Kissing the Dragon - 33. Epilogue

Where a lone bottle-nose dolphin breaks the skin of the Aegean, jewelled speckles of silvery spume erupt from the otherwise calm cerulean sea. Uncharacteristically waveless, the surface is a bloated mirror swollen by bulging undercurrents. Beyond and far out to sea only the lighter blue of the unblemished sky marks the horizon. Along the predominantly remote Krystos island’s stark eastern coastline of sun-bleached rock and occasional stubborn flora, a dozen ramshackle fisherman’s cottages crowd around the one port. A beautiful picture postcard perhaps, but a harsh existence lightened only fractionally by a daily mainland ferry bringing regular supplies and irregular tourism.

Enjoying some post-coital sunbathing, stretched out naked along a white foam mattress on the pinewood sun deck of the Lady Chatelaine, I would normally have shouted to Ben at the sight of the magical sea mammal, but we have spotted so many over the past week, that I smile to myself and enjoy being the sole witness. Sea breezes and a liberal application of high factor sun lotion keep me from cooking under the late afternoon sun. My attention is torn between the peaceful seascape and the six-month-old British newspaper that I found gathering dust wedged into a magazine rack outside a newsagents in Athens, covering the murders of Denny, Tony and Roland. Even though interest has died down, I know from Ben that the search for Kit aka Carter Schwartz and his sister are still ongoing. When I hear the slap of bare feet approaching, I quickly turn to the back page sports section and pretend to be engrossed.

“In the name of all that is decent will you put some clothes on,” comes the deep voice of Ben, emerging from the saloon. Eight months on and still his voice gets my heart racing. He is almost as depraved, though. Inspired by Daniel Craig’s beach Bond performance, he sports skintight Persian blue swimmers that leave nothing to the imagination. Unlike pale and hairless Craig though, Ben already has a deep bronze tan, courtesy of his distant Italian parentage, while his chest, arms and thighs boast a fine pelt of dark hair, his dragon glistening deliciously with sun oil.

“Unless the perverts have binoculars, they won’t see a thing from the shore.”

“It’s not the perverts on the island you should be worried about,” he says, kneeling next to me with two glasses of light golden wine, their surfaces frosted with condensation. He purposely pours a few icy drops from one glass into the dip of my lower back, then after setting the glasses down on the glass table, leans over me to lick up the spill trailing his moist tongue into my crack and making me groan with pleasure.

“Mmm. Coconut oil, McCann sweat and Chablis. Interesting cocktail,” he says, dropping down into the deckchair opposite me.

“Talking of perverts, when’s the crew due back?”

“Not until around midnight,” he says, pushing his Ray Bans up the bridge of his nose and then smoothing the same hand from his chest down the hairy trail leading to his bulge. “So unless you want to cook, we’re dining onshore tonight.”

Although neither mention the fidelity word, sex between us continues to be regular and intense enough for me to believe he is getting all that he needs. I know I certainly am. Gelling as a couple has taken time and patience, but even that has improved in small increments.

On one operation that took him away for most of April—he shares none of the details with me and I never press him to—I returned from school on Friday afternoon to find him lounging in the den, in sweat pants and tee. Having changed the alarm code, and fixed the back door lock and security light, I presented him with his own set of house keys, playing the gesture down by telling him I did not want the neighbours to start talking. That day, he shimmered with a raw hunger and anticipation on seeing me. I barely had a chance to put down my case and say hello before he grabbed me, threw me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and, while I laughed and yelped with surprise, lugged me unceremoniously upstairs to the bedroom. By Saturday lunchtime, having scarcely left the bed, I insisted we shower and get up.

Later on the same evening, sitting next to each other on the settee, I knew that if I reached out to caress his upper thigh, within minutes we would be transitioning to full-blown sex. But both enjoying an unusually fresh and funny film on television that night, I glanced over at him while chuckling and, seeing him laughing too, my heart was filled with such overwhelming love that I had to bite the inside of my mouth to stop from expressing what I felt. At that moment, he looked around and caught my glance—my oeillade—and I felt the need to say something.

Like a goldfish my mouth opened soundlessly, finding myself unable to choke out words for fear they might ruin the moment, or worse still scare him back to his apartment. And while I floundered and reddened, returning my attention to the television, he reached over, put his hand around the back of my head and pulled me into him for a kiss. Not a hot passionate kiss, but a tender, affectionate one. When he let go, his hand cupped my chin and the thumb stroked across my lower lip. Still leant in, he rested his forehead on mine, studying my lips but all the while smiling, before his appraisal came to rest on my eyes.

"I know, sunshine. I love you, too."

From that moment on, we began to relax around each other, even outside the house. Few coppers straight or gay like showing PDAs—personal displays of affection—according to my sister, and even though my man has not stepped beyond any boundary, he stands right up against the fence: an arm draped around the back of my chair while seated together when eating out, a fierce bear hug upon meeting me in public, an arm draped casually across my back and a hand clamped on my shoulder as we stroll along the road. He has also become my Sunday cycling buddy, impressing me with his ability to keep up—not that I have any doubt whatsoever about his stamina—and making up in enthusiasm, what he lacks in technique.

Right now he sits there with his legs spread wide, his hand resting on his genitals, the usual ready-for-action grin on his face. He knows exactly what to do to get my heart pounding faster.

“Let me just finish this, and then maybe we can attempt a shower together,” I say, returning my attention to the newspaper and turning back a page to an article about the transfer of a good-looking latino footballer to Real Madrid. With that, I fold the newspaper up and place it to one side.

