Date: 2018-05-29 23:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Greece

GREEK CAPERS

Book 5 in The Greek Meze Series

KATERINA NIKOLAS

GREEK CAPERS

Copyright © 2018 Katerina Nikolas

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Many Thanks to Brenda and George for Edits.

Cover Design by Yuse Art Works

Interior Formatting by The Book Khaleesi

CONTENTS

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Chapter 1

Quentin Takes up Greek Dancing

Chapter 2

Hanging Gloria

Chapter 3

Stapling the Old Fool

Chapter 4

Evangelia’s Peculiar Hobby

Chapter 5

Old Crone Power

Chapter 6

Bathing in Oil

Chapter 7

De-Icing Horses and Frozen Eyelashes

Chapter 8

Sweet Sofia Arrives

Chapter 9

Decaf Frappuccino, Extra Sweet

Chapter 10

Fotini Adds a Little Something Extra to Lunch

Chapter 1l

A Smitten Sofia and a Repulsed Iraklis

Chapter 12

A Reputation as a Cheating Scoundrel

Chapter 13

Garra Rufa Fish and Tiddlers

Chapter 14

First Catch

Chapter 15

A Taxi to the Finest Restaurant in Town

Chapter 16

Toothless Tasos Faces up to his Fake Death

Chapter 17

Tiddlers for Fish Meze

Chapter 18

A Floral Vision of Loveliness

Chapter 19

Something of the Dark about Him

Chapter 20

A Stroll through the Olive Groves

Chapter 21

Bald Yannis the Village Protector

Chapter 22

Well Meaning Busybodies

Chapter 23

A Nasty Outbreak of Food Poisoning

Chapter 24

A Spot of Blackmail

Chapter 25

First Love and Chaperones

Chapter 26

Off to Mykonos

Chapter 27

Floating Fish

Chapter 28

Onos, My Darling

Chapter 29

The Cat Ate the Evidence

Chapter 30

On the Loose

Chapter 31

Great Bowls of Borscht

Chapter 32

A Long Way from Athens

Chapter 33

The Pappas’ Pleasant Personality Persists

Chapter 34

Granny’s Fabulous Fungal Fighter

Chapter 35

Turning the Place into Blackpool

Chapter 36

Just for Show

Chapter 37

Playing Hard to Get

Chapter 38

Handsome as a Movie Star

Chapter 39

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Chapter 40

A Borscht Stained Memory

Chapter 41

Wasting Police Time

Chapter 42

The Pappas Erupts

Chapter 43

Shower Me with Gold

Other Books in the Greek Meze Series

Book 1: Goat in the Meze

Book 2: Rampaging Roosters

Book 3: Olive Virgins

Book 4: Goatly Goings On

Chapter 1

Quentin Takes up Greek Dancing

Deirdre gaped at Quentin in dumb-struck horror, shocked by his uncharacteristically bizarre request. Looking quite ludicrous, Quentin was standing in the shallows with his trouser legs rolled up, his bare feet kicking frantically at the sea water pooled in the shore-side rocks. The expletive he’d just screamed still reverberated heavily in the air.

“Don’t be so ridiculous Quentin. It’s a bit late in the day to expect me to develop an interest in kinky water sports,” Deirdre protested vehemently, having regained the use of her vocal faculties.

“Really Deirdre, I simply need you to pee on my foot to stop the excruciating pain from this horrendous sea urchin. You have been reading too many of those dreadful Sunday magazines if you think my perfectly reasonable request is kinky,” Quentin cried, desperately trying to shake his foot free from the embedded black ball of spikes.

“Let me see if I can loosen it for you,” Deirdre offered, swinging her handbag wildly until it collided with the creature torturing her husband. The spiky ball was dislodged back into its natural habitat with a plop and Quentin once again screamed “malaka,” hopping up and down to examine the black spike protruding prominently from the sole of one foot. His reddened face was scrunched up in agony beneath his souvenir fisherman’s hat as he again implored his wife to put him out of his misery.

“Quentin get a grip, the best solution would be medical attention, not some half-baked cure you picked up watching ‘Survivor,’” Deirdre admonished. “In forty years of marriage I have always locked the bathroom door behind me and I don’t intend to change my habits now.”

“You weren’t such a prude when it came to flashing that disgusting old goat herder with your glow-in-the-dark thong,” Quentin spluttered, still hopping in agony.

Their bickering was interrupted by Toothless Tasos calling out to them from his fishing boat. “That’s a funny spot to practice yous Greek dancing, K-Went-In,” Tasos laughed.

“I’m not dancing, I have a life-threatening injury,” Quentin spat.

“He impaled his foot on a sea urchin when he was paddling,” Deirdre explained.

“Ouch, that’s painful, yous should have peed on ‘im Did-Rees,” Tasos called, reiterating the sound logic of the suggestion that had so mortified the prudish Deirdre.

“Yous will be in no state to walk back to the village on that foot. Let me bring the boat near so yous can jump in, an’ I’ll drop yous back at the ‘arbour. Now did yous keep ‘old of the culprit, it’s a tasty treat with a squirt of fresh lemon an’ a drizzle of extra virgin?”

Toothless Tasos was disappointed to learn the Americans had not appreciated the sea urchin was considered a sought after Greek delicacy. Helping the pair onboard he hastily wiped a grubby cloth over the plastic chair he kept on the boat so Deirdre wouldn’t end up with a fish smeared bottom.

“What was yous doing out by the rocks?” he asked.

“We were just enjoying a stroll by the sea,” Quentin winced, still in pain from the venom pulsing into his body.

“I forgets yous foreigns ‘ave such odd habits,” Tasos tutted, considering exercise to be an unnecessary indulgence.

“We wanted some fresh air and peace after all the drama of the bomb scare at the hospital,” Deirdre confided, rummaging around in her enormous handbag for a pair of tweezers.

“I ‘eard about that,” Tasos said with a knowing wink. By now it was all round the village gossip vine that Quentin was inadvertently responsible for causing pandemonium at the hospital by smuggling the ‘bomb’ squawking parrot into the building concealed beneath a lobster adorned shower curtain. Fortunately the parrot had been so distracted by the blow up sex doll in the hospital car park it had finally loosened its grip on Quentin’s scalp and flown off in pursuit of voluptuous vinyl prey. The souvenir fisherman’s hat concealed the scarred evidence of the parrot’s prior perch on Quentin’s scalp.

“Yous dont’s want to be doin’ that Did-Rees,” Toothless Tasos advised, watching Deirdre about to tweeze the spike from Quentin’s foot. “Yous will make it worse if it breaks, best ‘ave K-Went-In stick ‘is foot in a bowl of vinegar, that’s the traditional Greek remedy. Thea ‘as some at ‘ome, she cooked octopus in vinegar last night an’ yous is welcome to stick yous foot in what she drains off.”

The thought of sticking his foot in a bowl of vinegar drained from an octopus dinner would have normally repulsed Quentin, but the pain was so severe he agreed to Tasos telephoning his fiancée and asking her to meet them at the harbour with this revolting remedy.

As the boat puttered along Deirdre almost decapitated toothless Tasos by roughly grabbing the binoculars hanging from his neck. “It’s almost impossible to see anything,” she said, worried they could end up adrift at sea. “Where did this thick fog suddenly come from?”

“It’s not fog Did-Rees. It is hovering clouds of Sahara dust. We’ll be getting the red rain soon,” Tasos said.

“It’s eerily muggy,” Quentin noted.

“Bald Yannis will be lovin’ it, imagine ‘ow he’ll sell it as evidence of the coming apocalypse to them stupid eejits he’s scammed into coming ‘ere,” Tasos guffawed.

Personally Toothless Tasos was pleased the fake end of the world scam was working so well as he’d managed to rent out his living room floor to a couple from Scotland. Thea was not too happy at the prospect of Doomsday lodgers taking up residence but appreciated her spendthrift ways meant they needed the cash. Thea insisted the spare room must be reserved for her goddaughter Sofia who was due to arrive any day from Athens.

Quentin had flatly refused to participate in the end of the world scam following the bizarre experience of the besotted stalker squatting in their house. Deirdre considered crazy Koula had been judged too harshly and she’d been nagging Quentin to engage the deluded woman as a cleaner if she was ever released from the mental institution where she now languished.

A glimmer of sun forced a weak path through the dusty red mist, shining a spotlight on a skeletal apparition perched on a bench overlooking the sea. The sunbeam faded as quickly as it appeared, causing Deirdre to shake her head in incredulous disbelief. “I could have sworn that was Fotis’ mother, Kyria Moustakos.”

“You must be seeing things Deirdre, there’s no way the feeble old dear could be out alone in this weather. She’s probably tucked up back in her hospital bed,” Quentin argued.

Their squabbling was interrupted by a massive jolt knocking the pair off balance as Toothless Tasos brought the boat to a shuddering halt by steering it into Fat Christos’ anchored fishing boat, bewailing he couldn’t see a thing through the red pea-souper.

Deirdre let out a piercing scream, jabbering incoherently and pointing a trembling finger at the bloated and naked corpse of a woman floating in the harbour water, revealed by another passing sunbeam filtering through the fog. The ray of sunlight vanished, leaving Quentin and Tasos stumped by Deirdre’s hysterics.

“There was a dead body floating, I swear,” Deirdre stuttered. “There must be a gang of marauding mad attackers on the loose in Astakos. Not one of us is safe.”

Chapter 2

Hanging Gloria

Lurking in the mist by the side of the harbour Bald Yannis chuckled uproariously at the sight of the hysterical Deirdre being carried from the boat by a limping Quentin. Pulling on a rope he reeled in the blow up sex doll he had suspended over the side of Fat Christos’s fishing boat, having fully inflated Gloria to her former glory with his bicycle pump. Carrying the voluptuous vinyl doll into the hardware shop, intent on finding a secret hiding place to conceal it before pulling it out for his next prank, he was furious to discover the old crone Nitsa hanging round by the cash register examining his motley collection of chains and hooks as an excuse to get up close and personal with him.

“There’s no need to resort to carrying on with a plastic woman when I’m hot blooded an’ willin’,” Nitsa cackled, goosing Bald Yannis’ bottom and giving him a saucy wink.

“Get yous ‘ands off me,” Bald Yannis shouted, beating Nitsa off with the blow up doll. Realising the old hag’s gossiping ways could ruin his floating corpse prank, he grabbed a hideous old lady dress and started dressing Gloria, saying, “I see yous ‘ave met the new display mannequin I ‘ave salvaged to display my stock of beautiful dresses.”

“Ooh, if yous put some pop socks on ‘er legs and a wig on ‘er ‘ead she’ll look just like one of them Parisian catwalk models,” Nitsa gushed.

“Dont’s get too close with them metal chains, we dont’s want ‘er explodin’,” Bald Yannis ordered. “I think I’ll suspend ‘er from the ceiling,” he mumbled, climbing his ladder and scratching his shiny pate, perplexed how best to hang the doll from the hook without bursting her. Wrapping the rope around Gloria’s neck he secured it to the hook, leaving the blow up sex doll dangling ominously like a condemned prisoner on the gallows.

“Not only does she show off my dresses well, she’ll also be a wonderful deterrent to shop lifters.”

“Best stick some bloomers on ‘er, I can see right up ‘er dress,” Nitsa observed.

“Are yous still ‘ere?” Bald Yannis asked, dismissively brushing Nitsa aside as a couple of Doomsday trippers entered in search of his by now infamous apocalypse kits.

“Hamish, take a wee look at that howlin’ dress,” the woman said to her kilt wearing husband, pointing at the hideous old lady dress gracing the blow up sex doll suspended from the ceiling.

“Och aye Fenella, you’ll have to have one, you’ll look right bonnie,” Hamish replied. Turning to Bald Yannis, Hamish dropped all trace of Scottish dialect, saying, “We’ll take two of your finest apocalypse kits and a dress please.”

Examining the contents of the kits Hamish gushed over the self-heating Christmas tinners, exclaiming “oh what a treat, I didn’t really expect we’d ever eat a traditional Christmas dinner again once the world ends. Look at these Fenella; they contain Brussels sprouts, mince pies and cranberry sauce.”

Holding the bottle of ouzo aloft he asked Bald Yannis, “I say old chap, you couldn’t swap this Greek stuff for a bottle of the finest Scotch whisky?”

“Does I look like a distillery?” Bald Yannis questioned, impatiently grabbing their cash and pushing them out of the shop.

Soula arrived, coyly planting a kiss on her husband’s cheek.

“I just spoke to the doctor and he reassured me Koula is getting the very best care in her padded cell. The Pappas has agreed not to press charges for attempted murder. I swear he appears to be a changed man with Koula’s transfused blood running through ‘is veins.”

“Well it remains to be seen if the Pappas develops unhealthy obsessions with Slick Socrates and Prosperous Pedros. He could end up besotted with ‘em,” Yannis warned. “Dont’s go forgetting Koula ‘as committed other crimes Soula. She attacked Masha, broke into houses and nearly incinerated a goat.”

Bald Yannis was quite happy to overlook his crazy sister-in-law’s attack on the Pappas but the goat incident left a nasty taste in his mouth, even though his Herculean rescue of the goat from Thea’s burning harbour-side house had turned him into the village hero. Remembering Takis had lifted the taverna ban he decided to cheer Soula up by offering to take her there that evening.

“Ooh Yanni, I ‘ave never been to a taverna before, it’s so exciting. Should I get dressed up in one of Masha’s old cast-off dresses?”

“There’s no need to go over the top woman, what yous wear to clean out the goat pen will be fine,” Bald Yannis advised, not wanting his plain, lame wife to get ideas above her station.

Young Iraklis tentatively entered the hardware shop, summoning the courage to ask Bald Yannis if he could change a twenty Euro note for the supermarket.

“Does I look like a bank?” Yannis sneered derisively.

“Ooh Yanni, dont’s be so rude,” Soula reprimanded her husband while sorting change for the supermarket. She erroneously assumed Iraklis’ blushing face was caused by Bald Yannis’ dismissive tone when in fact the innocent Iraklis had just discovered the hardware shop’s new mannequin flashing him without any knickers. Following his gaze Bald Yannis snapped “I’ll ‘ave no perving goin’ on in my shop.”

“Where on earth did you get that odd looking mannequin?” Soula asked.

“I found it in the church. I think Koula must ‘ave carried it there to embarrass the Pappas, so as ‘er next of kin it rightfully belongs to us,” Bald Yannis replied, secretly thinking the blow up sex doll was probably the Pappas’ bedfellow.

Soula shook her head in amazement at the crazy antics of her sister. “Perhaps she was using it as a dress maker’s dummy to tailor her homemade wedding dress on,” she suggested.

“Is there any news of the Pappas?” Iraklis asked, feeling duty bound to visit his former mentor in hospital when his supermarket shift ended.

“He appears to ‘ave ‘ad a personality transplant caused by ‘is blood transfusion,” Soula told him. “He’s bein’ nice to people.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Iraklis declared, fervently hoping at the very least the Pappas’ personality transplant would last until he had finished his duty visit.

Conversation was interrupted by moronic Mitsos barging into the hardware shop, shouting “’Ere Yanni, grab yous chainsaw. Adonis needs our muscle at the ‘otel, those Doomsday trippers are practically causing a riot.”

The two men rushed off to the hotel, with Nitsa following in close pursuit. Adonis was struggling to make himself heard above the heated complaints of the end of the worlders all shouting at once. Bald Yannis quickly restored order by revving the chainsaw and demanding “Adoni, what is the problem?”

Adonis attempted to reply but his lone voice was drowned out by the crowd of Doomsday trippers all shouting that the hotel keeper had tripled his usual prices and was demanding cash up front. Bald Yannis silenced the crowd by once again revving his chainsaw and demanding they let Adonis speak.

Adonis had promised Bald Yannis a generous backhander from his inflated prices as a cut for scheming up the scam and was grateful for his chain-sawing intervention. Adonis calmly explained market forces were responsible for the increase in prices as demand for his hotel rooms’ outstripped availability. He wanted cash upfront as he’d heard the tales of other false apocalypses resulting in hotel owners being left bankrupt by cultists running up huge bills after handing over all their worldly goods to evangelical leaders.

“He’s right. Look ‘ow many gave all their money to that Harold Camping with ‘is ‘end times’ predictions,” Bald Yannis interrupted, having researched previous scams. “’Ow is Adonis supposed to know which of yous ‘aven’t given all yous money to a cult leader and wont’s be able to pay yous bill?”

A number of the crowd became red-faced, recalling stupidly sending money to Camping who had refused to return it when his 2011 rapture prediction proved to be a damp squib.

“’An if yous really believe the world will end everywhere except ‘ere then yous must believe all currency will become valueless, so yous might as well spend it all now at the ‘otel, tavernas an’ hardware shop,” Bald Yannis reasoned.

With their outrage over the rip off prices quelled the crowd of Doomsday trippers meekly handed their cash over before collecting their room keys. As the last straggler disappeared Bald Yannis high- fived Adonis, saying “like taking candy from a baby. I just knew these eejits would be gullible.”

Chapter 3

Stapling the Old Fool

Mail order Masha was in no mood for her secret assignation with the smitten young reporter. After barely escaping death at the crazed hands of the besotted stalker who’d been pursuing Prosperous Pedros and attacking the Pappas with a church candlestick, leaving him handcuffed to the altar, Masha wanted nothing more than a sugary fix of galaktoboureko. Remembering the promise she’d made to Vasilis to resist fattening temptations she abstained from giving in to her cravings for the custard delight and instead headed home to check up on her old fool of a husband.

“Great bowls of borscht,” Masha exclaimed on arriving home to discover the pan full of Russian red soup she’d chucked over crazy Koula still needed cleaning up from the kitchen floor.

“I suppose it was too much to expect yous bone idle carcass to lick it up,” Masha admonished Onos the donkey who was standing in a trance like state in the kitchen. Masha let out a sudden yelp as she realised the donkey was standing guard over the prostrate form of her husband.

“If yous ‘ave been at them Viagra again yous old fool, I swear I’ll divorce yous,” Masha cried. “Get up Vasili.”

That old fool Vasilis was in no state to answer his wife. He had been lying in a pool of borscht for many hours since slipping in the slimy soupy mess and cracking his head wide open on the floor tiles. Blood from his gaping head wound seeped into the spilled soup, creating a dramatic crimson pattern around his pasty-faced head.

Hurling herself on the floor Masha grabbed her husband’s head, shaking it in frustration. When Vasilis failed to respond she dropped his head with a sickening thud and ran to grab a mirror to check if he was still breathing. When the mirror misted over she sprang into action and phoned Pancratius the village policeman in a panic.

“There’s another mad person on the loose, someone ‘as attacked Vasilis. He’s out cold on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Yous must come and investigate at once.”

“Good grief is there no end to the crime wave sweeping through the village?” Pancratius shouted, rushing into Masha’s kitchen.

“Yous was quick,” Masha praised the policeman.

“I was right outside sticking my crime scene tape up,” Pancratius replied, giving Vasilis the once over. “The old fool doesn’t look too healthy; we must get him to the hospital urgently. Grab his legs Masha and we’ll chuck him in the back of the police car.”

Sirens blared as the police car sped off to the hospital where that old fool Vasilis was unceremoniously dumped into a hospital bed next to the Pappas. The doctor immediately pronounced the old fool needed his head wound stapling together and wheeled him off to the operating theatre, ominously proclaiming “it is touch and go if he’ll survive.” For once the smitten old doctor was too flustered from the disruption caused by the hoax bomb scare to give his undivided attention to Masha who started wailing and beating her voluptuous silicone chest at the prospect of becoming a pregnant widow.

“There, there,” the Pappas attempted to console her. “If the worst happens your husband has had a good innings and will find a place in heaven. You’re far too attractive to remain a widow for long.”

Ceasing her wailing Masha glared at the Pappas suspiciously. He certainly wasn’t himself as he usually referred to her as a shameless gold digging trollop. Pulling herself together she declared, “I must telephone Stavroula and let ‘er know ‘er father might not survive ‘aving ‘is ‘ead stapled back together. She will want to be by ‘is bedside.”

As Masha dashed off to place the call a gruff voice greeted Pancratius, saying, “I wish to report a serious crime, someone ‘as kidnapped my mother.”

Rolling his eyes at this ludicrous assertion the policeman suggested Fotis had simply misplaced his ancient mother in the mayhem ensuing from the hospital bomb scare. “When did you last see her?” he questioned.

As Fotis shrugged his shoulders trying to recall when he had last seen his mother, the Pappas volunteered, “She was the first to rappel down the sheet to the car park. I couldn’t believe my eyes. One minute she was lying there like a skeletal corpse and the next she was sprightly personified. I forgive you all for leaving me here in my weakened state even though I could have been blown up.”

“Get over yourself,” Masha sneered, re-entering the room. “Yous know full well it was the blasted parrot squawking and not a real bomb. As for yous Foti, why aren’t yous out lookin’ for yous mother instead of cluttering up this ‘ospital room?”

“Now I’ve reported ‘er kidnapping to the police authorities I will ‘ead out an’ look for ‘er,” the now chastened Fotis decided with a twirl of his moustache.

“The police need to be out lookin’ for the mad person what attacked my ‘usband. That should be their priority. None of us are safe until the mad man is caught,” Masha asserted.

“And possibly murdered someone too,” Pancratius gulped, having just received a telephone call from Toothless Tasos saying Deirdre was adamant she had spotted the corpse of a naked woman floating in the harbour. This sudden crime wave was more than Pancratius could cope with and made him long for the days when his biggest problem had been the elusive underwear thief. He was certain Koula had been the correct person to arrest as she’d been caught in the act attacking Masha, but now he was confronted with an unknown aggressor on the loose who had assaulted Vasilis and possibly murdered a woman before dumping her body in the harbour. Pancratius suddenly blanched, saying “Perhaps it is a serial nutter and they have attacked Vasilis, committed murder and kidnapped Kyria Moustakos. Foti, have you had any ransom demands?”

“Dont’s be so ridiculous, Fotis ‘asn’t got any money. What would they demand, a kilo of sardines?” Masha mocked the policeman.

Confirming no demands had been made Fotis slunk out to do a bed to bed check of the hospital, hoping his ancient mother had simply slipped back into the wrong bed unnoticed in the earlier confusion. The Pappas suggested Masha should pray for her husband’s safe deliverance in the operating theatre, only to be told, “Shut up, yous fraudulent god botherer.”

By the time Stavroula and Slick Socrates rolled up Masha had bitten through her false nail extensions as her pregnancy prevented her from turning to vodka.

“What ‘appened?” Stavroula demanded.

“My ‘usband was attacked by a deranged dangerous mad man an’ might not survive,” Masha told her.

“’As he put his affairs in order with a formal will?” Stavroula whispered to Socrates. The colour drained from her face when Socrates confirmed with a nod that Vasilis had put nothing in writing. Stavroula’s brain went into overtime calculating how much of his fortune would go to Masha and the impending baby before she got her own share of his loot.

“Yous need to get ‘im to sign something in my favour if he comes round,” she hissed to her lawyer lover. “We cant’s let the gold digging floozy get everything.”

“She won’t. Under forced heirship laws you will get more than Masha but the same as the baby, unless it turns out he has more love children yet to crawl out of the woodwork,” Socrates explained, adding “but you could use your charm to persuade him to write a will in your favour.”

“’Ow can yous sit there talkin’ about ‘is money at a time like this?” Masha asked accusingly. “Yous ‘ave the bare cheek to call me a gold digger yet yous sit there plotting ‘ow to divvy up ‘is assets before he’s even cold in ‘is grave.”

“Nonsense Masha, yous misheard me. Yous know what high esteem I ‘old my newly found father in,” Stavroula protested. In truth she had become somewhat fond of Vasilis, but her affection was outweighed by her greed.

“Now don’t all crowd him at once, he’s still in a coma,” the doctor announced, wheeling Vasilis back into the hospital room.

“My love,” Masha screamed, throwing herself on top of her husband.

“Father,” Stavroula cried, attempting to land on the body before Masha could make contact. The pair of them screamed in pain as their heads violently collided. Socrates and the doctor yanked them off Vasilis, while the doctor admonished, “give him some air ladies; he’s only just been stapled.”

Masha and Stavroula each requisitioned a hospital chair, glowering at each other across Vasilis’ borscht stained comatose body. The arrival of a very drenched young Iraklis dispelled the tension as the two women didn’t want to wash their dirty laundry in public.

At the sight of mail order Masha, the love goddess of his dreams, the dripping Iraklis perked up, blushing profusely and stuttering insensibly as he handed the Pappas a spinach pie from the bakery.

“Bless you my boy, it is so good of you to come and visit,” the Pappas said. “I am so worried there will be no one to care for the needs of my parishioners whilst I am laid up in here. Perhaps Irakli, you would reconsider your decision to leave the church and minister to those in need in my absence.”

“I’m sorry Pappas but I can’t let Fat Christos down in the supermarket. It’s exceptionally busy as the village is bursting with Doomsday trippers,” Iraklis replied, having no intention of allowing himself to be manipulated ever again by the devious older man.

“But someone must be there to guide those misguided pilgrims who have come from afar for a false revelation,” the Pappas insisted.

“That false revelation is very good for the village coffers,” Socrates stated, reminding Stavroula she could hardly keep up with the foreign demand for her traditional moussaka and baklava.

“Those Kazakhs can’t get enough of my meze, they say it tastes like ambrosia after their usual diet of boiled ‘orse meat,” Stavroula boasted. “Irakli, if yous ‘ave got any free time I’m in urgent need of someone to wash up whilst my father is lying around ‘ere like a vegetable.”

“I could probably fit in an hour or two when I’ve finished for the day in the supermarket,” Iraklis agreed. Mrs Kolokotronis had stressed to him the importance of saving his wages should he be lucky enough to find a nice girl to settle down with. Iraklis had opened a savings account, making regular deposits with gusto, and welcomed the chance to boost his bank balance with extra work.

“I can pay yous in good hearty home cooking,” Stavroula told him.

“And how will you explain that to the taxman?” Iraklis questioned, having no intention of allowing Stavroula to exploit him. “It wouldn’t be seemly. I can’t put paidakia and pastitsio in my bank account and Mrs Kolokotronis would be offended if I didn’t eat her delicious cooking.”

The smitten old doctor returned to shine a flashlight in Vasilis’ eyes. “In your condition you must get some rest Masha. I think your husband will remain in a coma overnight. You could have a lie down on the couch in my office,” he offered with a lustful glint.

“If yous think I should rest I will call a taxi and go ‘ome,” Masha said, shattering the doctor’s dreams of cosying up with her and impressing her with his medical credentials. “I ‘ave to feed the donkey, Vasilis would never forgive me if I neglected ‘er. Stavroula can stay at ‘is bedside. Irakli, would yous like a lift in the taxi?”

“Oh Masha, that is most generous of you,” Iraklis stuttered, stunned his dreams of being up close and personal with Masha would come true in the forced proximity of a taxi. Stavroula frowned at the thought of being lumbered with the comatose Vasilis, but craftily realised the best way to elbow Masha out of his will and ingratiate herself as the sole beneficiary of her father’s fortune was to hold fast by his bedside.

“I will stay with my poor comatose father Masha. You should go home and put yous swollen ankles up,” Stavroula declared, unwittingly insulting Masha who considered her ankles were svelte sirens of seduction since she’d turned her back on sugar.

“What about yous taverna?” Masha asked, suddenly suspicious of Stavroula’s motives for willingly hanging around in the hospital. Her question was interrupted by the arrival of Fotini who immediately began spraying every available surface with bleach, muttering “I dont’s want to get any of them ‘orrible ‘ospital germs.”

Liberally spraying Vasilis with the bleach Fotini said, “This will ‘elp get rid of the smell of donkey, the old fool reeks like a barnyard. Stavroula, if yous intends to stay ‘ere with Vasilis I expect Melecretes could be persuaded to step in an’ do a bit of cookin’ in yous taverna. He fancies staying on for a bit in Greece rather than rushing back to the snowy hell hole of Idaho.”

Stavroula eagerly accepted Fotini volunteering her house guest up to cook in the taverna as it solved her dilemma of how to be on hand to persuade Vasilis to name her as his only heir without losing customers.

“There’s no sign of mother anywhere, she’s not in the hospital,” Fotis cried in a panic, returning to the room following a fruitless search.

“Yous mother is outside in Nitsa’s taxi, but yous can’t ‘ave ‘er back till you’ve paid the fare,” Fotini announced.

“Are yous sayin’ Nitsa kidnapped my poor mother?” Fotis asked incredulously.

“Dont’s be so cretinous, we did yous a favour by bringing ‘er back ‘ere from Astakos. The old crone ‘ad no clue where she was or ‘ow she got there,” Fotini revealed. “She was sitting on a bench staring out to sea; it’s a good job Nitsa recognised ‘er.”

Fotis dashed out of the room at remarkable speed for a geriatric fisherman, delighted at the prospect of another opportunity to propose to Nitsa.

“Don’t forget to give the Pappas a good spraying, he reeks of fake religious fervour,” Masha muttered as Fotini prepared to pursue Fotis down the corridor. Kissing Vasilis goodbye Masha breezily headed out to the taxi with Iraklis.

“Nitsa, yous know I love yous, say yous will marry me,” Fotis was pleading with Nitsa whilst rummaging through his pockets in search of stray coins to make up the exorbitant taxi fare Nitsa was extorting for delivering his mother back to the hospital.

“I can’t marry yous if it means livin’ with yous mother, it would cramp my style. Yous will just ‘ave to settle for me bein’ yous girlfriend until yous mother croaks it,” Nitsa replied, counting the notes and coins Fotis handed over. “What about my tip yous old skinflint?” she demanded petulantly.

“’Ow about I bring yous a tasty cuttlefish round later as yous ‘ave cleaned me out of cash?” Fotis asked.

“Don’t think yous can wheedle yourself back into my good books with a bit of fish, it will take at least a lobster and a bottle of five star Metaxa to get me feelin’ frisky, ” Nitsa pouted.

With that Nitsa released the central locking to allow Kyria Moustakos out of the taxi. As Fotis gave his mother a fireman’s lift back into the hospital, Masha and Iraklis piled into the taxi with the two old crones. Iraklis swooned with pleasure as Masha placed one delicate hand on his thigh and leaned in to whisper, “I am so faint with hunger I could eat an ‘orse. Irakli, be an angel and go back to my ‘ouse to feed the donkey while I grab a bite to eat at the taverna.”

Blushing bright red as Masha’s warm breath tickled the acne on the back of his neck, Iraklis gibbered in agreement. It crossed his mind that if Masha could eat a horse he was perhaps saving the donkey from turning up on the evening’s menu.

Chapter 4

Evangelia’s Peculiar Hobby

Sighing wearily Evangelia turned the beauty parlour sign to ‘Closed’ and began sweeping hair from the floor. Her feet ached from standing since early morning and she was all gossiped out chattering about the events of the day. The thought of a mad man on the loose in the village made her nervous so she stuffed a large can of hair spray and a pair of sharp scissors in her handbag to ward off any attackers. She was looking forward to kicking her shoes off and catching up with her favourite hobby.

Ever since her divorce twenty years earlier Evangelia had lived alone in the apartment over the salon with just a cohort of cats for company. The only man to attract her interest was Prosperous Pedros, but she had given up on him long ago as he made it quite obvious he had no intention of becoming romantically entangled. She rarely socialised, finding she’d had quite enough of people after spending the day perfecting the villagers’ perms, trimming their nose hair and waxing their moustaches. Her expectations of a quiet retirement at fifty had been shattered by the new laws declaring hair dressing was no longer considered a dangerous occupation. Realising she would now be expected to work till she dropped she’d decided to take on an assistant. She hoped with a bit of experience under her belt the new trainee could be left in charge, allowing Evangelia the chance to combine her favourite hobby with travel.

It had taken months for Evangelia to find someone to train. Not many young people were interested in moving to a backwater village where the hardware shop was the only place selling women’s fashion and the clientele at the beauty parlour comprised cantankerous old men stinking of fish and women whose sense of style was stuck in the dark ages. Luckily Thea had suggested her goddaughter Sofia would be perfect for the position as she was eager to learn how to style hair and makeup professionally. Evangelia was blissfully unaware Sofia’s dream job was working with corpses. Sofia’s uncle, the proud owner of Cosy Coffins Funeral Home, had been a tad suspicious of Sofia’s enthusiasm for getting up close and personal with dead bodies and insisted she gain a years experience working on living people before he would let her loose on his corpses. The supposedly enthusiastic youngster was due to arrive in Astakos from Athens the next day.

