Sleeper

Chapter 1. Athens.

Athens in January.

Dull, wet.

Not quite looking like the cradle of democracy.

Apart from a couple of ancient buildings, with the traffic, and the gusting wind lifting litter from the streets, it resembled some northern English city. Bradford or Doncaster. And I shouldn’t have been here, it was Wednesday and I was looking to sign the deeds for a flat in Battersea before close of business Monday. It was a cash transfer, the unexpected result of a job I’d just finished in Bern.

Herr Zwölf hadn’t wanted to pay me a bonus, in fact, he’d expected to not to have to pay me at all, but the information I’d collected encouraged him to be generous, and so a basement-flat-in-Battersea amount of money had just landed in an account I’d set up for the very purpose, this being Switzerland and all. However, as I sat in a Berne café drinking a coffee, eating a large bar of Swiss chocolate and congratulating myself on a job done well, I got a call from an old comrade.

‘Mark, how goes it?’

’Andris,’ I said. ‘It goes well. How is life up there?’

‘All good my friend. Are you in London?’

‘I’m in Switzerland, why?’

There was a short pause. ‘That might be better,’ he said. ‘I have a favour to ask you...’

Which was why, instead of returning to London, swapping some hard-earned cash for a set of keys for my new home - and when I say hard-earned, it had been hard earned, I still had the bruises - instead, I’d taken the train to Zurich, then a three-hour flight to Athens. As already mentioned, when I got here, it was January. It was January everywhere to be fair, but Athens didn’t wear it any better than the sort of place where they wear flat caps and breed racing whippets. Right now, Athens didn’t have a whole lot going for it.

‘Can you chaperone my sister?’ Andris had asked me. ‘Take a flight from Athens to Riga with her. You should be here by morning. I’ll buy you breakfast.’

‘K,’ I said, thinking, why does his sister need a chaperone? Then, how many other people had said no before he asked me to do it? Questions I really should have pondered further before agreeing to do it. Andris added one final thing before he hung up, ‘She’s a little, ah, wilful, Mark, so be firm.’

---

It was early afternoon when I arrived at Athens airport.

I texted the number Andris had given me to let her know I was in town. She replied to my text with a thumbs up emoji, and I walked to the taxi rank, spotted an old Lancia Delta Integrale with a Taxi sign wired to the roof, and jumped in.

‘Town.’

‘Sure, boss.’

On the way I got a reply asking me to meet her in a café on Dimofontos, so told the cabby who, no doubt, added a few extra miles onto the journey, but as Andris was paying, I wasn’t too worried, and when he pulled up outside a tiny café I gave him a nice tip.

‘Thankyou, boss,’ he said, as I hefted my rucksack. ‘You from London?’

I nodded.

‘Here, if you need anything, get in touch.’ He handed me a card.

‘Anything?’

A big smile. ‘Sure. Anything.’

I looked at his card – Pamphilos Onassis – then slid it into my wallet and got out. ‘I’ll keep you in mind.’

He smiled, gunned the engine of his Lancia, and sped off down a quiet residential street. I’d landed in Athens, in January. The smell of car fumes, the grey sky, the wind that was sending litter into the air. It could have been Doncaster.

I went inside and ordered a coffee.

---

The café was empty, and the coffee was bitter, so I went back to the counter and ordered a slice of marzipan cake to wash it down. I told myself the excess calories would contribute towards healing the various bruises and contusions I’d picked up over the previous few days. Either that or the sugary marzipan would rot my teeth. I was sore enough that it was a gamble I was prepared to take. Just then the door opened and a girl walked in. She was wearing loose grey joggers, a t-shirt and a gilet. Bleached hair tied back. Kohl eyes. Looked a bit rough. Roma, I thought.

‘Mark,’ she said.

‘Elena?’

‘Yes.’ She sat down opposite me, smiled. ‘I remember you.’

‘You do?’

‘Andris phoned me one time when he was in Afghanistan. You were there with him and you said hello.’

I thought back, remembered Andris calling his kid sister, a sweet little thing. ‘You were still at school,’ I said, feeling suddenly old.

‘When Andris told me you were working for him…’

I shook my head, ‘I’m not working for him. This is just a favour for an old friend... and his baby sister.’ For want of anything else to say, I held up a finger, stood and went to the counter, ordered her a coffee, some marzipan cake, then sat back down.

‘You flew from England?’ she asked.

‘Switzerland.’

She reached out a hand and touched a cut beneath my left eye. ‘Skiing injury?’ she asked, a hint of humour in her voice.

‘Those black runs get me every time,’ I said.

She studied me for a moment, like I was an appliance and she was working out how to best employ me to the task at hand. She cleared her throat. ‘What did Andris tell you?’

‘He asked me to accompany you home.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘No.’

She frowned a little. ‘Did you not think to ask?’

‘He’s a friend. Why ask?’

She tutted, muttering something in her native Latvian. It had a musical ring to it. The coffee and cake arrived. She cut a slice and popped it in her mouth, chewed for a while then swallowed, took a sip of coffee. ‘I dislike Greek coffee,’ she said, ‘But the cake masks the flavour.’