“Don’t let me disturb your research. Why exactly are you reading an out-of-date newspaper?”

When I raise my eyes to him, I can determine nothing beyond the impenetrable reflected surface of his sunglasses, but he has the familiar crinkled smile on his face, his you-don’t-fool-me grin.

“Time to let it go, sunshine.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t have a gun pointed at your head.”

“I did, actually. But fortunately your almost-boyfriend’s night sight was lacking.”

“Funny. Have you caught him yet?”

Those five words have left my mouth so often over the past year and I am mildly surprised they have not begun to irritate him—like a kid continuously asking “are we there yet?” His smile slips then, and he reaches for a sheet of the newspaper he has discarded on the deck. My OCD must be getting better because that is another of his habits I have learnt to live with, the way he dismantles a newspaper untidily on the table or floor, and then reads single random sheets.

“No, but you may be interested to read some up-to-date news items. Last Friday’s Chronicle. Bottom of page two. The part entitled ‘Business Mogul Constantine Morgan Dies in Plane Accident.’”

“Tell me you’re joking?” I say, astonished, snatching the page from him.

And there it is in black and white. Former tycoon, Constantine Morgan, died tragically when the light aircraft he was piloting crashed into the sea off the coast of Fuerteventura, officials reported last night. The bodies of Morgan, a qualified pilot with over twenty years flying experience, and an unidentified woman, were retrieved by coast guards after their plane ran into heavy weather in the Atlantic, according to the Spanish authorities. Morgan had been in a long running legal battle with the Crown prosecution over allegations of his involvement in the slaying of Oscar Callaghan. A third passenger believed to be on board is still missing, presumed dead. Constantine Morgan, 63, is survived by his wife, Vanessa Morgan.

“Looks like you might be off the hook, sunshine.”

His words give me scant comfort.

Wending its way slowly from Krystos harbour up to the ancient town square, the sole cobbled lane is lined by knee-high stone walls painted in unblemished white emulsion, and pink and orange bougainvillea with various hardy shrubs bordering either side. In the fading light, silhouettes of the ubiquitous olive trees pepper the rugged landscape. Ramshackle but endearing in its honesty, the town square has only a handful of tavernas to choose from. Family run, they provide similar menus of locally caught and barbecued seafood, served with simple salads of olive oil soaked black olives, anchovies, plump tomato, red onion, cucumber, and crumbly feta cheese. Together with the baskets of freshly baked pita bread, I am completely satiated even though I opt for an Amstel lager rather than the distinctive and sappy tasting local wine. To enjoy the benefit of altitude and a panoramic view of the island, Ben suggested we opt for the town square and as I sit there beneath the stars on the garden patio, dining alfresco, I am glad I went with his recommendation. Unlike me, however, he is happy to brave the locally produced retsina wine and even happier to give me a download on the importance of this historic beverage.

“To this day, it’s only made in this country. Nowhere else in the world. Goes all the way back to the days of ancient Greece when they dominated the region, around 3,000 years ago, give or take a century. So it’s only right that we should sample the wine of choice to honour the heroic likes of Odysseus, Hercules, Jason, Perseus—“

“Nana Mouskouri?”

“Men that shaped an empire, Colin.”

“Be careful lecturing me about history, Ben. Remember what I do for a living. Most of the feats those men are supposed to have achieved are based on legends and fiction.”

As we ready to leave, Ben heads to the bathroom, and I settle back in my plastic chair and breathe in the balmy night air. So much has happened this year, much unpleasant, but some good. Even though Winterbourne senior has been a rock, his son Hugh took the news about Morgan badly and, although he never said as much, I am sure he blames me for stirring things up as well as bringing the traitorous Kit into their lives. Derek and I still chat from time to time but our vows to meet up in person are simply good manners, not something that is likely to happen. Martin’s mother finally passed away, around two weeks ago. Poor man. If I find myself getting maudlin about my own year, I simply remind myself about Martin who has had enough bad luck for one lifetime.

Still, I have to concede that good things have also come along, otherwise I would not be sitting here right now. Ben is firmly in my life, while school life has returned to normal, and, slowly but surely—and with the support and encouragement of a certain CID detective—I am turning a house that belonged to someone else into my own.

Eventually my gaze wanders to the dusty old flatscreen television fixed to the wall. A Greek cable news channel—the sound muted—plays the same news story over and over. This one shows the cordoned off but still smoking remains of a bronze Mercedes—the assassination of a Ukrainian politician by car bomb. Well publicised, the crime happened over five weeks ago, Russian-backed separatists widely blamed. Although I have seen the footage many time before, initially appalled by the stark images, I gave the incident no further thought. However, it is not the burnt out wreck that catches my attention this time, but the crowd of people beyond the barrier. I am not even sure why my gaze is drawn to the figure, but I notice a tall man with jet black hair and large sunglasses standing among the stunned gathering, his own expression impassive. While the commentator’s mouth works furiously, behind him the figure removes his sunglasses, and my heart almost stops beating.

Eyes of ice blue.

Only as the gaze lifts and stares straight into the television camera, straight into my eyes, do I realise my mistake. The man is too tall, too wiry, too plain looking—something Kit could never mask. And in truth, this is not the first time I have mistaken someone for him: a passer-by in Athens, a face in the crowd of tourists gathered around the Parthenon, a blond-haired man seated outside a restaurant in the port of Fethiye.

And although it makes little sense—maybe intuition, maybe instinct, maybe just an overactive imagination—I know with a deep certainly that I have not seen the last of Kit Hansen in my life.