After feeding the cats Evangelia kicked off her shoes and carried a Greek coffee out to the balcony, sighing with relief to take the weight off her feet. Barely glancing at the spectacular sunset her prime position above the harbour afforded, she grabbed the salon scissors ready to slit open the envelopes of the four letters she’d received that day. Petros the postman’s curiosity was getting the better of him and he had slipped into the pesky habit of making sly comments, prying to discover if the constant stream of mail bearing foreign stamps were billets-doux. Not trusting him not to blab about the steady supply of letters arriving from overseas she made a mental note to complain about his gossiping ways at the post office. She refused to allow her sudden annoyance to dampen her excitement for the contents of the letters.

A flutter of anticipation caused her breast to heave as she prepared to read the tender words penned by one of America’s most notorious serial killers housed on death row. Stan the Salt Lake City Strangler swore he was innocent, insistent it was an abominable case of mistaken identity that led to him being arrested for the bevy of choked corpses found accumulated in his cellar. He enclosed a photograph of his pudgy white hands to demonstrate to Evangelia they were not the hands of a killer. Evangelia made a mental note to enclose an emery board with her reply, noting Stan’s cuticles were in a terrible condition.

Evangelia blushed and grabbed her palpitating chest when a naked photograph of Arsenic Anthony’s muscle ripped torso fell out of the next envelope. “Po po, that looks nasty,” she muttered, staring at the suppurating infected tattoo reading ‘EVAN’ emblazoned across his bare chest. Arsenic Anthony explained a fellow death row con had improvised with melted plastic but he’d only had enough cigarettes to pay for the first four letters of her name. He begged her to send him some more prison currency so he could cough up the necessary to pay for the remaining five letters. Evangelia made a mental note to stock up on cigarettes at the supermarket, hoping Fat Christos would not ask awkward questions about her sudden nicotine habit. She had no idea she was being scammed and the convicted murderer’s chest actually bore the name of his prison bitch Evan.

Evangelia had corresponded with her next pen pal for over two years, sharing sweet secrets with the manipulative Marvin the Mincer who had cleverly convinced her of his innocence. Marvin was languishing on death row having been found guilty of chopping up his victims, feeding their body parts through a mincer and turning them into meat pies he sold on a market stall. As a side line he stuffed pillows he enjoyed embroidering in his spare time with his victims’ hair.

Evangelia had recently boasted to Marvin she had a famous client, the weather girl Masha. Ever since Marvin had Googled Masha on the prison computer he’d developed an unhealthy obsession with the Russian beauty, showing more interest in her voluptuous assets and long blonde hair, than in Evangelia. Stabbed through with jealousy the hairdresser hadn’t the heart to break off their correspondence. However, as she perused his latest missive in which he begged her to send him some cuttings of Masha’s hair, her hackles rose and made her question if she really was a good judge of character. She made a mental note to never mention Masha again to Marvin the Mincer and to make sure any hair she swept up from the salon floor was thrown in the compost.

Evangelia’s, by now obsessive hobby, began as an innocent pastime. When she first started writing to condemned men on death row she had welcomed the chance to practice her written English and to develop relationships with men she would never have to face in the flesh. She’d turned each killer, in her by now considerable motley collection, into her personal project, convinced they were all misunderstood. All they needed was the love of a good woman to reform them. Now she had to admit it was all getting a tad out of hand. At her last count she was secretly engaged to three serial killers and was mulling over the marriage proposals of another two murderers, but she hadn’t the heart to reject them.

The final letter was from her favourite fiancé, a serial killer called Gonzalo, who penned the sweetest letters. His plea that she visit America so they could tie the knot in prison was quite tempting as Evangelia had developed a definite soft spot for Gonzalo. Although she wanted to believe he was innocent there was substantial evidence pointing to his guilt as a serial bigamist who had married and murdered his wives for their life insurance. She felt reassured that if they made it legal by exchanging vows on telephones divided by a bullet proof glass partition there would be no financial inducement for Gonzalo to finish her off as he was permanently banned from taking out any more insurance policies. In fact he’d told Evangelia she should take a life insurance policy out on him, promising her she would be ‘quids in’ when it was time for him to take his seat in the electric chair. Evangelia made a mental note to check out the cost of the premiums.

Hunched over a lavender scented notepad Evangelia composed replies to the men in her life, while calculating whether she had enough cash stashed away to fly out to meet up with Gonzalo on Kentucky’s death row. With the ink barely dry she found a frame for Arsenic Anthony’s naked torso and added it to the collection of prisoner photographs cluttering up her bedside table. Even if all her prison pen-pals were as devoted to her as they professed Evangelia had to admit to herself she was still lonely, but was too afraid to commit to a man she could actually get her hands on.

Chapter 5

Old Crone Power

‘Call me Mel’ Melecretes was thoroughly enjoying his impromptu visit to Greece and hoped to use this opportunity to explore his Greek heritage. Although it involved sifting through mountains of dusty old files stored in offices staffed by obstreperous civil servants he was determined to discover if he was related to Nitsa as their familial moustaches indicated. He found the companionship of Fotini, Nitsa and Hattie most delightful. When he turned on his charm offensive they made a great fuss of him, pampering his every need and refusing to let him lift a finger. He was in no rush to return home to Idaho as his restaurant ‘Granny’s Greek Gyros’ was running smoothly in the capable hands of his brother.

Melecretes huddled under a blanket on the sofa waiting for the two old crones to return from their taxi run and put a match to the fire already laid in the grate. Although he was a dab hand in the kitchen he considered any other form of domestic chores beneath him as a manly moustached Greek.

“Brrr, it’s cold in here,” a sodden Hattie announced, returning from a brisk walk. “Why didn’t you light the fire Mel?”

“That is women’s work. I have been engaged in much loftier things, my dear Hattie,” Melecretes replied, referring to his ongoing communications with the ambulance chasing lawyer who was determined to win hefty compensation for the outrageous treatment meted out to the two old crones by the heartless TSA authorities who had strip searched and detained them at the airport.

“It pains me to recount the details of the torture poor Fotini and Nitsa suffered,” he sighed to Hattie’s sceptically raised eyebrows. “Luckily those eejits at Amnesty International ‘ave been persuaded to adopt Nitsa as the face of their latest poster protesting against torture.”

“Tortured, my hat,” Hattie replied, putting a match to the fire. “Still, a bit of compensation would come in handy to supplement their meagre pensions.”

“Any interesting news from the village?” Melecretes asked.

“Oh just the usual,” Hattie replied, completely clueless about any of the exciting events that had recently unfolded. “Stavroula’s taverna was closed so I had to have coffee in the kafenion and got chatting to some of those Doomsday trippers. It’s hard to believe they could be so gullible as to fall for this end of the world nonsense and hand over good money to pay for Adonis’ overpriced hotel rooms and Bald Yannis’ rip-off apocalypse kits.”

Melecretes shook his head in agreement while inwardly laughing. He had heard all about Hattie’s own gullibility by handing over a fortune to a fraudulent Nigerian cat fisher who had wooed her with excruciating declarations of love and conned her into buying her own engagement ring.

“That sounds like Nitsa now,” Hattie proclaimed at the sound of the old Mercedes taxi crashing into Quentin’s new ornate garden gate. The pair of them rushed outside to survey the damage.

“It’s a good job yous were driving slowly Nitsa otherwise yous might ‘ave done some serious damage to the taxi,” Melecretes exclaimed, taking a look at the now mangled gate. The latest dent in Nitsa’s bumper was barely discernible amidst the multitude of others.

Nitsa climbed down from the pile of magazines she was perched on and staggered unsteadily out of the taxi, the others gawping at her frightful appearance. Her dyed neon orange mop was streaked with unsightly brittle white patches, the result of Fotini being a bit free with the bottle of spray bleach on the hair-pin bends.

“Tell me you didn’t pay good money for that hairdo in the beauty parlour?” Hattie spluttered.

“I told yous to watch what yous was doing with that bleach,” Nitsa shouted at Fotini, contorting her frame to peer at her hair in the taxi’s wing mirror and muttering “’ow bad is it?”

“Po po, there’s nothing wrong with yous ‘air, it just needs a bit of a fluff,” Fotini lied. “It’s better to ‘ave some bleached bits than risk ‘orrible germs from the ‘ospital breeding on yous ‘ead.”

Nitsa raised her hands to fluff up her hair but as her bony fingers became entangled in the locks large clumps of the disastrously bleached brittle hair broke off. The others looked on in shocked horror as Nitsa, clad in her hideous old lady dress and wrinkled pop socks, clutched fistfuls of hair. One half of her orange moustache had received the bleach treatment and fell away as she rubbed her fingers across it.

“See what yous ‘ave done now Fotini. Yous ‘ave sent me ‘alf bald with yous obsession with bleaching,” Nitsa shouted as more and more clumps of brittle hair broke away from her scalp.

“At least yous wont’s ‘ave to ‘ave yous moustache waxed,” Fotini chortled. “Well, only ‘alf of it.”

“’As anyone got any superglue?” Melecretes demanded, hoping to find a way to reattach the clumps of hair back onto Nitsa’s scalp.

“No, but I ‘ave just the thing to hide the bald bits,” Fotini offered, whistling to the parrot to fly over and perch on Nitsa’s head. The parrot refused to be tempted, preferring to cast disdainful looks at the ridiculous humans from its superior position on a high branch of an olive tree.

“What’s all this commotion?” Quentin shouted, emerging from his house and spying his recently acquired ornate gate in its newly mangled state. His question was somewhat muffled as he had taken the precaution of investing in a bee keeper’s hat to protect his scalp from the persistent unwanted advances of the parrot. The rest of his body was clad in a protective bee keeper’s outfit. Melecretes, not familiar with the sight of rural beekeeping outfits, mistook Quentin’s ridiculous costume for a hazmat suit and went into a full blown panic, shouting “oh my God, when did the quarantine start? We are all going to die of Ebola.”

“Pull youself together Mel, the only Ebola round ‘ere is the cuddly kind Fat Christos flogs in the supermarket,” Nitsa reassured him.

“It looks like the gormless wonder ‘as started keeping bees but is probably clueless and will likely do himself a serious damage,” Fotini cackled.

“Ah, but think of the benefits of all that fresh honey,” Melecretes hastily pointed out; embarrassed he’d made a fool of himself by presuming a nasty plague was about to decimate the village.

“This bee keeper’s hat is to protect my head from your blasted parrot. Unfortunately the only one I could find was attached to a full-body protective suit,” Quentin explained, lifting the visor to make his words decipherable. Catching sight of the parrot he hastily slipped the visor back into place but stood his ground firmly, daring the bird to try anything.

“Worth every cent,” he triumphantly cried when the parrot for once ignored him.  Retreating indoors before the others could notice his visor had steamed up and sweat was dripping from the bottom of his trouser legs, Quentin made a parting shot, threatening to send Nitsa a bill to have the gate repaired.

“’Ow am I supposed to afford that on my meagre pension?” Nitsa called after Quentin as he slammed his front door. “It’s not enough that I’m nearly bald, now K-Went-In expects me to fork out for his vanity gate.”

“Nitsa, worry not, I am a manly moustached Greek man and more than capable of mending K-Went-In’s mangled gate,” Melecretes said. “What’s more it will be my pleasure to pay for yous to ‘ave yous ‘air repaired at the beauty parlour.”

“Ooh Mel, yous is such a good boy, I really do ‘ope we is related,” Nitsa gushed, clasping him to her bosom.

“Steady on Nitsa, yous bleach might be catching,” Mel protested through a mouthful of her fallen off hair, attempting to extricate himself from her suffocating embrace.

“I’ve got some news that will make yous day Mel,” Fotini announced. “Stavroula is determined not to shift from that old fool Vasilis’ bedside till he comes out of ‘is coma so I ‘ave volunteered yous services to run ‘er taverna.”

“Fotini, I could kiss yous,” Mel declared joyously, delighted to have the chance to show off his culinary skills in the village.

“Keep yous lips to yous self, yous young pervert,” Fotini shouted, desperately flapping her arms to keep him at a safe distance.

“Can I persuade yous to come an’ ‘elp me in the kitchen Fotini?” Mel asked. “There’s nothing like the experience of a Greek granny to add the authentic touch to traditional Greek dishes.”

“Po po, I’m not likely to ever be a granny with Pedros’ pathological obsession with avoiding women intent on ensnaring ‘im in romantic entanglements,” Fotini huffed. “But I could give yous a hand in Stavroula’s kitchen. It would get me out of the ‘ouse.”

“What a team we will make,” Mel beamed delightedly.

“An’ I can pick up unwilling passengers in the taxi and deliver ‘em to taste yous cooking,” Nitsa offered.

“I’ve had an idea too, I am going to start keeping bees,” Hattie declared. Determined not to be left out she’d impulsively decided to steal the beekeeper’s suit off her son’s back and produce her own honey. High-fiving Fotini and Hattie, Nitsa crowed, “Old Crone Power.”

“Yous three ladies are going to be so busy there won’t be a moment left to get on with the housework,” Melecretes mused. If they expected him to pitch in with the household chores he would be reluctantly forced to move into Adonis’ hotel.

“I might ‘ave the solution to that,” Nitsa cackled, pointing to Fotis arriving clutching a lobster and a bottle of brandy.

Chapter 6

Bathing in Oil

“Ooh Yanni, this is so thrilling. I never dreamt I would ever ‘ave an ‘andsome ‘usband whisking me off to eat in a taverna,” Soula cooed excitedly as Bald Yannis escorted her into ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima.’

“Yous can’t bring that goat in ‘ere Bald Yanni,” Takis protested at the sight of the hardware shop man’s pet goat Agapimeni kitted out in a cheery daffodil yellow jerkin with a matching bow. “The only goats welcome in ‘ere are the ones we serve up on plates.”

Bald Yannis was about to object but the sight of Soula’s crestfallen face persuaded him not to kick up a fuss on her special evening and risk being banned from the taverna again. Instead he meekly led his darling goat outside, tying her lead to a low lying lemon tree branch close to the door.

The taverna was packed to the gills with local villagers and Doomsday trippers vying for tables. Adonis beckoned Bald Yannis and Soula to join him at the table he was sharing with Quentin and Deirdre, saying “let me buy yous a drink for sorting out those foreign Doomsday morons earlier.”

Quentin gave Deirdre a sharp kick under the table, warning her to conceal her obvious displeasure at being stuck at the same table as Bald Yannis.

“’Ave things settled down now at the ‘otel?” Yannis asked Adonis.

“There was a bit of an incident when some rich Kazakh sent ‘is bodyguard down to complain there was no bathtub. Apparently he likes to bathe in a tub full of oil every evening.”

“What a wicked waste of extra virgin,” Yiota piped up, depositing a platter of tasty lamb chops sprinkled with oregano on the table.

“Not olive oil. He likes to soak ‘imself in a spa treatment of crude oil, it’s some old Soviet custom,” Adonis explained.

“That wouldn’t do yous sceptic tank any good,” Bald Yannis opined. “It’s a good job the ‘otel only ‘as showers.”

“I’d never let crude oil anywhere near my lobster adorned shower curtains,” Adonis said.

Gorgeous Yiorgos, sitting with Prosperous Pedros and Tall Thomas, was complaining Stavroula had unceremoniously thrown him out of her taverna earlier without explanation, barely giving him chance to tuck into his moussaka.

“Well I ‘eard on the gossip vine that old fool Vasilis was attacked by a madman and rushed to ‘ospital. ‘Appen Stavroula dashed to his bedside,” Prosperous Pedros volunteered. As news of this supposed attack on Vasilis sank in the customers were surprised to see mail order Masha enter the taverna noticeably less glamorous than usual.

“Is it true yous ‘usband ‘as been attacked an’ is in the ‘ospital?” Takis asked Masha.

“It’s a tragedy,” Masha confirmed with a weary sigh. “The old fool had to ‘ave his head stapled together and he’s lying there in a coma like a dribbling vegetable.”

“’Ow come yous is not at the ‘ospital with yous ‘usband,” Takis questioned.

“I’ve been there for hours. The doctor recommended I come ‘ome for a rest. Vasilis would never forgive me if I wasn’t ‘ere to tend to the donkey,” Masha protested, neglecting to mention her donkey duties were being attended to by Iraklis.

“There, there, of course you deserve a break Masha,” Deirdre sympathised, inviting the mail order bride to join them. “You have to keep your strength up now you’re eating for two my dear.”

“I’m eating for three, but Yannis doesn’t believe in breaks,” Soula muttered under her breath, before slapping a hand to her mouth guiltily when she remembered her husband was treating her to a break at this very moment.

“Why’s Toothless Tasos lurking outside?” Gorgeous Yiorgos asked just as the fisherman reluctantly walked in, circumnavigating the tables to avoid having to greet the pair of Scottish tourists he had rented his living room floor to. Joining the other fishermen he dispensed with the niceties, poured a glass of wine and immediately started grumbling his home was overrun with unwanted visitors.

“Thea is fussing about getting ready for her goddaughter Sofia who arrives tomorrow. She spent all afternoon nagging me to move my fishing buckets an’ bait out of the spare bedroom. The minute I dumped ‘em on the living room floor that Scottish pair kicked up a stink, objecting to the smell of fetid fish,” Toothless Tasos complained, tilting his head towards Hamish and Fenella, who completely oblivious, were tucking into fried squid. In truth Tasos hadn’t understood a single word the pair uttered in their thick Scottish accents, but he’d got the message they weren’t prepared to sleep next to his fish buckets when they resorted to demonstrating their displeasure by attaching clothes pegs to the end of their noses.

“Thea ‘asn’t even got time for the cat and yous all know ‘ow she dotes on that malaka creature. I tried to make it feel at ‘ome by making a bed for it out of one of Fenella’s posh frocks.”

The fishermen all turned in unison to stare at Fenella who was covered from head to toe in cat hairs and clad in the hideous old lady dress Hamish had bought in the hardware shop. Toothless Tasos’ grumbles were interrupted by the arrival of Thea screeching like a fish wife. Grabbing her fiancé tightly by the ear she yanked him from his seat, demanding “is it too much to expect a bit of help around the house? Sofia is arriving tomorrow and I don’t want word getting back to Athens that we live like a pair of slobs in your tatty old fisherman’s cottage.”

“Well that’s fine thanks after I took yous in when the debt collectors were banging on yous door,” Toothless Tasos hissed as he was dragged away, embarrassed by Thea making a scene in the taverna.

“Och, what a shame, I was hoping to buy our host a drink,” Hamish said to his wife. The Scottish couple were delighted with their accommodation in the quaint fishing cottage and were looking forward to boasting to all their friends they had experienced authentic Greek hospitality, if, by any chance the world didn’t end on apocalypse day and they survived to tell the tale.

Hamish asked Takis to send a jug of wine to the table of fishermen in a gesture of friendship. Prosperous Pedros, raising his glass in thanks, became flustered by the fixated gaze of Fenella. Following crazy Koula’s unnatural obsession with him Pedros was convinced random women were after his body and had no intention of letting any of them get their hands on it. He was clueless Fenella was simply admiring his fisherman’s pullover and wondering where she could buy one for Hamish.

Soula was torn between ordering lamb chops and chicken. “There’s no need to go over the top and choose the most expensive dish,” Bald Yannis reprimanded Soula, settling the matter by telling Yiota they would both have fava and fasolakia.

“You must try some of my lamb chops Soula,” Deirdre offered, cringing at Bald Yannis’ penny-pinching insensitivity. “Yiota always cooks far too many.”

“I don’t mind if I do Did-Rees,” Bald Yannis beamed, spearing one of her chops with his fork.

“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Deirdre sneered.

“Well I was until this phantom pregnancy messed up my hormones,” he replied.

“Did-Rees, ‘ow many times do yous need telling lamb is a vegetable?” Prosperous Pedros piped up with a wink, re-igniting their long standing good-natured squabble.

Silence descended as a new arrival with a menacing presence entered the taverna, looking like a mafia reject in a three-piece black suit and ostentatiously dripping with heavy gold jewellery. His black hair was slicked back with grease and his long nose was topped with a thick monobrow. Nudging Bald Yannis, Adonis whispered “that’s the wealthy Kazakh who wanted to bathe in crude oil.”

Takis rushed over to seat the obviously rich customer who abruptly ordered a bottle of vodka and a glass to be sent to his bodyguard who was standing to attention outside the door. Knocking back a large glass of neat vodka the Kazakh stared Takis in the eye, saying “Your Russian tsai is most excellent. Do you have the penis of a horse?”

“Yous would ‘ave to ask Yiota about that,” Takis replied, nervous to offend the heavily built stranger but thinking the size of his manhood was none of this Kazakhs business.

“It is a great delicacy in my country. Perhaps you have the sheep’s head instead,” the Kazakh continued as it suddenly dawned on Takis the stranger was discussing the menu.

“My wife has cooked a delicious dish of beef kokkinisto,” Takis volunteered.

“Yes, bring it,” the Kazakh ordered. Glancing round the taverna he spotted mail order Masha and was instantly infatuated with her plastic beauty. Grabbing Takis’ sleeve he demanded, “Tell me, who is that enchantress with the voluptuous figure?”

“That is Masha, she’s a famous weather girl,” Takis told him.

“Send her a glass of vodka with my compliments,” the Kazakh instructed.

Sensing the taverna’s newest arrival practically undressing her with his eyes, mail order Masha retired to the bathroom to touch up her makeup and adjust her silicone cleavage. The stranger was a cut above her usual admirers and a harmless flirtation would take her mind off the vegetative state of her old husband. Returning to her seat she looked longingly at the glass of vodka sent by her new admirer before reluctantly telling Takis to tell the stranger she couldn’t accept it as she was pregnant.

“Tell ‘im youself,” Takis snapped, thinking it quite outrageous the Russian floozy was even entertaining the idea of flirting with this mafia hood whilst her husband was lying dead to the world in a coma.

“Allow me to present myself madam,” the Kazakh said, appearing at Masha’s side and planting an oily kiss on her hand. “I am Dastan from Kazakhstan, at your service. Allow me to say your beauty is magnificent.”

As Masha fluttered her false eyelashes Bald Yannis butted in, shouting “Masha is a married woman and yous attentions are unwanted,” whilst revving his chainsaw threateningly. The two men glowered at each other, but before further words could be exchanged Fat Christos burst into the taverna dragging Bald Yannis’ pet goat by its lead. Quentin and Deirdre had become so acclimatised to the goatly goings on in the village they barely raised an eyebrow at the sight of Agapimeni in the taverna, but the stunned look on the faces of Hamish and Fenella was quite priceless as they gawped open-mouthed.

The Kazakh bodyguard had released the goat from the lemon tree in annoyance when it started to chew through his trouser cuffs. Once free Agapimeni had gambolled into the supermarket where it caused chaos by knocking over Fat Christos’ display of fresh fruit before settling in to gnaw through the shelf of cuddly stuffed germs.

“Get that thing out. The only goats welcome in ‘ere are the ones we serve up on plates,” Takis roared at Fat Christos.

“I would welcome to eat the goat,” Dastan declared, licking his unnaturally thin lips. Addressing Bald Yannis he suggested “perhaps you could lend to me your chainsaw so I can prepare the goat for the cooking.”

“Yous jumped up Kazakh malaka, that goat is my darling pet,” Bald Yannis yelled, wielding his chainsaw in Dastan’s direction and chasing him out of the taverna.

Chapter 7

De-Icing Horses and Frozen Eyelashes

“I’ll take the goat home,” Soula reluctantly offered, upset that her first ever taverna evening would be cut short.

“Nonsense,” Yiota interjected. “I’ll tie Agapimeni up in the back yard. She’ll be safe there while yous finish yous meal.”

“I am sure Bald Yannis thought he was bein’ chivalrous and looking out for me but I am perfectly capable of handling admiring men. I would ‘ave liked to chat to that fellow whose country was part of our great Soviet Union. Sometimes I get ‘omesick for my motherland even though I ‘ad an ‘orrible time there. Not one of yous lot speaks Russian or ‘ave a clue what it was like growing up in Siberia,” Masha cried out, before dissolving in a hysterical flood of tears as the horrific events of the day finally caught up.

“He was just trying to protect yous honour,” Soula said in defence of her husband. “After all yous is a married woman Masha, with a baby on the way.”

“I know that Soula, but sometimes it is ‘ard being married to that old foolish relic. It is ‘ard to feel like an attractive woman when my ‘usband needs Viagra to perform, no longer bothers to woo me with compliments and expensive baubles, and thinks more of ‘is donkey than me,” Masha wept. “At least the Kazakh appreciated my womanly beauty an’ could speak my own language.”

“I can sympathise Masha. Yannis ‘as never wooed with me sweet nothings and he thinks more of his goat than me. But yous ‘ave to remember men ‘ave problems expressing their feelings,” Soula consoled Masha, secretly thinking the Russian bride was a tad ungrateful. Soula realised Masha thrived on the male attention she received as her natural due by virtue of being so gorgeous, and famous to boot.

Admiration from the opposite sex was something plain lame Soula had never experienced, having expected to remain a childless spinster until the day Bald Yannis turned up in the high mountain village of Osta with the matchmaker; no other man had ever looked twice at her. On the other hand she had fallen in love with Bald Yannis the moment he appeared as her saviour, but it was impossible to imagine she would have felt the same heartfelt emotion if it had been that wrinkled old prune Vasilis who came to her rescue.

“Oh Masha, you know Vasilis thinks the world of you,” Deirdre consoled her, even though she believed Masha would be far better matched with a younger, more vigorous man and considered the smitten young doctor a good catch for the Russian.

Quentin patted Masha’s knee sympathetically, telling her “Masha you are right, we are all so insensitive. You must long to speak to someone in your mother tongue. We really know nothing about your life in Russia before you moved to Greece to marry Vasilis, because we didn’t like to pry.”

“Oh K-Went-In, I tries not to think backwards to my time growing up in that Siberian wasteland of Verkhoyansk. I remember when yous all returned from yous trip to Idaho and complained incessantly about the cold and snow like such spineless wimps. Yous don’t know what cold is until yous ‘ave lived in a desolate place where the horses have to be de-iced. The air hangs dense with poisonous fumes because if people ‘ave cars they ‘ave to leave the engines running all day; they freeze up if turned off.”

“But surely Masha, you have some happy memories of Siberia,” Deirdre suggested.

“What, living in an ‘ouse where nothin’ came out of the frozen taps an’ the milk was delivered in frozen blocks, not to mention the constant fear of being eaten by wolves. One winter my drunken lout of a brutal father sent me out to hack ice for water an’ it was so cold my eyelashes froze solid an’ broke off,” Masha moaned. “Yous people simply don’t appreciate what a paradise Greece is.”

“Oh, but we do,” Quentin protested, vowing to never voice his petty complaints again.

Appreciative of the effort Quentin and Deirdre were finally making in trying to understand her background, Masha wiped her eyes and said “but I did look absolutely gorgeous in my Arctic fox ‘at with the sexy ear flaps. Vasilis took one look at the photograph of me in that ‘at and proposed instantly. He was ancient, but ‘ad a kind heart and offered me a ticket to live in this sunny place. People ‘ere called me a heartless gold digger, but I’m no different to Soula latching on to a man with a shop to escape her life of drudgery up the mountain.”

“It is true we both relied on men to change our fortunes in life but I never thought yous was a gold digger Masha, yous ‘ave a heart of gold. I will never forget ‘ow you gave me the dress off yous back and stuffed toilet roll in my bra for my wedding to Yannis,” Soula said with genuine affection for the other woman.

“I could cry when I hear of the hardships you two have endured,” Deirdre sighed. “I wish we could adopt the pair of you.”

“’Ow about yous is honorary grandparents to our babies,” Masha suggested with a smile.

Their confessional mood was interrupted by the brusque return of Bald Yannis who immediately helped himself to Deirdre’s last lamb chop before laying into Adonis at full volume.

“I thought yous said the Kazakh was a Doomsday tripper, yous malaka. It turns out he’s some smarmy businessman scouting for the next foreign place to drill for oil. If we allow ‘is type in the village the next thing yous know we’ll be livin’ on top of a big ‘ole spouting nasty black crude gunk that will kill all the olives and choke the goats. ‘Ow would yous lot fancy pulling fish out of an oil slick?”

All the taverna regulars gasped in horror on hearing Bald Yannis’ words. Not one of them would approve of a foreign company arriving in the village to exploit their beautiful land for oily profits and causing untold environmental damage.  They all started shouting at once to protest the very thought of such an abomination, until Adonis stood up as the voice of reason.

“There is not a shred of evidence Astakos is sitting on a sea of crude oil, so we must not panic. We must go to the Dimos tomorrow and find out if this is true. If the Kazakh is indeed an oil speculator with the evil intent to drill ‘ere we must stand firm against the politicians who would sell us out for the brown envelopes they would receive by allowing the despoliation of this glorious area.”

“I ‘ave a brainwave,” Bald Yannis yelled. “Masha yous must ‘ave dinner with the Kazakh.” Addressing the room he continued, “We could all see the slimy Kazakh ‘ad eyes for Masha an’ she could use ‘er womanly charms to get ‘im to reveal ‘is plans.”

“Yous soon changed yous tune Yanni. Not ten minutes ago yous chased ‘im out of ‘ere with a chainsaw because he had the temerity to introduce himself and kiss my ‘and,” Masha scoffed.

“Masha, I chased ‘im out of ‘ere because he wanted to cook Agapimeni,” Bald Yannis argued. “I stopped ‘im from chatting yous up because there was something definitely mafia like about him.”

“So now yous ‘ave decided I can fraternise with the mafia if it suits yous to ‘ave me spying?” Masha sneered.

“Masha, do it for the village,” Adonis pleaded. “Just ‘ave dinner with the malaka and find out what he’s up to. Yous will ‘ave the chance to speak Russian and talk about the goodly old times in the Soviet Union.”

Masha pretended to mull over the idea, but was secretly delighted at the prospect of dinner with the wealthy Kazakh and the opportunity to chat in Russian. Appearing reluctantly to relent she told Adonis “okay, yous can tell Dastan the Kazakh I will ‘ave dinner with ‘im tomorrow evening when I am finished with visiting my ‘usband at the ‘ospital. But I don’t want to eat ‘ere with all yous lot staring, tell ‘im to take me to some place fancy up in Paraliakos with cloth tablecloths.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, confident mail order Masha was more than capable of extricating oily secrets out of the Kazakh so they would be armed with all the facts if they needed to protest against any scheming avaricious oil prospectors.

Just then Iraklis arrived at the taverna and tentatively approached Masha. Summoning up the courage to address the Russian goddess he spluttered, “Masha, I have fed the donkey and took the liberty of scrubbing the red soup off your kitchen floor. I couldn’t have lived with myself if you slipped in the mess and did yourself an injury. I have brought the donkey with me and hope you allow me the honour of escorting you home on it. It isn’t safe for you to be out alone with a madman on the loose.”

“That is very thoughtful of yous Irakli, yous is a good kind boy,” Masha praised him.

Blushing with pleasure at Masha’s compliment Iraklis proffered a box of loukamades, saying “Mrs Kolokotronis asked me to give you these sweet treats she made especially for you.”

“Please thank her Irakli,” Masha replied, touched by Mrs Kolokotronis’ kind gesture. “Yous will ‘ave to eat them for me though as I’m on a strict sugar free diet.”

“A bit of sugar never did anyone any ‘arm,” Bald Yannis piped up, helping himself to the honeyed dumplings without a care in the world for his rapidly expanding stomach.

“Talk about the donkey has given me an idea,” Quentin said. “It might be just the thing to bring Vasilis out of his coma. Everyone knows how much he dotes on the creature.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous Quentin,” Deirdre scoffed. “How can Masha possibly take the donkey into the hospital?”

“Anything is possible Did-Rees,” Adonis laughed. “Yous forget this is Greece.”

Chapter 8

Sweet Sofia Arrives

Toothless Tasos was silently fuming, standing at the bus stop beside Thea waiting for the bus from Athens to deposit Sofia. He’d tried to sneak out of the house before first light to go fishing but Thea had intercepted him, dragging him back indoors and insisting they present a united front to welcome Sofia. Their constant sniping and squabbling since Thea had ear-yanked Tasos out of the taverna provided free entertainment for the Doomsday Scots who found their antics much more entertaining than the indecipherable soap opera ‘Seven Deadly Mothers-in-Law’ which the Greek pair left playing endlessly in the background ever since Thea had discovered the now decommissioned television programme was available as a box set.

“Oh do stop sulking Taso. Is it really too much to expect you to support me in greeting Sofia to our home?” Thea nagged.

“She’s your goddaughter, not mine,” Tasos grumbled.

“Oh Taso, how can you dismiss Sofia like that. When we are married she will be your goddaughter too if you can ever be bothered to do anything concrete to extract yourself from that ridiculous fraud of a marriage you have with Stavroula.”

“Slick Socrates hints there may be developments soon to rid me of Stavroula and leave us finally free to marry, my little bougatsa,” Tasos said, thawing towards Thea. So besotted was he it was impossible to stay angry with her for long.

