Cat O'Nine Tales And Other Stories Part 16

"So he ended up having to serve another three months?"

"That was six years ago," said Mick.

"And Pete's still banged up in Lincoln."

"So how do they manage that?"

"The screws just come up with a new charge every few weeks, so that whenever Pete comes up on report the governor adds another three months to his sentence. My bet is Pete's stuck in Lincoln for the rest of his life. What a liberty."

"But how do they get away with it?" I asked.

"Haven't you been listening to anything I've been saying, Jeff?

If two screws say that's what happened, then that's what happened," repeated Mick, "and no con will be able to tell you any different. Understood?"

"Understood," I replied.

On 12 September 2002 Prison Service Instruction No. 47/2002 stated that the judgment of the European Court of Human Rights in the case of Ezeh & Con-nors ruled that, where an offense was so extreme as to result in a punishment of additional days, the protections inherent in Article 6 of the European Convention of Human Rights applied, A hearing must be conducted by an independent and impartial tribunal, and prisoners are ent.i.tled to legal a.s.sistance at such hearings.

Pete Bailey was released from Lincoln prison on 19 October 2002.

A Greek Trazedy.

George Tsakiris is not one of those Greeks you need to beware of when he is bearing gifts.

George is fortunate enough to spend half his life in London and the other half in his native Athens. He and his two younger brothers, Nicholas and Andrew, run between them a highly successful salvage company, which they inherited from their father.

George and I first met many years ago during a charity function in aid of the Red Cross. His wife Christina was a member of the organizing committee, and she had invited me to be the auctioneer.

At almost every charity auction I have conducted over the years, there has been one item for which you just can't find a buyer, and that night was no exception. On this occasion, another member of the committee had donated a landscape painting that had been daubed by their daughter and would have been orphaned at a village fete. I felt, long before I climbed up onto the rostrum and searched around the room for an opening bid, that I was going to be left stranded once again.

However, I had not taken George's generosity into consideration.

"Do I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds?" I inquired hopefully, but no one came to my rescue. "One thousand?" I repeated, trying not to sound desperate, and just as I was about to give up, out of a sea of black dinner jackets a hand was raised. It was Georges.

"Two thousand," I suggested, but no one was interested in my suggestion.

"Three thousand," I said looking directly at George.

Once again his hand shot up. "Four thousand," I declared confidently, but my confidence was short-lived, so I returned my attention to George. "Five thousand,"

I demanded, and once again he obliged.

Despite his wife being on the committee, I felt enough was enough. "Sold for five thousand pounds, to Mr. George Tsakiris," I announced to loud applause, and a look of relief on Christina's face.

Since then poor George, or to be more accurate rich George, has regularly come to my rescue at such functions, often purchasing ridiculous items, for which I had no hope of arousing even an opening bid. Heaven knows how much I've prised out of the man over the years, all in the name of charity.

Last year, after I'd sold him a trip to Uzbekistan, plus two economy tickets courtesy of Aeroflot, I made my way across to his table to thank him for his generosity.

"No need to thank me," George said as I sat down beside him. "Not a day goes by without me realizing how fortunate I've been, even how lucky I am to be alive."

"Lucky to be alive?" I said, smelling a story.

Let me say at this point that the tired old cliche, that there's a book in every one of us, is a fallacy However, I have come to accept over the years that most people have experienced a single incident in their life that is unique to them, and well worthy of a short story. George was no exception.

"Lucky to be alive," I repeated.

George and his two brothers divide their business responsibilities equally: George runs the London office, while Nicholas remains in Athens, which allows Andrew to roam around the globe whenever one of their sinking clients needs to be kept afloat.

Although George maintains establishments in London, New York and Saint-Paul-de-Vence, he still regularly returns to the home of the G.o.ds, so that he can keep in touch with his large family Have you noticed how wealthy people always seem to have large families?

At a recent Red Cross Ball, held at the Dorchester, no one came to my rescue when I offered a British Lions' rugby s.h.i.+rtfollowing their tour of New Zealandthat had been signed by the entire losing team. George was nowhere to be seen, as he'd returned to his native land to attend the wedding of a favorite niece.

If it hadn't been for an incident that took place at that wedding, I would never have seen George again. Incidentally, I failed to get even an opening bid for the British Lions' s.h.i.+rt.

George's niece, Isabella, was a native of Cephalonia, one of the most beautiful of the Greek islands, set like a magnificent jewel in the Ionian Sea. Isabella had fallen in love with the son of a local wine grower, and as her father was no longer alive, George had offered to host the wedding reception, which was to be held at the bridegroom's home.

In England it is the custom to invite family and friends to attend the wedding service, followed by a reception, which is often held in a marquee on the lawn of the home of the daughters parents. When the lawn is not large enough, the festivities are moved to the village hall.

After the formal speeches have been delivered, and a reasonable period of time has elapsed, the bride and groom depart for their honeymoon, and fairly soon afterward the guests make their way home.

