9

     The next day was a Monday; a school day. I however, had skipped, as I often did. I would visit the Greek schools, where I had various friends, lovers and girlfriends, throughout my teens. If not, I would hang about the neighbourhood or downtown with friends that had either dropped out of school or were also skipping.

     On this particular day, I was hanging out with three friends, two of which no longer attended high school and one, who, like me, had taken the day off. We were all killing time in a field, cooking pipes. This meant we were heating motorbike exhaust pipes, over a campfire, so as to mould them appropriately in order to attach to smaller capacity bikes, for modification purposes. Theis would enhance the performance of these small engine carriers. Often, an increase in speed would be achieved and certainly, sound would be amplified. This way, a little moped could have a much fiercer engine roar and even drive faster.

     As we killed time, watching the smoke rise from a carefully lit fire within a small circle of stones, my phone rang. It was Harry. He wanted to meet. Fearing my phone was being tapped by the police, we agreed to meet at the ‘black man’s.’ This was code for a bar called Negro’s Pub; a badly chosen name of a venue belonging to a South African Cypriot.

     Harry, who knew the owners personally, had once explained to me that this Caucasian proprietor had named it so, thinking he would appeal to the increasing population of black students and perhaps even, the contracted basketball players in Cyprus at the time. From the opening night, to which I had been invited by Harry, I knew it was doomed to fail. Not only was the very name an insult to any unlikely patrons of black origin but it was located in the back streets of an area far from any key nightlife activities. Sadly, it ended up being a sleazy pub where the ugly wife of the owner would begin a one woman strip-show at midnight. The perverse irony was that the majority of the regular patrons were their close friends. Nevertheless, it was because of its poor location, in the side streets of a non-central, once industrialised, neighbourhood that Harry found it suitable for us to meet there.

     That evening I entered the pub. The lighting was a confused mixture of green, pink and blue, each to its own section and illuminating some fake plant. Decorated with wooden panelling, fake palm trees, zebra-striped fabrics and national flags; it was a tacky, if not utterly disgraceful, representation of the South-African culture.

     I walked up to Harry who was seated at a little round table and took up the other available seat.

     ‘Of all the places Harry,’ I said laughing. ‘So what’s up?’

     ‘I’ve got some important information you need to know,’ he replied.

     ‘Well if you wanted to watch a show, whilst chatting, you know there are some good clubs. What, you got a thing for the old hag here?’

     ‘She’s alright,’ he laughed. ‘It’s more entertaining watching your mate’s wife than a professional dancer.’

     ‘Hmm...’

     ‘Anyway, I’m joking,’ he then added. ‘You know very well that the coppers are keeping a close eye on you. Here, we can see and know who’s around us.’

     A Romanian girl, working for the couple that ran the bar, came and took our order. Harry asked for a beer and I demanded a double whisky on the rocks. A single portion in Cyprus (especially then) was certain to be four times the single standard UK bar measure. Adding four tequila shots to our order, I sent her off with a wink.

     ‘So Harry,’ I said, turning my attention to him, ‘talk. Tell me what you got.’

     ‘You’re being screwed Mike. It’s a set-up man.’

     I looked at him with annoyance.

     'Tell me something I don’t know Harry.’

     ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he insisted, ‘it’s a lot worse than you think.’

     I lit a cigarette.

     ‘What do you mean?’

     Harry looked at me.

     ‘Listen,’ he then said, ‘this mustn’t leave this table. I’m telling you as a brother, to help you out.’

      ‘Ok, what?’

     ‘Your dealer’s dad is behind this, along with the head of the drug department.’

     Just as the words began to sink into my mind, dragging my heart into the pit of my stomach, the waitress came with our drinks.

     I sent a shot glass, sliding across the table, over to Harry. I remember thinking of the words he had just said, whilst following the reflection of the shot glass as it glided across the glossy black table surface. Without waiting for a que, I downed both my shots and grabbed the waitress by the miniskirt as she was about to head off.

     ‘Two more shots please and another whisky.’

     She looked at me flirtatiously and smiled. She leaned one hand on the table to show off the slender profile of her body.

     Considering my freshly served, untouched large whisky, she asked, ‘same again?’

     ‘Yes darling,’ I responded, ‘please.’

