If Only

If only. Futile words in any language. If only I had asked. If only I had wanted to know.
- - -
6 A.M. Makarios Street. Aphrodite's Café. The proprietor was Ari; Aristotle, an ursine ex-merchant-seaman washed up in the Port of Limassol. He'd just delivered the teapot. It was full of draught beer, the china disguise being our gesture toward the licensing laws. I poured us each a draught into two chipped mugs. Ari liked to tell me of his grand Australian romance over this early morning beer; listening was a small price to pay for an illegal drink. Ari had just got to the point where the Sydney-sider had told him that - as his money had run out - she'd prefer it if he did likewise. A half-smile came with the punch-line: 'I love Australians, they so nice when deport you.'

A tall chap, running -or perhaps not running enough - to fat, was hailing a cab about two feet from our Formica table. Aphrodite's really was a pavement café. The black Mercedes, far from sleek, jerked to a halt at the kerbside. The man jumped in. The driver was not a Cypriot. He had the same slab-like face of his passenger. I never could tell their kind of Russian apart. When the car pulled away, I saw the phone in the gutter. If only I hadn't picked it up, I could have left it for just anyone.

Ari didn't say anything when I slipped the mobile into a jacket pocket. Just picked up his mug and smacked his lips,

'Keo, is the best eh?'

'Is the only, Ari, I'd rather drink Efes.'

'Turkish shit,' he said, and spat on the pavement to the side of his plastic chair.

We were quiet for a while. Ari wanted to talk about the phone, but he wasn't going to ask. I wasn't even sure why I'd picked it up. Do something impulsive once a day, someone had once told me. I always plan to, I'd told them. I left the flat, warm beer and tossed a Cypriot fiver on the table. Ari grunted, 'efharisto poli.' I doubted his thanks was heartfelt.

Still, his curiosity made him call out before I disappeared around the corner onto the waterfront,

'See you tomorrow! You can tell about the 'phone, yes?'

He seemed satisfied with the wave I gave in answer.

Makarios, or Leoforos Archiepiskipou Makariou III, to give its full title, intersected October 28th Street just north of the Limassol Zoo. October 28th ran the length of the sea -front, more or less. From the Old Port to the Hotel and resort area, which started after Makarios, was a procession of tatty bars and tat-bazaars. There were some offices to be found, but not those of successful businesses. Mine was above a huge neon-sign over the entrance to the Crazy Parrot Night Club. A small doorway beside the faux-marble pillars of the club's entrance took people upstairs to 'Άγιος Ἰούδας Consultants'. Saint Jude Consultants. A joke, in more ways than one.

It was probably 7 o'clock as I reached the door on the second landing. I got the key in the lock at the second attempt, it had been a long night. There had been more than one reason not to finish the beer. A quick stumble to the chair and I slumped into it, swinging my feet up onto the desk beside the dull screen and dusty phone. I set about sleeping it off.
______________________________

Benny the Ball was explaining something to TC, Officer Dibble was looking angrily at me. Maybe the dream started at the same time as the brassy blare of the theme tune. I woke up to the revelation that Top Cat was the indisputable leader of the gang. It was the mobile. I patted every pocket and, naturally, it was in the last one. It rang off. The mobile was better than my own; mine offered a limited range of feeble bleeps. The maker's name was unfamiliar; it was a model that looked like a space-age radio from 1950's science fiction films. Hollywood out-guessing the scientists again. I flipped it open. A large screen lit up. 'Missed call: Number withheld'. Set to English. That meant nothing. You needed to go up into the hills to find monolingual Cypriots.

I pressed the biggest button, guessing it would send me back to an initial screen.
The background image was a photograph. A woman, candid shot – not posed. Attractive, 20s, maybe a careful 30.Shoulder length dark hair. Could have been anyone; naturally it wasn't. The beach bar in the background was popular with ex-pats. Once upon a boom-time, I used to take many clients there; softening them up with a few brandy sours before a viewing. It was popular with the bar-girls too. After all, who was more likely to have a pocket full of cash than someone looking to buy a Cyprus bolt-hole? There was something off about the picture, though. I couldn't work out what it was.

The land-line rang. I stared at it. Let it ring a few times.

'Hello, St Jude Consultants, hello?' I was talking to the dial tone.

