’
Clem was thrilled. She had spent the rest of the trip folding and unfolding the prayer mat. It wasn’t big, maybe three feet by two feet, but she had no doubt that the carpet seller was right: it was a magic carpet. Its prayers would be answered. She could feel its power. Its past and future history lay in her hands. One day she would show it to her grandchildren and tell them how she and Johnny had bought it on a bus for four quid.
Back in Bodrum she carried it rolled up tightly under her arm as they made their way through the square. She was looking forward to showing it to Genghis. He was a man who knew a thing or two about everything and would surely be impressed with her bargain.
They wandered through the throng and down to the front where the trees were all painted white from the waist down as if wearing petticoats to protect their modesty. They shook their leaves loudly as the wind swept through them. Someone had hung some lights in a tree and they bounced about in the breeze. Groups of men hung around on the street corners doing nothing in particular as the older ones sipped tea and played Okey. As usual they stopped talking and turned their heads as Johnny and Clem passed by. Just beyond the jazz café an old man with an enormous nicotine-stained grey moustache yelled something at them, waving his hand.
‘What’s his problem?’ Clem said. Johnny took her hand and walked a little faster. He hated the way the men here looked at her. Sometimes they even reached out and touched her – her crotch or her breasts, with him right by her side. He walked a little faster. Little dots of rain began to darken the pavement. They made their way down along the harbour where the dim lamplights dotted along the front of the quay shone double on the water’s speckled surface. Deserted boats tied to the heavy iron loops bounced up and down in the waves and others anchored further out in the darkness could be seen bobbing about, their rigging tinkling loudly in the wind. A yellow moon flashed sporadically through the clouds silhouetting the castle over on the far side as the sounds from the bars and restaurants filtered across the water.
The rain was falling a little harder now and they jogged the last bit to Genghis’s pansiyon. Up near the marina they could see some activity going on: various police cars and uniforms were wandering around in the darkness flashing their torches along the boats. Johnny knocked on Genghis’s door but there was no response. He knocked again a little louder. A shuttered window on the first floor opened and Genghis stuck his head out. He said something in Turkish which they didn’t understand before glancing nervously up and down the street. He shut the window quickly and they heard him running down the stairs. The door opened.
‘Come quickly,’ he said, pulling them in, shutting the door behind them fast. He leant against it as if keeping someone out.
‘What is it?’ Johnny asked. He’d not seen Genghis looking in such a state; he was usually a man with an easy smile on his lips.
‘You must leave, Johnny,’ he whispered. ‘You must leave Bodrum immediately.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I don’t know what has happened… but they are everywhere looking for you.’ Genghis looked truly terrified, his mouth twitched and his eyes kept darting to the door.
‘Who? Who is looking?’ Johnny said, worried now by the state of him; the wonder and thrill of last night’s events suddenly dimming into something sinister.
‘This morning they go to your tent, they pull it down, they take your things. They go to Attila restaurant, they pull up a table, he say nothing…’
‘Who, Genghis? Who does this? The police?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think so… Bad men. They go to boatyard, they take Australia man…’
Johnny’s heart dropped. ‘They took Aussie Dave?’
The Australian was not a man to get on the wrong side of. They had spent weeks working for him. He’d built his own boat out of ferro-cement specifically for smuggling purposes. He smuggled guns, carpets and God knew what. He would personally be after them if these other people didn’t get them first.
‘He’s in the hospital. They smash his boat up.’
‘Oh my God,’ Clem cried, the colour draining from her face.
‘They were here this morning asking me questions about a truck from the UK. They know you were in Kos. They go to Kos. They come back. They go to Marmaris. They come back. They wait. You must leave before they find you. Go, I say. Go!’
‘But it was nothing to do with us, Genghis…’Johnny said.
‘Don’t tell me anything. I must know nothing,’ he said, holding up his hands, a look of pure fear in his eyes. ‘You have made enemy. Just have to leave!’
‘What do we do?’ Clem turned to Johnny expectantly. Johnny heaved the bag back over his shoulder. What indeed? They stood out a mile. There were barely any foreigners in Bodrum – tourist season was still a long way off.
‘They’re coming back,’ Genghis said. ‘I thought you were them. You’re not safe here. You must leave. Come out of the back.’
He led them through the pansiyon, his slippered feet scuffling quickly across the mottled tiled floor. Johnny grabbed Clem’s hand; he could feel her trembling, or it might have been him, his heart was punching at his ribs, his head spinning. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here, see what’s left in the tent and maybe if someone at the marina can give us a lift.’
‘No tent,’ Genghis said, opening the back door quietly. ‘No boatyard. No marina. Just leave. You don’t understand… this is not your country. This is very different. You don’t want police. Try fishermen. You have money?’ He was rifling in his pockets now.
‘Yes, we’re fine, Genghis.’
‘Not marina, OK? They wait for you.’ His round happy face was so serious and his kindness so touching that Johnny leant forward and hugged him.
