7

     It was evening and the night was mild. The air was still, although chilly. Sitting in the passenger seat of a friend’s car, I drank profusely from a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. Every warm, dry gulp of whiskey I consumed, burned, roughening my throat whilst soothing my physical agitation, sustaining a high to my emotional state. My friend Harry, seated in the driver’s seat beside me, looked at me worriedly.

     ‘Man, you better take it easy on that stuff,’ he said with a tone of concern.

     He then offered me a cigarette, whilst tactically taking the bottle from my hand. He took a sip. As he exhaled to release the burn, he said choking:

     ‘So you want to tell me what we’re doing here?’

     Taking a drag from my cigarette, I peered at him from beneath my beanie hat. I exhaled slowly a thin stream of smoke that passed evenly from a small gap between my lips, before curling them into a small circle and sending smoke rings that followed perfectly in line. Taking the bottle, I glanced back at the house across the street, from within the car’s tinted windows.

     ‘Just watching,’ I said releasing a final gasp of smoke.

     ‘Hey man,’ Harry said lighting a cigarette, ‘you be straight with me alright. You know I’m no fool. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were on a stake out.’

     I leaned my head forth, into my hands. The one hand spread across my face and the other pressing the bottle upon my cheek. Raising my back in an upright posture again, I took a deep gulp from the bottle and gasped. Turning to face Harry, I then said:

     ‘No, you are no fool bro.’

     I paused for a moment, leaning my head back with my eyes closed as I collected my thoughts. Harry studied me. Opening my eyes, I looked at him and I could see that he was eager to understand what was up and that in fact, he already had an incline of what was going on.

     ‘Remember the story you told me, of what happened to you when you first moved to Cyprus from the States?’ I began to say.

     Harry looked at me and sighed.

     ‘You got busted?’ he asked.

     I nodded.

     ‘And now they want you to do some dirty work,’ he added.

     ‘Yeah, that’s about it,’ I said with a sense of tiredness.

     I thought of the previous night. Nestoras had driven me to the outskirts of the city. There in a random field, Andy and his partner Yiannis, pulled up in a car beside us. They gave us our instructions. Then before driving off, Andy clearly warned me not to mess them about.

     Although Nestoras was meant to accompany me on this evening, I told him I’d rather do it alone. I had no intention to deliver them my dealer and I now knew that Nestoras was involved with the drug enforcement agency. Therefore I didn’t want him monitoring my activities.

     ‘So is that the dealer’s house?’ Harry asked, withdrawing me from my thoughts.

     ‘Yeah man.’

     ‘So what do they want you to do?’

     ‘They want the number plates of his car and the regular routes he takes,’ I explained.

     ‘So what, he’s not home yet?’

     ‘He is,’ I replied. ‘That’s his car right there.’

     ‘So what are we doing? Waiting to follow him?’  

     ‘Fuck no, man,’ I replied turning to Harry. ‘No way am I snitching.’

     Swallowing, in a single go, a large amount of whisky, I proceeded to spark another cigarette. Exhaling forcefully from my nostrils due to the intensity of the spirit, I then continued to explain:

     ‘I’m going to give them false plates.’

     Harry gave me an annoyed look.

     ‘Don’t be stupid Mikey’, he said, ‘do you think they don’t already know his car plates, daily routes and even perhaps his suppliers?’

     Harry grabbed the bottle forcefully from my hands and took a sip.

     ‘Of course they bloody do, as you English boys say,’ he carried on. ‘They’re testing your loyalty to see if you are a liability or if you’re going to play ball.’

     ‘I’m not English Harry.’

     ‘Okay, sorry Mike,’ he said with a giggle, ‘you’re a Charlie, a BBC; a British Born Cypriot.’

     I smiled at his attempt to perk my spirits.

     ‘Yeah, well I’m not going to play ball,’ I stated firmly. ‘I was thinking to play stupid. Give them a neighbour’s plate and if confronted, claim I made a mistake.’

     ‘Well they aren’t stupid and they will take it as a personal insult. That you are trying to play them and shit like that fucks with their ego. And you don’t want to do that. Trust me man. You know I know! I’ve been there and if you don’t play your cards right, they can infest your life for a damn long time.’

     Harry placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled.

     ‘For a bloody long time mate,’ he said mockingly.

     Having shared my predicament with a close friend and particularly with Harry, who had intimate knowledge of such matters, had eased my anxiety. Along with the alcohol, my mood had been elevated.

     ‘Shut up you Yank,’ I said laughing.