I picked up the mobile again. The time showed in the top right corner. 09.45. Time for breakfast. Not at Ari's. I took breakfast most days in the British Legion. Down towards the old port, Theo had been using the charity's name for his café for years. Only in Cyprus. Theo's silent wife did the full-English using black-market bacon and sausage from the nearby RAF base. I dropped the phone in an outside pocket and made for the Legion.

Theo removed the grease-covered plate and spread the dirt on the table-top with a grubby cloth. I lit a cigarette. Blew the smoke at Theo. He turned and stalked off to the kitchen. The theme tune played again. A text this time.

'Where is she?'

That was all. No sender information except the number and the time. I thumbed buttons looking for the phone-book, contact details. I found the screens. They were blank. Whether the information had been deleted or someone had gone to the trouble of loading a photo as a background and doing nothing else with the mobile, I didn't know.

I thought about not sending a reply. Of course I did. For about a minute. I thumbed the unfamiliar buttons. Pressed send. I sent the message 'just anyone' would have.

'Who?'
_____________________________________

After one P.M. The client was sweating. We were in the manager's office in the 28th October branch of the Bank of Cyprus. The air-conditioning was on. Things weren't going well. The manager was new, parachuted in from Nicosia. He had some strange ideas about banking and real estate. My mind wasn't on the job , I kept peeking at the mobile. The manager ushered us out with gleaming teeth and a forceful hand at the client's back.

'Look,' I said. 'There are other banks.'

'So?' The client wiped his forehead.

'So, we'll try a bank with a local in charge.'

'No, I'll try someone else.'

Then he floated away on a tide of sweat.

I got the mobile out. Called up the message, figured out how to call the sender's number.I let it ring. It didn't divert to voice-mail, just rang and rang. The red button stopped the call.

________________________________

It rang as I was crossing the street. 'Number withheld', again. I was just putting the mobile to my ear when I saw the Mercedes out of the corner of my eye. When it hit me, it hurt. A lot. But if I hadn't seen it, I would have been dead. Luckily nobody called an ambulance. I couldn't have paid for a ride to the hospital. The police laughed, when I told them I had been hit by a Taxi, a Mercedes. 'Of course,' they'd said.

Back at the office, I shuffled papers, looked briefly at the accounts and hid them in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. A quick wallet-check revealed I needed to visit an ATM, if I wanted to eat, or drink, again today.

The screen had offered the option of Greek or English. I should have opted for English. The fact that the words were flashing on the screen and my card was still in the machine gave me the message clearly enough. I went in to the branch. The one I had visited so unsuccessfully with the client. After a short wait, I showed the cashier my passport and gave her the account number. She tapped busily at a keyboard, gave me a sharp look and reached under the desk for something. The manager came out preceded by his over-bright smile.

'Kalimera, we will speak English this time, Mr Thaddeus. Come in.'

I didn't feel insulted; if clients believed I was fluent in Greek, more fool them. He followed me in to his office and shut the door. He began straight away.

'You have no funds, Mr Thaddeus.' He leaned back and looked at me over steepled hands, like a banker in a film.

'There must be some....'

'Mistake?' He cut me off, 'Oh no, not in my bank.'

'But...' I began.

'Perhaps I could advance you some funds.' He smiled, the teeth gleaming.

He hadn't been prepared to do the same for my client.

'Perhaps you could check my account. For the mistake.'

The teeth disappeared. 'There is no mistake. Let me know if we can do anything else for you. Chairete'

'Yeah, goodbye.' I said.

I didn't get the door shut before he called out. 'You should look for her.'

_________________________________

There was still something about the picture, about the face – the eyes. One pupil was strange, shaped like a cat's. A bell rang somewhere far away. I made for the tired cyber-cafe by The Stone Eagle pub. Most of the terminals had the usual mix of Africans, Arabs and Eastern Europeans trying to find out if their money had reached home. It cost me one of my last remaining notes to sit down at a machine.