“Here comes the bus now, let me check if yous look presentable,” Thea fussed, combing her fingers through his untidy grey streaked hair.

The eighteen-year old girl who climbed down from the bus and was immediately swallowed in Thea’s embrace took Toothless Tasos by surprise. He had not expected Thea’s adored goddaughter to be a scary looking Goth with attitude. In fairness to Thea she’d had no idea the sweet teenager with a constant smile had morphed into a sulky Goth fashion victim sporting a nose ring and long purple hair. Dressed in a skin tight black mini dress teamed with black fishnet tights, thigh-high black boots and an ever present black leather jacket, Sofia immediately stuck out like a sore thumb in the small backwater village.

“Sofia, koukla mou, my little doll, I’m so happy yous is here. This is my fiancé Tasos,” Thea said, introducing him whilst showering the teenager with kisses.

“Nona, I can’t believe you are living in sin, it’s so wicked,” Sofia replied. After dismissively looking Tasos up and down Sofia whispered to Thea, “Oh dear, when I get started at the beauty parlour you can send him over and I’ll style him up.”

“I think Tasos is a bit past it for the Goth look,” Thea chuckled, thinking it was well past time her fiancé had a bit of a makeover, but definitely not at Sofia’s hands.

“Nonos, can you get my bags off the bus please,” Sofia requested.

“I’m not yous Nonos yet, yous can call me Tasos,” the fisherman replied, nearly falling over under the weight of Sofia’s luggage.

“I’ve arranged everything with Evangelia and you can start work at the beauty parlour tomorrow,” Thea said as they walked home.

“Nona, do you realise what a long and exhausting bus journey I have just endured? I will need a couple of days to recuperate before I start work,” Sofia replied.

“Don’t be silly Sofia, yous are young and healthy. It wouldn’t do at all to let Evangelia down now everything has been arranged.”

Entering the house Sofia sighed wearily. “Well if you insist on working me to death as soon as I arrive I had better go straight to my bedroom to rest. Can you bring me some snacks up?”

“But don’t you want to catch up, my dear? Tasos has taken time off from fishing to become acquainted with you,” Thea cried, disappointed in her goddaughter’s unsociable attitude.

“I’ve already said hello to him Aunty. Now don’t forget my snack,” Sofia reminded her, disappearing up the staircase with Toothless Tasos trailing behind her laden down with four suitcases.

“I can’t think what’s got into her,” Thea complained when Tasos reappeared. “She used to always want to spend hours in my company, but today she barely gave me the time of day.”

“She’s a teenager. From what I can gather they can be strange creatures,” Tasos said, taking Thea into his arms to comfort her.

“I’m sorry I was such a nag Taso, do you forgive me?”

“Of course I do my cherub,” Tasos reassured her, leaning in for a passionate kiss. Their mutual ardour was interrupted by the sound of Sofia’s whiney voice demanding “Nona, where’s my snacks?”

Chapter 9

Decaf Frappuccino, Extra Sweet

“Can yous do anything with my ‘air Evangelia?” Nitsa demanded, walking into the beauty parlour and whipping off the old fashioned rubber swimming cap Hattie had lent her to cover up the disastrous hairdo.

“Well, I do have to say it will be a challenge,” Evangelia replied tactfully. “What on earth did you do to it?”

“It wasn’t me, it was Fotini what sprayed my ‘air with so much bleach it fell out.”

“Yous ‘ead is full of bald spots, yous looks like that eejit at the ‘ardware shop,” mail order Masha laughed.

“You can take a seat Nitsa, but I’m rushed off my feet doing Masha’s nails. When you didn’t turn up for your ten o’clock appointment I gave your slot to Masha.”

“It’s ten on the dot, ‘ow dare yous accuse me of bein’ late,” Nitsa complained.

“No, it’s ten-thirty,” Evangelia argued, pointing to the clock on the wall. She had no idea Sofia’s first act of the day had been to wind the clock forward so she could finish early.

“The old bag is right, it’s bang on the dot of ten and yous clock is out,” Masha acknowledged. “But yous can’t leave my nails ‘alf done or they’ll dry funny.”

“Surely my ‘air is more of an emergency than the trollops nails,” Nitsa huffed.

“Wait yous turn old woman, I was ‘ere first and I’m in an ‘urry to get to the ‘ospital to visit my ‘usband who is in a coma,” Masha snapped.

“Fat lot yous think of ‘im when yous prioritise ‘aving yous nails done over turning up at ‘is bedside,” Nitsa scoffed.

“Mind yous own business,” Masha retorted. She considered it important to look her best for her dinner date spying mission with Dastan the Kazakh later, confident Vasilis would have no clue what time she turned up in his comatose state.

“Nitsa let me finish off Masha and then I’ll be right with you. I was supposed to have help today, but I can’t think where the new girl’s got to. She was only here five minutes before she popped out for a bag of coffee, but that was thirty minutes ago,” Evangelia sighed wearily, hoping Sofia would not prove to be as unreliable as first appearances suggested.

The chime over the door rang out and Evangelia looked up, hoping it was Sofia.

“Good morning, could you possibly squeeze me in for a hair cut?” Fenella asked. “I know it sounds silly wanting to look good when the world could end at any moment, but you know how it is.”

“A woman should always look ‘er best, that’s why I told Bald Yannis to put lipstick in ‘is stupid apocalypse kits,” Masha chimed in. Looking the Scottish woman up and down she asked, “If yous want to look good why is yous wearing that hideous old lady dress? It is not a good look for foreign women. It makes yous look frumpy.”

“I thought it was the fashion here,” Fenella said in flustered confusion.

“Only if yous want to look like that old crone,” Masha replied, pointing at Nitsa who was wearing an identical dress.

“Well take a seat and I’ll be with you shortly,” Evangelia invited Fenella, hopeful Sofia would return at any moment to help her.

Sofia was actually propped up against the counter of Stavroula’s taverna, texting her best friend in Athens to complain about how hard she was working. Melecretes hadn’t intended to open the taverna at such an early hour, wanting to familiarise himself with Stavroula’s kitchen before opening for business, but the teenage Goth had hammered the door down desperate for coffee and the ever obliging Mel hadn’t the heart to turn her away. After introducing himself as “Call me Mel” he immediately regretted his decision to open when she shushed him to take a call on her new-fangled mobile phone and then started texting. Patiently waiting for her to finish Mel hovered ready to take her order. Finally finished with her texting Sofia looked up to place her order.

“I want a decaf frappuccino, extra sweet, with half sweetener and half regular sugar. And no more than three ice cubes. Can you believe they only have Greek coffee at my nona’s house?”

“Well I ‘aven’t got a clue what kind of coffee yous just ordered young lady. Perhaps you could choose something more normal.”

“Okay, I’ll take an iced cappuccino, sweet, with whipped cream instead of regular milk,” Sofia decided.

“Not from ‘ere yous won’t. Yous can ‘ave Greek coffee or Nescafe.”

“Are you serious? What kind of backwater place is this?” Sofia asked. Since exiting the bus the previous day she had shown no interest at all in the village beyond the confines of her bedroom where she had demanded Thea provide regular processed snacks from the supermarket. Sofia  had been too bleary eyed this morning to notice anything as she’d crossed the harbour to the beauty parlour, having being dragged out of bed by Thea at some unspeakable  hour on the wrong side of noon.

“How am I expected to function without proper coffee?” the now wide-eyed Sofia asked. “Oh just give me an espresso to go.”

“Greek coffee or Nescafe?” Mel reiterated, beginning to lose patience with this demanding customer.

“If I wanted Greek coffee I could get one free at the beauty parlour,” Sofia screamed in frustration, flouncing out and slamming the door.

Looking up from Masha’s nails Evangelia tutted at Sofia as she finally reappeared, asking her “where is the coffee?”

“The man over the road didn’t have a clue how to make coffee,” Sofia explained.

“Sofia, you were meant to buy a bag of Greek coffee at the supermarket so we can offer coffee to the customers. It will be your job to make the coffee.”

“Seriously? I thought we would just order in take-outs,” Sofia said.

“Well Masha has been waiting for coffee for ages and we’re all out. Let me run upstairs to the apartment, I have a bag in the kitchen,” Evangelia said wearily, wondering what kind of naive teenager Thea had lumbered her with.

“I can run upstairs for you,” Sofia offered, eager to sneak a look at her employer’s apartment.

“No, I’ll go. You can shampoo Nitsa’s hair,” Evangelia said firmly, having no intention of allowing her new trainee to snoop around upstairs and discover her photographic collection of convicted killers.

“Evangelia, before you go for the coffee, can I just ask what time my lunch break is and how much time I’m allowed off to donate blood?”

Chapter 10

Fotini Adds a Little Something Extra to Lunch

Melecretes had cooked up a lunchtime special of kolokithopita to offer his customers, using freshly picked courgettes, parsley and mint from Fotini’s garden. The Doomsday trippers who had packed out Stavroula’s taverna were eagerly anticipating the fragrant pie, tempted by the delicious aroma wafting out from the kitchen as they chatted about the imminent end of the world.

Hywel and Blodwyn, the Welsh tent dwellers, had been joined by Hamish who was wondering why Fenella was taking so long in the beauty parlour. Hywel was complaining that the delightfully sunny day was not in keeping with a Doomsday scenario, but Blodwyn bluntly told him to shut up as she loved the glorious change of weather.

“I fancy a nice walk this afternoon Hywel, it will make a lovely change from sitting in that damp tent getting sand in my undies,” Blodwyn suggested.

“At the speed the old dear is serving it will be bloody tea-time before we get any lunch,” Hywel pointed out, watching Fotini emerge from the kitchen with a single plate which she delivered at an absolute snail’s-pace. All the clientele watched with bated breath as Fotini tripped on a snag in the rug. The plate of pie she was carrying wobbled precariously before Fotini managed to save it from falling out of her gnarled hands. Having successfully delivered the pie Fotini doddered back to the kitchen where she surreptitiously spat on the next plate of food before heading back out to serve it to Hywel.

Nudging her husband Blodwyn said “I fancy strolling over to the next village; I hear tell it’s named for a radish. The route goes past a field of goats dressed in knitted clothes; don’t you think that would be something to see?”

“Bloody hell woman, the more I find out about this place the more I wonder about the sanity of its inhabitants. What kind of bloody fools dress goats up in clothes?”

“Well Hywel, you’d best get used to them. As you are so convinced only Astakos will survive the end of the world you’ll be stuck with the bloody fools for company.”

“I hate to say this Blodwyn after all the money we have forked out, but I’m beginning to hope this end of the world is a false alarm and we can get back to Wales,” Hywel told her.

“Well in that case I plan to make the most of the rest of my time here. Now you’ve emptied our bank account there’ll be no chance of a proper holiday this year,” Blodwyn fumed. “This is the very last time I indulge your end of the world gadding, next year we are going to Benidorm.”

Hywel couldn’t be bothered sniping back, his attention riveted by Fotini emerging from the kitchen with another solitary plate of kolokithopita. It felt like Groundhog Day watching her trip over the same snag in the rug, almost lose her grip on the plate, and then slowly totter over to drop it in front of him, knocking his water glass over in the process. “Bloody hell woman, you’ve only gone and soaked my privates,” he spluttered.

Fotini ignored him, glancing towards the door as another customer entered who she completely failed to recognise as Nitsa. Even though the old crone was clad in her usual hideous old lady dress and wrinkled pop socks, her appearance was transformed. The crop of dyed orange curls with bald patches was gone. Evangelia had made Nitsa over with long blonde hair extensions to rival those of mail order Masha. Her half-moustache had disappeared and every last one of her wiry chin hairs had been plucked clean away.

“Fotini, it’s me Nitsa, what does yous think?” Nitsa called out pouting and pirouetting like an Instagram addict, and flicking her fake hair.

“Nitsa, is it really yous? Yous look like a porn star. Yous will make a fortune with the taxi looking like that,” Fotini cackled. Her words rang out, cutting through the total silence as everyone else gawped at the ludicrous spectacle Nitsa presented.

“I cant’s stop. I promised to drive the Russian floozy to ‘ospital in the taxi to visit that old fool Vasilis. I want to get a black leather jacket in town. There’s a young girl working at Evangelia’s an’ we hit it off right away. She swears a jacket like ‘ers would take years off me. She suggested we go out clubbin’ together, whatever that is.”

“I’m sure Mel will ‘ave ‘eard of it,” Fotini suggested, having no clue what clubbing was either.

“I tell yous, it’s a breath of fresh air ‘aving young blood in the village. Fotis is goin’ to be floored when he sees me,” Nitsa said, heading back out to the taxi.

“Is there any chance you could bring my wife’s pie if it’s not too much trouble?” Hywel asked sarcastically.

Fotini shot a malevolent look at the Welsh man before making her way back to the kitchen where she spat in his replacement glass of water.

“Bloody hell man, I could swear the old dear just cursed me,” Hywel shuddered.

Melecretes ventured out from the kitchen to chat with Toothless Tasos who’d just arrived for a coffee and a moan. The fisherman immediately launched into a complaint.

“Sometimes it’s like living with Jekyll an’ Hyde living with Thea. I went ‘ome for a shower after the morning’s fishin’ an’ she only starts accusing me of cutting the cat’s fur, even though I swore blind I never touched it.” Barely pausing for breath Toothless Tasos continued, “An’ then when I got out of the shower all my chest ‘airs turned purple for some inexplicable reason.”

“Purple yous say,” Melecretes pondered. “I ‘ad a young girl in ‘ere earlier with purple ‘air demanding all manner of fancy Athenian coffees.”

“That sounds like Thea’s goddaughter Sofia what is staying with us,” Tasos mused. “She shut herself in her bedroom ever since she arrived, eating nothing but junk food snacks from the supermarket.”

“’Appen there’s some connection between ‘er purple ‘air and yous chest hair,” Mel suggested with raised eyebrows, suspecting Toothless Tasos must have got up close and personal with the youngster to turn his chest hair purple. He didn’t consider the perfectly innocent explanation that the dye from Sofia’s hair had come off all over the bath towel Tasos had used after his shower. “Anyway I must get back to the kitchen, there is pie to plate.”

“Ah, here’s Fenella now,” Hamish said as his wife arrived with a lop-sided fringe. No one had told her it was Sofia’s first day in the beauty parlour and Evangelia had been so busy with Nitsa’s extensions she’d allowed her new trainee to get snap happy with the scissors.

“I ordered you a plate of courgette pie dear, but it could be a long wait,” Hamish said, pointing at Fotini making yet another painstakingly slow trip from the kitchen.

“Wasn’t that our host Tasos?” Fenella asked, watching the fisherman leg it out at great speed to avoid them. He was feeling unjustly accused as it had suddenly dawned on him the Scottish couple could be responsible for giving Thea’s cat a trim. It didn’t occur to him Sofia was the guilty party and had been practising her hair cutting technique on the unfortunate feline. He didn’t think she’d been out of her bedroom long enough to become acquainted with the cat.

“One thing I will say about this village, they sure know how to cook,” Hywel announced, finishing off his kolokithopita and draining his glass of water. Standing up to take his glass to the counter for a refill exposed Hywel’s soaking flies, causing Fenella to raise her eyebrows in disgust and whisper to her husband “are you sure these are our kind of people?”

Another silence descended as two policemen entered, telling Fotini they wished to speak to the owner. Melecretes, emerging from the kitchen and hoping he hadn’t inadvertently broken any Greek law, felt relieved when the policemen said they wished to speak to Stavroula.

“She’s up at the ‘ospital. Her father was attacked by a madman an’ is in a coma,” Melecretes told them. The policemen were absolutely gutted at this news as they’d spent most of the long drive down from Pouthena salivating at the thought of one of Stavroula’s delicious free slap-up meals.

“Did she cook the food you’re serving before she went up there?” one of the policemen asked hopefully.

“No, I cooked everything fresh this morning,” Melecretes said. “Just call me Mel by the way, I’m standing in for Stavroula as no one knows ‘ow long she’ll be at the old fool’s bedside.”

“I suppose we could have a bite to eat here before we go to the hospital in search of Stavroula,” the policemen agreed.

“It will be my pleasure to bring you both a plate of kolokithopita myself, it is today’s special,” Melecretes offered.

Mel served the pie accompanied by a small glass enclosing their receipt. “What’s this?” the policemen asked holding the glass aloft.

“It’s your bill of course,” Mel replied.

“Our bill?” the policemen repeated in unison.

“Yes, your bill. Is there a problem?” Mel asked before it slowly dawned on him the policemen were expecting a free lunch.

“Po po, back in Idaho I ‘ave read a lot about the Greek economic crisis an’ ow people evade taxes by not givin’ receipts. Also I read about the corrupt officials who expect the brown paper envelopes of cash before they’ll get off their lazy backsides. Yous police expecting free lunches is corrupt and I, Mel, am not bribable.”

“You have the wrong idea,” one of the policeman protested through a mouth full of pie. “When we have eaten here before Stavroula treated us like one of the family, she wasn’t bribing us by forcing free food on us.”

“And her cooking is a lot better than yours,” the other policeman sneered, peeling off a note from the thick wad he pulled from his pocket, to cover the cost of their lunch.

“I wonder what they wanted with Stavroula,” Fotini mused as the two policemen rushed back to their car, disturbing the siesta hour with a blare of sirens.

“Well it couldn’t ‘ave been about the attack on ‘er father as they knew nothing about it,” Mel replied, hoping he wasn’t running the taverna of a criminal in the habit of bribing the police.

Chapter 1l

A Smitten Sofia and a Repulsed Iraklis

By the end of Sofia’s first shift in the beauty parlour Evangelia had deduced her new trainee was naive, inclined to laziness, but pleasant enough under her Goth exterior and eager to learn. Sofia proved to be quite the chatterbox once Evangelia had confiscated her mobile phone until closing time. She confessed to her new boss her dream was to work in her uncle’s Cosy Coffins Funeral Home styling corpses, but he insisted she practise on living people before he let her loose on his corpses.

“I’ve always fancied styling dead bodies,” Sofia confided, having enjoyed many happy hours playing in her uncle’s funeral parlour. “The only downside is most likely all the hair will have fallen off the skull by the time the coffin is opened so the bones can be dug up and washed in wine ready for their final resting place in the ossuary. Still, my hairdressing skills will be widely admired by everyone who files past the coffin in the church even if my handiwork will never be appreciated again.

“You won’t get much conversation out of corpses,” Evangelia said with a shudder, being partial to a bit of gossip with her clients.

“But the dead wouldn’t mind if I kept my headset in to listen to music. I bet half your customers are probably old crones not long off being corpses, wanting their moustaches bleached and blue rinses before they peg it,” Sofia said.

“Don’t be disrespectful Sofia, my business relies on repeat custom and you have to be able to get along with everyone,” Evangelia replied.

“Oh I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I have a way with old crones, they love me,” Sofia protested.

“Well it is true Nitsa certainly took a shine to you and she’s not easy to deal with,” Evangelia acknowledged. “And the Scottish lady did say you were a natural at shampooing. I think if you are eager to learn I could train you up nicely and you might enjoy working on the living. Now, you don’t need to be back until six this afternoon, what will you do in your break?”

“I’ll go back to the house for a snack and a lie down, my feet are killing me.”

“Sore feet are part and parcel of hairdressing Sofia. I’m often tempted to work in my slippers but it just wouldn’t look professional. Now run along and I’ll see you later. Make sure you’re not late for the afternoon shift.”

Sofia was just about to leave when she spotted a tall handsome young man walking along the harbour in the company of a grizzled old fisherman. Emitting a soulful gasp Sofia exclaimed “Evangelia, who is that gorgeous man?”

Evangelia glanced out of the window and laughed. “I suppose Thea told you Yiorgos is nicknamed ‘gorgeous’. He still fancies himself as gorgeous even though he’s the wrong side of fifty and looks like a walrus.”

“No, not the old man. The handsome young one with him.”

“Oh, you mean young Iraklis,” Evangelia said, happy to fill her new trainee in all the gossip. “He came here as a Pappas but turned his back on the church and went to work for Fat Christos at the supermarket. Christos thinks a lot of him and says he’s management material. Now, Iraklis lodges with Mrs Kolokotronis, she’s Fat Christos’ mother, but there’s nothing going on between them because she’s old enough to be his granny. Can you imagine Iraklis’ own mother accused them of having an affair, but she was a strange sort with a nervous disposition, forever mixing up her words? Iraklis is a bit prone to acne, but I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. Most boys do when they hit twenty-one. Now would you like me to call him over and introduce you? There’s not many folk under fifty in the village and it would be nice for you to have someone to play with.”

“No, don’t do that,” Sofia shrieked in alarm, suddenly overcome with shyness.

“Okay, another time dear,” Evangelia agreed, making a mental note to call Thea later for a gossipy catch up and meddlesome bout of matchmaking.

Sofia dashed quickly back to Thea’s house, eager to top up her black eyeliner and change into something more seductive.

“How was yous first day at work? Shall I bring a snack up to your bedroom, dear?” Thea asked, enveloping the youngster in a hearty embrace.

“It was great but I don’t want a snack nona. I think I’ll just freshen up and go out for a walk,” Sofia replied to Thea’s surprise.

“Would you like some company, dear?”

“Another time nona,” Sofia shouted, slamming the bathroom door and hastily slapping kohl on her eyes and purple lipstick on her mouth. Checking herself in the mirror she muttered “he won’t be able to resist me.”

By the time Sofia reached the harbour Iraklis was helping Gorgeous Yiorgos cast off the fishing boat. Yiorgos had promised to teach the younger man how to fish and Iraklis couldn’t wait to net something tasty and present it to Mrs Kolokotronis to cook for dinner.

Sofia took a seat on the harbour wall, nonchalantly swinging her legs and zipping her leather jacket up to her chin to avoid the sun adding any colour to her almost translucent white skin.

“That must be Thea’s goddaughter what is staying with ‘er and Tasos,” Gorgeous Yiorgos remarked.

Iraklis looked up. Spotting Sofia he took a hasty step backwards, rocking the boat precariously. He was horrified at the sight of the frightening looking teenager dressed in outrageous black clothes with shocking purple hair.

“I wouldn’t like to run into her on a dark night,” he whispered to Yiorgos, repulsed by the vision in black before him. “She looks like she’s into devil worship.”

“Oh it’s just the fashion, she’ll grow out of it when she realises she’d look much nicer with ‘er face scrubbed free of all that gunk, and a nice flowery frock instead of all that black.”

“She must sweat something terrible in this heat under all that leather,” Iraklis guessed.

“Now Irakli, that’s somethin’ you’ll learn in time, women don’t sweat, they perspire. I thought yous wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down. Yous won’t get past first base if yous don’t choose yous words more carefully.”

“It’s true I would like to meet a nice girl and settle down, but there’s no one under fifty in Astakos except Masha and she’s already spoken for,” Iraklis said, adopting a mournful tone.

“Even if she wasn’t she’d never look at the likes of yous, Irakli. Women like Masha want men with a fortune to waste on ‘em an’ she’d eat the likes of you up for breakfast. Now that young girl might be nice under all that make-up, don’t judge a book by its cover young Irakli,” Gorgeous Yiorgos advised, happy to share his worldly wisdom.

“If it’s all the same to you Yiorgo I’d rather concentrate on fish than think about girls who look like that,” Iraklis said. He found Sofia’s gloomy appearance terrifying and not in the least appealing, and he intended to keep a safe distance.

Fortunately Sofia remained blissfully unaware Iraklis found her style quite repugnant. She had been head over heels smitten since the moment he walked by the beauty parlour.

Chapter 12

A Reputation as a Cheating Scoundrel

The sound of stentorian snoring clashing with the sombre recital of biblical verses assaulted mail order Masha’s ears when she finally arrived at Vasilis’ hospital room. The source of the snoring was Stavroula sleeping uncomfortably, squashed into a chair too small for her ample frame and completely oblivious to the religious droning of the priest. Even before seeking out the smitten old doctor for confirmation Masha correctly surmised her husband was still comatose; if he’d been lucid he’d have surely smothered the Pappas with a pillow to put an end to his caterwauling.

“Masha, how good it is to see you on this glorious afternoon. May I take the liberty of saying your appearance is a ray of sunshine,” the Pappas greeted her. Wearing a bright orange mini dress that skirted her bump and accentuated her silicone cleavage, paired with orange heels and matching nail polish, Masha did indeed look sunny. She turned to stare at the priest, taken aback by his cheery welcome, having completely forgotten he’d undergone a personality transplant as an apparent result of the blood transfusion from the crazy stalker.

Not wanting to waste words on the phony bible thumper Masha turned her attention to Vasilis, planting a kiss on his stapled head and using his bed sheet to wipe up the line of drool dribbling down his chin. Next she set to decorating Vasilis’ bedside table with framed photographs of herself posing in a bikini, sending the monitors keeping check of the Pappas’ vital signs into an overdrive of bleeping.

Alerted to Masha’s arrival by the heady scent of her overpowering perfume, the smitten old doctor bounded into the room saying “Masha my dear, what a delight it is to see you again. May I say you look particularly ravishing today?”

“Which is more than I can say for my ‘usband. ‘Ow much longer is he going to be comatose? Can’t yous do something to wake ‘im up?”

“You must talk to him Masha, the sound of your dulcet tones may bring him round,” the smitten old doctor advised.

“I’ve been having long chats with Vasilis, even if they were a bit one-sided, in the hope they would stir him,” the Pappas butted in.

“’Aving to listen to yous would be enough to keep anyone in a coma,” Masha sneered contemptuously before turning to the doctor and suggesting “cant’s yous give ‘im an electric shock?”

“That really isn’t the best method for bringing a patient out of a coma,” the doctor smiled.

“Not on my ‘usband,” Masha shouted in exasperation. “Cant’s you electrically shock the Pappas to make ‘im confess he is faking ‘is niceness? It’s not natural.”

Putting an arm round Masha’s waist the smitten old doctor led her into the corridor, whispering, “Between you and I the Pappas is ready to be discharged, but I’m keeping him in a bit longer to study this strange phenomenon of his personality transplant being potentially linked to his blood transfusion. I’m convinced he’s not faking. This is a most unusual case and could well go down in the annals of medical history.”

“An’ make you a tidy sum in the process, no doubt,” Masha guessed.

“Certainly not,” the doctor lied, convinced he could make a fortune writing learned papers and giving lectures on the Pappas’ case if he could elicit interest from the foreign medical community.

The pair moved further away from the hospital room to avoid being overheard by Slick Socrates who’d just arrived bearing a foil wrapped piece of kolokithopita, courtesy of Melecretes, to keep Stavroula’s strength up. Roused from her sleep Stavroula inspected the courgette pie suspiciously before tucking in and pronouncing it inferior to her own efforts.

“There’s something in it I cant’s quite put my finger on,” she said, failing to identify the something extra as Fotini’s spit. “’Ows the taverna doing without me Socrate?” she asked.

“It was packed out at lunchtime my love. Don’t you worry about business, just concentrate on getting your father to sign this new will I’ve drawn up,” Socrates advised, passing his lover a ream of papers to stuff down her bosom.

“I could just slip the pen in ‘is hand and guide it over the signature box,” Stavroula suggested.

“Unfortunately it requires two witnesses and anything he signs in a coma won’t count as legal, my love dove,” Socrates clarified.

“Well I guess I’m stuck ‘ere for the duration of ‘is coma then,” Stavroula sighed wearily. “The mail order floozy ‘asn’t bothered to show ‘er face yet today.”

“Oh, Masha is here. She’s in the corridor being chatted up by the smitten old doctor.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the Pappas, shuffling back from the bathroom, unsteadily steering the intravenous infusion pole he was attached to.

“Good day to you Socrate, could you give me a hand untangling this drip?” the Pappas asked.

“You’ve got a nerve asking for my assistance after you tried to blackmail Stavroula’s father over his role in her conception,” Socrates sneered, turning his back on the snivelling priest. The Pappas had become hopelessly entangled in the line from the pole and as he struggled to straighten it the pole toppled over, landing with a crash on top of Vasilis’ head. The old fool’s body jerked violently and a pitiful groan escaped his parched lips. Stavroula screamed for the doctor, but by the time he appeared, hotly pursued by Masha, Vasilis’ body had stopped shaking and there was no evidence he had stirred.

“He groaned, doctor. What does it mean?” Stavroula questioned.

Lifting the intravenous pole from atop Vasilis the doctor observed “he probably felt excruciating pain when this pole pranged his staples.”

“That’s a good sign isn’t it?” Masha asked, beating her husband round the head with her handbag and shrieking “Wake up yous old fool,” to test if the pain from the battering would prompt another groan. Vasilis’ resultant moan was akin to having the air forced out of a tyre, but the doctor promptly pronounced there was no improvement.

“I am amazed he doesn’t respond to the sound of your exotic Russian accent or the sweet smell of your perfume,” the smitten old doctor grovelled. “Sometimes coma patients are drawn to respond by the presence of the thing they hold most special.”

“Po po, I am ‘is long lost daughter an’ yous cant’s get more special than that,” Stavroula piped up, dismissively elbowing Masha out of the way.

Masha drew away and stared pensively out of the window overlooking the car park. She mused it was true Vasilis loved her and was very fond of his daughter, but at the end of the day the thing Vasilis truly doted on was his blasted donkey.

“Perhaps K-Went-In was right and I’ll ‘ave to sneak the donkey into the ‘ospital to lick Vasilis out of his coma,” she muttered under her breath.

Masha’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of the two policemen from the up north village of Pouthena, in search of Stavroula. Stavroula’s heart sank as she recognised the policemen and wondered when they would drop their harassment of her over the disappearance of her second husband Kostas. Presuming his interfering superstitious peasant sister Katerina had once again been meddling she was pleasantly surprised when the policemen greeted her cheerily, announcing they had good news.

“Yous ‘ave found my ‘usband Kostas. Praise be, the cheating malaka is alive,” Stavroula cried out in a desperate attempt to keep up the phony act of a grieving woman who had been ditched by her philandering husband who was supposedly missing and presumed dead.

“Well no, he isn’t exactly alive,” the first policemen began.

“We have come to inform you that your husband Kostas has been declared officially dead. The powers that be decided to put a rubber stamp on the closure of this case having determined in all probability your husband’s body was devoured by wild animals in the vicinity of his crashed car,” the second policeman said. “Kyria Stavroula, it is my official duty to declare you a widow.”

“Praise be, the cheating malaka is dead,” Stavroula whooped, thinking she had indeed got away with murder most foul as long as Kostas’ body was never unearthed from beneath the concrete floor of the chicken coop.

Suddenly realising it would have been more seemly to conceal her spontaneous joy until the two policemen were on their way, Stavroula assumed  a sombre expression, saying “forgive my outburst, but it feels as though a weight has been lifted to know I’m no longer under suspicion regarding my poor dear dead husband’s disappearance. May he rest in peace.”

“Kyria Stavroula, we have said many times that we have never come across a more innocent suspect than you. The very idea that such a magnificent cook could have been involved in foul play was patently preposterous to us and we would have put the case to bed last year if it hadn’t been for your meddling sister-in-law who was blind to her brother’s cheating ways. That such a ghastly superstitious peasant type could have exerted such influence to keep the case open was a burden forced upon us, even though we knew how much pain it caused you every time we brought the matter up,” the policeman said. “Our only regret is we may never again taste your excellent delicious cooking, having no further excuse to call on you in Astakos.”

The policemen weren’t even clear of the hospital when Slick Socrates threw himself down on one knee, saying “Stavroula, say you will marry me my love, you are free at last.”

“Yous know I would marry yous tomorrow, but there’s still that other little bigamous matter to sort out,” Stavroula cried, despairing of ever being rid of Toothless Tasos. She had once contemplated disposing of Tasos as she had with Kostas, but that was before Tasos had saved her life by disturbing the elusive underwear thief in the act of strangling her.

“Worry not my darling, I have a cunning plan up my sleeve,” Socrates winked. He was confident his next move would free Stavroula to marry him: after all, the well stuffed brown envelope he had bribed the Pouthena policemen’s superior officer with had done the trick nicely in not only having Kostas declared dead but in permanently smearing the innocent man’s reputation as a cheating scoundrel.

Chapter 13

Garra Rufa Fish and Tiddlers

Waving Sofia off after her first morning working in the beauty parlour Evangelia was optimistic the youngster would relieve some of the pressure of her workload. She was just about to head upstairs with the latest batch of death row letters when she was disturbed by loud banging on the salon door.

“We’re closed,” she automatically called out. “Come back at six.”

The relentless banging continued, forcing Evangelia to investigate.

“I’m here to install yous fish pedicure tank,” the man on the doorstep said.