     To which he replied, adapting a ghetto persona, ‘I’m from Queens, man. That’s a whole different USA right there.’

     We laughed about for a few more minutes. Then, once we settled down, I finished off the remaining sips from the bottle and leaned back, closing my eyes again.

     ‘So what do I do Harry?’

     ‘Take down the plates so they think you are playing along. This will start buying you time, until I find out more.’

     ‘How do you mean?’ I asked. ‘I thought you were out.’

     ‘I am, man,’ he replied. ‘I mean, you know I ended up working for them for a while, unwillingly. During this time though, I formed a good friendship with one of the key superiors. It’s with his help that I got out of the game. I’ll give him a call, I promise. For now, just play along and keep your cool. Just don’t give them any info that they might not know, since you feel so strongly about it.’

     ‘Okay bro,’ I said as our fists met, ‘safe.’

     ‘Sweet.’

     With that agreement, we drove away.

     The following day I was called into the station where I was to report to the police. I hadn’t been in touch with Pani and Kyri. Neither one of us had called each other, until later that day. Having returned from the station, I explained to them that they needn’t worry about anything. It was all being dealt with.

     The truth was, Marino, Andy and his partner Yiannis, had made it clear to me that I was the only one they were interested in. Pani was a quieter character and Kyri they considered less reliable. I was more involved with the Cypriot community, Nestoras had forged a closer relationship with me and D was my contact.  I, therefore, was an ideal candidate.

     The police knew my family had a reputable name in society which I would be keen to protect. However and more so, they knew my parents had divorced and that my mother lived alone. My actions would shame her in society. A known painter and single woman, her only son, a criminal. This was a card they played shamelessly. So, having profiled me as a tough, streetwise individual, who would rather suffer than scorn his parents, they were prepared to manipulate it to the very max.

     The truth is I knew that my father had the power and connections to not only clear me of the situation I was in but to also expose the corruption of the drug squad police officers that were taking advantage of me as a minor. Possible, even end their careers, at the very least. Fortunately for them, I was not mature enough nor close enough with him, yet, to seek his help. I was too proud to admit my ways. At the time therefore, I felt my most important goal was to keep this from my parents’ knowledge, at any cost.

     To my surprise, Nestoras had called me again that day, offering to pick me up and drive me to the station for that morning’s meeting. Not only was I intrigued as to how he knew of my appointment with the police but most astonishing was that he had picked up food and sodas, for the cops and us to snack on. Upon arriving at the station, I couldn’t help notice how he leisurely walked in, literally chucking the ‘submarine’ sandwiches at them, to catch in mid air, before casually slumping on a couch in the office. There was now no doubt in my mind, as to Nestoras’s relationship with these guys. This was in no way similar to my situation. These guys were not friends of mine. They were law enforcement figures who were blackmailing me to get what they wanted. We certainly were not colleagues by any means, let alone friends.

     The cops revealed to me, just as Harry had said, that they did indeed know everything they needed to about D. Over the following hour, they tried to persuade me that a person such as I would be ideal to work undercover for them. Being not only bilingual but also having a young and trendy foreigner’s persona with a street style, I could easily infiltrate the various drug gangs and earn myself some good money. This wasn’t an idea I intended to entertain for even a moment but I took Harry’s advice and left the idea lingering in the open. It was important to not create a negative atmosphere that could work against me.

     We then agreed that Nestoras and I would meet with Andy the following evening, for a more personal debriefing on what was to come. With that, we concluded and Nestoras and I went on our way. After a brief chat by his car, Nestoras drove off and I walked home.

8

     It was very late in the afternoon, the following day. I was cruising on my modified 50cc CRM Honda dirt-bike, heading to meet Nestoras. Wearing a motocross helmet, the fresh sobering air grazed my face as I swerved my way through the streets. It was always a rush riding my bike and under the circumstances, a means of blowing off steam.

     We had agreed to meet in a side street behind the kiosk neighbouring to the care home where Miltos resided. Unlike in most countries, kiosks in Cyprus, or news agents as we refer to them in the UK, have become like mini markets; more similar to American convenience stores, or seven-elevens. This particular one was very large and conveniently located in a central spot that could be crossed coming from any major route in the city. 

     Having plenty of time, I parked my bike around the corner from the store, adjacent to the peripheral wall of the building. I switched the engine off, removed my helmet and went on in. Grabbing a six-pack of beer, a packet of cigarettes and a medium sized bottle of whiskey, I paid and returned to where I had parked my bike.