     Then turning to Harry she added, ‘you?’

     ‘No thanks,’ he replied, looking at his full bottle of beer and two shots, ‘I’m cool. This is enough for now.’

     I downed my second shot and lit another cigarette from the dying stub of the one I had been smoking. Sipping generously, although not hurriedly, from my whisky glass, I asked:

     ‘What exactly do you mean Harry? I mean, what the fuck are you saying?’

     ‘Well,’ he began to explain, ‘you know how D’s dad is a wealthy arms dealer. Well to keep things brief, basically, in his dealings with the state, he has made some very close friendships within the police. They are after all, his customers. Ironically one of these friends happens to be the senior chief of the drug enforcement agency. In fact, they had Christmas lunch together, last month.’

     The waitress returned again and placed the whisky glass on the table. Whilst she waited on us, it became clear that she was hoping to be invited into a little socialising. She was very flirtatious and there weren’t really any other customers apart from four regulars, seated up front, close to the bar. I was frustrated however and becoming agitated. As she proceeded to place the second shot glass on the table, I took it smoothly from her pale long finger tips and downed it on the spot. I then slipped a fiver in it. Placing it back in her hand, I smiled and nudging my head with a wink, I motioned her to go on and leave us to talk.

     Returning to Harry, I demanded an explanation. Harry explained that drug enforcement officers had been on D’s case. When it was brought to the chief’s attention, he informed D’s father. Learning of his son’s dealings, D’s father then came up with an idea that was to supposedly teach his son a lesson: to be arrested and scared out of the drug scene. Then, once D had deterred from any interest in the drug world, the whole case would conveniently disappear at the chief’s discretion.

     Perhaps this man, D’s father, had the best intention for his own son. Nonetheless, both he and the chief were ‘professional’ men and parents themselves. Yet, these grown adults did not take into any consideration the consequences that this would have on the lives of those caught in the middle of their convenient little arrangement; an arrangement that was to teach a spoilt child a lesson. And such a life was mine.

     I was half way into my second glass by now. The thought of being caught up in a selfish game that was intended to benefit someone else at my cost infuriated me.

     ‘So what am I supposed to do now Harry?’

     Harry looked at me with uncertainty. For a few minutes there was a silence.

     ‘Stay on the low and I’ll see if I can get my man to cut you free of this.’

     I downed the remainder of my drink.

     I placed a hand on his shoulder as I waved for the waitress to come over.

     ‘Thanks man,’ I said to Harry as I patted him on his shoulder in a brotherly manner, ‘you’re a good friend.’

     The girl came to our table and I paid the tab. The owner’s wife had began her little routine so I said to Harry I would be off. As the waitress collected the glasses, I gestured at her to meet me outside. Noticing the silent arrangement, Harry said:

     ‘I’ll tell Nikos,’ referring to the boss, ‘she’ll be going home early.’

     I thanked him again and left. The waitress then met me outside, I gave her my helmet to wear and we set off into the night. The cold air rushing over my skin, as I sped in and out of side streets so as to avoid cops, raised my drink-driven adrenaline. I was furious at having been dragged into this ordeal and was now headed home to blow off some steam.

10

     As recommended by Harry, I tried to avoid the cops. I knew they wanted me to keep it a secret from my parents, who would certainly object to my involvement in any undercover work, as well as challenge the police legally, for arresting me (a minor) without contacting them (who were by law my legal guardians). I therefore stopped answering my phone and in the odd chance that I did, in fear of them just showing up and framing me by staging a fake bust, I would use social obligations as an excuse for not being available.

     However the more distant I became, the more of a presence they began to make. They would hang about my house or follow me in and out of clubs. At one point my mother began receiving anonymous calls saying: “your son does drugs.” When she confronted me about this however, I told her it was some jealous kids that didn’t like me.

     ‘They’re just pranks ma,’ I would say, ‘ignore them.’

     To which she would reply ‘but they sound like grown men.’

     Eventually I offered a scenario in which these kids would get their older brothers or cousins to call up so that there was no chance of them being identified. Reluctantly she accepted it although it had gotten a bit out of hand and, I now know, it must have caused her plenty of distress.