“Oh I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow, but come in, no time like the present,” Evangelia invited with a frisson of excitement. Ever since first reading that fish pedicures were becoming trendy in Greece she had fancied having one in the salon. Mail order Masha had encouraged her by promising she would dunk her feet in the tank regularly. Evangelia hoped it would be a big hit with her older clientele as they were most likely riddled with crusty dead skin on their wrinkled feet.

With the tank installed and filled with water Evangelia watched the man grab the plastic bagful of imported garra rufa fish to immerse in the water.

“Malaka, that’s the second time this week that’s ‘appened. It’s only gone and sprung a leak,” the tank installer groaned, waving around the bag of dead fish.

“Don’t you have any spare ones?” Evangelia asked.

“Not on me no, an’ it will be a couple of weeks before I’m over ‘ere again, it’s a bit of a backwater,” he replied, making a run for it.

“What’s the use of a fish pedicure without any fish?” Evangelia questioned aloud, stepping outside to lock the salon door.

Her plaintive complaint was overheard by Tall Thomas who was strolling by on his way to the kafenion.

“Are you wanting fish? I’ve a few choice ones left over in the mobile refrigerated fishing van. At this time of day I can let yous ‘ave ‘em for ‘alf-price,” Tall Thomas offered.

“I need live fish, not dead ones,” Evangelia exclaimed. “The little nibblers that came with the salon fish tank were all dead on arrival.”

“So you want some little live fish to put in a tank in the salon?” Tall Thomas summarised, erroneously presuming Evangelia was referring to a decorative fish tank, having never heard of fish pedicures.

“’Ang on a minute an’ I’ll ring Gorgeous Yiorgos on ‘is new-fangled mobile phone. He’s out in the boat now with young Iraklis an’ I’m sure they’ll be ‘appy to bring yous some tiddlers.”

“That’s very obliging of you Thoma,” Evangelia replied, thinking her clientele were hardly likely to know the difference between a garra rufa fish and an anchovy.

“There yous go, he’ll drop ‘em in to yous later,” Tall Thomas beamed after chatting to Gorgeous Yiorgos out at sea.

“I’m much obliged Thoma, pop in for a free trim as a thank you.”

Checking her watch she realised there was just enough time left to grab a quick coffee and peruse her mail before returning to open the salon again. Waiting for the coffee to brew she stood on the balcony, smiling at the sight of Sofia sitting on the harbour wall with her eyes glued on the fishing boat in the distance. The first blooms were appearing on the bougainvillea trained on her balcony and the sight of the beautiful magenta flowers made her feel light-hearted as she slit open the envelope containing a passionate declaration of love from Colin the Cannibal.

Colin swore he had seen the light since his incarceration on death row, having converted to vegetarianism, except on Saturday’s when the prison canteen served Nutraloaf, a nondescript lump of mashed food allegedly containing meat mixed up with margarine and dubious leftovers. Unlike most of her prison pen-pals Colin admitted his guilt and genuinely appeared to be a repentant reformed character. Evangelia made a mental note to sign Amnesty International’s petition denouncing Nutraloaf as prison swill unfit for human consumption and to send Colin a packet of laxatives as he complained Nutraloaf played havoc with his insides and was far worse for his digestive system than human flesh.

A cold shiver ran down Evangelia’s spine when she opened the next letter from Marvin the Mincer. The contents were most disturbing. Marvin’s words were steeped in an accusatory tone, demanding to know why Evangelia had not yet sent him any cuttings of Masha’s hair. Evangelia gasped in horror as the letter went on to describe how Marvin the Mincer fantasised constantly about mail order Masha and how he planned to break out of prison and sleep on an embroidered pillow stuffed with her hair.

Evangelia wondered if she should alert the prison authorities about Marvin’s increasingly creepy obsessive fantasies with the Russian and his threats of escaping prison, but then realised the authorities would likely dismiss her as a pathetic attention seeking death-row groupie and possibly prevent her from maintaining contact with other inmates.

Attempting to convince herself she should leave well alone she said “Security must be very tight on death row making it impossible to escape, and there’s the whole of the Atlantic Ocean between Marvin the Mincer and mail order Masha. I shall simply sever all contact with Marvin.” Evangelia shuddered again, thinking her choice of the word ‘sever’ was an unfortunate one considering Marvin’s predilection for chopping up his victims.

“’Ere Evangelia, I’ve got the little living fish you wanted,” Gorgeous Yiorgos yelled up, thankfully shaking her out of her maudlin reverie.

Chapter 14

First Catch

“Can you park up at the other side of the harbour?” Iraklis asked Gorgeous Yiorgos as the fishing boat puttered back towards land. Iraklis was eager to avoid the scary looking young woman still perched on the harbour wall.

“It’s a boat, we moor it not park it, yous eejit. I ‘ave a regular spot to moor it and we won’t be doing any detours ‘cos yous is a bit shy,” Gorgeous Yiorgos replied. “Now grab ‘old of that bag of tiddlers for Evangelia. I expect she’s planning to do a nice fish meze this evenin’ and wants ‘em live so they’ll still ‘ave that fresh out of the sea taste. I threw a few little crabs in for ‘er with the anchovies and sardines.”

“It’s very kind of you to let me take this sea bass home for Mrs Kolokotronis,” Iraklis said

“It was yous first ever catch, yous should be proud lad. Now watch yous don’t lose yous balance stepping out.”

Putting his head down Iraklis stalked off speedily with his fish. Due to his crippling shyness he totally ignored the bashful ‘hello’ the black clad teenager offered. By the time he reached the supermarket he was consumed by guilt for acting in such a rude way.

“Mother brought me up to mind my manners better than that, but with her expectations of me being a celibate priest she neglected to give me advice on how to deal with intimidating girls she’d most likely disapprove of,” he muttered, before calling out “Do you need a hand with anything Christo?”

“Be off with you lad, it’s yous day off,” Fat Christos replied. “If yous is heading ‘ome yous could drop this block of Feta off to my mother.”

“Most gladly,” Iraklis replied. Unable to resist the urge to boast about his first fishing triumph he waved the sea bass aloft, saying “I caught this myself.”

“Well done lad, it’s a good one. Yous first fish is one yous will always remember. Did yous get it with a line or a net?

“With a net.”

“Yous will never guess ‘ow Did-Rees caught ‘er first fish?” Fat Christos challenged. “Only in ‘er hat,” he guffawed before Iraklis could even hazard a guess.

Iraklis had a second chance to boast about his catch at his lodgings, proudly presenting the whopping sea bass to Mrs Kolokotronis.

“Yous first ever fish,” she gushed with pride. “It’s too big for the two of us so I’ll invite Evangelia round to share it later. It’s the least I can do seeing as she’s invited me over to the beauty parlour to try out this new-fangled fish pedicure thingy she’s all excited about. I’ll just gut it and marinade it in lemon and olive oil before I dash off.”

“I’ll do a nice horiatiki salata to go with it,” Iraklis offered, reluctant to tell Mrs Kolokotronis that Evangelia was likely planning a fish meze with the tiddlers they’d brought her, and wouldn’t be free.

“Yous is such a good boy,” Mrs Kolokotronis told Iraklis, ruffling his hair before expertly scaling and gutting his catch.

Chapter 15

A Taxi to the Finest Restaurant in Town

Mail order Masha was squabbling with Stavroula across the comatose body of that old fool Vasilis. Stavroula flatly refused to budge from her father’s hospital bedside until the shiny new will was signed, even though she had something to celebrate with the news she was now officially a widow.

Earlier that day Bald Yannis had led a posse of village men to the Dimos, the local municipality offices, to find out if there was any truth in the speculative oil rumours, but the mayor had flatly refused to see them to discuss the matter. The mayor was otherwise occupied defending himself against the scandalous charges of bribing the electorate in the last local government election, with offers of free meat from his butcher’s shop in return for votes. Rather than face Bald Yannis and his motley crew of villagers, the mayor chose to barricade himself in his office, taking cover cowering beneath his desk, having developed something of a persecution complex. Back in the hardware shop Bald Yannis phoned mail order Masha to remind her of the importance of her spying dinner date with the Kazakh.

“Dont’s let the oily foreigner wriggle out of tellin’ yous what he’s really up to ‘cos we couldn’t find a thing out at the Dimos,” Bald Yannis yelled down the phone line.

“I knows ‘ow to ‘andle a man,” Masha retorted, winking saucily in the direction of a sharp suited and handsome pharmaceutical rep. “Just leave it to me. Luckily the television station has given me a few days off from presenting the weather so I can stay by my ‘usband’s bedside.”

“I ‘ope yous isn’t ‘aving dinner in the ‘ospital,” Bald Yannis groaned, thinking the horrible hospital smell might deter the Kazakh from revealing his secrets.

“Of course not, Dastan is pickin’ me up outside in a taxi any second,” she scoffed, hanging up on the hardware shop man.

Returning to the bedside of that old fool Vasilis, Masha announced to Stavroula that she had to be off.

“Yous ‘ave only been here a few minutes,” Stavroula protested, preferring to have Masha to squabble with than being left all alone with her uncommunicative father and the sickeningly pleasant Pappas.

“Well in ‘is comatose state he ‘as no clue I’m ‘ere anyway. I cant’s see why yous is bothering to stay all night again, he won’t know the difference.”

“He’s my father, I want to be ‘ere for ‘im when he wakes up,” Stavroula insisted.

“Vasilis would never forgive me if I neglected his precious donkey,” Masha replied, touching up her orange lipstick and admiring her matching nails as she made a beeline for the exit in her ridiculously high heels.

“Watch your step,” an orderly advised, pushing another bed into the hospital room. “Oh good, the old dear will have some company,” he added, wheeling Fotis’ ancient old mother, Kyria Moustakos, into place next to Vasilis. Addressing a horrified Stavroula he said “I’ve no idea where her son’s got to, so if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could you see to her bedpans?”

Dastan the Kazakh was waiting outside the hospital in the old Mercedes taxi for mail order Masha to appear, stoically ignoring the insane ramblings of the driver who had left the meter running. Nitsa, refusing to be intimidated by this slimy mafia hood and his bodyguard, was openly taunting the pair.

“I know where I’ve seen yous two before. It was yous,” she said stabbing a finger in Dastan’s face “what was swimming this afternoon. And it was yous,” she added, waggling her finger at the bodyguard “what was standing on the beach ‘olding ‘is towel like a right plonker. I expect yous will come down with pneumonia soon, no one in their right mind goes swimming until at least July.”

“I did shove a woolly sock down the front of my mankini to ward off the cold. The sea was very bracing. We have no sea in landlocked Kazakhstan so I must take advantage of my time here to swim,” Dastan said, slipping his sunglasses on to deter Nitsa from further prattling. Checking his gold Rolex he noted Masha was late and hoped she wasn’t planning on standing him up; it would never do to lose face in front of the hired help.

“I like a man of the world who appreciates travel,” Nitsa wittered on without pausing for breath. “Mind yous the last time I travelled put me off, what with being arrested as a suspected terrorist at the airport by those ignoramuses who didn’t realise it was the parrot. Tortured I was. Not for the first time mind, I was tortured in the prison up in Paraliakos when they arrested me for causing grievous bodily harm to the chap from the electric company.”

Dastan lowered his sunglasses to peer more closely at the deranged old crone. He would never have guessed from her ludicrous appearance that she was as dangerous as her tall tales suggested. At the sound of Masha’s orange nails tapping on the taxi window Dastan attempted to open the door for his dinner date companion.

“The door won’t open, what is your game old woman?” he hissed at Nitsa.

“I’ll open the door as soon as yous settle up with me for bringing yous all the way to the ‘ospital,” Nitsa demanded, holding her hand out for the cash.

“But we have not yet reached our destination of the restaurant. Surely you can’t suspect a man of my means would stiff you,” Dastan protested.

“I’m a simple old woman trying to supplement my meagre pension,” Nitsa cackled, refusing to release the central locking until the Kazakh peeled a wad of notes from his stash. As soon as she had her grubby hands on his money she opened the door for Masha, saying to the Kazakh, “I might ‘ave guessed yous ‘ad yous eye on the Russian floozy.”

“Mind yous mouth, yous old hag,” Masha snarled.

“I won’t say another word about what a tart yous is, goin’ off with some rich foreigner while yous ‘usband is in a coma,” Nitsa cackled before turning her attention to the road.

“Masha, you look magnificent, such a picture of radiant beauty. I promise you an evening you will never forget,” Dastan said, planting an oily kiss on her hand and a hand on her leg.

“Now don’t get frisky, yous mustn’t forget I’m a married woman,” Masha simpered, lifting Dastan’s hand from her leg and placing it on the bodyguard’s knee.

“How could I forget after the bald brute with the chainsaw made it so clear,” Dastan replied, staring deep into Masha’s eyes through his dark glasses.

“It will be a pleasant change to dine in a fine establishment rather than the local taverna,” Masha said, looking forward to a slap up meal.

“I have booked the best restaurant in town,” Dastan assured her.

“That’s for sure,” Nitsa laughed under her breath. Deliberately pointing the taxi in the opposite direction to the fancy restaurant Dastan had booked to impress Masha, Nitsa headed back to Astakos, confident the two foreigners were not familiar with the geography of the area and that Masha would be too self-absorbed to notice. Mel would be delighted when she deposited her unsuspecting passengers on his doorstep.

Chapter 16

Toothless Tasos Faces up to his Fake Death

Slick Socrates was sitting outside the taverna feeling very smug, sipping a glass of ouzo, puffing away on a big fat cigar and making an irritating clatter with his komboloi beads. He was delighted his scheming had paid off; his brown envelope bribe to the police inspector in Pouthena having put the matter of Stavroula’s dead husband Kostas to bed once and for all. Stavroula was now a merry widow and the only thing standing between them finally getting married was Toothless Tasos.

Stubbing his cigar out Socrates decided to pay a discreet visit to Tasos. He was pleased to see Thea leave the house with a frightful looking teenager made up like a banshee and to find Toothless Tasos home alone. Getting straight to the point Socrates said “Taso, I know you want to be free of your marriage to Stavroula so you can marry Thea.”

“Nothing would make me ‘appier than making an honest woman of Thea, I ‘ave loved ‘er forever. She is a goddess,” Tasos replied with a heartfelt sigh. “I worry she wont’s wait around forever, it goes against ‘er nature to be living in sin.”

“Taso, it is time for you to man up and come clean. You have left Stavroula in an impossible position. Through no fault of her own she thought she was a widow and free to marry when she wed Kostas. Then she made the unfortunate discovery you were not dead at all,” Socrates stated, carefully laying the groundwork while fondling his sideburns with his single carefully nurtured elongated long fingernail.

“Well you might think it unfortunate I’m not actually dead but...”

“That’s not the point Taso. You faked your own death, making Stavroula a bigamist through no fault of her own. Now Kostas has been declared officially dead, making Stavroula a real widow this time, but still legally married to you. I can’t marry her while she’s stuck with you. If you don’t man up and confess to faking your own death I will be forced to take matters into my own hands and report you to the authorities.”

“Po po, yous wouldn’t do that Socrate, it wouldn’t be friendly.”

“I’d rather not Taso. That is why you must turn yourself in, that way they will be more lenient with you.”

“Can’t I just divorce Stavroula now she’s a real widow?” Tasos asked hopefully.

“It’s too risky. I have to establish you duped Stavroula with your fake death. If you simply apply for a divorce the authorities may ask awkward questions and make the erroneous assumption Stavroula was in on it, after all she did benefit financially from your fake death. It will be best all round if you simply come clean and throw yourself on the court’s mercy.”

“An’ if I don’t, yous will dob me in?”

“We have to put an end to this nonsense once and for all otherwise you and Stavroula will both have this hanging over you and neither of you will ever be free to marry the person you really love.”

“An’ Thea will surely leave me if I’m never free to marry her,” Tasos admitted, sick of wondering if Thea would leg it with the next widower to come along. “Right, I’ll do it. I’ll do it tomorrow. ‘Ow much trouble will it land me in?”

“Taso I am prepared to offer you free legal representation. I’m sure I can come up with a crafty defence that would mean you only serve six months at most.”

“In prison?” Tasos gulped.

“No in a holiday camp. Of course in prison, you moron. I will plan a brilliant defence based on you not being in your right mind at the time of the offence.”

“Prison. Will they at least let me keep my dentures?” Tasos groaned, before sarcastically adding “I’m sure Thea will find me an attractive proposition when I get out of prison as an ex-con who yous have labelled a nutter.”

“But at least you’ll be able to make an honest woman of her and she’ll have the financial security of half your scruffy old cottage. Now come to my office in the morning and we’ll talk strategy before you turn yourself in to the police,” Slick Socrates commanded, taking his leave.

Slumping down in the deck chair with his face in his hands Toothless Tasos sighed. The prospect of prison was intolerable for such a law-abiding citizen. He entertained a fleeting thought about faking his own death all over again, this time by drowning in Astakos and washing up in Australia, but he  realised he could not bear to be parted from Thea.

Something soft brushed against Tasos’ leg, distracting him from his despair. Looking down he saw Thea’s cat staring up at him fondly and before he knew it the cat had sprung onto his lap. Tasos instinctively stroked the purring furry feline, finding it surprisingly comforting.

“I never saw much point to yous before, but now I sort of get it. Yous will be a great comfort to Thea if they send me to prison,” he said to the cat. “When Thea gets ‘ome I must remember to ask ‘er if yous ‘ave a name.”

Chapter 17

Tiddlers for Fish Meze

Evangelia was thrilled with the new spa pedicure tank she’d filled with the fishy contents of Gorgeous Yiorgos’ carrier bag.

“This will go down a treat with the customers,” she said to Sofia. “I’ve invited a few ladies over to try it out, they are sure to love it and spread the word on the gossip vine. Unfortunately Masha can’t make it as she’s stuck at the bedside of her comatose octogenarian husband.”

“I thought she was out on a date with some flash mafia chap from Kazakhstan,” Sofia argued.

“Well we mustn’t gossip dear, much better if people think she’s doting over her husband. Our clients tell us things in confidence you know and it doesn’t do for us to spread their secrets.”

“Who else have you invited?” Sofia asked with genuine interest.

“Well there’s Mrs Kolokotronis. She’s the mother of Fat Christos who has the supermarket and she knits clothes for Bald Yannis’ goats; and of course young Iraklis lodges with her. Such a nice boy, he’ll make some girl a lovely husband now he’s decided not to be celibate.”

Sofia was amused by Evangelia’s ban on gossip as she seemed to be up to date on everyone’s business and happy to prattle on to her new trainee, spilling all the juicy details.

“Then there’s Did-Rees of course, she’s an American married to K-Went-In, such a nice couple even though they are a bit gormless. They bought an old-run down house in Rapanaki, next door to Prosperous Pedros’ ghastly old mother Fotini, and had Achilles the borrowed builder round to do it up. Fotini’s an old shrew who lives with her second-cousin Nitsa who drives the illegal taxi, and with Hattie, K-Went-In’s mother. Hattie got herself hoodwinked by one of those pesky cat fishers that prey on lonely old widows and ripped her off for every cent; not only that but she makes the most vile ice cream out of potatoes,” Evangelia volunteered.

Barely pausing for breath she continued “Soula may come along if Bald Yannis can spare her in the hardware shop. Such a nice woman, she might be plain and lame, but she has a lovely nature. Everyone said Bald Yannis was a virgin and clueless how to woo women, so he used a matchmaker to find a wife with a load of scrawny goats for a dowry. He brought Soula down from the high mountain village where she’d had a dreadful life with her tyrant of a father. Would you ever guess the reason she’s lame is because she got herself stuck in a bear trap overnight?”

“Ouch, just the thought of it is painful,” Sofia sympathised.

“Soula’s father is in prison now for keeping the dead body of his sister in the deep freezer and defrauding the state of her unmarried woman’s pension. They just carted her sister Koula off to a padded cell, what an odd one she was, breaking into people’s houses to clean, and stalking random men. She convinced herself she was engaged to Prosperous Pedros, even though he’d never looked twice at her, and made herself a hideous wedding dress that she wore to attack the Pappas. She even tried to kill Masha. To think she sat in that very chair and I did her hair, a right tangled mess it was too, it makes me shiver to think about it.”

Sofia’s gasp gave Evangelia a chance to catch a breath before continuing.

“Thea promised to pop over too; of course she’s your nona so I don’t need to fill you in on her. I invited Yiota but she can’t leave the taverna in the evening, and Stavroula isn’t budging from the bedside of her comatose father.”

“Wow, you’ve got two people from the village in a coma, what are the odds of that?” Sofia said in amazement.

“No dear, just the one fellow in a coma. Stavroula is his long lost love child which makes Masha her step-mother. Stavroula lives with the slick lawyer Socrates, but everyone knows she’s still bigamously married to Tasos who lives with your nona.”

“I thought it would be dull and boring moving to a small village, but the lives of the people here are riddled with scandal and intrigue,” Sofia exclaimed.

“Never a dull moment here,” Evangelia confirmed, turning away to hide the sad expression on her face. It might all sound terribly exciting to Sofia, but she feared her own life was as dull as ditchwater. She’d never actually met the people she most closely confided in, as they were all incarcerated in maximum security prisons on the other side of the world.

“They’re here now, I can’t wait to meet them,” Sofia said enthusiastically.

“Ladies welcome, welcome, do come in,” Evangelia greeted Thea, Mrs Kolokotronis, Soula and Deirdre, with a forced smile.

“Ooh, that’s a fancy looking contraption,” Mrs Kolokotronis said.

“Fish pedicures are all the fashion in Athens and on the posh islands like Santorini and Mykonos. I imagine this is the only one you’ll find out in the sticks,” Evangelia boasted.

“I can’t wait to dip my feet in it,” Thea enthused.

“Now ladies, if you’d all like to strip off your pop socks and put your feet in the tank you’ll soon appreciate the amazing benefits of a fish pedicure,” Evangelia invited.

Thea disappeared behind the salon curtain to remove her stockings and Deirdre rolled her trouser legs up, while Mrs Kolokotronis and Soula whipped their pop socks off and stuck their feet straight in the tank. Soon four pairs of legs were suspended in the tank full of nibbling anchovies, sardines and crabs.

“Ooh, it doesn’t half tickle,” Soula laughed.

Looking a little perturbed Sofia pulled Evangelia aside to whisper “shouldn’t you have made them wash their feet first? It doesn’t seem very hygienic. The fish spa could be a breeding ground for germs.”

“Well people don’t wash their feet before getting in the sea and swimming together and it doesn’t do any harm,” Evangelia reasoned.

“But they have to shower before getting in a swimming pool,” Sofia argued convincingly.

“Well don’t say anything now. I’ll read the instructions later on how to keep the tank hygienic,” Evangelia fudged, belatedly realising it might have been a good idea to familiarise herself with the instructions first.

“Ouch, something just bit me,” Deirdre shrieked.

“That’s how it works Did-Rees, the little fish nibble the dried up dead skin off your feet to rejuvenate them,” Evangelia explained. “It’s the same principal as a pumice stone, but with teeth.”

“They swallow the skin then excrete it back into the water,” Sofia added, as Evangelia desperately tried to shush her.

“Is it meant to hurt?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked, lifting a foot out of the water to reveal a crab clamped to her big toe.

“Hmm, I’m not sure how that crab got in there,” Evangelia said, prising it off Mrs Kolokotronis’ big toe. “But this therapeutic treatment is said to be an excellent remedy for those nasty warts on your feet. What is it now Sofia, I thought you were making coffee for my ladies?”

Evangelia turned puce when Sofia dragged her to one side, whispering “Don’t you know warts are contagious? They could all catch them from those revolting things on the old woman’s feet.”

“Now ladies, that’s enough for your first session, you don’t want to overdo it,” Evangelia blurted, panicking she could be inadvertently responsible for spreading a plague of warts around the village.

“Just five more minutes,” Thea protested, “it feels so decadent to indulge in a fishy massage.”

“Oh yes, just five more minutes to make my feet even smoother,” Deirdre concurred.

“No, you mustn’t overdo it the first time,” Evangelia insisted, hastily chucking towels at the four women. “Your feet will be beautifully rejuvenated by now and Sofia has made coffee for you all.”

Evangelia, desperate to drain the tank of the wart contaminated water and give it a good scrubbing with bleach, hurriedly filled the mop bucket to transfer the anchovies, sardines and crabs into, ready to use again in the next round of pedicures.

Sipping her coffee Mrs Kolokotronis boasted Iraklis had caught his first ever fish that afternoon and it was a whopper. “There’s plenty for everyone if yous would all like to come over for dinner,” she invited.

Everyone immediately accepted the kind invitation with the exception of Soula, who’d promised Bald Yannis she would be back to help in the hardware shop after her pedicure. Evangelia welcomed the chance to go out for once, thinking the company might help her shake off the uneasy feeling that had enveloped her ever since reading Marvin the Mincer’s latest missive.

“Will your lodger be there?” Sofia asked eagerly.

“Of course Iraklis will be there, but I like to think of him more as an honorary grandson than a lodger,” Mrs Kolokotronis replied.

“I’d love to come,” Sofia said, visibly blushing.

“Sofia, yous is blushing,” Thea teased, to the girl’s embarrassment. “’Ave yous got a bit of a crush on Iraklis?”

Sofia maintained a stony silence as the other ladies gave her knowing winks and immediately started compiling a glowing list of all Iraklis’ attributes.

“He’s such a good catch, yous would be lucky to land ‘im. I’d like to see ‘im settle down with a nice girl,” Mrs Kolokotronis said, giving the girl the once over and deciding she had a lovely smile underneath all the gunk plastered on her face. “It’s about time he started courting, he’s a bit of a late starter ‘aving been impeded by his vow of celibacy.”

“The poor boy is terribly besotted with Masha, he blushes and stammers every time he’s near her,” Deirdre commented, awakening the green eyed monster of jealousy within Sofia.

“That just shows he’s a red blooded young man and his stint in the church didn’t stifle his passion,” Thea said, happy that Toothless Tasos was one of the few men in the village immune to the silicone charms of the Russian.

“It’s just a boyish crush he ‘as on Masha. Once he meets a nice girl he’ll grow out of it,” Mrs Kolokotronis assured Sophia, mentally matchmaking her lodger with Thea’s goddaughter. “Come along back to mine everyone, Iraklis promised to do a nice salad to go with the fish and he won’t want it to wilt.”

The ladies departed, with Evangelia promising to follow them as soon as she’d locked up the salon.

“’Ang on a sec, can yous just make some change for Mel before yous shuts up,” Fotini asked, poking her head round the salon door.

“I was just locking up Fotini. Mrs Kolokotronis is cooking a fish young Iraklis caught. She says it’s a whopper. Just a sec, I think I may have some change in the back.” Evangelia had yet to meet Fotini’s houseguest from Idaho but was happy to oblige with his need for coins.

“I cant’s believe what yous did to Nitsa’s ‘air,” Fotini cackled. “She looks fifty years younger now yous ‘ave made ‘er look like a hooker,”

“Nitsa was the one who insisted on hair extensions, I’d have given her a more age appropriate short back and sides,” Evangelia replied huffily from the back where she was searching for change. “Pull the door to Fotini, I don’t want customers thinking I’m still open.

Moving inside Fotini stubbed her toe on the metal mop bucket, causing the water to spill over and splash her pop socks. Peering down she spotted the bucket was full of small fish. “Waste not, want not, these tiddlers will go down well in one of Mel’s fish mezes,” she cackled under her breath, filling the pockets of her hideous old lady dress with handfuls of tiddlers.

“Evangelia won’t be needin’ these if she’s off to eat fish with Mrs Kolokotronis,” Fotini muttered, shuffling off back to Mel and completely forgetting to wait for the change.

Chapter 18

A Floral Vision of Loveliness

“I can’t think where young Iraklis has got to. He must have been ‘ere a minute ago as this lemon still ‘as indentation marks from his fingers,” Mrs Kolokotronis said to her guests, picking up the lemon Iraklis had squeezed over the salad before dashing out of the back door when he saw the intimidating teenager following Mrs Kolokotronis into the kitchen. “Irakli, where are yous, we ‘ave guests?”

“Psst, keep your voice down, I’m out here,” Iraklis hissed, hovering outside the back door.

“Ladies excuse me, I’ll just pop outside and pick some fresh oregano to dress the fish,” Mrs Kolokotronis said, confused as to why Iraklis was lurking out of sight when he was usually so polite.

“What is that girl doing here?” Iraklis stammered.

“Where’s yous manners young man, she’s my guest,” Mrs Kolokotronis replied.

“But she makes me nervous. She’s so scary with that purple hair and black leather, it’s not natural.”

“Get over youself Irakli, she’s just a victim of fashion. ‘Ow would yous like it if people judged yous by yous acne without bothering to get to knows yous?” the older woman chided. “Now run over to the supermarket and tell Christos to give yous a bottle of wine for my guests. It will give yous time to pull youself together before yous come and meet Sofia.”

Returning to her guests Mrs Kolokotronis announced, “Poor Iraklis is a nervous wreck about meeting Sofia.” Addressing the teenager directly, she added “If truth be told he’s a bit frightened of yous ‘cos he knows nothing about fashion. He finds yous Goth image a bit intimidating. Why dont’s yous run to the bathroom an’ give yous face a good scrub? I can lend yous a nice flowery blouse to put on instead of that leather jacket.”

“And I have a nice pastel pink lipstick you can borrow,” Deirdre offered with a reassuring smile.

“Do I really look intimidating?” Sofia asked, fingering her nose ring and hoping she hadn’t blown her chance of making a good impression on the object of her teenage admiration.

“Well not to us, but men can be funny creatures. Take Tasos for instance, he’s a tad terrified of you ‘cos he’s always been a bit shy around women,” Thea confirmed. “Men like girls to look feminine; yous vampish image is too much for ‘em.”

“Come with me love, I’ve a nice headscarf yous can wrap that purple mop in,” Mrs Kolokotronis invited, leading Sofia away to raid her wardrobe.

“We’re in the kitchen Evangelia,” Deirdre called out as the hairdresser arrived. Evangelia had made a slight detour to drop the change into Stavroula’s taverna as Fotini was obviously becoming forgetful. Melecretes had been incredibly grateful, rushing out from behind the counter to thank her and insisting she call him Mel. He’d pressed her to stay for a coffee on the house, but she’d explained she had a prior engagement. Evangelia blushed as she recalled he’d insisted “tomorrow then,” in his husky Idaho accent. There had been a definite twinkle in his eyes.

By the time Iraklis returned with the wine Sofia’s appearance was transformed. The black leather had been replaced with a voluminous floral blouse smelling of mothballs, her face was free of all make up except Deirdre’s soft pastel pink lipstick, the nose ring was safely stashed in her pocket and her purple hair was concealed in a cheery floral headscarf that clashed with the blouse.

Iraklis looked around the room, inwardly relieved there was no sign of the scary teenager. Sighing with relief he accepted the seat Mrs Kolokotronis pushed him into, between Deirdre and a pretty girl who smiled at him shyly.

“Come and say hello nicely to Sofia, she won’t bite,” Mrs Kolokotronis urged him.

“But, but....” he stuttered in confusion, before pulling himself together and shyly saying “nice to meet you.”

Iraklis wondered how Mrs Kolokotronis had managed to get rid of the scary Goth and replace her with this floral vision of loveliness.

“It’s nice for you and Sofia to have each other for company, there’s not enough young blood in the village,” Thea said, confusing Iraklis as he tried to work out if the smiling Sofia and the intimidating Goth were one and the same person.

Sensing his confusion Sofia piped up, “I decided it was time to change my image. The Goth look is so last season. I hear you caught dinner, you must be so talented to have netted that whopper on your first attempt.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Iraklis beamed.

“Perhaps you could show me some time,” Sofia suggested, angling for an invitation and hoping she wasn’t being too forward.

“I’d be happy too. If Gorgeous Yiorgos says it’s okay to bring you along on the boat you could join me on my next day off,” Iraklis replied.

“I’d love to. Evangelia, you will let me have a day off to go fishing?” Sofia pleaded.

“Who am I to stand in the way of young love?” Evangelia replied, causing both Sofia and Iraklis to blush profusely.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Iraklis shyly stuttered.

“I like to donate blood in my free time,” Sofia shared.

“That’s very noble dear,” Thea piped up. “But don’t give too much, yous is already too skinny.”

Evangelia, deciding she would prefer Sofia to dress normally in the salon, suggested, “I can spare you tomorrow Sofia if you need to go up to town to shop for some less gloomy clothes. Just make sure you’re back for the afternoon shift.”

“Oh thank you, you’re so kind Evangelia. Nona will you come with me and help me choose something more appropriate for the village?” Sofia said.

“It’s a date,” Thea replied, delighted to see the sunny teenager she remembered emerge from the gothic darkness.