     The afternoon was slipping towards the evening, with a mild blue sky and a few stars making their appearance. I sat on the wall, with one foot on the bike tank and another on the seat. Following a few deep gulps of straight whiskey, I opened a can. Whilst drinking my beer and smoking a cigarette, I noticed two individuals crossing to the other side of the street. It was Andros and Marios, both of whom I also knew from my mother’s party and who were also very fond of me.

     Nestoras was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Before I had time to consider whether or not it was worth acknowledging them, Andros recognised me.

     ‘Hey,’ he shouted loudly, raising his hand.

     I waved back and they immediately headed towards me. Marios had a timid, more unsure approach, whilst Andros held his chest out and his arms wide, carrying himself like a hard man, making wide strides in his pace.

     Although initially excited by my unexpected presence, a shift in character became clearly noticeable as we came face to face. Overcome by some form of ego complexity or nervousness, Andros put his hands in his pockets and began to look around, whilst referring to me.

     ‘So what’s up mate?’ he asked in his heavy, north Londoner’s British-Cypriot accent.

     Being already light headed, had I not been preoccupied with concerns about the upcoming meeting with Andy and Nestoras, I would have probably found it difficult to refrain from giving in to the humorous scenario. His posture, tone of voice and the way he avoided eye contact, scanning our surroundings whilst talking to me, reminded me of a drug deal going down, or of two renowned gangsters having a secret meeting. Yet I knew he was just suffering from paranoia and at this point, I sympathised with him, for I too was constantly looking over my shoulders and checking my surroundings.

     ‘Not much,’ I said keeping a mellow tone, whilst exchanging nods with Marios.

     ‘What’s that?’ Andros then said, referring to the contents of my bag. ‘Have you got beer?’

     ‘Eh, yeah,’ I replied.

     ‘Can I have one then?’ he asked.

     ‘Sure, if you want.’

     Marios then sheepishly tugged at Andros’s sleeve.

     ‘You know you mustn’t,’ he said to Andros in a polite manner.

     I looked at him, realising his concern.

    ‘It’s the medication you know,’ Marios then said to me. ‘We’re not supposed to drink.’

     ‘Fuck the bloody medications,’ Andros interrupted rudely. ‘I’ll have a fucking beer.’

     Popping open the can he vigorously drank for a second before stopping.

     ‘Can I have one,’ Marios asked timidly.

     ‘Sure I replied,’ now becoming uncertain as to whether it was a good idea or not that I was giving these guys alcohol.

     I could see that Andros was now contemplating his next sip. The onset of depression became evident in the slanting of his eyes and a blackness that formed around them as his face dropped.

     ‘I’m sorry,’ he said anxiously.

     ‘Sorry for what mate?’ I said calmly.

     ‘I took your beer. I shouldn’t have. It’s rude of me. I had no right.’

     His posture became more flaccid and he increasingly became nervous. Marios happily sipped on his beer, acting indifferent to the change in Andros’s behaviour.

     ‘Don’t worry my man,’ I said trying to ease him, ‘we’re friends.’

     I flipped open my cigarette pack.

     ‘Here have a fag my brother,’ I continued.

     ‘Are you sure?’ he asked uneasily.

     ‘Of course Andros, it’s all cool.’

     As he took a cigarette, I could now see that he was beginning to relax.

     Lighting it he said, ‘you’re a good guy man, real safe.’

     ‘Thanks, so where’s Miltos?’ I asked in an attempt to change conversation.

     ‘He had a bad night,’ Marios replied.

     A sad look took over Andros, who then added:

     ‘Yeah man he’s real fucked up. He’s singing Cohen songs and shit.’

     ‘Leonard Cohen?’ I asked with some degree of surprise. ‘Cool, I love Cohen.’

     Exhaling a final drag, I chucked my cigarette stub. Hesitantly I then asked:

     ‘What happened?’

     ‘He’s fucked up,’ Andros stated with agitation.

     ‘I think it’s that girl and all. You know, the American one,’ Marios tried to explain, keeping a cool on things.

      ‘We’re all fucked up,’ Andros continued, dismissing Marios’s attempt at reasoning.

     Unsure of what to say, I nodded in agreement as if Andros’s comment had been a generalisation in which I was included, rather than a reference towards himself and the other patients. He looked at me strangely. He then looked away and we stood in silence, sipping on our beverages.