     One evening, I went to New Division for a drink with my friend Pierre. He too had been there the night of the bust but not only had he not carried any illegal possessions, he was under diplomatic immunity because of his father’s role in the French embassy. Not that I am sure that would have mattered with these cops. There seemed to be no moral code of conduct in the way they worked.

     The two of us sat at the bar, to the far right side, near the corner. Being relatively early on a Tuesday, it was very quiet. Gentle rock was playing in the background and aside of ourselves, the owner and another employee (part deejay, part bar-tender), there was only one other couple, seated alone in a corner by the fire place on the far side of the room.

     By mere coincidence, a few girls from our school showed up and joined us at the bar. Amongst them was Lauren. It was unusual to see her within this particular group. Especially as the one girl, seated beside her, was one of Katrina’s closest friends. Being a secretive affair (despite most people actually having known), Lauren sat on the far left side of the bar. The six of us sat on stools along the bar, drinking, when all of a sudden, Nestoras walked in.

     Other then Pierre, nobody else there knew about Nestoras and what had happened to me. So he immediately alerted me, with an inconspicuous nudge, when he noticed him enter. Nestoras, who was alone, walked past the girls and towards me, at the other end of the bar. Taking up the last remaining seat, he sat beside me.

     He played it casual, suggesting he wasn’t expecting to find me there and offered to buy me a drink. I had been heavily drinking throughout the day and was too fed up for any pretence of us being friends. I no longer liked the guy, to say the least. And whisky is a funny thing. Scotch is a strong drink and to a man of any age, let alone a youngster, it can have a sharp affect on the mind and hence, the character. I was in an aggressive mood but at the same time, as I said, feeling fed up; just sick of all of it. In addition, I didn’t believe for a second that he just happened to stroll in, lonesome, for a drink. I knew he wasn’t a regular in this bar.

     I declined the beer and Nestoras got on the defensive. I then turned to him and made myself clear:

     ‘I understand you feel you did what you had to do but don’t act like you are my friend. I’m in no mood for it.’

     ‘Hey man,’ Nestoras said in return, ‘you’ve kind of disappeared and I don’t want any hard feelings between us. I told you I’m sorry.’

     My unsustainable mood brought on a further tiredness:

     ‘Yeah I know. It’s cool. I’m just tired man, alright.’

     Nestoras nodded to show understanding and ordered himself a drink. I exchanged few words with Pierre, allowing for a few unreciprocated comments to be thrown into the conversation by Nestoras. Meanwhile, Lauren was glancing over teasingly and smiling with her beautifully shaped lips. Her face was angelic, though her eyes made lustful invites that were of the contrary.

     Being friendly with all of the girls and in the company of one of my ‘brothers,’ Pierre, my mood began to be elevated. I leaned over the bar and whispered to the owner, who was tending, to line us up an order of eight bullets (three of them black).  He lined up four tall glasses, filled them with beer and dropped into each one a shot glass of vodka. He then began to pour the four black bullets.

     As I watched him fill a vodka shot and drop the shot-glass into the last of the tall glasses that were filled with Guinness, I noticed Nestoras making a missed call. From the corner of my eye, I caught him discreetly pressing the call button on his cell twice, then hanging up a second later. Suspicious of his behaviour, I looked him straight in the eye, as the bar tender placed his bullet before him.

     ‘That’s for you bro,’ I said with a stern tone, ‘on me.’    

     Casually he replied with a forced smile, ‘cheers Mikey,’

     Unable to maintain the intense eye contact I provoked, he looked down at his glass. I knew something was up. In fact, that missed call was clearly a message of some kind, to someone.

     My attention then turned to the girls who thanked me for the drinks.

     ‘Wait for it girls,’ I said.

     The eighth bullet was for the bartender, who was by now a friend of sorts. After all, Pierre and I were as regular as any patrons could be. Once his drink was ready, he called out to us all:

     ‘Cheers guys, bottoms up.’

     With that, we each downed our bullets in a single go, until the submerged shot glass reached our lips. Bullets, which elsewhere (such as Greece and Russia) are also referred to as submarines, were a tradition at New Divs.

