Medusa

He showed me round himself, double beds in each of the hulls with washbasin, loo and shower for’ard, hanging lockers aft and two single berths, the steps down from the saloon built over the port and starb’d engines, and all the time my mind racing, thinking what I could do with it, a different charter clientele entirely — San Tropez, Monte Carlo, Capri, the Aegean. We went back to the saloon and he produced a bottle of whisky. ‘Well?’ He was smiling. He knew from my comments, from the look on my face, that he’d be able to get what he wanted. And I? — with luck I would get what I wanted, what I’d always wanted — oh my God yes. We drank, smiling at each other, and then I nearly ruined it. ‘I don’t think I got your name.’

‘Lloyd,’ he said.

Not Evans or Jones, but the first part of Gareth’s surname — Lloyd. ‘Do you know a man named Gareth Lloyd Jones?’ His eyes snapped wide, suddenly wary, his face gone hard again and quite expressionless. ‘He was here on leave,’ I said, floundering slightly as I explained. ‘He was looking for somebody — somebody rather like you. And I thought I saw you — in Es Grau, a bar there, three, four months ago. Were you here then?’

He glanced at Flórez, half rising to his feet, those powerful hands of his clenched so tight the knuckles showed white. But then he smiled at me and sat down again, forcing himself to relax. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s when I decided on Menorca. I was looking for somewhere to settle, you see.’ He picked up his whisky, swallowed some of it, staring at me all the time, hostility gradually giving way to curiosity. ‘How well do you know Gareth?’ he asked me. And when I explained how we had met, he leaned back against the cushions of the settle. ‘He’s still here, is he?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He left yesterday.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘About five days, I think.’

‘Did you see much of him?’

I shook my head. ‘We had lunch together at Fornells, that’s about all, and that same evening he came to the Red Cross barbecue with us. I think my wife saw more of him than I did.’

He sat there for a moment, quite still and apparently lost in thought, his eyes fixed on a shelf full of bottles at the end of the bar. ‘That night,’ he said slowly. ‘He was with you, wasn’t he? Flórez says there was some trouble. You flushed a couple of squatters out of a cave and they pinched his car. Right?’

I nodded, wondering at his interest.

‘Did you see them? Would you be able to recognise them?’ And he added quickly, ‘I’m sorry about your wife. I believe she was hurt.’

‘No, we didn’t see them,’ I said. And I told him briefly what had happened. But he didn’t seem interested in the details, only in the fact that Gareth Lloyd Jones had been there. ‘You say he was looking for me?’ he interrupted. ‘Did he say why?’

‘He said you were at school together, that you saved his life.’ And because I wanted to get back to the business in hand and clarify the ownership details, I said, ‘He also told me your name was Evans.’

I saw him hesitate. But it was only momentary. ‘Lloyd Evans. It’s a double name, see, like Gareth’s.’ And he added, ‘Said we were at school together, did he?’ He was smiling now, seemingly at ease again. ‘HMS Ganges. That’s what he was referring to.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it a school. It was a training establishment for naval ratings. It had a flagpole. Still there, I believe — a bloody great pole about a mile high, and some stupid sod of a PO makes him go up to the top almost his first day. A punishment, he called it, but it was straight bloody sadism. Christ! the poor little bastard had only just arrived, raw as a cucumber and scared out of his wits. I had to go up and talk him down. Practically carried him.’

He nodded his head, still smiling to himself. ‘Got plenty of spunk, I’ll say that for him. He was a town boy, East End of London, mother owned a greengrocer’s, something like that. Don’t reck’n he’d ever been up a mast before in his life. I remember watching, a squad of ten nozzers we were, and that bastard of a PO orders him over the futtock shrouds, wot we called the Devil’s Elbow. It was all of a hundred feet up. Somehow he made it, and up the rope ladder. After that it was bare pole and he’d been told to touch the button at the top.’ He looked at me quickly. ‘Difficult for you to imagine what it’s like. Most people never seen a mast that high except in the distance on one of the Tall Ships.’

I nodded, the picture of it clear in my mind. ‘I’ve seen that mast,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to tell me about the height of it.’

‘Seen it?’ He looked surprised, and when I explained, he nodded. ‘I heard it was turned into a sports centre. Best thing for it with all those messes and officers’ quarters with polished wooden decks. And the ranges, of course. So you’re into competition shooting, are you?’ He was looking at me hard as though that somehow made a difference. ‘Bisley?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Until a few years back.’