WHAT GOES AROUND. DAVID J CHRISTOPHER
up. Ouch. My head. My neck. My back. Lucy is leaping up and down on the shore like a peroxide giraffe playing netball, goal attacker probably.
"What the fuck do you want? Do you know what time it is? Actually, what time is it? I told you. I'm going nowhere. Not Preveza, not fucking anywhere."
"You said you would, or at least you didn't say you wouldn't, and that's the same thing," she replies.
"Not in my book, not the same thing at all," I shout.
"Will you shut up for a moment. This is important. Helen's in trouble."
"You told me that yesterday. Tell me something new."
"OK, I will. I've had an email from Helen. She says she needs our help."
Chapter Eight
"Couldn't you have just telephoned," I ask Lucy as we cross back to Achilles. I've dropped Kitty off on the beach to go about her business.
"Oh yeah, and how often do you have your dinosaur of a phone switched on?"
Fair point. I tell people it's to conserve the battery, but the truth is I just don't like the thought of being at people's beck and call. I guess it's a throwback to my old life when I never seemed to have a minute to call my own. We're back on the boat now. Looks like the love cruise might be on.
"So, tell me about this cry for help you received from Helen? What's the story?"
"A couple of weeks ago I opened a new email account," she begins.
I sense I might not be in for the short story.
"It's brilliant actually. I get four megabytes of storage and I can use the "atme.com" suffix which is so much cooler than co.uk or .gr."
I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about, but she seems genuinely enthusiastic about something. I listen to her speaking, very fast, with few breaks for breath. She squeaks when she's excited. I can't help noticing that she's got a bit of breakfast stuck on her front tooth. I'm not following everything she's saying. I'm hungover, possibly even still drunk. My eyes are beyond throbbing, they're pulsating independently of each other, a weird sensation. I need rehydration if I'm going to function today. I gesture for her to continue as I reach behind her and open a locker to get out a bottle of water. I unscrew the top, put my head back and pour the whole one and a half litres down my throat. I should feel a bit more human soon.
"Any chance you could move on to the Helen part any time soon?" I ask.
"I'm just coming to that."
Why is she speaking so loudly?
"So, to cut a long story short."
Is she taking the piss?
"I don't use this old account anymore."
"Right," I say, "and that's relevant to Helen because?"
"Ah, yes, because Helen must have used my old email address not my new one. I'm sure I gave her the new one but perhaps her outlook picked up the old one from her contacts."
"Oh dear," I say. I'm gambling that sympathy is required here.
"Anyway. When I did check my old account after I left you yesterday, there it was. An email from Helen. She sent it on Thursday, and it's been sitting there ever since."
"May I ask what it said?"
"Help."
"That's it? Just help? Nothing else?"
"No. Bit weird really. The email came through with just the header, not the body. The subject was Help but there was nothing else."
"Seems a bit truncated if it's a cry for help," I say.
"Wouldn't she perhaps have said a bit more, give us a bit of a clue as to what help was required and where?"
Lucy thinks this through. "But what if that was all she had time to write, perhaps the people holding her found her online before she had time to finish the mail. You've got to admit it's a possibility."
I consider this. Obviously, it's a possibility. Just not very likely. There are plenty of other perfectly good explanations. I'm just struggling to think of them at the moment. One comes awkwardly to mind.
"Perhaps she wants help with the annual fete," I suggest.
"On the island? What fete? There is no fete and even if there was, trust me, Helen's not the organising kind. You know how little she mixes with the ex-pats. She gives money to the island rather than get involved in that kind of thing."
This is true. Only very rarely has she come down to Billy's, sometimes when there's a birthday party or the like but not regularly like the rest of us. In the winter there's a hardcore of about fifteen of us who gather round Billy's tiny radiator to keep warm and watch his miniscule TV set high up behind the bar.
"Look," says Lucy. "I realise that you think that Helen's fine. You may well be right. I hope you are. But, just in case you're not, is it such a big ask to come with me to Preveza. I'll go on my own if I have to. I'll catch the ferry later, or maybe I'll ask Terry to take me on his boat."
I suspect Lucy knows that there's no way I am going to allow Terry any time alone with her. He's already told me how he would seduce her if the opportunity arose. He's got it planned. It involves a bit of alcohol, some soft music courtesy of Dire Straits. He's got the song Romeo and Juliet in mind during which he will slowly move closer and closer. Just as they reach the line "you and me babe, how 'bout it?," he plans to make his move. I know how this would go, not well for Terry, who Lucy would probably throw overboard. It would be a bloodbath.
"Alright," I say, "Let me check my schedule first." I go below and come back out with my leather-bound log and diary.
"Cute," says Lucy, "a paper diary. My grandad's got one of those I think."
I flick the empty pages. "Looks like I'm clear."
Lucy smiles at me.
"OK, we'll go," I say. "Anyway, I've not been north of Lefkada for a while. But promise me that once we've been to Preveza and found there's nothing to worry about, you'll let it drop."
We arrange to meet up again in an hour or so. It'll take us four or five hours at least, so as Terry predicted it's going to involve an overnight stay on board. I'm very aware that Achylles is anything but shipshape down below. An hour will give me some time to open the hatches and get the dustpan out at least.
"You might want to bring a sleeping bag or something with you when you come back," I suggest, "only my sheets are all over at Silvija's being washed just now," I lie. I make a mental note to stuff the dirty sheets into a bin bag and then into a cupboard until I'm next in the vicinity of a washing machine.
"OK, no problem, and I'll pop into the supermarket while I'm in the village and pick up a few bits and bobs to eat and drink. Anything in particular?"
"The cupboards are a little bare, so just bring whatever you fancy. I'll be fine. Maybe some cat food? For Kitty," I add. Would Lucy think that I would resort to eating cat food? Possibly.
"Beer?" she asks.
"No thanks, I'm definitely off the booze today, but get some if you want it."
"What was that?" Lucy says. She is looking alarmed, past me, up into the sky. "Thought I saw a pig," she says as I follow her gaze skywards.
"Ho bloody ho. Oh ye of little faith."
Lucy takes the dinghy when she goes. I've got some cleaning up to do unless I can persuade her to sleep on deck all night. Seems unlikely.
Two hours later she's back. She's got a smart red knapsack on her back, presumably with some clothes in it, and is carrying a couple of plastic bags. She's even brought some fresh vegetables. She is optimistic, has she seen my kitchen? Hasn't it crossed her mind why I don't eat much? I help her on board and put the bags down below. I decided to blitz the toilet whilst she was gone and gave the spare cabin a bit of a going over. Downstairs is vastly improved but, in