‘Thank you, Genghis,’ he said.
‘Turkish people good people. I’m sorry.’
Then he opened the door a little wider, checking first that the way was clear. They dashed out of the pansiyon into the rain, glad of its cover, and climbed over the little wall at the back and crossed the road to get out of the light from the street lamp. They set off up the lane at the back of the pansiyon before realizing it passed the field where their tent was and, sure enough, a car was parked near by, blocking the lane. They turned slowly and as they rounded the corner they started to leg it back down the hill, stopping at the harbour road.
‘Maybe we should just explain ourselves to the police,’ Clem whispered, panting, the prayer mat clutched tightly underneath her arm. ‘It was nothing to do with us. We’re not to blame.’
‘No,’ he said. Never trust policemen. His mind was racing. The rain had started to pour hard. He watched it fall in slants in the light from the street lamp. Up at the marina he could see a car turning round, headlights flashing across the water.
‘Someone’s coming,’ Clem whispered, looking behind them back up the lane where heels clicked in the darkness. Johnny was eyeing the road, his head trying to play catch-up, not quite believing or understanding what was going on. Down the road, the men from the tea houses had all gone inside, out of the rain, all except the man with the moustache who stood under an umbrella on the next corner looking around. Johnny squeezed Clem’s hand and dragged her forward, running across the road into a small area of scrub between the quay and the front. They ducked down into the bushes. He had to think; he had to come up with something. Above the noise of the rain, he thought he heard the crackle
of a walkie-talkie or a radio. The fat man from customs had a hand in all this, he was sure of that.
‘We need to get to the road,’ he said.
‘Not down there, not past that guy,’ Clem whispered.
‘No, let’s get to the other side of the harbour.’
They scuttled out of the bushes and ran across the quay, jumping down on to the shingle beach where the fishing boats had been pulled out of the water. They pressed themselves up against the wall, catching their breath.
‘Are you scared, Johnny?’ Clem said, still clutching the carpet, her soaked hair flattened against her cheeks by the rain.
‘Shitting it,’ he said.
She rather wished he hadn’t said that. She felt the last of her own bravery ebb away. He mustn’t say things like that. He mustn’t be scared – as long as he wasn’t scared they would always be all right, nothing could ever harm them. She could feel the panic welling up. He took her hand and they ran along the shingle beach in the darkness, their footsteps lost in the pounding rain. When the shingle ran out they climbed back up on to the quay, Johnny keeping the bag on his shoulder, hiding their faces. They walked quickly along the water’s edge in the semi-darkness, ducking in and out of the line of moored gulets, all empty and locked up, past the fishing boats and the abandoned wrecks. Clem’s hand was small and slippery in his. They needed to get past all the boats and up to the road.
They passed the café with the yellow awning; laughter and noise spilt out through the rain. As they rounded the quay two men holding torches appeared from directly ahead where the road they needed joined the harbourside, which made the dash for the road unviable. One of the men shouted something to the other and Johnny and Clem backed into the darkness on to the stern of a gulet, Johnny swearing under his breath.
‘Johnny,’ Clem said in a small voice, her body twisting round. ‘There are four men behind us…’ He turned quickly and, sure enough, behind them in the darkness, maybe fifty yards away, four men were walking towards them.
‘Get in the boat,’ he said and they clambered aboard over the cleats and ropes, shuffling forwards in the rain, creeping over the transom into the cockpit. He thought perhaps they could nick one of these boats. But it was no good, they had to get past the marina, they’d never be able to slip away.
‘We just need to get over there,’ he said peering over the stern, nodding towards the lane where the men were still lurking. ‘Unless we go the other way…’ He looked over towards the castle and the rocks beneath it.
They waited in the cockpit, keeping their heads down, until the men behind them had caught up and split off into two groups, one of which stood under the yellow canopy of the restaurant and the other turned back towards the marina. Instead of using the quayside, they quietly clambered over the boats, beam to beam, Johnny with the bag across his shoulders now like a backpack, Clem still clutching her carpet, climbing from one boat to the next in the darkness.
There was a shout from behind and a flash of torches across the rigging and decks of the boats further behind them. Their only option now was to leg it quickly towards the rocks beneath the castle where the huge man-made, wave-breaking boulders piled up against each other.
They were both nimble on their feet and they ran as fast as they could through the driving rain. Behind them they could hear the cry of voices as torchlight flashed across the water but neither of them turned until they got to the rocks. Breathless, soaked and terrified they began to scrabble across the boulders on all fours, slipping in their panic. Clem cried out with pain; she’d gashed her face. Johnny grabbed her wrist and pulled her along, gripping her so tightly that her fingers throbbed and her arm socket ached. Not until they got to the promontory did they stop and pause and look behind them through the downpour. They’d lost the men with their torches; two of them were on the boats going the wrong way and the others had disappeared along the road.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Clem was choking, the tears running down her face. ‘What do they want from us?’ She was shaking uncontrollably. Johnny watched the men scrabbling across the boats. Some of them were running back towards the marina. He leant back against the rock.