Leaving a party before midnight is not a tradition the Greeks have come to terms with. They a.s.sume that any festivities after a wedding will continue long into the early hours of the following morning, especially when the bridegroom owns a vineyard. Whenever two natives are married on a Greek island, an invitation is automatically extended to the locals so that they can share in a gla.s.s of wine and toast the bride's health.

Wedding crasher is not an expression that the Greeks are familiar with. The brides mother doesn't bother sending out gold-embossed cards with RSVP in the lower left-hand corner for one simple reason: no one would bother to reply, but everyone would still turn up.

Another difference between our two great nations is that it is quite unnecessary to hire a marquee or rent the village hall for the festivities, as the Greeks are unlikely to encounter the occasional downpour, especially in the middle of summerabout ten months. Anyone can be a weather forecaster in Greece.

The night before the wedding was due to take place, Christina suggested to her husband that, as host, it might be wise for him to remain sober. Someone, she added, should keep an eye on the proceedings, bearing in mind the bridegroom's occupation. George reluctantly agreed.

The marriage service was held in the island's small church, and the pews were packed with invited, and uninvited, guests long before vespers were chanted.

George accepted with his usual grace that he was about to host a rather large gathering. He looked on with pride as his favorite niece and her lover were joined together in holy matrimony. Although Isabella was hidden behind a veil of white lace, her beauty had long been acknowledged by the young men of the island.

Her fiance, Alexis Kulukundis, was tall and slim, and his waistline did not yet bear testament to the fact that he was heir to a vineyard.

And so to the service. Here, for a moment, the English and the Greeks come together, but not for long. The ceremony was conducted by bearded priests attired in long golden surplices and tall black hats. The sweet smell of incense from swinging burners wafted throughout the church, as the priest in the most ornately embroidered gown, who also boasted the longest beard, presided over the marriage, to the accompaniment of murmured psalms and prayers.

George and Christina were among the first to leave the church once the service was over, as they wanted to be back at the house in good time to welcome their guests.

The bridegroom's rambling old farmhouse nestled on the slopes of a hill above the plains of the vineyard. The s.p.a.cious garden, surrounded by terraced olive groves, was full of chattering wellwishers long before the bride and bridegroom made their entrance.

George must have shaken over two hundred hands, before the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Kulukundis was announced by a large group of the bridegroom's rowdy friends who were firing pistols into the air in celebration; a Greek tradition which I suspect would not go down well on an English country lawn, and certainly not in the village hall.

With the exception of the immediate family and those guests selected to sit on the long top table by the side of the dance floor, there were, in fact, very few people George had ever set eyes on before.

George took his place at the center of the top table, with Isabella on his right and Alexis on his left. Once they were all seated, course after course of overladen dishes was set before his guests, and the wine flowed as if it were a Baccha.n.a.lian orgy rather than a small island wedding.

But then Bacchusthe G.o.d of winewas a Greek.

When, in the distance, the cathedral clock chimed eleven times, George hinted to the best man that perhaps the time had come for him to make his speech.

Unlike George, he was drunk, and certainly wouldn't be able to recall his words the following morning. The groom followed, and when he tried to express how fortunate he was to have married such a wonderful girl, once again his young friends leaped onto the dance floor and fired their pistols in the air.

George was the final speaker. Aware of the late hour, the pleading look in his guests' eyes, and the half-empty bottles littering the tables around him, he satisfied himself with wis.h.i.+ng the bride and groom a blessed life, a euphemism for lots of children. He then invited those who still could to rise and toast the health of the bride and groom. Isabella and Alexis, they all cried, if not in unison.

Once the applause had died down, the band struck up. The groom immediately rose from his place, and, turning to his bride, asked her for the first dance.

The newly married couple stepped onto the dance floor, accompanied by another volley of gunfire. The groom's parents followed next, and a few minutes later George and Christina joined them.

Once George had danced with his wife, the bride and the groom's mother, he made his way back to his place in the center seat of the top table, shaking hands along the way with the many guests who wished to thank him.

George was pouring himself a gla.s.s of red wineafter all, he had performed all his official dutieswhen the old man appeared.

George leaped to his feet the moment he saw him standing alone at the entrance to the garden. He placed his gla.s.s back on the table and walked quickly across the lawn to welcome the unexpected guest.

Andreas Nikolaides leaned heavily on his two walking sticks. George didn't like to think how long it must have taken the old man to climb up the path from his little cottage, halfway down the mountain. George bowed low and greeted a man who was a legend on the island of Cephalonia as well as in the streets of Athens, despite the fact that he had never once left his native soil. Whenever Andreas was asked why, he simply replied, "Why would anyone leave Paradise?"

In 1942, when the island of Cephalonia had been overrun by the Germans, Andreas Nikolaides escaped to the hills and, at the age of twenty-three, became the leader of the resistance movement.

He never left those hills during the long occupation of his homeland and, despite a handsome bounty being placed on his head, did not return to his people until, like Alexander, he had driven the intruders back into the sea.

Once peace was declared in 1945, Andreas returned in triumph. He was elected mayor of Cephalonia, a position which he held, unopposed, for the next thirty years. Now that he was well into his eighties, there wasn't a family on Cephalonia who did not feel in debt to him, and few who didn't claim to be a relative.