Thea’s happiness was complete when she overheard her goddaughter whisper to Evangelia, “Do you suppose you could do something with my hair? I’m bored with purple and want to try something new.”

Everyone stared at Thea as though she had lost her marbles when she blurted out “thank goodness for that, there’s nothing more of a passion killer than a man with purple chest hair.”

Chapter 19

Something of the Dark about Him

“What’s your game, old woman? I ordered you to drive us to the finest restaurant in town, not this backwater establishment,” Dastan the Kazakh complained threateningly as Nitsa parked the old Mercedes taxi in the ‘No Parking’ spot outside Stavroula’s taverna.

“This is the finest restaurant now Mel ‘as taken over the cookin.’” Nitsa snapped back. “Mel came all the way from America to chef ‘ere.”

“In that case I will overlook you ignoring my instructions,” Dastan conceded, suitably impressed an American chef was working locally; having no idea Mel ran a gyros joint in Idaho.

“Come now Masha, don’t pout. In my great independent nation of Kazakhstan we place more value on the superlative quality of the food than the surroundings. I have partaken of many fine meals in yurts far more humble than this.

“Just as long as my step-daughter doesn’t decide to leave my ‘usband’s bedside and turn up ‘ere,” Masha reluctantly agreed, acknowledging she had yet to sample Mel’s cooking. “Stavroula would make my life a living hell if she knew I was gallivanting with yous when I told ‘er I ‘ad to rush ‘ome to see to the donkey.”

“Let’s be ‘aving yous, yous can’t be sitting around in the taxi,” Nitsa chivvied the bodyguard.

“He will be fine sitting in your taxi with a horse sausage sandwich,” Dastan said, pointing to his companion who much preferred that option to standing guard in the doorway.

“I’m not ‘aving yous getting crumbs in the upholstery,” Nitsa insisted pushing him out and driving off in search of more unwilling passengers she could extort an exorbitant fare from.

Melecretes was delighted to welcome such an apparently wealthy customer as Dastan whose ostentatious display of gold jewellery spoke of great riches. Having mail order Masha on his arm was an additional pleasure as Mel never tired of feasting his eyes on her voluptuous silicone assets.

Mel’s obsequious welcome was ruined by Fotini pointing at Dastan and cackling, “That’s the oily malaka that was in the sea before July in the most indecent swimsuit I ‘ave ever clapped eyes on. It barely covered ‘is bits.”

“Madam, I will have you know my swimming costume is a mankini. I wear it with pride since our great independent nation of Kazakhstan decided to embrace ‘Borat’ as good for tourism, even though the movie initially brought excruciating embarrassment to our great independent nation.”

“What’s he chuntering on about Mel, I cant’s make sense of ‘im? What’s a Borat?” a frustrated Fotini demanded.

“He’s talking about the hilarious movie ‘Borat,’ set in his country,” Mel shouted, wishing Fotini would invest in a hearing aid.

“You do realise the cameras never came near our great independent nation of Kazakhstan; the movie was filmed in some Romanian shanty town. They thought to mock us, but we had the last laugh by eating the tourist dollars of many foolish Americans who before ‘Borat’ couldn’t even find Kazakhstan on a map.”

“It’s so important to have a sense of humour,” Mel said edging away, sensing there was something dark and sinister about Dastan, and afraid to admit he was ignorant of the location of this mafia chap’s country.

“Of course the movie did not depict us fairly,” Dastan continued. “For instance I only sold one of my four sisters into prostitution. I tried to resist, but the camels the pimp offered were such fine specimens, giving the superior fermented milk we use to make our delicious national drink of shubat. And you will never find any of my countrymen wearing polyester since the great oil boom.”

His mention of oil reminded Masha of her mission to uncover the Kazaks’ oily intentions. Nudging him towards a table she simpered, “Yous will ‘ave to tell me all about youself an’ what brings you to Greece.”

“It will be my delight Masha, but first let us order food.” Turning to a hovering Fotini waiting to take their order, he demanded, “Bring us your finest caviar old woman and some Russian tsai.”

“Brings yous what?” Fotini spluttered.

“It’s fish eggs, yous ignorant peasant,” Masha explained.

“Who’s yous callin’ a peasant, you plastic floozy,” Fotini retorted, stomping away to the kitchen to have a good spit in their food.

“’Ad the cheek to call me a peasant they did, an’ there they sit wanting filthy fish eggs. They must be really poor in ‘is country if they cant’s even run to proper hen’s eggs,” Fotini told Mel.

“I’d try not to wind him up Fotini, there’s somethin’ of the dark side about ‘im,” Mel advised.

“Po po, he’s nothin’ but a tasteless jumped up malaka with an overgrown eyebrow, he dont’s scare me,” Fotini replied defiantly.

“I’ll go and take their order,” Mel volunteered, desperate to keep Fotini from hurling more insults at the wealthy customer.

“Well yous may as well take ‘em this bit of fish meze to start with,” Fotini said, passing him the platter of anchovies, sardines and crabs she had retrieved from Evangelia’s mop bucket, then fried and garnished with a generous spray of spit and some mouth watering black olives. Socrates had already taken a take-out fish meze up to Stavroula in the hospital to keep her strength up.

“That looks tasty, he won’t be able to turn ‘is nose up at that. Fotini, yous is a real asset to the kitchen,” Mel praised her, carrying the meze over to Dastan and Masha.

“This looks most excellent,” Dastan said to Mel’s relief, picking up a fried anchovy and dangling it under Masha’s nose.

“Actually I find the smell of fried fish a bit nauseating at this stage of my pregnancy,” Masha objected. “Mel, can you just bring me some bread and oil? No really Dastan, you tuck in, I ‘aven’t much appetite after breathing in all that ‘orrible ‘ospital bleach.”

“I like a woman who watches her figure. This is most excellent, Mel you are a master chef indeed,” Dastan praised Mel, who had no intention of confessing he’d had no hand in the meze that had been all Fotini’s work.

“Can I tempt yous with a lovely lamb kleftiko to follow?” Mel asked.

“Indeed, lamb is my favourite meat after horse and goat,” Dastan approved, waving Mel back to the kitchen and greedily devouring the fish meze.

“What is this?” he demanded as Fotini splashed a cup of tsai tou vounou down in front of him.

“What does it look like? Yous said yous wanted tsai,” Fotini countered.

“Russian tsai. Vodka, bring me vodka old woman,” Dastan shouted.

“I’ll ‘ave the mountain tea, it might ‘elp with my nausea,” Masha said, resigned by now to remaining vodka free for the duration of her pregnancy.

“I expect if you want a taste of Russia you must cook traditional food in your house as these Greeks only cook Greek dishes,” Dastan said.

“I cook borscht, but that is all. My talents lie in other directions. Sometimes I miss the plov, the golubtsy and the herring under the fur coat,” Masha sighed. “But I couldn’t care less if I never ‘ad to eat the frozen pony liver ever again, I ‘ated the stuff. One winter it was all we ‘ad, day after day of frozen pony liver washed down with melted ice, ‘cos my drunken lout of a father spent all our money on vodka, leaving nothin’ over for a nice side of reindeer.”

“Such beauty should not know such hardships. Did you experience great suffering?” Dastan said, grabbing her hand and ardently kissing her fingertips.

“Verkhoyansk was a harsh place to live, frozen solid all winter. We ‘ave three weeks of hot summer when we are tortured by swarms of Siberian mosquitoes, far more ‘orrid than Greek ones. Greece is a paradise in comparison.”

“I can offer you great riches back in my land. You could bathe daily in health-giving crude oil, gorge on caviar and dine on the finest horse ravioli,” Dastan offered, suggestively fingering the ostentatious gold medallion hovering amid the chest hairs sprouting from his open shirt front.

“Dastan, yous forget I am a married woman,” Masha reprimanded, removing his groping hand from her knee and thinking he must be insane if he thought she would ever expose her delicate skin to crude oil or presume she could be tempted to run off with him to eat revolting horse ravioli. His reference to oil once again reminded her of her mission so she fluttered her false eyelashes and said, “So Dastan, yous is obviously an important bigly-wig. If I ‘ad to guess I would say you is bigly in oil.”

“I do have a predilection for bathing in the stuff, but my line of important business is not oily,” Dastan replied.

“Really, I ‘ad you down as a prospector.”

“You are very astute Masha, I am indeed a prospector, but I grease the wheels for gold prospecting, not oil.”

“So Bald Yannis ‘ad it all wrong and yous is just ‘ere on ‘oliday, not on business,” Masha surmised, presuming the most gold to be found in Astakos was in her jewellery box.

“Why is that bald brute discussing my business? This is intolerable,” Dastan cried, lowering his sunglasses to peer at her suspiciously.

“Well I think he might just ‘ave been a bit worried that if you started drilling for oil it would make the land a bit oily for ‘is goats to graze on,” Masha improvised, sensing Dastan had a bit of a dark side and wondering how to bring the topic back round to gold.

“So the bald brute ‘as more than one goat?” Dastan asked.

“Him and Soula ‘ave ‘undreds of the things now. Yannis ‘ad ‘is goats sponsored by the Japanese.”

“That is most interesting. I am looking for a new goat supplier,” Dastan revealed.

“I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad yous down as a goat herder,” Masha said in surprise.

“Of course I am not a goat herder, do I look like a peasant? I have my fingers in many cakes. I need a reliable supplier of goats for our great independent nation’s national sport.”

Looking completely blank Masha speared the paper tablecloth with a toothpick, wishing she had the courage to stick the toothpick into his groping hand, but deterred by his menacing air which grew darker by the minute. Responding to his remark about the Kazakh sport she hazarded the guess, “So in Kazakhstan yous ‘ave a team of goats playing sport? I ‘ave to say it sounds even more boring than the football.”

“Masha, have you never heard of the great Kazakh national sport of kokpar?”

Masha’s clueless expression was all the answer Dastan needed to launch into an explanation.

“Kokpar is Kazakh polo. Men on horses compete to drag the ball into the goal. What makes our great independent nation’s sport so unique is instead of a ball we use a decapitated goat carcass, though if those eejits at Amnesty International get their way the dead goat will be replaced with a plastic dummy.”

“I don’t think Bald Yannis would let you ‘ave ‘is goats for that, he’s unnaturally fond of ‘em.”

“Indeed, I have heard about such perversions,” Dastan replied with an involuntary twitch off his hairy monobrow.

“Perhaps unnatural was the wrong choice of word,” Masha hastily interjected, not wishing to tar even Bald Yannis with the stigma of bestiality. “Yannis just likes to make money off ‘is goats by dressing ‘em up. Anyway he’s a vegetarian.”

“Now that is unnatural,” Dastan scoffed. “I never trust a man who refuses a nice piece of kazy or horse penis.”

Their intimate conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Hamish and Fenella. The Scottish pair had already dined at ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ before retiring to Toothless Tasos’ fisherman’s cottage for an early night. The prospect of trying to sleep on the sitting room floor whilst the maudlin Tasos, who was uncharacteristically drunk on ouzo sobbed in his deckchair, sent them fleeing back into the night.

“Just half a kilo of wine please,” they requested from Mel, trying to stifle their yawns.

“I bring yous a little fish meze to ‘elp soak up the wine, it not goodly to drink on an empty stomach,” Mel said, clueless they had just stuffed their faces with generous portions of Yiota’s octopus in red wine.

“Now where were we?” Dastan asked Masha, having lost his train of thought with the interruption.

“We were talking about yous gold prospecting,” Masha lied, desperate to steer the conversation away from decapitated goat carcasses and edible horses, as she still felt queasy.

“Yes indeed, gold prospecting. That is the important business that brings me here.” Leaning across the table intently with his gold medallion flopping into his lamb kleftiko and his tongue loosened by many glasses of vodka, Dastan let his guard down and responded to Masha’s calculated charms. “I have reason to believe Astakos is sitting atop a rich seam of gold.”

“Fascinating, where exactly is this gold seam yous plans to exploit,” Masha encouraged, gazing deeply into Dastan’s sunglasses.

“Beneath the village landfill site,” the Kazakh revealed.

“That stinking rubbish dump,” Masha sceptically exclaimed, remembering when the landfill site had been cordoned off  by some misguided idiots in the Department of Antiquities as a possible place of valuable architectural interest, that later turned out to be of no interest at all.

“There is gold there, I know it, I have a nose for these things,” Dastan shouted, thumping the table dramatically with his fist and sending his plate of lamb kleftiko crashing to the floor where it was promptly pounced on by Stavroula’s taverna cat Boukali. The cat scuttled off to the kitchen with its lamb prize, where Fotini grappled to grab the meat from its jaws, rinsing the piece of lamb under the cold water top ready to be minced up to go in the next day’s moussaka.

Pouring another glass of vodka Dastan revealed “The gold mining company I prospect for have promised me twenty-thousand American dollars, not Kazakh tenges, if I can successfully bribe the Greek officials to give permission to sink the gold mine on the rubbish dump. I am in secret discussions with your local mayor who, I believe, is an eminently bribable fool.”

“So yous isn’t the mafia?” Masha blurted impulsively.

Dastan straightened up and leant back in his chair. Lowering his sunglasses he peered over the top of the dark lenses and raised his glass of vodka, pointedly ignoring her question and ominously saying, “To you, my magnificent Masha. We will share many nights in my great nation, I promise you.”

Masha, shuddered involuntarily, sensing Dastan’s promise was a threat and vowing to make Bald Yannis do his own dirty work in future as she found Dastan’s presence decidedly menacing. When the taverna door opened she had never been so relieved in her life to see Nitsa enter and she immediately called the old crone over to join them, gushing, “Those ‘air extensions take fifty years off yous.”

“I knows, we could be sisters,” Nitsa beamed; seriously deluded her new hairdo was attractive.

“Have a glass of vodka old woman?” Dastan purred.

“Better make it a brandy, I’m driving the taxi,” Nitsa replied, adding “Yous do ‘ave a fine ‘ead of ‘air an’ a nice ‘airy chest, I likes that in a man.”

“Tell me old woman, do you know the local mayor well?” Dastan enquired, wondering if he could make use of her. The elders in his own country were greatly revered and he supposed if the same was true in Greece the ridiculous looking old crone may have some influence, especially as she had already admitted to him her dodgy criminal past and her familiarity with the inside of a prison cell.

“What, the butcher mayor? I didn’t vote for that spineless malaka even though he tried to bribe me with ‘alf-a-kilo of mince. Po po, the very thought I could be so cheap.”

Firing a filthy look in Nitsa’s direction now she’d revealed herself as being of no use to him in greasing the mayor’s palm with a bribe, Dastan excused himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight Masha grabbed Nitsa’s hand and hissed, “He’s creeping me out, there’s definitely something a bit dark about ‘im”

“Well that could be ‘is sunglasses,” Nitsa suggested. “It’s a bit odd he’s wearing ‘em at night.”

“Look old woman, there’s somethin’ sinister about ‘im, yous ‘ave to help me get away from ‘im. Bald Yannis begged me to ‘ave dinner with ‘im to find out what’s he’s up to, but I think Dastan ‘as dastardly intentions.”

“So yous was only with ‘im ‘cos Bald Yannis put yous up to it an’ not because yous is cuckolding yous comatose ‘usband?” Nitsa said. “I knows from experience ‘ow ‘ard it is to say no to Bald Yannis.”

“An’ now the Kazakh as confessed to me he’s in cahoots with the butcher mayor an’ yous knows ‘ow yous hates ‘im.”

“The mayor’s a wrong ‘un all right, there’s all sorts of sordid gossip about ‘im,” Fotini piped up, having overheard the frantic whispering between Masha and Nitsa

“Dastan, I ‘ave to go now, I feel sick,” Masha urgently declared as soon as the Kazakh returned, almost knocking the table over in her haste to get away from his sinister presence.

“Was it something you ate? I can arrange to have the chef taken care of,” Dastan offered in what he thought was a whisper, but was actually loud enough to be overheard by Nitsa and Fotini. The old crones exchanged worried looks and instantly decided it was their duty to get Masha and Melecretes away from this malaka mafia hood.

“Masha, I’ll drive yous ‘ome now in the taxi,” Nitsa offered.

“And I will escort you,” Dastan insisted.

“There’s no room for yous,” Nitsa told him. “I ave to take Fotini and Mel as well.”

“There will still be room for me,” Dastan argued.

“Not when she ‘as to squeeze the Scottish pair in too,” Fotini improvised, dragging Hamish and Fenella out of their seats and hissing at them to get in the taxi parked outside.

“But we only have to go three doors down to our lodgings,” Hamish objected until Fotini hissed “if yous get in the taxi now yous wont’s ‘ave to pay for the fish meze and wine.”

Meanwhile Nitsa dashed to the kitchen, telling Mel, “Dont’s ask questions, just get in the taxi with Masha now.” Mel, naturally delighted to do anything to oblige the two old crones and Masha, made a mad dash for the taxi, scooping Masha up protectively on his way out.

Watching the overloaded taxi tear off with his Russian beauty squashed in with Mel, Nitsa, Fotini and the Scottish pair, Dastan was almost certain the two old crones had somehow plotted to get Masha away from him, but he’d knocked back so much vodka he couldn’t  be certain.

Chapter 20

A Stroll through the Olive Groves

The next morning Hywel and Blodwyn, the Welsh Doomsday trippers, were woken by Hamish rattling their tent flap and inviting them to join him and Fenella for a jaunty stroll through the olive groves.

“Och aye, it’s such a bonnie morning, we’d be glad of your company,” he said persuasively. “It would be a shame to waste possibly the last morning we have in the world as we know it, if the Doomsday prediction comes true and the world ends tomorrow.”

“This bloody beach will still be ‘ere though,” Hywel complained, having spent an uncomfortable night being disturbed by goats chewing on his guy ropes.

“Count us in,” Blodwyn called out enthusiastically, jiggling about in an effort to dislodge sand from her knickers and a cheese n’ onion crisp packet from her bra. “We’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

As Hamish waited for the Welsh couple to complete their morning ablutions he was tempted to take off his socks and sandals to feel the warm sand between his toes. The Ionian Sea lapping the coastline was an enticing turquoise, crystal clear and calm in the morning sunlight. Blodwyn emerged from the tent wearing a diamante dragon tee-shirt, wondering if she should change when she spied Fenella, who was waiting just to the side of the beach, wearing the hideous old lady dress she had grown very fond of despite mail order Masha’s disparaging comments.

Blodwyn waved enthusiastically to Fenella, knocking her husband’s newly purchased Greek fisherman’s hat onto the beach. “She won’t come over,” Hamish remarked. “Fenella has a bit of a sand phobia, if she wants to go in the sea I have to give her a piggy-back over the beach.”

“Bloody hell man, I’m developing a bit of a sand phobia myself. The bloody stuff gets everywhere. Last night we had a gyros delivered and had to pick the sand out of it with a bloody torch,” Hywel complained.

“I’d rather be picking sand out of my gyros than heading back home to work in the salt factory,” Blodwyn sighed, not believing for a moment that the world would end everywhere except Astakos the following day. “I think we have all been conned,” she stated, expanding on the Doomsday subject. “If you think about it, all the businesses in Asktakos would benefit from perpetuating the bloody Doomsday scenario.”

“Well we don’t care if it is a con,” Fenella said as the threesome joined her. “Hamish and I have had the most marvellous time. We’d never have chosen Greece for a holiday otherwise, but it’s been such a wonderful experience we plan to return every year. It’s a fantastic country full of amazing scenery, ancient ruins to explore, delicious food and such friendly people. Why only last night the local lady who drives the taxi insisted on driving us round the village to see all the sights.”

“We didn’t actually see much of anything as it had already gone dark,” Hamish pointed out with a smile, pleasurably recalling being boxed in tightly next to mail order Masha’s voluptuous body. “But the other old lady who was serving in the quaint taverna absolutely refused to accept a cent for our fish meze and wine.”

“Well to be fair we didn’t exactly order the meze Hamish.”

“It didn’t stop you eating it dear,” Hamish responded.

“And the accommodation we’ve stayed in is so authentically Greek, we wouldn’t have had the same experience staying in a hotel, would we Hamish?”

“It was certainly authentic when we got back from our late night forced drive,” Hamish replied. “It took four of us to drag Toothless Tasos upstairs to his bed. He’d passed out in a drunken stupor on our sleeping bags on the living room floor; the demon ouzo don’t you know?”

“But he was very apologetic about it when he woke us at five this morning to go fishing,” Fenella reminded him.

“The less said about that the better,” Hamish coughed, preferring not to mention to their new Welsh friends that Tasos, trying to sneak out without waking them, had tripped over the cat and dropped his bucket of fish bait on their heads. It had taken Hamish a good half-hour in the shower to get the stench of prawns and chopped up squid out of his hair, not an easy task as Sofia had used up all the hot water.

“We won’t be coming back to Greece,” Hywel said. “Blodwyn has her heart set on Benidorm.”

“That was before I knew how much you’d gone over our budget ordering gyros deliveries every five minutes,” Blodwyn shot back. “Unless I can get lots of overtime in at the salt factory we’ll be taking our next holiday in flippin’ Rhyl.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Rhyl, at least they speak Welsh and you can get proper fish and chips, not like all this weird octopus and squid they serve up over here.”

“We adore octopus, we had it last night,” Fenella boasted.

“Give me a nice bit of plain battered cod anytime,” Hywel said.

“You can get that here in Greece Hywel, it’s called bakaliaro,” Hamish informed the Welshman, showing off his superior knowledge. “It’s very tasty.”

“Speaking of tasty, what do you suppose we should do for lunch later? Perhaps we could ask Mel to make up some sandwiches to take along as a picnic?” Fenella suggested.

“Or we could get some pies from the bakery,” Hywel said. “I have to say these Greeks do make bloody delectable pies. You have to try the ones filled with feta and spinach.”

“Or we could stop by the hardware shop and get a few Christmas tinners to take along, very useful things they are, being self-heating,” Hamish suggested.

His idea was well received by the others who, although by now were almost convinced they had fallen for some elaborate end of the world hoax, thought just on the off-chance life as they knew it ended the next day, it would be very festive to eat one last Christmas dinner in the olive groves.

“Let’s do that,” Blodwyn encouraged. “I haven’t been in the hardware shop yet, but I’m thinking it would be nice to get one of those traditional Greek dresses. You look a picture in yours Fenella.”

With lunch plans decided the two couples strolled from the beach to the harbour. Entering the hardware shop they walked straight into the middle of a hot dispute, with Thea demanding Bald Yannis remove the silk knickers his blow up mannequin was clad in under the hideous old lady dress.

“I’d recognize my lace smalls anywhere, I paid good money for them from the home shopping channel,” Thea shouted. “I’d like to know ‘ow yous got yous hands on ‘em, Yanni.”

“I dont’s rightly recall,” Bald Yannis procrastinated, distinctly remembering the clandestine pleasure of stealing them from Thea’s washing line. “’Ang on, does yous remember when underwear started turning up all over the village in unlikely places? Now I think about it yous knickers might ‘ave been dumped in my wheelbarrow.”

“So what are you still doin’ with ‘em Yanni,” Thea asked suspiciously.

“Well ‘ow was I supposed to know they was yours?  An’ yous could ‘ardly expect me to gives yous cast-off undies to my wife,” he said, distinctly remembering gifting Soula some stolen underwear on their wedding night. “Most likely I shoved ‘em under the counter to use as a duster until the mannequin needed ‘em.”

“They aren’t cast-offs, they were stolen from my washing line. I want ‘em back.”

“Ang on a minute,” Bald Yannis told her, climbing his ladder to divest Gloria of her undergarments. “There’s no pleasin’ yous women. When the mannequin ‘ad no knickers on Nitsa accused ‘er of flashing ‘er privates and Soula said it embarrassed young Iraklis.

Soula stepped forward in an attempt to diffuse the situation, saying, “Iraklis is very impressionable Yanni, he’s led a sheltered life. I’ll give you a pair of my smalls to make sure yous blow up mannequin isn’t indecent.”

Snatching her knickers from Bald Yannis, Thea stomped out to accompany her goddaughter on her shopping trip to town. She was under strict instructions from Toothless Tasos not to spend a single cent and was a tad worried by his ominous warning that they needed to have a serious talk when she returned from Paraliakos. Thea had a niggling worry she had gone too far by moving Sofia into Toothless Tasos’ home.

“Perhaps I am worrying over nothing,” she pondered, “after all he hated the cat at first but suddenly he’s all over it.”

“Bloody hell, what’s going on out there?” Hywel shouted, distracted from reading the ingredient labels on the Christmas tinners by the arrival of the Sea Police in a motorised boat in the harbour. Everyone rushed from the hardware shop to the harbour wall to get a closer look at the sudden activity. The fishermen cleaning their nets hoped they wouldn’t have to hand over any of their catch to bribe the Sea Police into turning a blind eye to any fishing transgressions.

Pancratius the village policeman sidled up to Bald Yannis, explaining the Sea Police were here to investigate Deirdre’s concerns about seeing the body of a naked woman in the sea.

“’Appen we’ve got some nudists out ‘ere on their holidays but since when is that a crime? Did-Rees can be a bit of a prude,” Bald Yannis piped up, knowing full well the naked woman Pancratius referred to was none other than the blow up sex doll currently suspended from the hardware shop ceiling.

“Did-Rees reckons she saw the naked body of a dead woman, not a nudist out for a swim. It’s a mystery though, no one else saw the body Did-Rees claimed to see through that red pea-souper; even though her husband and Toothless Tasos were with her at the time. I’ve a feeling I’m overreacting by calling the Sea Police down to investigate, but Did-Rees is a like a dog with a bone about it and won’t let it drop,” Pancratius explained.

“She’s nothing but a prone to hysterics attention seeker if you ask me,” Bald Yannis offered, quite happy to throw Deirdre’s reputation under the bus. He had no intention of confessing he had planted the blow up sex doll, retrieved from under the Pappas’ bleeding body in the church, as a joke. “An’ anyway no one’s missing, so who’s body is it supposed to be anyway?”

“Well it could have been the body of a woman pushed overboard from a passing cruise ship,” Pancratius suggested, realising he was clutching at straws. He was personally of the opinion Deirdre had just been a bit spooked out by the red mist and all the talk of a madman on the loose, but procedures had to be followed.

The Sea Police obviously shared his opinion they’d been sent on a wild goose chase and after ten minutes decided to stop searching, preferring to moor their boat and have coffee at the kafenion. “We’re not going to dredge the harbour unless someone is officially declared missing,” they announced to their audience.

Bald Yannis herded his customers back into the hardware shop, determined to make some money from them. Blodwyn complained all the hideous old lady dresses he showed her were too big for her body and would drown her. “What about that one, it looks just your size,” Fenella suggested, pointing to the dress displayed on the mannequin. Bald Yannis climbed the ladder to undress the blow up sex doll and Soula told her husband she would rush home to retrieve some underwear to avoid any vinyl flashing offending customers with delicate sensibilities.

“Bloody hell man, that’s the oddest looking mannequin I ever saw,” Hywel nudged Hamish. “It looks more like a blow up sex doll.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Hamish snootily responded, before whispering to his wife “are you sure these are our kind of people?”

Bald Yannis, overhearing Hywel’s comment, gave him a glassy stare, saying “Does I look like a massage parlour?

Armed with their picnic lunch of Christmas tinners and Blodwyn’s new hideous old lady dress, the four foreigners resumed their walk, feeling a tad too intimidated by Bald Yannis revving his chainsaw to demand a receipt. Passing the beauty parlour Fenella was excited to read Evangelia’s new sign advertising fish pedicures and insisted on calling in to book an appointment.

“I can’t do any pedicures until this evening,” Evangelia apologised, looking flustered. She had no recollection of emptying the mop bucket in which she’d left the fish from the pedicure tank swimming the previous evening, so she could change the water in the tank. After fruitlessly searching the salon and even her handbag for the missing fish, she’d jumped to the erroneous conclusion Sofia must have emptied the bucket into the harbour, and resorted to begging Gorgeous Yiorgos to catch her some new ones.

“I can’t believe you want to squander our cash on a bloody fish pedicure,” Hywel complained after his wife decided to join Fenella for an evening treatment.

“So it’s all right for you to blow cash on lager and pies, but as soon as I fancy a bit of pampering you have to object,” Blodwyn hissed, not wanting their new friends to overhear their sniping. “It will be just the thing to sort out this nasty sand-infested fungal foot infection I’m afflicted with.”

The foursomes’ petty bickering was soon replaced with gasps of delight when they discovered a winding track leading through the poppy strewn olive groves. The olive trees were laden with blossom, prompting a fit of sneezing from Hywel who excused himself by saying “bloody allergies.” The sight of a tortoise chomping its way through wild sage distracted Hywel from his sneezing.

“Bloody hell Blodwyn, you’ve always wanted a tortoise as a pet. We could easily fit this little fellow into the suitcase and take it home,” Hywel shouted.

“Only if you fancy being arrested for smuggling an endangered species,” Hamish said with disgust. “How would you like it if someone grabbed you while you were out minding your own business, stuffed you in a suitcase full of dirty washing and smuggled you off to a foreign country on an aeroplane?”

“No need to get the huff, I was just saying,” Hywel spluttered. “I can always get her one from the pet shop back home.”

“I think I’ve gone off the idea,” Blodwyn said. “It would seem cruel to keep a tortoise cooped up indoors after seeing them roaming around in their natural habitat.”

Strolling into the adjacent olive grove Hamish was excited to encounter a herd of goats gambolling around in knitted clothes. “These must be the famous goats we heard about, let me get a picture of them with my camera.”

“I wouldn’t risk it dear; didn’t you notice the sign in the hardware shop saying there will be dire consequences for taking photographs of that bald chap’s goats without his permission?” Fenella said worriedly, convinced it wouldn’t be beyond Bald Yannis to install hidden security cameras in the olive trees.

“Nonsense Fenella, now go and stand next to a goat so I can capture the moment for posterity. That’s perfect; say feta,” Hamish said, snapping away.

“I’ve seen it all now, I tell you only insane people dress their goats up in bloody clothes,” Hywel spluttered.

“So you won’t be smuggling one into your suitcase with the tortoise then?” Hamish sneered, thinking any one of these goats would be better company than this moaning Welshman.

“I think it’s just wonderful,” Fenella gushed. “It’s so cheery.”

“Those goats won’t be looking so cheery come Easter when they’re rotating on a spit,” Hywel countered.

“Oh do shut up,” his wife snapped, running out of patience with Hywel’s constant grousing.

The group continued their walk, their silence only broken by the odd expletive from Hywel who’d developed a blister, and by rapturous sighs from the others, enchanted by the wild orchids and irises springing up underfoot.

“We’ve finished all the water,” Hywel complained. “We could get dangerously dehydrated in this heat without any liquid.”

“Perhaps we could ask at that house over there if they’d kindly fill up our bottles,” Fenella suggested, pointing to a renovated old house with lemon trees in the garden.

“Bloody hell man, I think we’ve only gone and got our dates wrong,” Hywel screeched in alarm. “We’re outside Astakos now and it looks like the world has ended already. Look, that chap over there has a hazmat suit on; they only wear those when there’s danger of contamination. Could be a deadly plague has ended the world. We’d better backtrack to Astakos quick sharp.”

“I think you’ll find he’s wearing a beekeepers outfit, not a hazmat suit,” Hamish contradicted. “The area is after all renowned for its superlative local honey.”

“I don’t think we should risk getting any closer,” Hywel argued, just as Quentin raised his visor and called out a friendly greeting.

“Have you got the plague?” Hywel yelled back.

“Oh, this thing? Would you believe I’m reduced to wearing it as protection from that blasted parrot,” Quentin called back, pointing to Fotini’s parrot perching on the garden wall.

Roused by the commotion the parrot took flight and with a clean sweep landed directly on Hywel’s head, clamping its claws onto his scalp with a vice-like grip.

“Bloody hell man, get the thing off me,” Hywel screamed.

“I think you’ll find there’s no budging it,” Quentin commiserated. “You’re welcome to this to cover it up. I find I look marginally less stupid with my head encased in a lobster adorned shower curtain than walking round with the parrot as superfluous decoration.”

Chapter 21

Bald Yannis the Village Protector

Mail order Masha had spent an uncomfortable night on Melecretes’ inflatable air bed in Fotini’s spare room. Dinner with the dastardly Dastan had completely riled her usual composure, leaving her disconcerted. She was more accustomed to besotted admiration than veiled threats from overly possessive types with possible mafia connections. Melecretes had been more than happy to give up his bed to a damsel in distress, but suffered an even more uncomfortable night than Masha, sleeping on the floor by the front door clutching a steak hammer in lieu of a deadly weapon. If Masha had known the Kazakh had spent half the night camped on her doorstep determined to seduce her, she wouldn’t have slept a wink.