‘What are they going to do to us?’ she cried.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes frantically searching the harbour. How the hell was he meant to know everything? He pulled her in out of the flashing torchlight and they huddled against the rock as far out of the rain as was possible until the cries and footsteps ceased. They sat there for a long while, both of them shocked and frightened, their breathing rapid, their hearts pumping furiously. They sat there until there was quiet, until the only sound was that of water: the sea crashing against the boulders; the rain lashing the rocks. And he wondered what the hell they were going to do.
Clem pulled away from him, tucking herself into a ball, her forehead resting on her knees, motionless. Somewhere in the distance a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. She lifted her head and looked out across the sea. There was nowhere to go to. There was nothing to say.
When she did speak, her voice was flat. The panic had been replaced by an eerie calm.
‘Why do we always end up in scrapes, Johnny?’
‘We don’t always,’ he said.
‘We do.’
He couldn’t really deny it. They were always in scrapes. In France they’d worked for an awful man who’d conned them out of their money, in Italy they’d been mugged not once but twice and they’d ended up on a very strange hitch-hike through Yugoslavia with a man who kept changing his clothes for no apparent reason. Even their wedding had been a disaster, topped off with him forgetting to take any money to the fancy hotel in Padstow so they’d had to do a runner out of the window down the drainpipe.
‘It’s just what happens when you go travelling,’ he said, but inside he was wondering how other people managed to avoid scrapes – Rob and his girlfriend only ever came back from their travels with suntans and tales of dreams fulfilled.
She didn’t say anything, just carried on staring out at the horizon. She closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees again and started imagining. She could do this easily; she could almost transport herself out of any situation. She could imagine somewhere else so vividly that sometimes it seemed as real as the real thing. She let the rain lead her. She took the sound and turned it into Cornish rain. Only now it was lashing down against the windows of the cottage behind the curtains and she was all warm inside beside the fire, sitting in the faded armchair watching a film on the crappy black and white TV. Johnny was sitting at her feet, leaning on the chair, and his dad was lying on the sofa in his shorts, his hands behind his head, his wild white hair standing up. Every now and then the picture on the telly would go fuzzy and Johnny or his dad would have to get up and fiddle about with the coat hanger that was sticking out of the back.
‘I’m sorry, Clem,’ Johnny said.
The rain was seeping down the back of her shirt; she could feel it running down her back into her pants. ‘It’s all right,’ she said wearily, turning her face towards him, eyes still shut.
He knew what she was doing. But it did them no good thinking like that. Even up shit creek with no paddles you could always use your hands or get out and push. He stood up and looked about him, out to sea, reaching into his pocket to check that he still had their tobacco. He dried his fingers on his shirt and rolled himself a cigarette under his jumper and lit up, keeping the flame covered by his hand. They’d wait here for an hour or two and then make their way back to the road; it would be fine. She’d see. They’d get up the hill and hitch a lift and by tomorrow evening they’d be laughing about all this. When he turned back to offer Clem a drag, he found her kneeling on the carpet, her palms pressed together, her lips mumbling.
‘What are you doing, Clem?’
‘I’m praying on my prayer mat. That’s what it’s for.’
‘Only if you’re a Muslim.’
‘God’s not bothered what religion you are.’
/> He flicked the soggy cigarette into the water. He knew she believed in angels and ghosts and her own private god, who thought church was a waste of time yet enjoyed getting the odd request, but he’d never seen her praying before, not on bended knee. He felt he’d really let her down then. She shouldn’t need to turn elsewhere for comfort. He hated the idea of her depending on someone other than him.
God, if you’re listening to her, get us out of this.
They both heard the music at the same time. It seemed to ooze through the pouring rain, the gentle strumming of a guitar accompanied by a pure, almost angelic female voice. It was coming from somewhere very near, from the rocks just around the corner, out of sight, as if a mermaid were sitting there, singing to them, luring them in. Quite stunned, they stared at each other, neither one of them moving a muscle, the clear voice briefly transporting them from out of their miseries. She sang of a bad moon rising. She made earthquakes and lightning, hurricanes and overflowing rivers sound like the most wonderful things in the world.
The mermaid was singing to them, voicing their worries. Slowly Johnny raised his chin up to the heavens and closed his eyes, feeling the rainwater washing his face, the music seeping into him.
Completely enchanted, they both moved slowly, as if any sudden action might disturb the singer. Johnny bent down and gently picked up the sail bag and Clem carefully folded up the prayer mat, tucking it under her arm, and then she took Johnny’s hand, both of them following the voice, their ears finely tuned, lightly tripping from rock to rock now that there was a new hope, now that their hearts had been lifted.
A small, barely populated bay crept into view. The strange thing was that they had never come across it before; it seemed to have popped out of the nothingness entirely for their benefit. The bay beyond this one held the boatyard which they had travelled to every day. But this bay was invisible from the road.
The Boat Page 5