     The buzz kicked in quickly. I motioned Jonathan, the owner, to load another round. He nodded and began to gather our glasses. Then, from within the background music, playing Alabama Song by The Doors, I heard the entrance door open and shut. Without turning, I saw, from a narrow mirror that ran behind the bottom row of bottles behind the bar, the distorted shape of Andy, walking in.

     He and his partner, Yiannis, walked right up to me, one to either side.

     ‘What you don’t know us now?’ Andy asked sarcastically.

     ‘What’s up man?’ I replied with agitation.

     ‘What,’ he asked again, ‘you’re not going to buy your friends a drink?’

     I leaned my head back and whispered in his ear, ‘what happened to not being seen together in public, huh?’

     He turned to his right and leaned against the bar between me and Nestoras. He slanted his eyes in an arrogant attempt to intimidate me. Then he said in a low voice:

     ‘What happened to you?’

     I grabbed my drink, just as the bartender released it from his hands. The beer was still swaying unevenly within the narrow glass as I chucked it back. In two long gulps, as opposed to several in continuance, I downed the long-island sized glass of beer and vodka. My motion was so quick that the shot glass, within the taller glass, slid down and smacked against my teeth.

     ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, acting indifferent, whilst placing a finger against my tooth.

     ‘You’ve been avoiding us. Did you think we would just forget about you? You owe us and you better deliver.’

      I didn’t know what to say. Consumed with anger and despair, I just wanted to turn around, grab him by the neck, smash my empty glass in his face and beat him until every inch of frustration was released in pieces of his fractured skull and facial disfigurement. But I remained silent.

     ‘Hey, what’s this?’ he said, reaching his hand towards my pocket.

     I looked down. He turned his palm over and in it were three ecstasy pills. I got the message. He patted me on the back and they walked away.

    The owner offered me a free golden tequila shot, which he knew I liked, along with one for Pierre and himself. Uncertain as to how much of it the owner caught on to, I nodded. I looked over at the girls who were chattering amongst themselves, oblivious to what had happened. I thanked Jonathan and sank my heart into the bottom of the shot glass.

     At one point, Pierre went upstairs to the bathroom. Not long after, Lauren followed. Upon returning, Pierre approached me and placed an arm around my shoulder.  Explaining that he met Lauren half way up the stairs, he said:

     ‘She told me to tell you, she’s waiting in the ladies room.’

     I winked and patted him on the back before heading up towards the bathrooms. Reaching the upstairs floor, I walked into the ladies room. Lauren stood there smiling.  

     We began to kiss passionately, locking ourselves in the single cubicle. She leaned forward, against the window ledge above the toilet and lifting her skirt, I leaned into her. In a fusion of anger, frustration, hormonal foolishness and alcohol, we engaged savagely in raw passion, her uncontrolled moans reaching the others. From what I was later told, they increased the music level so as to drown us out.

     Returning downstairs, I found Nestoras still lingering like a leech. So I ordered more drinks and ensured he got drunk. I then began to fish for information. Putting on a careless attitude about the whole ordeal and the corruption of the police, I proposed to him that I believed Andy and many of the cops did drugs themselves. Feeling mellow and that I was warming to him, he perhaps felt that I was coming on board. That’s when it slipped his mouth that I was right.

     ‘Probably stashes it in his stereo speaker or something, right,’ I stated laughing breezily.

     ‘Spot on Mikey. See, you’d be real good at this. We should work together. In fact,’ he paused to stop a gag reflex, ‘there’s a big case they want us on in Larnaca. Two brothers or something that have a shop and sell shit over the counter; or under rather.’

     He laughed at his mix up and I humoured him by joining in pretentiously. The difference between us, that I had successfully bet on, was that alcohol got him drunk, whilst at this point, it fuelled my focus that was driven by anger. It fed a hunger to survive this whole situation.

     Later that evening, Pierre and I left the bar. We walked down the stone steps leading to the entrance and through the forecourt of the beer garden. Stepping out onto the road, I looked at my mobile and noticed I had a voicemail. I dialled my voicemail and stared up at the starry black night. The air was chilly and I could see my breath trail from my mouth. I had one voice message. It was Harry:

     ‘Mike, it’s Harry. We need to speak. If I don’t answer, it means I’ve gone to bed. If that’s the case, swing by tomorrow morning, first thing.’