Fotini and Nitsa spent several hours speculating on Dastan’s villainous nature, further adding to Masha’s uneasy sensation of fear. “There’s somethin’ dark about ‘im an’ he was a definitely a bit free with the way he suggested ‘aving Mel bumped off.”

“That’s most likely ‘is mafia side comin’ out,” Nitsa suggested.

“If I’d known he wanted Mel bumped off I would have poisoned ‘is food,” Fotini cackled. “The best thing yous can do Masha is lie low ‘ere today, dont’s risk going up to the ‘ospital. Mel an’ me ‘ave to get to the shop now.”

“There’s something I ‘ave to do,” Masha said. “I ‘ave to fill Bald Yannis in on Dastan’s plans to turn the rubbish dump into an environmental disaster zone an’ warn ‘im the greasy mayor is on the fiddle.”

“I’ve an idea, I’ll go and fetch Bald Yannis in my taxi and bring ‘im ‘ere, that way yous wont’s risk running into the Kazakh what might be lurking to get yous alone with ‘im,” Nitsa suggested, thinking her offer gave her a wonderful opportunity to be alone with Bald Yannis.

“I know it sounds wimpish but I dont’s fancy being all alone ‘ere knowing Dastan could ‘ave his eye on me,” Masha cried.

“Yous wont’s be alone. The parrot’s ‘ere, Hattie’s in the kitchen, and Quentin and Deirdre are right next door,” Nitsa said, dashing out to the taxi with Mel and Fotini.

After dropping Fotini and Mel off at Stavroula’s taverna, Nitsa headed over to the hardware shop.

“Yous do ‘ave a way with ladies underwear Yanni,” she cackled, watching Bald Yannis pulling mail order Masha’s stolen silk thong up the legs of the blow up sex doll.

“What do yous want, old crone?” Yannis snapped.

“I ‘ave to borrow yous and takes yous ‘ome with me,” Nitsa replied with a saucy wink.

“Yous ain’t takin’ my husband anywhere,” Soula piped up. “Dont’s yous think it’s time yous stopped chasing after my man, yous disgraceful old hag?”

“But this is serious, the mail order floozy sent me to get ‘im. She found out what that dastardly Dastan is up to an’ now she’s too afraid to leave the house ‘cos he gave her the willies.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous ‘ad better go,” Soula advised. “After all it was yous what encouraged poor Masha to go out to dinner with the mafia chap.”

“So he’s up to no good then. I knew it,” Bald Yannis crowed. “Yous ‘ad better drive me to Masha’s ‘ouse then.”

“She stopped with us last night, she was too afraid to go ‘ome. She’s worried he’s lurking out there desperate to get ‘is hands on ‘er. Not to mention he threatened to ‘ave Mel bumped off.”

“’Ere Soula, pass me the spare chainsaw, it sounds as though Masha could do with a bit of extra protection,” Bald Yannis demanded.

“If my life was in danger yous is the man I would want to protect me,” Nitsa simpered, undoing the top button of her hideous old lady dress to reveal a new crop of alluring chest hairs as soon as she had Bald Yannis alone in the taxi.

“Dream on, old woman,” Bald Yannis snapped. “Ere, do a detour past Masha’s house so we can see if the Kazakh is lurking.”

Nitsa drove the old Mercedes taxi to Masha’s house, but the only sign of life was Iraklis who had rushed over to tend to the donkey after receiving a frantic phone call from Masha.

Bald Yannis was apoplectic with rage listening to mail order Masha describe dastardly Dastan’s intentions to bribe the mayor to gain his stamp of approval for the landfill site to be turned into a gold mine.

“Yous got it wrong Yanni, Dastan isn’t into oil, only bathing in it. He’s into gold, that’s why he’s dripping in the stuff,” Masha clarified.

“So that’s ‘is game. Astakos would be ruined if he turned us into the next Skouries. We wouldn’t see sight or sound of any tourists with all the environmental damage it would cause, not to mention we’d all likely come down with arsenic poisoning from the nasty flash-smelting they do to get the gold out of the ground.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous is so clever bein’ so knowledgeable about the destructive methods they use to extract gold,” Nita gushed.

“Can yous stop ‘im?” Masha asked, thinking if Dastan’s gold mining plans were thwarted he’d have no reason to hang around the village.

“I’ll round up some muscle and we’ll go an’ see the mayor. This time we wont’s shift until we ‘ave answers.” Bald Yannis promised. “None of us wants to see Astakos destroyed for foreign greed.”

“It might be good for yous ‘ardware shop to ‘ave lots of new blood in the village all tooling up,” Nitsa suggested.

“Po po, yous really think them big corporations buys local?” Bald Yannis sneered. “They’d put me out of business by building a foreign owned mega-store. Smelting would poison our land and sea, an’ all the profits would be siphoned off back to Kazakhstan. The only ones to gain would be those like the greasy mayor who put their greedy ‘ands out for brown envelopes.”

“Ooh Yanni, yous will be a hero if yous saves the village. I knows ‘ow oil drilling destroyed some of the pristine areas of Siberia, wreaking environmental havoc an’ leaving untreated sludge to defile the water,” Masha said.

“Leave it to me Masha. I’ll sort out the oily Kazakh and the corrupted mayor,” Bald Yannis proclaimed, revving his chain saw enthusiastically.

Chapter 22

Well Meaning Busybodies

Iraklis blushed down the telephone line when mail order Masha telcephoned to ask if he’d pop by to see to the donkey before starting his supermarket shift, flattered the Russian beauty had thought of him.

“Ooh Irakli, yous ‘ave gone all red, was that young Sofia on the phone?” Mrs Kolokotronis asked.

“No it was Masha, she needs me to go round to see to the donkey, Mrs K,” Iraklis replied

“Well dont’s let ‘er take advantage of yous, I can see ‘ow easy it would be for yous ‘ead to be turned by her silicone charms. At the end of the day Masha’s a married woman and yous crush would be better directed at young Sofia. She’s such a nice girl an’ Thea says her uncle is big in coffins.”

“She wasn’t half as frightening as I’d imagined,” Iraklis agreed. “I’d like to get to know Sofia better, but I’ve no idea how to talk to girls. Mother always made me promise to keep away from them.”

“Yes, well yous overbearing mother isn’t ‘ere now and yous ‘ave yous own life to lead Irakli. Sofia is likely just as shy as yous. The thing to do is man up and ask her out for a coffee.”

“But I wouldn’t know what to say,” Iraklis cried, imagining the picture of a tongue-tied mess with sweaty hands and pulsating acne he would present. Before he could object, Mrs Kolokotronis had dialled Thea’s mobile number and announced to Thea that Iraklis would like to ask Sofia out for coffee later.

At the other end of the phone line Sofia panicked, telling her godmother she couldn’t possibly speak to Iraklis at that moment as she looked a mess. “He cant’s see yous down the telephone, yous silly girl,” Thea admonished Sophia, before telling Mrs Kolokotronis to inform Iraklis that Sofia would be delighted to meet him for coffee at the kafenion before her shift in the beauty parlour that evening.

“That wasn’t so ‘ard was it, all yous ‘ad to do was pick up the phone and ask her out on a date,” Mrs Kolokotronis said smugly, ignoring the fact the date had been arranged by two well meaning busybodies, without the young couple even exchanging a word.

Slipping a carrot into his pocket as a treat for the donkey, Iraklis tricycled off to top up Onos’ saucer of ouzo, suddenly full of the joys of spring and tingling with nervous anticipation at the thought of his date with Sofia. The sight of a naked mannequin flashing its parts caused him to blush profusely as he tricycled by the hardware shop, nearly running Evangelia over as she crossed the harbour to Stavroula’s taverna.

It was very unlike Evangelia to lock up the beauty parlour and pop out for coffee during the working day, but the memory of Mel’s twinkly eyed offer of coffee caused her to throw caution to the wind.

“How nice to see you again, do come in and just call me Mel,” Melecretes invited, before rushing back to the kitchen to ensure Fotini didn’t spit in Evangelia’s coffee.

“I hope you dont’s mind me saying but yous look a tad flustered,” Mel opined when he brought out the coffee.

“It’s a strange morning. I mislaid some fish,” Evangelia admitted, admiring the nifty turn of Mel’s moustache. The arrival of more customers sent Mel into abject apology mode that he wouldn’t have time to join Evangelia. “Another time,” he said, dashing off to the kitchen.

Evangelia worried she’d perhaps been a bit forward. It wasn’t her usual habit to go out for coffee; she didn’t think it was seemly for a divorced woman to cavort in coffee places. She was about to depart with her coffee untouched when Petros the postman made his entrance, shouting out, “’Ere Evangelia, yous ‘ave got some more of them love letters bearing foreign stamps. Yous is a dark horse. I always say to the wife it’s the quiet ones yous ‘ave to watch out for. ‘Appen yous ‘ave more than one fellow on the go, the handwriting is different on all the envelopes.”

Mel felt a twinge of disappointment when he overheard the postman’s words. He’d asked around and established Evangelia was single; no one had mentioned likely lovers sending letters from overseas, but it was hard to imagine such a good looking woman was without any admirers.

Snatching the letters Evangelia snapped at the postman to mind his business. Feeling a frisson of excitement as she looked at the envelopes Evangelia decided to read her letters whilst she drank her coffee. She had some free time to kill as mail order Masha had cancelled her morning appointment.

The first letter contained a close up photograph of Arsenic Anthony’s infected ‘EVAN’ tattoo and a plea from the serial poisoner to send him a tube of antiseptic ointment. Evangelia made a mental note to call in at the pharmacy later with a made-up excuse to account for the purchase as Vangelis the chemist was such a loose-lipped gossip.

Gonzalo the serial bigamist wife-killer, who Evangelia inexplicably found herself engaged to, once again urged her to fly over so they could be married on Kentucky’s death row. Evangelia mused it was a comfort to have three fiancés, even if she had yet to meet any of them. She had no idea she was only one of seventeen prison groupies who had accepted a proposal of marriage from the ardent Gonzalo, who boasted more fiancées than any other Kentucky inmate and boosted his prison income quite considerably by penning flowery love letters on behalf of his fellow cons. Evangelia made a mental note to check out if Idaho was anywhere near Kentucky so she could save the cost of a hotel room by staying with Quentin and Deirdre.

The final letter in the batch was yet another impassioned missive from Marvin the Mincer. In expletive laden language he demanded to know why Evangelia, who he labelled a jealous harpy, hadn’t yet sent him any of mail order Masha’s glorious hair. He promised nothing would keep him from stuffing an embroidered pillow with Masha’s long blonde locks and he had sharpened his prison shiv in readiness for hacking them off. Even as the hair on the back of her neck rose in chilled disgust Evangelia made a mental note to drop Marvin the Mincer a very brief note to let him know Masha’s beautiful hair was actually fake extensions and to inform him the use of such choice language was vulgar in the extreme.

Mel, sticking his head out of the kitchen, noticed Evangelia didn’t look happy and selfishly hoped she’d been dumped by her long distance lover, if he indeed existed.

“’Appen I’ll pop over later if yous can squeeze me in for a bit of moustache styling,” Mel called out as Evangelia prepared to leave.

“It will be my pleasure to get my hands on your tash,” Evangelia said, stepping outside with a smile.

Chapter 23

A Nasty Outbreak of Food Poisoning

“Irakli, watch out, you nearly ran me over,” Evangelia shouted as Iraklis trundled past on his tricycle with a supermarket order he was delivering to Quentin and Deirdre.

“Sorry,” Iraklis called out, distracted by anticipatory thoughts of his first ever date with a young lady.

Iraklis was almost at Rapanaki when he was flagged down by the group of Doomsday trippers struggling back to Astakos in a pitiful state. Hywel was staggering along under the weight of Hamish who was thrown over one shoulder, the lobster adorned shower curtain providing protection from the vomiting Hamish. Blodwyn was trailing behind them, trying to hold a desperately pasty and flagging Fenella upright.

“May I be of assistance?” Iraklis enquired.

“We’ve been poisoned by those bloody Christmas tinners the bald chap at the hardware shop flogged us,” Hamish groaned.

“You and Fenella must have had the dodgy ones. Mine seemed fine, but Blodwyn refused to eat hers, she said it smelled funny,” Hywel explained.

“Of course it smelled funny Hywel, whatever possessed someone to think stuffing bloody Brussels sprouts next to Christmas pudding in a tin, with a topping of scramble eggs and bacon, was in anyway normal? I’m just glad I stuck to the salt n’ vinegar crisps, no one ever got food poisoning from them. As for you, your guts are made out of cast iron Hywel,” Blodwyn snapped.

“That’s true, I’m lucky not to have a delicate constitution like these two,” Hywel said smugly.

“So how may I help?” Iraklis repeated, wishing the Doomsday trippers would get to the point.”

“Well we really need help getting these two back to the village for medical attention,” Hywel said. “They’re too sick to be walking and it’s quite a trek in this heat.”

“Why don’t you sit down here in the shade and I’ll tricycle over to Quentin’s house with this delivery and ask him to call you a taxi?”

“That’s very decent of you,” Blodwyn said.

Iraklis returned in no time at all, offering to stay with the sickly trippers until the taxi arrived. When the taxi pulled up Nitsa took one look at the bilious bunch and flatly refused to let them in the taxi. “There’s no way I’m risking vomit on my upholstery, the smell will linger for weeks. Not to mention I cant’s afford to be catchin’ anything when I’ve paying passengers relyin’ on me,” she protested, remembering the Scottish couple hadn’t tipped her a cent for their enforced taxi ride round the village the previous evening.

“What are we supposed to do now, Fenella really is too sickly to walk?” Blodwyn worried.

“Let me tricycle back to Quentin’s house and see if he’d be willing to come and get you. He has an old banger,” Iraklis suggested.

“I wonder if it’s the same walkers I gave water to earlier,” Quentin pondered when Iraklis filled him in on their sickly plight. “They looked healthy enough then. I suppose it would be the decent thing to help them out and drive them over to Vangelis the chemist,” he added, thinking it would be a good opportunity to retrieve the lobster adorned shower curtain cum outdoor tablecloth, before Deirdre noticed it was missing.

Pulling up alongside the Doomsday trippers in the old banger, Quentin noticed Hywel appeared to be in perfect health. “I can fit three of you in,” he offered “but there’s no room for all five of you.”

“There are only four of us,” Hywel argued.

“Five with the parrot and I’m not risking it getting anywhere near my scalp again. Why do you think I was gardening in a beekeeper’s outfit if not to afford myself protection from that blasted creature? If you can prise it off you can hop in, but if it’s stuck firm to your head you’ll have to walk,” Quentin insisted. “And I’d thank you not to spread false rumours about those Christmas tinners poisoning you. I sourced them myself from a very reliable contact in Idaho.”

As Quentin drove off towards the pharmacy with three of the Doomsday trippers, Fenella mused, “We got violently sick so soon after eating those tins, food poisoning usually does take a bit longer to take hold. And it’s true Hywel is unaffected even though he ate two of them. I wonder if it was something else we ate that made us sick, Hamish?”

Turning a ghastly shade of green she gulped, “Oh no, not again, Quentin would you mind pulling over at the rubbish bins, I’m going to throw up again.”

After several emergency stops Quentin arrived at the pharmacy to be greeted by Vangelis the chemist returning from Adonis’ hotel where he’d been called out to offer medical assistance to the visiting Kazakh who’d been struck down with an extremely violent case of food poisoning. “I might need to call an ambulance for him if he still looks so nasty in another half-hour,” the chemist confided.

“How will you tell, he always looks nasty?” Quentin quipped.

“He was in the taverna where we ate that fish meze last night,” Hamish recalled. “Perhaps we got food poisoning there.”

“I don’t like to judge the source too hastily but do feel it would be appropriate to call in the services of the public health inspector,” Vangelis stated. “On top of this food poisoning there’s a vile rash of warts going round. This shouldn’t be my responsibility, but the doctor is away on a medical conference.”

Vangelis the chemist prescribed an antiemetic and a powerful wart remedy for the Scottish couple, even though they protested they were wart free. “You can’t be too careful, warts are very contagious,” he insisted.

“I’ll take some of that wart stuff for Deirdre,” Quentin said. “She had a disgusting growth on her foot when she woke up this morning.”

“I’m sure the health inspector will get to the bottom of it,” Vangelis assured.

“I just want to go off and die quietly with my head in a toilet,” Fenella groaned as Quentin and Blodwyn helped the Scottish pair back to the fishing cottage. Fortunately the house was quiet as Thea and Sofia had gone shopping in Paraliakos and Toothless Tasos, on returning from fishing, had headed off to the police station to turn himself in for faking his own death.

“I am ‘ere to confess a terrible crime what ‘as been hanging over my head for years,” Tasos declared. Remembering Socrates’ legal advice he hastily added “but I wasn’t in my right mind when I did it.”

Pancratius the village policeman scratched his head, wondering what possible law this model citizen could have broken. He presumed Toothless Tasos was probably feeling guilty about some minor misdemeanour such as smoking under a ‘No Smoking’ sign or sounding his horn during siesta time.

“I faked my own death at sea in order to extricate myself from a ghastly marriage to Stavroula,” Tasos admitted.

“Well everyone already knows that. But the crime was committed in Australian water so it’s not under my jurisdiction,” the policeman said, hoping to wriggle out of the tiresome paperwork.

“But my selfish act turned Stavroula into a bigamist,” Toothless Tasos said.

“Well I hear tell on the gossip vine that Stavroula’s husband Kostas who was missing has been declared officially dead, so she’s not technically a bigamist any longer,” the policeman reasoned. “Why are you raking this ancient stuff up now Taso? No one cares two olives about it, best let sleeping goats lie.”

“Socrates told me I ‘ad to turn myself in so Stavroula can legally divorce me an’ marry him.”

“Well if you insist on raking up old matters that are best left buried then I’m sure the prosecutor will be more than happy to make a case against you; a juicy faked death bigamist scandal would be right up his alley. My advice is to forget it.”

“Socrates won’t let it lie. He wants to make an honest woman of Stavroula an’ he cant’s until we is divorced. An’ I really do want to be free to marry Thea,” Tasos continued.

Pancratius, less than happy to have this extra workload dumped in his idle lap, blew the dust off his typewriter and ineptly began typing up a two-fingered report. “Seven copies all wanting different official stamps,” he complained wearily, reaching for the carbon paper and Tipex, “and the photocopiers on the blink.”

“Are yous going to handcuff me?” Tasos asked nervously.

“Don’t be daft, it’s my half day. You get off home. I’ll send this paperwork through to the prosecutor and see what he wants to make of it. I should warn you he’s a bit keen on locking people up. Look how adamant he was Nitsa should stay behind bars up in Paraliakos prison even though folks from all over the world were clamouring for her release when she claimed she was tortured. If you want a quick divorce he’ll be sure to make an example of you over this fake death business.”

“Prison?”

“I’d say so. Have your toothbrush packed at the ready Taso.”

“Dont’s forget to mention I wasn’t in my right mind,” Tasos reminded him.

“Who round here is?” the policeman sighed wearily.

Chapter 24

A Spot of Blackmail

“Dont’s say Did-Rees ‘as finally let you off the leash K-Went-In? Come an’ join us for a coffee,” Prosperous Pedros invited as Quentin strolled past the kafenion. Quentin was delighted to be included in the group of village men, flattered he had been accepted as one of the locals. He didn’t explain Deirdre was at home nursing a sudden plague of warts.

“We ‘ave serious business,” Prosperous Pedros explained. “Masha ‘as reported back that the oily Kazakh is about to seal a deal to turn the landfill site into a gold mine, by bribing the buffoon of a mayor with ‘is greasy dollars.”

“Wouldn’t a gold mine be better than a rubbish dump?” Quentin enquired naively.

“Po po, give up our dump indeed. ‘Aven’t yous been following the goings on in Skouries over on the Halkidiki Peninsula?” Fat Christos asked. “The Canadians is trying to open a gold mine and the place is overrun with vegans protesting against environmental damage. Some days it’s like a riot zone.”

“But won’t a gold mine be good for the village? Gold mining would bring jobs and prosperity.”

“We is prosperous enough in the important things K-Went-In. Dont’s yous appreciate our clean coastline, our lush olive groves and our organically reared goats? Yous wouldn’t be so keen if the greedy prospectors want to knock down yous Lemoni Spiti and do a bit of flash smelting in yous garden,” Prosperous Pedros explained.

“Oh good grief, Deirdre would be distraught if her garden was uprooted,” Quentin acknowledged, immediately supporting their cause. “So what are we going to do to stop it?”

“We are all off to ‘ave it out with the mayor now. We’ll put a stop to ‘is gold grabbing plans,” Bald Yannis proclaimed. “Yous is welcome to come along K-Went-In.”

“But how do you propose to stop him?” Quentin asked, hoping it wouldn’t involve him in anything illegal.

“We will tell ‘im we know all about ‘im accepting filthy bribes an’ will expose ‘im. If he doesn’t agree to step down as mayor we will blackmail ‘im by threatening to tell his wife he’s been philandering with Pavlos the Pappas from Paraliakos,” Bald Yannis piped up.

“That sounds a bit harsh,” Quentin objected.

“Po po, ‘is corruption needs stopping. We couldn’t care less about ’is seedy little affair, but it’s time to put an end to his dodgy deals. He only won the election because of his meat bribes,” Bald Yannis stated. As a vegetarian he’d been disgusted by the easy bribes of free meat and had cast his own vote for the opposition candidate who’d bribed voters with free peaches.

“What will you do without a mayor?” Quentin asked, recalling he’d heard the rival candidate had been buried under a peach tree a year earlier.

“Well there’s nothin’ to stop one of us from standing,” Fat Christos declared. “It’s a pity yous isn’t a Greek citizen Quentin as yous would be a good choice. Time on yous ‘ands now yous ‘ave retired, an’ a winning way with words.”

The others all agreed it was a shame Quentin wasn’t eligible to stand.

“Time’s gettin’ on, we ‘ad better be driving up to the Dimos,” Tall Thomas reminded them. “Perhaps we can catch the slime ball malaka in the act of accepting the bribe from the oily Kazakh.”

“Not much chance of that, apparently he’s violently ill with food poisoning and confined to his hotel room,” Quentin volunteered.

Laughing uproariously that the wealthy Kazakh had met his comeuppance in the form of a dodgy tummy, the village men set off for the Dimos for a spot of blackmail.

Chapter 25

First Love and Chaperones

Toothless Tasos was waiting anxiously at the bus stop for Thea to return from her shopping trip so he could break the devastating news he may soon be locked away in prison for his historic lawbreaking by faking his own death.

“We ‘ave to ave a serious talk, my little bougatsa,” Toothless Tasos announced the moment Thea and Sofia stepped down from the bus.

“Cant’s it wait Taso? Iraklis ‘as invited Sofia out on a date an’ I need to help ‘er get ready. It’s so exciting. Iraklis is such a good catch; he’d make a lovely ‘usband for Sofia.”

“Nona, it’s only coffee, we’re not engaged yet,” Sofia protested, secretly loving the fuss Thea was making.

“Come on, we’ll get yous ‘ome and into that lovely yellow dress yous just bought. It wont’s clash too much with yous purple ‘air. Taso, we’ll ‘ave that chat in a bit.”

When Tasos wanted one of his little chats it was usually to put the brakes on Thea’s spendthrift ways so she hoped to stall him, knowing he was less inclined to crossness when he had a plate of her delicious home cooked briam in front of him. Briam always convinced him she was embracing austerity as she made it with fresh vegetables straight from the garden.

“Nona, I can’t get in the bathroom. I have to shower, what can I do, this is intolerable?” Sofia whined, stamping her foot.

“Yous could sluice youself down in the kitchen sink,” Tasos suggested.

“Dont’s be ridiculous Taso, the girl needs to pamper ‘erself. Who’s in the bathroom anyway?”

“There’s a lot of groaning in Scottish accents,” Sofia called out, trying to make herself heard above the frequent flushing of the toilet.

“I told you renting out the living room floor wasn’t practical Taso,” Thea reprimanded him. “Not with only one bathroom.”

“At least it’s indoors, would yous rather ‘ave an outside bathroom like Prosperous Pedros?” Tasos asked, deftly deflecting the issue.

“Certainly not. That man will never find a wife with such a primitive arrangement, whoever heard the like in these modern times of a hosepipe shower over the toilet?” Thea scoffed.

“He doesn’t want a wife, he’s ‘appy bein’ single.”

“What nonsense, he’d be much happier if we could fix him up,” Thea asserted, emboldened by her successful matchmaking of Sofia and Iraklis. “Sofia, come an’ put yous new dress on an’ have a squirt of my perfume. That dress is a bit short, best rub some vinegar in yous legs to deter mosquitoes, yous don’t want nasty bites makin’ yous lovely legs look ugly. Now ‘urry up, yous don’t want to keep Iraklis waitin’, it will likely make him nervous and bring ‘im out in a sweat.”

Sofia looked quite delightful as she skipped across the harbour to the kafenion in her new yellow dress, her purple hair pulled back into a ponytail. The nose ring had vanished and her pretty face looked as fresh as a daisy without her usual Goth makeup.

“Hello Irakli, it was nice of you to invite me out for coffee,” Sofia said shyly, joining Iraklis at an outside table.

“Hello Sofia, you look very nice,” Iraklis stammered, reduced to a lanky string of nerves as he stood up to pull a chair out for her.

“Doesn’t she just, such a pretty face yous ‘ave,” Mrs Kolokotronis interrupted, gripping Sofia’s cheek between her fingers as though coochy cooing an unsuspecting baby. Pulling a chair out the older woman joined them.

“Dont’s mind me; just carry on as though I weren’t here,” Mrs Kolokotronis instructed, settling down with her knitting. “I thinks it would be better to nip the gossip in the bud by ‘aving me ‘ere as a chaperone.”

Iraklis was mortified with embarrassment that his first ever date with a young lady had been gate crashed by his landlady, but he saw the funny side when Sofia rolled her eyes and whispered “My Nona would likely have come along too if she wasn’t stuck cleaning up the sick of that Scottish pair.”

“Let me order you a drink,” Iraklis offered.

“Such a good boy, I’ll have a Nescafe,” Mrs Kolokotronis piped up.

“Sofia?” Iraklis asked, tempted to roll his eyes too but afraid Mrs Kolokotronis would catch him in the act and give him a good slap.

“I’ll have a salted caramel chocolate mocha with a dollop of foam and extra sweetener,” Sofia said, completely confusing Iraklis who replied, “No, I wondered what you’d like to drink, perhaps a coffee or a Fanta orange.”

“A salted caramel mocha is a sophisticated coffee they serve in Athens,” Sofia said.

“He wont’s ave much money left to put in ‘is savings account for settlin’ down if yous go round wanting fancy coffee, even if the kafenion ‘ad even ‘eard of ‘em,” Mrs Kolokotronis advised. “Bring Sofia a Nescafe, Irakli.”

“I’d prefer a Fanta orange,” Sofia boldly requested, resigning herself to the realisation that Greek coffee and Nescafe really were the only coffees available in Astakos.

“Fantas not good for Iraklis’ acne, but I suppose yous is so skinny yous dont’s need to cut back on yous sugar,” Mrs Kolokotronis piped up as Iraklis went inside to order the drinks.

“What do you like to do in your spare time Sofia,” Iraklis timidly asked he returned.

“I like heavy metal,” Sofia replied.

“That’s nice, we have something in common. My delivery tricycle is made of heavy metal; it’s quite hard going pedalling it uphill.”

“She means that dreadful loud music, not actual metal,” Mrs Kolokotronis interrupted. “Yous ‘ave to excuse ‘im Sofia, he’s led a sheltered life.”

“I also like to practice cutting hair in my spare time,” Sofia volunteered.

“I’m sure Iraklis would be happy to model for yous, dear,” Mrs Kolokotronis offered without consulting the young man.

“That would be nice, so far I’ve only practiced on Thea’s cat, but now it’s hardly got any fur left,” Sofia confessed. “I also like to donate blood.”

“The Pappas had a blood transfusion after he was attacked. The funny thing is it kind of changed his personality,” Iraklis said, relieved to have something to chat about.

“Ooh, I never heard of that before,” Sofia said, suitably impressed.

“Ooh it’s true enough, a totally ‘orrible little man he was and suddenly, with fresh blood, he’s all sweetness an’ light I hear. Yous saw for youself Irakli?

“It’s true. It’s as though he had a personality transplant.”

“That’s so cool. I wonder if my blood could make the recipients change personality,” Sofia pondered.

“The doctor has never seen anything like it before,” Iraklis assured her.

“Shush, cant’s yous two see I’m on the phone,” Mrs Kolokotronis chided them, whipping out her mobile.

“Thea, they seem to be getting on very nicely, they do make a lovely couple. Po po, I know, I know. Oh dont’s worry, Iraklis isn’t likely to get up to hanky panky with me sittin’ ere with my beady eyes on the pair of ‘em. Po po, I know, I know.” Hanging up she announced, “That was yous Nona, Sofia. I told ‘er yous two is gettin’ on nicely.”

“Po po, I know, I know,” Sofia couldn’t resist saying, bursting into laughter. Planting a kiss on the older woman’s forehead she cheekily asked “if Iraklis asks me out on a second date will you be chaperoning us again Mrs K?”

“I think it’s best dear. At least until Iraklis can trust yous not to get fresh with ‘im.”

Exchanging amused glances Sofia and Iraklis completely broke the ice with their infectious laughter.

Over at Toothless Tasos’ fisherman’s cottage Thea hung up the phone, telling Tasos “Mrs Kolokotronis says they make such a nice couple. Taso, are yous even listenin’ to me? I dont’s know what’s got into yous.”

Taking Thea by the hands Tasos led her to the deckchair and knelt by her side. “I cant’s wait any longer Thea, I ‘ave to tell yous now. Please, ‘ear me out and promise yous wont’s leave me.”

“’Ave yous been playin’ away Taso? I’ll never forgive yous if yous ‘ave another woman on the side.”

“Of course not, yous is the only woman I ‘ave ever loved Thea. Yous is my goddess, my world, yous must know that. An’ whatever ‘appens my love for yous will never change.”

“Now yous is worrying me Taso, ‘ave yous got some ‘orrible disease?”

“If yous would just let me get a word in edgeways,” Tasos snapped. Instantly contrite he apologised, saying “my little love dove, just let me tell yous.”

Taking a deep breath Toothless Tasos admitted, “I ‘ave confessed to the police that I faked my own death in order to get a divorce from Stavroula and be free to marry yous. Unfortunately, this makes it official that I broke the law and the authorities are likely to send me to prison. Pancratius is typing up the official papers now to send to the prosecutor.”

“Prison. They can’t send you to prison Taso, all that is ancient history. You didn’t hurt anyone by yous actions, in fact as I recall Stavroula was singing an’ dancing on yous grave the night she ‘eard yous was drowned. She was positively delirious with ‘appiness.”

“But I still broke the law Thea.”

“That’s as maybe, but prison. Prison Taso, I couldn’t bear to have you locked away from me.”

“Socrates thinks the most I will get is six months. He is going to defend me and tell the court I was not of sound mind at the time of my crime.”

“The sanest thing yous ever did was getting shot of Stavroula. She’d have sucked the life out of yous with ‘er constant demands for more money.”

“What’s done is done, an’ the time ‘as come to pay. If yous will just promise to wait for me, Thea we can be married the moment I’m freed. Socrates said the divorce papers are just a formality now I’ve owned up to my crime.”

“Of course I will wait for you Taso, an’ marry yous as soon as we are able.”

“Things could be a bit tight for yous ‘cos I wont’s be able to earn from fishing when I’m locked up in prison, but I’ve got a few Euros buried under the courgette patch for emergencies.”

“If yous is going to prison the least Stavroula could do is hand over half of the assets you had together,” Thea suggested.

“No Thea, that will not happen,” Tasos said, putting his foot down firmly. “I not only deceived Stavroula by faking my own death, but by being in love with you the whole time I was married to her. I never made any effort to make ‘er happy ‘cos I was unfaithful to ‘er in my mind.”

“Oh Taso, that’s the most romantic thing I ever ‘eard,” Thea declared, dragging him from the floor to their bedroom. As their lips met in a passionate kiss Hamish’s stricken voice disturbed them, calling out “You couldn’t pass a sick bucket into the bathroom.”

Chapter 26

Off to Mykonos

“It goes against all my principles, but, I have to say threatening to tell the mayor’s wife about his affair with Pavlos the Pappas from Paraliakos was a stroke of genius,” Quentin remarked, as the village men raised a toast to their successful blackmailing mission. “The mayor was obviously on the fiddle, well versed not only in bribing folks for votes, but accepting bribes to line his own pockets at the expense of the village.”

“He’s always been a corrupt one,” Prosperous Pedros sneered. “The malaka tried to buy my vote with a kilo of souvlaki even though everyone knows I’m a vegetarian.”