"Good evening, sir," said George stepping forward to greet the old man.

"We are honored by your presence at my niece's wedding."

"It is I who should be honored," replied Andreas, returning the bow.

"Your niece's grandfather fought and died by my side. In any case," he added with a wink, "it's an old man's prerogative to kiss every new bride on the island."

George guided his distinguished guest slowly round the outside of the dance floor and on toward the top table.

Guests stopped dancing and applauded as the old man pa.s.sed by. George insisted that Andreas take his place in the center of the top table, so that he could be seated between the bride and groom.

Andreas reluctantly took his host's place of honor. When Isabella turned to see who had been placed next to her, she burst into tears and threw her arms around the old man. "Your presence has made the wedding complete," she said.

Andreas smiled and, looking up at George, whispered, "I only wish I'd had that effect on women when I was younger."

George left Andreas seated in his place at the center of the top table, chatting happily to the bride and groom. He picked up a plate and walked slowly down a table laden with food. George took his time selecting only the most delicate morsels that he felt the old man would find easy to digest. Finally he chose a bottle of vintage wine from a case that his own father had presented to him on the day of his wedding. George turned back to take the offering to his honored guest just as the chimes on the cathedral clock struck twelve, hailing the dawn of a new day.

Once more, the young men of the island charged onto the dance floor and fired their pistols into the air, to the cheers of the a.s.sembled guests. George frowned, but then for a moment recalled his own youth. Carrying the plate in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, he continued walking back toward his place in the center of the table, now occupied by Andreas Nikolaides.

Suddenly, without warning, one of the young bandoliers, who'd had a little too much to drink, ran forward and tripped on the edge of the dance floor, just as he was discharging his last shot.

George froze in horror when he saw the old man slump forward in his chair, his head falling onto the table. George dropped the bottle of wine and the plate of food onto the gra.s.s as the bride screamed. He ran quickly to the center of the table, but it was too late. Andreas Nikolaides was already dead.

The large, exuberant gathering was suddenly in turmoil, some screaming, some weeping, while others fell to their knees, but the majority were hushed into a shocked, somber silence, unable to grasp what had taken place.

George bent down over the body and lifted the old man into his arms. He carried him slowly across the lawn, the guests forming a corridor of bowed heads, as he walked toward the house.

George had just bid five thousand pounds for two seats at a West End musical that had already closed when he told me the story of Andreas Nikolaides.

"They say of Andreas that he saved the life of everyone on that island," George remarked as he raised his gla.s.s in memory of the old man. He paused before adding, "Mine included."

The Commissioner.

"Why does he want to see me?"asked the Commissioner.

"He says it's a personal matter."

"How long has he been out of prison?"

The Commissioner's secretary glanced down at Raj Malik's file. "He was released six weeks ago."

Naresh k.u.mar stood up, pushed back his chair and began pacing around the room; something he always did whenever he needed to think a problem through.

He had convinced himselfwell, almostthat by regularly walking round the office he was carrying out some form of exercise. Long gone were the days when he could play a game of hockey in the afternoon, three games of squash the same evening and then jog back to police headquarters. With each new promotion, more silver braid had been sewn on his epaulet and more inches appeared around his waist.

"Once I've retired and have more time, I'll start training again," he told his number two, Anil Khan. Neither of them believed it.

The Commissioner stopped to stare out of the window and look down on the teeming streets of Mumbai some fourteen floors below him: ten million inhabitants who ranged from some of the poorest to some of the wealthiest people on earth. From beggars to billionaires, and it was his responsibility to police all of them. His predecessor had left him with the words: "At best, you can hope to keep the lid on the kettle." In less than a year, when he pa.s.sed on the responsibility to his deputy, he would be proffering the same advice.

Naresh k.u.mar had been a policeman all his life, like his father before him, and what he most enjoyed about the job was its sheer unpredictability. Today was no different, although a great deal had changed since the time when you could clip a child across the ear if you caught him stealing a mango. If you tried that today, the parents would sue you for a.s.sault and the child would claim he needed counseling. But, fortunately, his deputy Anil Khan had come to accept that guns on the street, drug dealers and the war against terrorism were all part of a modern policeman's lot.

The Commissioner's thoughts returned to Raj Malik, a man he'd been responsible for sending to prison on three occasions in the past thirty years. Why did the old con want to see him? There was only one way he was going to find out. He turned to face his secretary.

"Make an appointment for me to see Malik, but only allocate him fifteen minutes."

The Commissioner had forgotten that he'd agreed to see Malik until his secretary placed the file on his desk a few minutes before he was due to arrive.

"If he's one minute late," said the Commissioner, "cancel the appointment."

"He's already waiting in the lobby, sir," she replied.

k.u.mar frowned, and flicked open the file. He began to familiarize himself with Malik's criminal record, most of which he was able to recall because on two occasionsone when he had been a detective sergeant, and the second, a newly promoted inspectorhe had been the arresting officer.