     A few minutes passed. Andros began to look fidgety but I tried to act indifferent. Clearly feeling a little uncomfortable, Andros thanked me again for what he perceived to be kindness on my behalf, still apologising for any imposition he may have caused. He shook my hand and hurriedly walked away. Marios smiled and also thanked me, before following.

     Before I had time to relax from the uncertainty of how I had dealt with the delicate psyche of these two men, Nestoras’s car pulled into the street. Reminded of the scenario I was in and the upcoming meeting, my own uncertainty sunk in. Attempting to suppress my anxiety, I exhaled heavily and downed my beer in hope of raising my adrenaline. I then spun open the bottle cap and downed some more whiskey.

     I hopped off the wall and unlocked the seat of my bike. Beneath was a narrow space for one’s insurance papers and licence, which being underage, I didn’t have. Under the owner’s title deeds, I had carefully hidden a butterfly knife. I pulled it out and slipped it into the front right pocket, of my jeans. I then walked casually towards Nestoras’s car, who was parked just a few metres passed me, waiting.

     I got into Nestoras’s car and we headed off. Still drinking from the whiskey bottle, we discussed the current matters regarding our situation. It took me by surprise when Nestoras told me we would meet Andy at his place. It seemed very unusual for an undercover drug officer to want me to know where he lived. Especially, since he had threatened to find cocaine in my home, not only if we didn’t cooperate but also, if we ever spoke of him or pointed him out in public. He made it clear that being undercover, it was imperative that his identity and our ‘relationship’ remained a secret.

     Is there something sinister going on? I wondered. However, it wasn’t as if he was going to kill me. What would be the point in that? Whilst keeping a casual manner, I carefully noted every road and turning we took, mapping in my mind the way to the guys house.

      We eventually reached a neighbourhood that I was not very familiar with. Parking outside a building that seemed to still be under construction, we got down from the car. The evening was getting cold but the sky had not become fully dark yet. A navy blue, it was decorated by the stars that began to map man’s ancient imagination of Gods and Zodiac signs.

     Nestoras led me into the building via a ground floor entrance that seemed near to completion. We began to climb a staircase that was only tiled until the first floor. We continued, up concrete steps, until reaching the second floor. As we reached the landing, I was astonished to find that the flat was still being built. Instead of an actual door, there was a flimsy sheet of plasterboard that Nestoras moved aside, motioning me to go through.

     Entering this concrete skeleton of what was to be an apartment, I saw Andy standing in the middle of what would assumingly become a living room. Shirtless, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, he laid heavily into a punch bug that hung from the unpainted ceiling. He stopped as he noticed us enter.

     ‘Welcome to my pad,’ he exclaimed.

     I had no reservations towards being in a construction site. As youngsters, we often hung out in such buildings in order to smoke, drink or just spend time, out of sight from adults and parents. The idea of this guy living there however, like that, with no windows or doors, was very unsettling.  Surely, I thought, this guy doesn’t live here. Does he? Such a concept was not one I could get my head around. He must be madder than the patients at the care home.

      After showing off his boxing skills that hardly impressed me, we went to the room he claimed he slept in. Aside of a single mattress and a hi-fi, it was totally bare. Clearly with no electricity installed, I remember wondering why he had a stereo player. I did however notice there was also a small battery operated portable CD player in the room. There, Andy walked me through what they wanted me to do. Whilst he instructed me, I studied the stereo and noticed that the back panel of one of the speakers was removed and left leaning against the wall.

     They wanted me to lure D into a scenario in which they would catch him red-handed selling drugs and be able to arrest him. They assured me that the set-up would be staged in a way that would portray me as also being a victim and therefore innocent, oblivious to any prior arrangements. Nonetheless, I was determined not to go through with it.

     Aside of my ‘brotherhood’ of friends from my school, I had a parallel life of friendships and group-interactions with local youngsters from my neighbourhood. One thing I had learnt through my interaction with them was to never snitch, for the police were corrupt and your mates (or gang affiliates) came first: the honour of the streets. Ironically, this was something rarely upheld. Other than a few lads, strong in will or extremely brainwashed, most were cowards. Despite big words, they would be quick to cover their own backs when faced with criminal charges, be it even if these were minor in their repercussions.

     Determined not to deliver D to the police, I was unwilling to give in to their blackmail. Nonetheless, my intention was to proceed precariously, for it felt like I was treading on thin ice. The plan was to play along, buying time, until Harry could hopefully get me out of this. Although my cards were in his hands, I had kept one up my sleeve. That would be my last resort; a final act of desperation, if it reached that point.