“I think Bald Yannis revving his chainsaw whilst forcing the mayor to telephone the Kazakh to tell him our rubbish dump is beyond priceless, put the final nail in the coffin of the gold mining venture,” Quentin applauded. “Let’s have another toast, this time to retaining the rubbish dump.”

“To the rubbish dump,” they all toasted in unison.

Once they had broken down the door to the mayor’s office and dragged the cowering coward out from under his desk, the trip to the Dimos had been a resounding success. After revealing they were quite prepared to out his sordid affair with Pavlos the Pappas and fill his wife in on the seedy details, they told him they knew all about his scam to accept brown envelope bribes to sign off on the gold mine. With his secret out in the open the mayor confessed he was due to get his grubby hands on the slush money that very afternoon, but the Kazakh, having been struck down with a virulent case of food poisoning, had been prevented from delivering the readies. Fortunately the paperwork granting permission for gold prospecting hadn’t yet been signed and stamped, and Bald Yannis made a great show of shredding the papers with his chainsaw. As a final touch the village men had accepted the mayor’s written resignation.

Unbeknown to the celebrants the mayor had already pocketed a sizeable backhander from the Kazakh as a sweetener. Terrified the dastardly Dastan would pursue him for breach of promise and wreak revenge by making him the ball for the national Kazakh sport of kokpar, the mayor deserted his wife and fled with Pavlos the Pappas. The pair smuggled themselves onto a boat heading to Mykonos, hoping to blend anonymously into the gay pride crowd. Within a week the mayor’s deserted wife, relieved to be rid of the greasy malaka, would set up house with the rival butcher.

Dastan was incensed with rage when he heard the gold mine was a non-starter, but was impotent to act, not daring to lift his head out of the toilet. Retching miserably and clutching his agonised stomach he swore revenge on the devil that had poisoned him.

“I will kill the culprit who gave me the trots and kneecap the mayor who reneged on the gold mine before returning to my great nation of Kazakhstan.” His only consolation was that his trip to Greece had not been entirely wasted as he planned to take the magnificent Masha home with him, irrespective of her wishes. The ruthless Dastan was happy to snub his great nation’s law against bride-kidnapping, considering the traditional way of acquiring a woman was his manly right.

Chapter 27

Floating Fish

“You’re late Sofia, your time-keeping leaves a lot to be desired,” Evangelia reprimanded her new assistant when she turned up ten minutes late for her evening shift at the beauty parlour.

“I’m sorry; I had a date with Iraklis. I tried to get away but Mrs Kolokotronis was chaperoning and wouldn’t stop jabbering on.”

“Well make sure it doesn’t happen again. You can get busy giving Gorgeous Yiorgos a shampoo; you’ll need to rub hard as he’s overdone it again with the boot polish. I have to get the fish pedicure set up for my ladies, they’ll be here any minute,” Evangelia said, tipping the carrier bag of assorted tiddlers Gorgeous Yiorgos had just delivered into the newly scrubbed out fish pedicure tank.

“We wants to try out this fish foot thingy we’ve been ‘earing about,” Nitsa announced, entering the beauty parlour with Fotini.

“Certainly ladies. You’ll find it very relaxing and rejuvenating, it’s all the rage in high class salons,” Evangelia gushed; delighted her new treatment was proving such a popular attraction.

“Kyria Fotini, it really is best if you remove your pop socks before sticking your feet in the tank,” Evangelia added, worried Fotini would complain about the cost of replacing her pop socks when the fish nibbled through the nylon.

Sofia sidled up to Evangelia hissing “I thought you were going to ask them to wash their feet first, it’s not hygienic like this.”

“Don’t make a fuss dear, it’s only feet. It’s a very delicate matter to suggest they should wash first, these two old crones would likely turn nasty if I implied their feet are filthy,” Evangelia cautioned.

“But no one gets offended when you wash their hair before cutting it and those two old ladies have more hair on their legs than Gorgeous Yiorgos has on his head,” Sofia reasoned.

“Yes, well if you butter them up nicely you could try out your first leg wax on them when they’ve finished their foot pedicure. That would be good experience for you dear.”

“So they’d be offended if we tell them they have to wash their feet, but they wouldn’t mind at all if we tell them their hairy legs need waxing?” Sofia asked in confusion.

“Not if you offer them a nice cup of coffee and smile nicely,” Evangelia advised. “You just have to learn how to be tactful, dear.”

The next customers had barely got through the salon door when Sofia rushed over to ask them, “Would you like a nice cup of coffee and a leg wax?”

“I have an appointment for a fish pedicure,” Blodwyn replied, wondering if the girl had psychic powers as she really was overdue a good waxing. “My friend Fenella can’t make it as she’s down with a nasty case of food poisoning, so I’ve brought my husband Hywel along to take her place.”

“I’ve painful blisters after trekking through all those olive groves,” Hywel explained, ripping his socks off and dipping his feet in the tank.

“Bloody hell man, that’s a bit of all right,” he grinned, giving Fotini a friendly yet forceful nudge that nearly sent the scrawny old woman flying into the tank.

“Keep yous ‘ands to youself, yous young pervert,” Fotini screeched, grabbing a sardine from the tank to batter Hywel round the head.

“Ooh,” Blodwyn exhaled with relief, “I can already feel it doing wonders for my sand-infested fungal foot infection.”

“Yous should think youself lucky yous ‘aven’t got warts,” Nitsa piped up. “I ‘ear there’s a plague of ‘em in the village; it ‘as Vangelis the chemist baffled.”

“Will yous be chucking these used fish out again when yous close up Evangelia?” Fotini called out.

“What do you mean, again?” Evangelia asked. “Do you know something about yesterday’s fish going missing? It’s been on my mind all day how I came to mislay them. I distinctly remember leaving them in the mop bucket.”

“What would I know about yous missing fish?” Fotini lied. “I was just making conversation.”

“You were here yesterday evening, wanting change,” Evangelia recalled, staring at Fotini suspiciously. Before she could voice her accusations she was distracted by Gorgeous Yiorgos screaming, “Yous ‘ave burned me, yous stupid girl.”

“Sofia, what have you done?” Evangelia panicked, rushing over.

“Nothing, I was just trying to help him disguise his grey hairs. That boot polish he was using was so obvious and I read that strong coffee works wonders on grey,” Sofia explained.

“But you have to let it cool first, Sofia, not drench his head in scalding coffee,” Evangelia cried, applying an ice pack to Gorgeous Yiorgos’ head and wondering if she could ever train Sofia successfully.

“Is this a good time for a bit of tash styling?” Melecretes asked, popping his head round the door. “I thought I’d close up for ten minutes before the evening rush.”

“I think I can squeeze you in if Sofia can manage the leg waxing,” a flustered Evangelia replied.

“I think you should ‘ave it off,” Fotini called. “Look how different Nitsa looks without ‘er moustache.”

“I ‘ave to be honest Fotini, I’m rather missing mine. I think it gave my face character,” Nitsa said.

“I’m too attached to it to take the plunge. I’ve been cultivating this tash for twenty years and they’ll ‘ave to bury me in it,” Mel admitted. “It makes me look like a handsome devil, dont’s you think Evangelia?”

“It’s an integral part of your face, you wouldn’t look the same without it,” Evangelia blushed.

“Bloody hell man, are these fish meant to be floating on the surface of the pedicure tank like this?” Hywel called out.

“It looks to me like they is dead,” Fotini observed. “We wont’s get much foot nibbling out of fish corpses.”

“I can’t think what’s happened,” Evangelia said, looking in horror at the line of lifeless fish floating atop the scummy pedicure water.

“I’ll scoop ‘em out for yous Evangelia, “I knows ‘ow sensitive yous can be,” Fotini offered, wringing the water out of her now holey, dripping wet pop socks and filling the pockets of her hideous old lady dress with dead fish, thinking they’d come in very handy for another very popular fish meze.

“Ooh that looks ‘orrible,” Nitsa exclaimed, pointing at Blodwyn’s now sand free festering fungal foot infection. “What yous need for that is a traditional herbal remedy of some mashed up Greek capers.”

“I guess yous will be wantin’ me to catch yous some more tiddlers tomorrow,” Gorgeous Yiorgos said. “Yous dont’s seem to be ‘aving much luck with ‘em, Evangelia.”

Before she could reply Sofia dragged her to one side, hissing “It’s her festering fungal foot infection that killed the fish, I told you it wasn’t hygienic, everyone who’s had their feet in that tank will probably catch it. And the plague of warts was probably spread by Mrs Kolokotronis sticking her feet in it yesterday.”

“Well we don’t know that, dear. I did give the tank a good scrub earlier and the fish might have just been a bit off colour,” Evangelia said, grasping at straws. “Now you get everything ready for the nice leg waxes while I just trim Mel’s moustache.”

Turning her attention back to Melecretes, Evangelia was soon blushing like a school girl at his effusive compliments. When she had finished snipping and styling she called out to Sofia to pass her the wax, thinking to finish his moustache off with a dash of pomade.

“Is this moustache wax meant to be so hot?” Melecretes asked.

“Oh gosh, Sofia passed me the hot leg wax. I’m terribly afraid Mel that if I strip the wax off your tash will come with it.”

Chapter 28

Onos, My Darling

The end of the world day dawned with not even a whimper, never mind the expected calamitous bang. The villagers had other more important things on their minds, distracting them from the Doomsday scam which had proved very lucrative for the village coffers, but was now nothing more than a damp squib that had failed to attract any media attention.

Blodwyn, eager to get back to the salt factory, threatened to expose Hywel as a smuggler, for purloining a tortoise and hiding it in his suitcase. The pair left for the airport without even bothering to say goodbye to their new friends Hamish and Fenella, whose departure was delayed by their still sickly state. The other Doomsday trippers were skulking out of their tents, caves and hotel rooms, ready to leave Astakos, eager to embrace the next proselytising charlatan peddling phoney end of the world propaganda, having learnt nothing from being scammed.

Mail order Masha, relieved to hear Dastan the Kazakh was still so green around the gills he daren’t move two feet from the toilet, laughed off her earlier fears about his evil intentions, never suspecting bride-kidnapping was part of his dastardly agenda. She was off to visit Vasilis at the hospital. Determined to bring her husband out of his coma she used all her considerable charms to persuade Prosperous Pedros to drive her to the hospital, with Onos the donkey stashed in the back of his pick-up.

“The old fool is so besotted with the donkey I am convinced if he could only feel it lick ‘im he would come to ‘is senses,” she said to herself, dressing in a sexy flesh coloured pair of hot pants that accentuated her voluptuous curves.

Arriving at the hospital Prosperous Pedros asked, “’Ow are we supposed to sneak the donkey up to the old fool’s hospital room without anyone seeing us?”

“Leave it to me,” Masha instructed, smoothing her long blonde hair extensions, slipping on her sunglasses and adjusting her luscious cleavage. “There are only a few doctors in the lobby. I will saunter over and distract them with my curvaceousness while yous sneak the donkey into the lift, then I will run and join yous.”

Masha’s strategy proved highly effective and five minutes later she led Onos the donkey out of the lift and into the hospital room.

“You can’t bring that thing in here, my dear. This isn’t a veterinarian surgery,” the Pappas objected at the sight of the ouzo sozzled donkey.

“Mind yous own business. The donkey is just the thing to bring my ‘usband out of his coma,” Masha retorted looking around, surprised to find Stavroula absent.

“Where is Stavroula?” Masha asked the Pappas. “Did she get fed up of playin’ the doting daughter?”

“She has locked herself in the bathroom. The poor woman is stricken down with a virulent form of food poisoning,” the Pappas replied.

Lured by the overpowering scent of Masha’s perfume, the smitten old doctor arrived, remarkably retaining his composure at the sight of the donkey. “Masha, we dont’s usually allow pets in the building but I’m sure in your case we can make an exception. After all you are a celebrity.”

“Doctor, I am sure the donkey will lovingly lick my ‘usband out of his coma. He is so fond of it.”

“Well I certainly think it is worth a try, but first I must attend to your step-daughter who is terribly sick and must be admitted to a hospital bed at once,” the smitten old doctor said. Turning to the Pappas he told him, “You will have to give up your bed for Stavroula, you are well enough to go home.”

The doctor was disappointed none of the tests he had run could account for the Pappas’ seeming personality transplant, but he hoped he could write a prestigious paper showing the remarkably recuperative benefit of donkeys interacting with coma patients.

“Chop chop, what are you still doing lying around, we need the bed right now,” the doctor demanded. “I’m sure the bible has plenty to say about people lying around idle.”

“The bible says ‘an idle man will suffer hunger’ and I’ve certainly suffered that in here. Stavroula has never stopped gorging herself on endless takeaways Slick Socrates brought her from the taverna, whilst I have eaten nothing but bland hospital food since young Iraklis kindly brought me a spinach pie.”

“Excellent, so it wasn’t the hospital food that poisoned Stavroula,” the smitten old doctor gloated, rubbing his hands together gleefully. He’d been certain Stavroula was the type to encourage her flash lover to sue the hospital over her bout of food poisoning.

“She got taken bad after eating a fish meze,” the Pappas revealed, slipping his long black clerical dress over his pyjamas.

The bathroom door opened and Stavroula crawled out on her hands and knees, too riddled with agonising stomach cramps to stand upright.

“Oh dear, you do look poorly, just hop into this bed and I’ll bring you some lovely medicine,” the smitten old doctor said to Stavroula who was groaning too much to care the sheets were still rumpled with the Pappas’ outline. “Now if you can just sign this disclaimer to say you didn’t eat any hospital food...excellent, excellent.”

Stavroula was suffering far too much to even notice there was a donkey present, or to notice the arrival of Quentin and Deirdre with a bunch of grapes for that old fool Vasilis.

“I told ‘em he cant’s eat grapes in ‘is comatose state,” Nitsa shouted, having driven the American couple in the taxi as Deirdre refused to get in Quentin’s old banger because it still wreaked of vomit from the poisoned Doomsday trippers.

“Is there any change in Vasilis’ condition, Masha?” Quentin asked.

“We are just about to see if the donkey can penetrate his comatose state,” the smitten old doctor announced. “Good luck Masha.”

Everyone held their breath in anticipation as Masha led the donkey over to Vasilis where it immediately started slobbering all over its owner’s face and fondly braying into his ear.

“Come on, yous old fool, open yous eyes, Onos is ‘ere to see you,” Masha encouraged.

A loud groan pierced the silence as the black clad skeletal figure of Kyria Moustakos suddenly bolted upright and started screaming hysterically at the sight of a barnyard animal next to her bed. Onos turned her head, alarmed by the screaming, and one look at the toothless head with a hairless scalp looking like an exhumed skull caused her to kick out a hind leg, sending Nitsa sprawling on top of the comatose Vasilis. The donkey turned back to Vasilis and resumed its fervent licking. No one could be sure if it was the donkey’s loving ministrations, the ear-piercing screams of Kyria Moustakos, or the sudden weight of Nitsa landing indelicately onto his privates, but at that very moment Vasilis stirred and shakily came out of his coma.

“Where am I? What ‘appened?” he groaned, looking blankly round the room.

“You are in the hospital; you were attacked by a madman. See, your beautiful and devoted wife is here,” the doctor said.

Looking up and seeing Nitsa on top of him Vasilis’ face took on an expression of horror as he screamed, “Yous is my wife?”

“Dont’s be silly darling, I am yous wife,” Masha said, leaning over to kiss him. A look of elation crossed Vasilis’ face at the news he was married to this vision of voluptuous loveliness, as he gushed “yous is my wife.”

“Of course I am darling, and look, I brought the donkey to see yous,” Masha exclaimed, raising her eyebrows in confusion at the doctor who explained “sometimes coma patients can be a tad confused as they return to consciousness.”

“Onos, my darling,” Vasilis cried, throwing his arms round the donkey and showering it with slobbery kisses.

“Well he certainly remembers the donkey,” Deirdre said.

“Where am I, what happened, why are all these strange people in my bedroom?” Vasilis demanded.

“Oh dear, it does seem that the old fool may have a touch of amnesia,” the doctor proclaimed.

Chapter 29

The Cat Ate the Evidence

“My foot isn’t ‘alf giving me some gyp,” Fotini complained, pulling off her pop sock and sticking her foot up on the food preparation area of Stavroula’s taverna kitchen to examine more closely the foul fungal infection, now festering with a fetid odour that had suddenly developed.

“Ooh, that does look nasty,” Mel commiserated. “Would you like me to pop to the pharmacy for some ointment?”

“No, yous just pick a few fresh capers out of that salad and crush ‘em up with some honey, vinegar an’ olive oil, an’ I’ll smear ‘em on my foot. Yous cant’s beat the traditional old remedies an’ capers ‘ave foot fungal fighting properties.”

“I wish there was a traditional remedy to make my moustache grow back quickly,” Mel sighed, fingering the itchy moustache substitute above his upper lip. After his facial pride and joy was accidentally waxed off in the beauty parlour Fotini had persuaded him to glue on the spare hairs from her legs to disguise the obvious slug-like white line.

“I’m lucky the ‘airs off yous legs were so thick and black. I was thinking Evangelia was quite taken with me until she saw my denuded lip. It was quick thinking on yous part to offer ‘em up, that brillo pad I first stuck on was way too scratchy.”

“Po po, it’s ‘er fault yous lost yous moustache in the first place,” Fotini scoffed.

“I blame that young girl with the strange coffee habit,” Mel protested. “It was ‘er that passed Evangelia the hot wax instead of the moustache pomade. ‘Ave yous seen Masha today? She felt brave enough to come out of ‘iding and ‘ead up to the hospital.”

“That’s because she ‘eard that the slimy Kazakh is laid low with a bad case of food poisoning. I wish I’d ‘ad the nous to slip something in ‘is food. It would ‘ave given me a lot of pleasure to give ‘im the trots,” Fotini said, finger smearing the crushed capers over her festering fungal foot infection before immediately reaching to put the crusty bread in a basket to carry out to Adonis, who’d popped by with Achilles the borrowed builder for a spot of fish meze lunch.

“’Ow does it feel to be ‘arbouring the mafia?” Fotini spat at Adonis.

“I can ‘ardly chuck ‘im out when he ‘asn’t got the strength to lift ‘is ‘ead out of the toilet bowl,” Adonis retorted, heartily tucking into his fish meze. “As soon as he’s well enough I’ll tell ‘im to sling his hook. He would have ‘ad to go to the hospital if he didn’t have his bodyguard ‘ere to run round after him.”

“I wonder ‘ow come he isn’t sick too,” Fotini wondered.

“Apparently he ate nothing except the horse penis he brought with ‘im from Kazakhstan. His money-bags boss was too tight-fisted to pay for ‘is meals,” Adonis explained, breaking off a piece of fungal smeared crusty bread to dip in his extra virgin.

The door opened and an officious looking suited official entered, clutching a notepad. “Kyria, I would like to speak to the proprietor at once,” he demanded.

“She’s up visiting ‘er comatose father at the ‘ospital. Will Melecretes do instead? He’s standing in for ‘er?”

“Yes, fetch him at once,” the man ordered.

“What can I do for yous?” Mel asked, wiping his hands on a fungal smeared tea towel. “Just call me Mel by the way; we have a tasty fish meze on the menu for lunch today.”

“Sir, I am the public health inspector investigating an outbreak of noxious food poisoning and warts in the village. I must ask you to answer some questions. Now tell me, how many people have been handling food in this establishment?”

“Just me and Fotini since Stavroula ‘as been at the ‘ospital,” Mel nervously replied.

“Indeed. I trust you have all the stamped paperwork in order to demonstrate you are certified to handle food?”

“Well I ‘ave my own gyros shop in Idaho with all my licences up to date.”

“What about you Kyria? Kindly show me the paperwork certifying you are qualified to handle food,” the health inspector requested.

“I’ve been ‘andling food for eighty-five years without the need for a bit of paper, yous young whipper snapper,” Fotini sneered.

“That is not good enough. I must see your food handling permit at once.”

“Can I get you a bite of lunch while we discuss this?” Mel offered. “Fotini, fetch the health inspector a plate of fish meze.”

“Fish meze is off,” Fotini snapped as it slowly dawned on her that the deceased contents of Evangelia’s fish pedicure tank, lightly fried up and garnished, might not be the most hygienic choice of lunch for a busybody health inspector. Hobbling into the kitchen she threw the remainder of the fish meze through the kitchen window where it was greedily pounced on by the taverna cat, Boukali, who devoured it just as the health inspector arrived on the scene, having followed Fotini into the kitchen.

“Kyria, your certification papers?” he insisted again.

“I dont’s know what yous is on about, I’m just a frail old lady,” Fotini squirmed.

“As you are handling food you must produce stamped papers certifying you have undergone all the necessary health checks. You should have had your hearing checked for one thing...”

“What’s that, I didn’t quite catch what yous said,” Fotini mumbled.

“Your hearing check. And your teeth, not to mention a stool sample,” the health inspector shouted.

“There’s no need to shout, I’m not deaf. There’s a nice rattan stool ‘ere yous can use to take yous weight off. Yous looks like yous needs it, yous is a bit on the hefty side,” Fotini scoffed.

“Not a rattan stool, you stupid old woman. You should have given a stool sample for analysis before handling food,” the health inspector shouted, completely exasperated.

“There’s no need to bully Fotini, she was just ‘elping out. Yous cant’s be demanding personal things like that from a frail old lady,” Mel leapt to Fotini’s defence. “Here is Stavroula’s up to date stamped paperwork for running the place.”

Humming under his breath the health inspector examined the paperwork before announcing “as neither you nor the old woman are actually Stavroula and cannot produce paperwork showing you have any business here, I am obliged to close down this establishment immediately.”

“But we ‘aven’t poisoned anyone, we’ve ‘ad nothing but satisfied customers,” Mel objected.

“That’s not strictly true, now is it? I have a report of a Scottish couple possibly poisoned by your fish meze, along with a very sick gentleman from Kazakhstan who also partook of the self same fish dish.”

“Yous ‘ave no proof it was the fish meze,” Fotini remonstrated, confident the cat had eaten all the evidence. Her argument carried no weight as the cat chose that very moment to wander into the kitchen with a bit of fried anchovy sticking out of its mouth and threw up all over the nice shiny black shoes of the health inspector.

Chapter 30

On the Loose

A sombre looking Mel watched in dismay as the health inspector turfed his lunchtime customers out and stuck a sign on the door saying ‘Closed Due To A Public Health Scare,’ before heading off to interrogate Takis and Yiota at ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima.’ The Scottish couple had reported they’d eaten Yiota’s octopus in red wine on the same evening they’d stuffed their faces with Fotini’s fish meze. The health inspector was duty bound to investigate all possible sources of the food poisoning outbreak and there was still the plague of contagious warts to get to the bottom of.

Fotini had ‘fessed’ up to Mel she had retrieved the fish for the first fish meze from Evangelia’s mop bucket, with today’s lunchtime offering of fish meze sourced directly from Evangelia’s fish pedicure tank. They had drawn up a list of the customers who’d eaten today’s fish meze, relieved it only comprised off Moronic Mitsos, Adonis and Achilles the borrowed builder.

“If it was the fish meze that poisoned ‘em we should at least be thankful Masha didn’t ‘ave any of it in ‘er pregnant state,” Mel reflected gratefully. “I’m going to run over to the beauty parlour and warn Evangelia the health inspector is likely to come wart investigating. ‘Appen I can persuade ‘er not to mention the missing fish.”

“She owes yous a favour after denuding yous of yous moustache an’ ruining yous ‘andsome looks,” Fotini mused. “I’m goin’ to miss working ‘ere, it made a nice change.”

“Well, look on the bright side, at least with the taverna closed it will give me some free time to research the family history and find out once and for all if we’re related. Yous can give me a ‘and with that,” he beamed, dashing off to the beauty parlour.

“We’re closed,” Evangelia called out as Mel rattled the salon door.

“Evangelia, it’s me Mel. May I speak to yous?” Mel shouted.

“Come in,” Evangelia invited, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a soggy tissue.

“Oh, yous mustn’t cry,” Mel consoled, putting a tentative arm round her shoulder. “I’ve completely forgiven yous for inadvertently waxing off my moustache.”

“It isn’t that, something terrible has happened and I’m at my wits end. I just don’t know what to do,” Evangelia sobbed.

“So yous ‘ave ‘eard the public health inspector is about to descend on the salon. Please don’t say anything about Fotini taking the fish from yous mop bucket, she’s was just bein’ frugal an’ didn’t intend to poison anyone, but then again she did Masha a big favour by putting the Kazakh out of action.”

“The health inspector, oh no, I’ve got enough on my plate without that as well,” Evangelia wailed.

“So yous tears aren’t because of the wart outbreak?” Mel asked, confused. “Evangelia, ‘as something else ‘appened?”

“Yes, but I can’t discuss it. It is just too awful and it’s all my fault.”

“Take a deep breath and tell me. After all a problem shared is a problem halved and yous can rely on my complete discretion, dear lady.”

“You will hate me; everyone will hate me when they discover my awful secret,” Evangelia sobbed.

“Evangelia, please, yous will make yourself sick getting so worked up. Look, let’s get out of here and take a stroll to the beach; the fresh air will do yous good. And later I will ‘elp yous scour this place from top to bottom with bleach.”

“You’re very kind Mel, yes, we’ll walk to the beach and I’ll tell you everything.”

Locking the salon Evangelia and Mel strolled in the sunshine to the beach, walking across the sand to the shore where they took off their shoes to dip their feet in the water.

“Sofia would complain this isn’t hygienic,” Evangelia reflected, smiling weakly at Mel.

“Youngsters, they think they know it all with their fancy coffees and ludicrous fashions. Now Evangelia, what can be so bad it made you weep?” Mel asked sympathetically.

“I’ve been writing to a man who’s in prison. I don’t know how it started, I just thought it would be nice to have a pen pal and that it would improve my written English,” Evangelia began.

“Well that’s very noble, Evangelia. Prisoners need letters to keep ‘em going.”

“Before I knew it I seemed to be writing letters to half the condemned men on death row. I’ve always been fascinated by serial killers; they’re just human after all and some of them are innocent, facing grave miscarriages of justice. Well not Colin, he admits to cannibalism, but he really regrets it now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prison groupie, really I’m not.”

“Of course not,” Mel sympathised, taking her hand. His warmth broke through Evangelia’s defences and she finally admitted, “I started writing to all those condemned killers because I was lonely. Knowing they were locked up behind bars allowed me to feel I was developing relationships without having to really commit to them. But one of them, Marvin the Mincer, is a diabolical fiend, an evil killer who revels in chopping up his victims, mincing them into pies and stuffing embroidered pillows with their hair. He played me for such a fool. I fell for his sob stories, but he revealed his true nature when I made the mistake of telling him I had a famous client, Masha. He became obsessed with her, demanding I send him cuttings of her hair. Of course I didn’t because as soon as he asked I realised how creepy it was. At least he was locked up on death row so his threats towards Masha just seemed like hot air.”

“He made threats to hurt Masha?” Mel asked.

“Yes, he threatened to break out of prison, do unspeakable things and cut off her hair. And now he’s only gone and done it, he’s broken out of the most secure prison, escaping from death row. Masha is in the most terrible danger.”

“How can yous be sure the vermin ‘as escaped?”

Evangelia explained the latest letter she’d received from Marvin the Mincer didn’t have the usual prison stamp on it. He’d written to say his obsession with Masha had inspired him to tunnel his way out of death row and come to surprise her. Evangelia had telephoned the prison to find out if there was any truth to Marvin’s words or if he was simply a fantasist, but the prison had confirmed the escape and that Marvin, armed with a pair of stolen scissors, was on the run. He’d even made the top ten spot on the FBI’s ‘Most Wanted’ list.

The prison had informed the FBI of Marvin’s threats and assured Evangelia there was little chance of the escapee managing to get all the way to Greece without a forged passport and money. They didn’t believe Masha was actually in imminent danger and considered warning her of the threats would send her into an unnecessary panic.

“I still can’t help worrying though Mel. What if he does make it over here and hurt Masha?” Evangelia anxiously questioned.

“Are yous frightened yous is in danger too?” Mel asked, worried about her.

“I don’t care about his threats to chop me into small pieces. He can do what he likes with me; I deserve it after putting Masha in harm’s way.”

“Evangelia, yous dont’s deserve anything bad to happen to yous. Who could have guessed prison security on death row would be so lax?” Mel consoled. “I’m inclined to think it is best to keep Masha in the dark. If the FBI think she’s in any danger they will warn ‘er and send agents to protect ‘er. If that ‘appens it’s enough for ‘er to know a notorious serial killer ‘as broken out of an American prison and is obsessed with ‘er after seeing her famous weather clips on YouTube. There’s no need to even mention yous involvement with the Mincer.”

“You are so kind Mel, it’s true his obsession developed after seeing her on YouTube, wearing that sexy raincoat Soula fashioned out of a lobster adorned shower curtain. Yous really don’t think any less of me for writing to convicts?” Evangelia asked anxiously, not quite ready to confess she was engaged to three serial killers.

“Dry yous eyes, all yous did was write to some lonely men in prison. Yous intentions was goodly. Now put yous shoes back on an’ we’ll walk back and give yous pedicure tank a good scrubbing before the health inspector turns up.”

“I think Sofia was right and Mrs Kolokotronis spread her contagious warts in my salon.”

Rubbing her shoulder gently Mel didn’t have the heart to tell her she was also responsible for Blodwyn spreading her festering fungal foot infection.

Chapter 31

Great Bowls of Borscht

“Where am I? What ‘appened?” that old fool Vasilis demanded for the hundredth time since coming out of his coma.

“Yous is in the ‘ospital darling, try to remember. Yous was attacked by a madman,” mail order Masha repeated, attempting to jog his memory.

“Who are yous?” Vasilis asked his wife, attempting to sit up to have a better view down her cleavage.

“Ow many more times, I’m yous wife, yous old fool,” Masha shouted, rapidly losing patience.

“Saints alive, he’s much more irritating now than he was in ‘is coma,” Nitsa shouted.

“Who are yous?” Vasilis asked Nitsa.

“I’m yous wife,” Nitsa lied, thinking she may as well amuse herself by tormenting the old fool. It would at least distract her from the nasty itching inside her pop socks.

“No, I’m ‘is wife. Why is everyone trying to steal my ‘usband?” the petulant voice of the ancient Kyria Moustakos piped up from the next bed.

“You are just confused;” Deirdre assured her, “have a sip of water.”

Lifting her skull-like head from the pillow Kyria Moustakos knocked back a beaker of water, complaining it wasn’t ouzo, before fixing her beady eyes on Nitsa and saying, “I knew yous wasn’t likely to be faithful to my Fotis. There yous was carrying on with my son an’ all the while yous was married to this youngster.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, hissing to Deirdre, “Do we really need to stay in this parallel universe where octogenarians are considered to be polygamous youngsters? Nitsa has eaten all the grapes we brought for Vasilis and the stench of the donkey is becoming unbearable.”

Deirdre was too engrossed examining her warts to bother replying.

“My donkey,” Vasilis suddenly shouted, throwing his arms around Onos and showering her with sloppy kisses.

Ever since being licked out of his coma that old fool Vasilis had been unable to hold onto a coherent thought for more than two seconds. Beyond his recognition of his beloved donkey he was seemingly clueless to the identity of all the people crammed into the hospital room. The idea that the voluptuous vision of Russian loveliness was his wife excited him, but the idea he was married to the wrinkled old crone with the fake hair, or even worse the skull-like apparition with a plaster arm who was old enough to be his mother, horrified him.

The arrival of Slick Socrates made the available space in the room even tighter.

“I see the old fool is out of his coma,” Socrates acknowledged.

“Yes, but he can’t remember anything, the doctor says he ‘as amnesia,” Masha told him.

Wedging himself in between the donkey and his beloved Stavroula, who was sleeping fitfully between bouts of vomiting, Socrates announced “I hate to wake her but there’s trouble at her taverna she should know about.”

“At least the news her father is out of his coma should cheer her up,” Quentin piped up. Socrates shrugged, knowing full well Stavroula would be less than thrilled to discover a will signed by an amnesiac had no legal standing.

Shaken out of her sleep Stavroula slowly sat up, saying “Oh Socrate, I ‘ave never felt worse. I should have known hanging round at the hospital waiting for that old fool to come out of his coma would expose me to disgusting germs.”

“Well the good news is Vasilis is out of his coma,” Socrates told her. “But you didn’t pick up hospital germs, my love; it seems you’ve been sick with a very nasty strain of food poisoning. You aren’t alone in your suffering.”

Stavroula struggled to find the strength to turn her head to look at Vasilis. “Father,” she cried in relief, genuinely pleased he was no longer comatose.