‘That was my intention also.’

‘To mask the flavour of the coffee?’

I took a sip of my own. Grimaced. Ate some cake. Nodded.

She sat back, toyed with her knife and her cake. ‘So here we are. Here I am,’ she corrected, ‘with Mark Barrett, my big brother’s favourite Englishman.’

‘What did he not tell me?’ I asked.

She shook her head dismissively. ‘Not much.’

The door opened, the bell rang, and she flinched. I looked up and it was a little old lady. I looked back at her and she was shivering ostentatiously, covering up for that little tell. But I’d spotted it. She was scared. ‘What have you been doing in Athens?’ I asked.

She sliced another piece of cake, giving herself time to think of a suitably innocuous answer, popped this in her mouth and began chewing while she talked. Talking and eating isn’t considered good manners, but the cake was sweet and her lips were pouty and kissable, so I let it pass. ‘My family owned a string of cafes here in Athens. Daddy bought them back in the 80s when he was starting off. They were losing money, so I came down to sell them.’

‘They’re sold?’

‘Pretty much.’ She swallowed her cake. ‘Are you still in the army?’

‘I was thrown out.’

‘Oh.’ I could see a number of questions flit across her face, but all she said was, ‘What are you doing now?’

‘Busy looking for a new career. Buying an apartment too.’

‘In London?’

I nodded. Raised my phone, ‘Just waiting for a call from the agent.’

‘I’d love to live in London,’ she said, and this made me smile because, to be fair, one of the greatest things in my life is living in London. ‘Have you got a picture?’ she asked.

‘It’s nothing much,’ I said, opening the photos on my phone and showing her pictures of the basement flat I was buying in Battersea. She asked where it was and when I told her she laughed, ‘English words are so funny.’

‘You speak English well.’

She nodded, like it was expected. ‘Where is Ba’-ah-see?’

‘South of the river, a mile from Parliament.’

‘Close to the Queen of England?’

‘She pops in for tea every Monday?’ I checked my watch, endeavouring to be businesslike. ‘Andris wants us to catch a flight tonight. I’ve got tickets. Eight pm.’

Her smile faded and she shook her head. ‘No.’

I remembered his words. She’s wilful. ‘No, you’re not coming?’ Part of me was thinking, well, at least I’ll be home to sign the deeds.

‘No, we’re not flying.’

‘We’re walking?’ I asked. This got me a giggle at least.

‘We’re not walking,’ she said. ‘Or cycling. Or driving.’

‘Go on then,’ I said. I was enjoying this game.

‘We’re taking the train.’

‘Right.’

It was my turn to sit back as I racked my brain trying to remember where Athens train station was. North of the Acropolis, came the answer. Not too far.

‘My apartment is in Piraeus,’ she said. ‘Close to the water’s edge.’

‘We can go there, pick up your stuff,’ I said and, thinking of the Pamphilos Onassis and his beat-up Lancia added, ‘Plenty of time. I’m well in with the taxi drivers round here.’

She checked her phone. ‘The ferry is in two hours. We should make it.’

‘Ferry?’

‘How else do we get to Istanbul?’ she said, in a tone that reminded me of sitting in remedial Latin back at the Oratory. I thought briefly of Mrs Markham, my Latin teacher, and the tight skirts she used to wear. I never impressed her, but she did impress me. ‘Istanbul,’ I repeated. It wasn’t even a question. She’s wilful.

‘Ferry to Izmir Train to Istanbul. Two days on the sleeper train to Munich. Switch to another sleeper that takes us overnight direct to Riga. I’ll be home in three days, four if it snows.’

I frowned.

‘You’re wondering why,’ she said.

‘We’re supposed to arrive in Riga shortly after midnight,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘When daddy died, Andris took over the family business. Now that I’m twenty-one, I’m joining him. And, I’m getting married. My future is all being tied up in one neat bow.’

‘Congratulations’ I said. As someone who’s future had fallen apart at the seams four months earlier in a very narrow valley in north-east Afghanistan, I was a little envious.

She ignored me. ‘After this week, I stop being a child. I start being a woman. I begin work with the family business. I won’t ever be able to just spend a few days on a train, doing nothing, watching the world go by. I’ll be far too busy.’

‘Business,’ I said. ‘And marriage. And babies.’

She shuddered. For real, this time. ‘Yes. So I’m taking some time out. We’re traveling home the slow way. By train.’

‘And your brother knows this?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Will he mind?’

‘He’ll mind very much. But he’ll get over it.’

‘And your fiancé?’

‘He’s one of my brother’s business partners. He doesn’t own me.’

‘It’s a love match, then.’

She suppressed a giggle.

‘Will he blame me?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘They both will.’

‘Just out of interest,’ I asked. ‘What is the family business?’

She sat in silence for a while, slicing her cake into ever smaller pieces, until finally it was just a pile of crumbs, and then she answered.

‘Organised crime,’ she said.

Chapter 2 next Sunday.

The Mark Barrett series is available on Amazon. Click the image for link.