I wanted to look at the English tabloid archives, but you needed an account. There were no archives for the Cyprus Mail, the English language paper. Perhaps I could have bluffed through to the archived Greek papers, but I'd never have found the right articles.
I pulled up Wikipedia. At least there'd be something, even if it was unreliable. 'Disappearance' and 'Missing persons' produced nothing. I typed in 'Ben Needham'. A disappeared boy merited a page. His strawberry birthmark was mentioned in the first lines. I looked at the phone screen again. Typed 'Cat's Eyes', negotiated the disambiguation page, and selected 'Cat's Eyes Campaign.'

I laughed when it came up. The Sun had run a campaign for as long as Catriona McCall had been able to sell papers. 'Cat's Eyes' had monopolised tabloid front pages for about six months, 15 years ago, before the internet had really taken off. Maybe it would have helped, but I doubted it. She'd gone missing in Paphos, a much nicer location than Limassol, at an upmarket resort development called 'Aphrodite Hills.' Phase III was half built and completely empty now, mainly due to people like the smiling banker.

Scrolling down, I came to the campaign photo. The strange pupil was in the same eye as the photo on the mobile. The sullen teenager's pout disguised the good looks, a little. She'd been 13 when she'd disappeared from beside the communal pool, fifty yards from the restaurant her parents had been lunching in. The age was probably okay, too. There were a couple of other snapshots of the girl; both taken around the time of the disappearance, judging from the sunburn and strap marks. She didn't look like someone who would ever turn out to be my type. The truculent expression wasn't entirely absent from any of the snaps, and I thought maybe the campaign would have lasted longer if an appealing little tot had disappeared. It was a long time ago, but there was no reason not to think it was the same person. My money ran out, the slacker behind the counter looked over, I shook my head. Shoving the phone in a pocket, I left.

________________________________

I walked into the Crazy Parrot at five. Just a few customers were watching the 'dancers'. Tinny, tacky music crept out of the loudspeakers: bored hostesses smoking at the tables outnumbered the customers two-to-one. I went over to the bar. Georgiou nodded at me, held up a glass.

'Where is she?' I asked.

He shrugged.

'She not here since you in three days ago.'

'She say where she was going?'

'You not only customer,' he said, but he handed me an envelope.

I stuffed it in my pocket and took my Keo to an unoccupied table. A couple of girls gave a bored wave. I wasn't their customer. The envelope contained one sheet of cheap lined paper, one word written on it, in bluntly carved capitals. I necked the beer. It would take a while to get there, especially as I'd have to borrow a car.

Georgiou looked over as I was leaving.

'They're looking,' he said.

'Who?' I asked.

'The Russians: she bring good money, you know this.'

I nodded.
________________________________

Ari stood, arms folded, on the terrace in front of his cafe.

'Ioudas, come on,' he said, waving an arm toward the inside of the cafe.

'What's up?' I asked: Ari rarely used my given name; if he did, he pronounced it determinedly in the Greek fashion. I had preferred the shortened Jude all my life, although cruel parents had given me the full version on the certificate.

'Here is keys,' Ari was curt, put out about something.

'Thanks, I'll get them back to you, tomorrow,'

'Letter box, okay.'

'Don't you want to know about the 'phone.'

I held up the mobile, thumbing a button to display the photograph. Ari barely gave it a glance, as if he knew who it was already.

'Funny you pick up the phone.' He was looking over my shoulder - at the pavement outside, I supposed.

'Coincidence, Ari.' I said.

'Fate is for shepherds.' Ari hawked, remembered we were inside his café and didn't follow through.

'Well, thanks for the loan of the car,' For some reason, I was still holding the 'phone screen up. He glanced at it again.

'Mr Ioudas Thaddeus, I think you have wrong last name.'

________________________________

She sat opposite me. Evening on the terrace; I could see kids and adults splashing in the pool on the far side of the lawn. The completed villas were beautiful, the shells and cranes less so. A breeze came off the hills.

'I didn't know you were thinking of leaving the Parrot.'

She blew a smoke ring into the air, watched it disperse on the breeze.

'Neither did I.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Why not?' The smoke ring came my way this time.

'I can think of a few reasons.'

I handed her the 'phone, flipped open.

'One of the Russians dropped it,' I said.

She glanced at the photo, looked me defiantly in the eye.

'I didn't know you wore contacts, Kat.' I spat the words out.

She stayed silent.

'If only you'd told me.' It sounded pathetic..

'If only you'd asked,'was all she said.

I left her with the phone, I had to get to the bank.