“Who are yous?” Vasilis replied.

“Father, it is I, Stavroula, yous long lost love child.”

“So I did sleep with one of these old hags? Vasilis screeched, looking in horror at Nitsa and Kyria Moustakos.

“Socrates forgot to mention your father has amnesia,” Quentin said. Stavroula felt far too sickly to make any sense of it all.

“For goodness sake Nitsa, put that away, this is a hospital and that festering mess on your foot could be highly contagious,” Quentin yelled at the sight of Nitsa stripping off her pop socks and settling in for a good scratch.

“I thought I’d ask the doctor to ‘ave a look. It ain’t ‘alf givin’ me some gyp,” Nitsa shouted. “’Ang on yous said ‘contagious’ K-Went-In, ‘appen I picked it up from that Welsh woman in Evangelia’s fish pedicure tank.”

“Oh my, that could be where I picked up this plague of warts from,” Deirdre shuddered. “I wonder if the other ladies are suffering a similar affliction.”

“Who else had their feet in the tank with you,” Quentin asked.

“Let me see, there was Thea, Soula and Mrs Kolokotronis,” Deirdre recalled.

“You should ask them if they have caught warts too and then make your revolting condition known to the public health inspector who is prowling around the village,” Socrates advised, calculating a complaint about the beauty parlour may deflect the health inspector’s attention away from Stavroula’s taverna.

Before he could continue he was interrupted by the donkey braying at full volume, desperately attempting to spit something foul out of its mouth.

“Onos is choking, help her,” Vasilis cried. Quentin rushed to the rescue, prising the donkey’s jaws open and extracting Nitsa’s chewed up pop socks.

The loud braying attracted the attention of other hospital goers who barged into the room demanding to know what a donkey was doing on the premises.”

“It’s not right, it’s not proper, it’s not hygienic,” an old man holding onto a cane spluttered.

He was interrupted by another man shouting “I begged the doctor to let me bring my mother’s pet goat to visit; she’s so attached to it. I got ‘er one of them novelty ones from that bald chap in Astakos who dresses ‘em up in clothes, but he flatly refused. No exceptions he said, no pets allowed.”

“Same ‘ere, my husband Harris is really missing is pussy but the doctor was adamant, no cats,” a middle-aged woman affirmed angrily.

The smitten old doctor rushed in attempting to quell the disturbance.

“Now, now, the donkey isn’t a pet, it is here in a medical experimental capacity,” the smitten old doctor began to protest.

“Yous cant’s go experimenting on donkeys, there’s laws against that,” a woman in a wheelchair objected, deliberately running over the doctor’s foot.

Hopping up and down in pain the doctor tried to restore calm, explaining “the donkey isn’t being experimented on. It was brought in to help this poor old fool who was languishing in a coma. He wasn’t responding to anything until the donkey, that he has an overt fondness for, was brought to his bedside. Now, as you can see he is sitting up, awake and dribbling.”

The presence of so many people upset Onos, still suffering from the noxious taste of Nitsa’s pop socks. Braying wildly the donkey gave Vasilis a quick lick then deposited a steaming pile of manure on Quentin’s feet. The bunch of pet lover complainers fled in disgust as the doctor shouted, “The donkey has done its duty in nudging Vasilis out of his coma. Can someone please take it outside now; it is causing far too much disruption?”

The doctor’s request was met with blank stares until Kyria Moustakos suddenly sprang out of bed with remarkable agility, saying “I’ll take it outside, the putrid smell in ‘ere is too much for me.”

“I’ll thank yous not to insult my feet,” Nitsa called after her.

Kyria Moustakos attracted some strange looks as she slowly shuffled along hospital corridors in her nylon nightgown and fluffy slippers, clutching tightly to the donkey’s mane. Finally reaching fresh air she abandoned the donkey, leaving it to munch its way through the hospital garden flowerbeds whilst she doddered across to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a large ouzo, immediately forgetting all about the animal.

Quentin and Deirdre had taken over the hospital room bathroom where Deirdre was showering the donkey deposit from Quentin’s shoes. Stavroula was hectoring Vasilis for not recognising her and Nitsa was attempting to fashion a new pair of pop socks out of a hospital pillowcase.

“Stavroula, never mind about your father now, there is a taverna emergency you need to know about,” Slick Socrates said.

“Well I know my customers will be missin’ my cookin’ but I can’t do anything about it until I have the all clear,” Stavroula groaned.

“It’s not that, the taverna has been closed down by the public health inspector as the possible source of this nasty bout of food poisoning that’s going round. People who ate there are dropping like flies. On top of that Mel let Fotini loose in the kitchen and rumour has it she’s been spitting in the food. Of course neither she nor Mel had the necessary paperwork to be handling food.”

“But people could have got food poisoning anywhere, I always suspected Yiota doesn’t keep a hygienic kitchen,” Stavroula spat, maliciously maligning her rival’s reputation. “And I have food poisoning and couldn’t have picked it up in my taverna as I’ve been at father’s bedside for days.”

“Where do you think I got that fish meze from?” Socrates hissed.

Stavroula’s eyes narrowed as the realisation hit her she had contracted food poisoning from the fish meze delivered to her by her lover from her own taverna kitchen.

“But it was so tasty. Tell me Nitsa didn’t spit it in,” Stavroula implored.

“The dastardly Dastan ate fish meze in your taverna the other evening and he’s been violently ill ever since,” mail order Masha volunteered.

“And that Scottish couple who threw up in my old banger ate fish meze there too,” Quentin said, emerging from the bathroom.

“I ‘ave to get ‘ome an’ sort this out, I cant’s ‘ave my taverna’s reputation ruined,” Stavroula cried, attempting to get out of bed.

“You are still far too weak, my love. You must stay in bed, but at least you are forewarned if the public health inspector pays you a visit,” Socrates advised.

“I will tell ‘im nothing passed my lips except hospital food,” she decided.

“I knew you were a trouble maker,” the doctor sneered. “Happily you signed a disclaimer saying you didn’t touch any hospital food.”

“Where am I? What appened?” Vasilis suddenly shouted.

“Great bowls of borscht, ‘ow many more times?” Masha screamed. Grabbing Nitsa by her hair extensions Masha demanded “get me ‘ome in yous taxi, I can’t take anymore of this madness.”

Squashed into the taxi with Quentin and Deirdre, Masha was almost back in Astakos when she realised she’d left something behind at the hospital.

“Malaka.” she screeched. “We forgot all about the donkey.”

Chapter 32

A Long Way from Athens

“Sofia, that was Evangelia on the phone, she isn’t opening this evening, so you can have the night off,” Thea called.

“Thank goodness for that, I’ve never stopped working since I got here,” Sofia complained, emerging from the bathroom with her hair wrapped in a towel. “Nona, could you just run to the supermarket and stock up on junk snacks for me. I can’t go out with wet hair.”

“Well I’m busy trying to get ready to go out for dinner with Tasos. He doesn’t often take me out, being a bit of a tight-wad, so I want to look nice,” Thea replied.

“It’s all about you, isn’t it? Is it really too much to expect a few snacks?” Sofia shouted, slamming her bedroom door and turning the heavy metal music up to a deafening level.

“Po po, I cant’s think what’s got into that girl,” Thea muttered, rushing over to the supermarket to stock up on junk snacks.

Returning home she was disgruntled to discover the cat had turned neon pink, muttering under her breath, “I thought Tasos was comin’ round to the cat. He’s got some explain’ to do when I get my ‘ands on ‘im.”

Thea knocked cautiously on Sofia’s bedroom door, afraid the teen might snap at her again without good reason. Instead Sofia greeted her with exclamations of delight, saying “Nona, you’re the best, these are all my favourite snacks.”

“Well you cant’s just live on junk, yous need to eat healthy food too,” Thea advised.

“Oh well, if you insist I’ll come out to dinner with you and old Toothless,” Sofia said.

“Well it’s really meant to be a romantic evening for just the two of us,” Thea objected. With the news Toothless Tasos could be sent to prison at any moment by the vindictive prosecutor they had vowed to make the most of any precious time left together.

“And what am I meant to do while you go swanning off with him? Starve? I suppose it’s too much trouble for you to cook me a decent meal before you go out, Nona?”

“There’s some briam in the kitchen, you only need to warm it up,” Thea clarified.

“Forget it, if you can’t be bothered. You know I hate briam. I’ll just go hungry,” Sofia screamed, oblivious to the irony of claiming to starve while surrounded by a mountain of junk snacks.

“I suppose I should cook the girl something, she is very skinny and needs feedin’ up,” Thea muttered, dashing into the kitchen to prepare a pork chop with lemon potatoes and green beans.

“Why are yous cookin’ when I promised to take yous out?” Tasos asked in surprise.

“We can still go out Taso, but I can’t let Sofia starve.”

“Leave that, it’s just more work for yous. Go and tell the girl she can come with us, she’ll probably spend all evening ignoring us anyway with her head in her phone,” Tasos said.

“Sofia,” Thea called, once again knocking on Sofia’s door. “Tasos says yous must come out with us for dinner.”

“Forget it Nona, I know when I’m not wanted,” Sofia screeched through the door.

“Now dont’s be silly Sofia,” Thea said barging into the teenager’s bedroom. “Oh my. Sofia what on earth have yous done to yous face?”

Sofia’s face, from her hairline to her eyebrows, had turned bright pink, matching her now neon pink hair.

“Oh Nona, I don’t know what happened. I decided to go pink instead of purple, but the dye has seeped into my forehead and won’t come off,” Sofia cried.

“There, there, dont’s cry,” Thea comforted her, shouting down to Tasos to run over to the hardware shop for a bottle of turps. As Thea stared at her best white towel, a luxuriant purchase from the home shopping channel now ruined with neon pink hair dye, realisation dawned.

“Sofia, did yous practice on the cat before yous did yous ‘air?”

“The packet said to test it first in case of allergic reactions.”

“Not on the cat Sofia, ‘ave yous no sense? If it goes round licking itself it will need its stomach pumped.”

“Typical! You think more of the cat than me,” Sofia sulked.

“I cant’s do right for doin’ wrong as far as that girl’s concerned,” Thea lamented when Tasos returned with the turps. “I just dont’s understand it, Mrs Kolokotronis reported Sofia was all sweetness and light when she was out with young Iraklis. Evangelia reports she’s pleasant enough at the salon, but the moment she comes ‘ome she turns into a monster.”

“’Appen she’s just ‘omesick,” Tasos consoled her. “She’s a long way from Athens.”

“I’ll just give ‘er mother a quick call to see if this erratic behaviour is normal,” Thea decided.

As Tasos hovered nearby, manically scrubbing the cat with a brillo pad and turps, all he could hear was “Po po, I know, I know,” as Sofia’s mother sympathised with Thea for landing her with a hormonal teenager.

Chapter 33

The Pappas’ Pleasant Personality Persists

Evangelia and Melecretes had been scrubbing and scouring the beauty parlour for hours, pointedly ignoring the persistent knocking of the public health inspector.

“Let ‘im catch up with yous tomorrow, yous ‘ave ‘ad a stressful day,” Mel advised. “We’ll finish up ‘ere then I’ll take you out for a bite to eat.”

Their scrubbing was interrupted by yet more insistent knocking, accompanied by a guttural foreign accent.

“It’s that Kazakh’s bodyguard, I wonder what he can want,” Mel queried, grabbing a long toothed styling comb as protection and tentatively opening the door. The bodyguard, unable to communicate except in his native tongue, had painstakingly penned a note in English, using his Kazakh-English dictionary. Mel accepted the note and read it aloud.

“I not body hard. I hair dress. I want defect.”

“So you’re not a bodyguard?” Evangelia asked

The Kazahk looked blank, understanding nothing.

“Mafia,” Mel asked, using a universally understood word and pointing at the Kazahk. “You Mafia?”

Shaking his head the Kazakh grabbed a pair of salon scissors and mincingly mimicked a cutting motion.

“I think he’s trying to tell us he’s a hairdresser. He has a very nifty way with the styling scissors,” Evangelia observed. “That would explain why he came to the salon.”

“Dastan?” Mel queried.

Leafing through his dictionary the Kazakh slowly spelled out ‘bad man wife,’ then grabbing the nearest fly swatter made violent swatting motions. His attempt to convey that Dastan was dangerous and intended to kidnap a wife was woefully inadequate, and Mel, understandably, misinterpreted his meaning as Dastan was a wife beater.

“I think we should let the police deal with this,” Mel advised. “This chap obviously wants to get away from the nasty bribing wife beater and defect. The police will be able to help him.”

“I take it you haven’t met the incompetent Pancratius?” Evangelia asked with raised eyebrows.

“Well at least he will know who to contact to help this poor fellow with his wish to defect,” Mel insisted. “I’ll walk him over there now then head right back.”

Evangelia continued to clean. Determined the health inspector wouldn’t find anything amiss she filled the now drained fish pedicure tank with potted plants, pebbles and shells, hoping by transforming it into a decorative feature the health inspector would never suspect its original unhygienic purpose.

“Are yous in there Evangelia? I’ve a bag of tiddlers ‘ere if yous want ‘em,” Gorgeous Yiorgos called out.

Stepping outside Evangelia thanked the fisherman, explaining the salon wouldn’t need any more tank refills.

“Take ‘em anyway,” Yiorgos offered. “Yous could cook up a nice fish meze.”

“Oh really, no, I couldn’t,” Evangelia protested, nauseated by the very thought after hearing about the true source of the food poisoning epidemic. Not wishing to offend the kind-hearted fisherman she added “a gentleman is taking me out to eat.”

“Petula will be delighted to ‘ear that, she’s always sayin’ yous could do with a good man,” Yiorgos beamed.

“I forgot to ask Yiorgo, how’s your burned head doing?”

“It was nothing. I ‘ave to say coffee works a treat disguising my grey ‘airs, it looks much better than it did smeared with boot polish.”

“Sofia will be pleased to hear that scalding you wasn’t completely in vain.”

The pair was surprised to receive a pleasant greeting by the passing Pappas who they hadn’t run into since he’d been attacked in the church by crazy Koula.

“Did you hear the good news?” the Pappas asked. “Poor old Vasilis has come out of his coma, such a relief for his devoted wife. It is so ironic he should return to life on this very day, the day those heathens were promulgating as being the end of the world. Vasilis was pessimistically fearful his time on this earth would end on this day, but instead he has enjoyed a resurrection, it is truly God’s miracle. Of course he can’t remember his fears as he has no memory. Well I can’t stand here chatting all day; I must slip home before opening the church for the evening service.”

Gorgeous Yiorgos and Evangelia were both dumbstruck by the Pappas’ change of character. They had heard about his personality transplant but had dismissed it as so much nonsense.

“Ere Pappa, take this bag of tidddlers, yous will need to keep yous strength up if yous is just out of ‘ospital. They’ll make yous a lovely fish meze,” Yiorgos said, forcing the bag of tiddlers on the Pappas.

“Blessings, my child. I just hope my inferior cooking skills can do them justice,” the Pappas replied.

Walking home the Pappas smiled to himself, appreciating the salty sea fresh air after his hospital confinement. He waved cheerily to the fishermen tending their boats and offered jovial greetings to the men drinking coffee at the kafenion. Remembering how he used to enjoy taking his pet goat Krasi for long walks, before his estranged wife Petula turned it into road-kill whilst out for a driving lesson with her paramour, he determined to call in on Bald Yannis the next day and purchase one of his cutely dressed goats as a pet.

“Ah, the first tortoise of the year,” he fondly muttered, picking up the slow moving creature and placing it in an olive grove, safely away from any oncoming traffic, a completely out of character gesture for him as he would have previously derived a perverse pleasure from treating the tortoise as a football as long as he thought no one was looking.

Finally reaching home he was shocked to discover the house was like a pig sty. Recalling Iraklis’ mother, Kyria Syshpean, had spent the night there before he was so brutally attacked, he felt ashamed she had seen him living in such squalor.

Picking the broom up he began to attack the dusty cobwebs with gusto while planning his next church service. A timid knock on his door revealed the presence of a teenage girl with neon pink hair. After introducing herself Sofia made a suggestion that the Pappas, in his new charitable mode character, hadn’t the heart to turn down.

Chapter 34

Granny’s Fabulous Fungal Fighter

Arriving home from the hospital, Nitsa announced, “I needs to find myself a toy boy. Imagine the ‘orror of bein’ stuck with an old fool that cant’s even remember ‘is own wife.”

Fotini agreed with Nitsa there was no point in being married if you couldn’t recognise your other half, even though she was still under the deluded impression her husband was away doing business in Athens when in reality he’d been dead for ten years.

“The kitchen looks like a bomb site,” Nitsa observed, taking in the mess Fotini had created. “I thought Hattie was in charge of cleanin’ while we is out workin’ to supplement our meagre pensions.”

“I sent Hattie out to pick capers,” Fotini explained. “I ‘ave been experimenting to create my own line of a traditional herbal remedy to rid feet of fungus.”

“So that’s why yous is wearing K-Went-In’s hazmat suit. What’s in yous remedy?”

“I ‘ave created my special formula from capers, honey, olive oil, vinegar, oregano, an’ a secret ingredient.”

“What’s the secret ingredient then?”

“Spit,” Fotini cackled.

“Fotini, yous is a genius. We will ‘ave to come up with a brand name,” Nitsa praised, sticking her finger in the thick green sludge and declaring it ‘tasty.’

“Yous is meant to rub it in, but I’m sure we can come up some edible uses,” Fotini guffawed. “I was thinkin’ to call it the ‘Fungal Foot Fighter.’

“That’s brilliant, but ‘Granny’s Fungal Foot Fighter’ ‘as that extra appeal. Or if yous dropped the foot bit yous could market it as ‘Granny’s Fabulous Fungal Fighter’ - reaching all the extremities yous never knew could fester.”

“Nitsa, yous is so clever. I just ‘ope there’s enough fungal feet to make us a fortune.”

“Let me try it,” Nitsa demanded, slapping the green gloop onto her fungal patches. “My feet ‘ave been festering somethin’ terrible. We should sell some to Did-Rees, she’s plagued with warts.”

“I might ‘ave to stick a different label on the stuff an’ call it ‘Granny’s Wart Exterminator.’ We could say it is good for acne, too,” Fotini cackled, excited by the unlimited curative properties of the pungent green sludge. “An’ hair growth, we could market it as good for fixing baldness,”

“Do yous think the baldies would fall for it?” Nitsa asked.

“There’s nothing to fall for, it works. I only ‘ad my legs waxed the other night an’ after rubbing this stuff in they are sprouting thick black wiry ‘airs already.”

“I’ll take some round to Bald Yannis tomorrow, ‘appen I’ll let ‘im ‘ave it cheap if he lets me rub it into ‘is ‘andsome bald pate,” Nitsa chortled.

“Ere, dont’s be giving discounts,” Fotini objected.

“Yous do realise we caught this foul foot itch in Evangelia’s fish tank? We could demand free makeovers to keep our mouths shut,” Nitsa schemed.

“I cant’s see Mel letting us blackmail the hairdresser. It seems he’s gone a bit sweet on ‘er,” Fotini revealed. “He’s takin’ ‘er out on a first date tonight.”

“Well put on yous glad rags an’ we’ll go and gatecrash,” Nitsa cackled. “That gormless pair next door ‘ave booked a taxi so we can get Did-Rees to try out yous wart cure on the way.”

Next door Quentin was waiting as Deirdre dithered between twin-sets whilst fulminating as she still refused to get in the vomit smelling old banger, insisting on going to the taverna in a taxi.

“Why can’t we just walk there, it’s a lovely evening? I have no desire to be stuck in the taxi again with that old hag from next door,” Quentin argued.

“You try walking with these warts and see how far you get,” Deirdre challenged. “Anyway, if we go in the taxi you can have an extra glass of wine.”

“I’ll need one if Nitsa’s been on the brandy,” Quentin sighed. A loud hammering on the door prompted him to ask “I wonder who that can be?”

Opening the door he was pushed aside by Fotini and Nitsa barging straight in, saying they too were going to make a night of it at the taverna.

Quentin and Deirdre gawped at the ridiculous spectacle the two old crones presented. Fotini was dressed in her usual hideous old lady dress, paired with leopard print wellingtons. Nitsa was done up in a shiny silver jumpsuit made of shimmering Lurex, the low cut neckline seductively revealing the top of her thermal vest. The trousers were way too long for her short stubby legs so she’d rolled them up in ludicrous cuffs that caught in the top of a pair of wellingtons that were the exact match of those modelled by Fotini.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Deirdre asked.

“Is yous jealous of our new fashionable wellies, Did-Rees? We got ‘em off the gypsy man’s shoe van,” Fotini preened. “Yous mother ‘as a pair just like ‘em, K-Went-In.”

“My glamorous outfit is one of the mail order floozy’s cast-offs. I thought I’d vamp up my sex appeal as I’m after a toy boy,” Nitsa cackled, tossing her hair extensions in a diabolically skittish parody of Masha.

“What happened to Fotis, I thought the two of you were back together?” Quentin asked

“I just cant’s be doin’ with ‘is interfering old bag of a mother. I ‘ad to give Fotis an ultimatum, I told ‘im it’s ‘er or me.”

“So he chose his mother?”

“I’ve no idea, he’s not called an’ he’s been nowhere near the ‘ospital to visit the old witch,” Nitsa revealed.

“Aren’t you worried about him,” Deirdre enquired.

“Dont’s be daft, he’s a grown man. We’ve brought you something for yous warts, Did-Rees. It is a traditional an’ natural cure handed down through the generations,” Nitsa lied, knowing full well Fotini had just invented it in her kitchen.

“That’s very kind of you, but I have some ointment from the pharmacy.”

“Po po, I bet it’s not working?”

“That’s true, it isn’t working. It is so embarrassing having warts,” Deirdre sighed.

“Wait till they spread an’ yous starts gettin’ ‘em on yous face and inside yous bloomers,” Fotini warned.

“Perhaps I will try your natural remedy after all,” Deirdre said, accepting an old yogurt tub with a filling of ‘Granny’s Fabulous Fungal Fighter.’

“We ‘ave to work on the packaging,” Nitsa said. “That’s right Did-Rees, just smear it in.”

“It will also get rid of yous acne, fungus and bald bits,” Fotini sagely advised.

“I don’t have acne or bald bits,” Deirdre snapped, wondering if the two old crones were deliberately trying to insult her.

“No, but I think K-Went-In is trying to hide something with that ghastly comb over,” Nitsa cackled.

“Actually, it does feel quite soothing. How much do I owe you?” Deirdre asked.

“Five Euros,” Fotini said.

“She means fifteen,” Nitsa corrected, rolling her eyes at Fotini. “It’s a bargain when yous think of all the things it can cure.”

“It ‘as capers in what do wonders for flatulence,” Fotini added, “just spread a bit on some crusty bread.”

“Well I have to say it’s worth every cent ladies, this is the first relief my feet have had all day,” Deirdre exclaimed, handing over the money. “Quentin, don’t just stand there, pour our guests a brandy.”

“But Nitsa’s driving the taxi,” Quentin objected.

“I’ll phone Pedros and tell ‘im to come an’ chauffeur us. We feel like lettin’ our ‘air down to celebrate our entrepreneurial skills in creating Granny’s Fabulous Fungal Fighter, Wart Exterminator, Acne Eliminator, Hair Growth Facilitator and Flatulence Extinguisher,” Fotini announced, snatching the bottle of brandy.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful. I think ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ has more of a snappy ring to it,” Quentin suggested.

“Perfect,” Fotini shouted, delighted with the catchy product name. “Nitsa, give K-Went-In a free smear under ‘is comb over.”

Chapter 35

Turning the Place into Blackpool

“What is it now, mother?” Prosperous Pedros demanded curtly. His patience was in short supply as he’d just been on a wild goose chase to the hospital to collect the donkey and drive it back to Astakos in the pick-up. With no sign of mail order Masha or the donkey he’d been forced to traipse through the hospital corridors to that old fool Vasilis’ bedside to find out where they were. Trying to get sense out of the dribbling amnesiac proved impossible.

Stavroula informed him Kyria Moustakos had taken the donkey outside when it created a disturbance, but neither the ancient old woman nor the donkey had been seen since. Fighting his natural instinct to flee, Pedros felt duty bound to see if any harm had befallen the old crone. Searching the local area he soon discovered Kyria Moustakos slumped over a glass of ouzo with no recollection of ever encountering the donkey. Gallantly throwing her over his shoulder he dumped her back on her hospital bed where she sprawled in a sozzled state, drunkenly tormenting Vasilis by telling him they were married.

Another fruitless search of the hospital grounds failed to disclose the donkey’s whereabouts. Pedros finally headed back to Astakos, looking forward to a plate of vegetarian chicken in the taverna. Now his mother was making chauffeuring demands, prolonging the pain of his insatiable hunger.

“Just pretend you dont’s know me when we get to the taverna,” he told Fotini. “I’m in no mood for any of yous outrageous antics.”

“Po, po, Pedro, everyone knows I is yous mother.”

“Po, po, Pedro, yous think we wants yous dull company? We is goin’ out to celebrate our new business venture, not to fraternise with fishermen,” Nitsa scoffed.

‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ was bustling when they arrived. Bald Yannis and Soula had accepted mail order Masha’s invitation to join them, extended for selfish reasons as Masha felt safer in the company of Bald Yannis and his chainsaw whilst dastardly Dastan was still in the village. Toothless Tasos and Thea, accompanied by a phone engrossed neon-pink Sofia, were making the last of their precious few moments together in case Tasos was deprived of his freedom. Mel and Evangelia were huddled together playing footsie under the table, and the usual fishermen were boasting about their latest catches.

Fotini and Nitsa, causing quite a stir in their ridiculous outfits, completely ruined the romantic mood between Mel and Evangelia by inflicting themselves on them without so much as a by your leave. Mel rubbed his hands in excitement when the two old crones told him about their new business venture, and was soon dragged onboard, promising to take care of the marketing for ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ and persuading Evangelia to sell it in the beauty salon once production started.

Prosperous Pedros marched over to Masha, demanding to know why she’d not been at the agreed rendezvous spot with the donkey.

“Oh Pedro, it was so upsetting ‘aving my ‘usband come out of his coma and not recognise me, that I forgot all about the donkey. ‘Ang on, do yous mean yous didn’t bring the donkey ‘ome in yous pick-up like you promised?” she asked worriedly.

“The donkey was nowhere to be found Masha. I searched everywhere.”

“Great bowls of borscht, my ‘usband will kill me for losing ‘is precious donkey, if he ever remembers who I am,” Masha wailed, dabbing her eyes with the edge of the paper tablecloth. “What am I to do?”

Prosperous Pedros, mortified that he had made Masha cry by speaking so sternly, instantly promised to drive up the next afternoon to fetch the donkey home, if Masha could find it.

“Ooh Pedro, yous is so kind,” Masha sighed, batting her false eyelashes in a seductive gesture that went straight over Pedros’ head.

On the other side of the taverna Thea asked Sofia, “Where did yous get to earlier?”

“What?” the sulky teen snapped.

“Yous Nona asked where you popped out to earlier,” Toothless Tasos snapped back, annoyed the girl wasn’t speaking more respectfully to Thea.

“Did yous pop out to see Iraklis?” Thea asked.

“Oh no, he has to babysit some brat tonight. Can you imagine being stuck with a screaming baby?”

“That will be his boss’s baby daughter, Andromeda. Iraklis is very fond of the cute little darling,” Thea explained. “So if yous didn’t sneak out to see Iraklis where did yous get to?”

“I had private business to discuss with the Pappas,” Sofia smiled enigmatically, happy her visit had worked out as she’d hoped.

“I ‘ope she hasn’t gone and got religion,” Thea whispered to Tasos. “The last thing I need is a sulky teenage bible basher on my ‘ands.”

Their whispering was interrupted by Yiota coming over to take their order. Speaking loudly enough for everyone in the taverna to hear Yiota asked “What can I get yous this evening? The public health inspector was in earlier and he said never in all his days of inspecting kitchens ad’ he come across one so clean. We are officially the most hygienic taverna in the area. Now what do you fancy to eat?”

“Do you have any briam?” Sofia asked. “It’s my favourite.”

“Yous just told me yous hate briam when I said I had some at home,” Thea exclaimed confusedly.

“Well I do hate it if you expect me to heat it up. I love it when it comes ready hot,” Sofia reasoned.

A sombre silence suddenly descended when Dastan the Kazakh sauntered in as though he owned the place. The village men bristled with anger at the sight of the smartly suited foreigner dripping in gold, remembering how he had plotted to turn the rubbish dump into a gold mine by means of greasy bribes. Dastan surveyed the room with his dead mackerel eyes narrowing beneath his hairy monobrow, before strolling casually over to Masha who was bravely attempting to mask her fear.

“Masha, may I say how magnificent you look this evening. Your beauty is mesmerising.”

“I thought yous was sick,” Masha said.

“As you can observe I am fully recovered. I have a strong Kazakh constitution. Will you join me for some Russian tsai?”

“Never,” Masha replied. “Yous forget I am a married woman. We wont’s forgive yous evil scheming to ruin our village with yous gold mine plan.”

“Such folly. Imagine how much gold I would have showered on you,” Dastan taunted, reaching under his jacket.

“We’ll thank you to leave Masha alone, we don’t want your type in ‘ere,” Bald Yannis commanded. “Malaka, what’s wrong with the chainsaw?” he shouted when his trusty tool failed to rev.

“Watch out Yanni, I think he ‘as a gun in his pocket,” Tall Thomas hissed.

“Gentlemen, ladies, don’t let me spoil your evening,” Dastan said with a supercilious smile, taking a corner seat with a view of the room.

“We’ll come and join yous,” Mel said to Bald Yannis, ushering Evangelia into the seat next to Masha. Speaking quietly so the Kazakh couldn’t eavesdrop, Mel said, “It turns out his bodyguard wasn’t a bodyguard after all. He was his personal hairdresser; talk about vain. When Dastan was stuck with his head down the toilet the hairdresser took advantage to defect. Pancratius ‘as done something very hush hush with ‘im, ‘appen the authorities ‘ope the hairdresser will reveal if Dastan really is part of the mafia an’ if he has any nefarious secrets. Apparently he’s a wife beater.”

“Oh that’s a relief,” Masha exhaled. Seeing the confused expressions her comment elicited she explained, “I ‘ad a feeling’ he wanted to spirit me back to Kazakhstan with ‘im, but if he’s a wife beater it means he’s already married so is hardly likely to want to take me ‘ome with after all. ‘Ow would he explain me away to his wife?”

The others nodded sagely at the wisdom of Masha’s logic and decided to try to ignore the ominous and possibly gun-toting figure across the room. The mood was lightened by the arrival of Hamish and Fenella rushing over to say their goodbyes to Toothless Tasos and Thea.

“Well, we’re all packed and ready for the off. We had such a wonderful time and that little bout of food poisoning hasn’t put us off your wonderful country,” Fenella gushed.

“Och aye, it’s all been grand in Greece,” Hamish bellowed. “We’ll be back for sure. Maybe in the autumn to avoid the crazy heat of summer, Fenella can be a bit sensitive to extreme temperatures.”

“’Ere, take some of this ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ just in case yous ‘ave any more troubles with yous dicky tummies,” Nitsa said, handing over a yogurt tub of green gunk.

“Oh, that is so kind of you,” Fenella beamed.

“That will be fifteen Euros,” Nitsa demanded.

The Scottish couple had only just left in a flurry of cheery goodbyes when Prosperous Pedros grabbed the television remote to increase the volume on a breaking news item. The local news presenter from Paraliakos studio appeared on the screen, announcing:

“Breaking news has just come in concerning a terrible case of animal cruelty. Late this afternoon a donkey was discovered on Paraliakos beach, abused by its exploitive owner and forced to give rides to overweight tourists. Here is some distressing footage our news team captured earlier.”

The camera panned in on a mournful looking Onos struggling along the beach, weighted down by an obese red-faced Brit wearing a Union Jack polyester tee shirt and a ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hat.

“That’s Onos. The poor donkey can’t take that weight, she’s pregnant,” Masha shouted at the television screen. “Come on, come on; show the slime ball what stole the donkey.”

The camera zoomed in on a camera shy man being led off the beach in handcuffs, desperately attempting to disguise his identity by holding an olive sack over his head.

The news presenter continued, “The criminal caught exploiting the donkey will face serious charges in light of the new laws on animal cruelty. It is not known how long he has been abusing the donkey, but today was the first time concerned locals reported having witnessed donkey rides on the beach. Our local reporter on the scene interviewed this English couple who first raised the alarm.

“Hello yes, I’m here now with British ex-pats Bill and Barbara. Bill, can you tell me what happened?”

“Yes, well, I saw this poor donkey being forced to give rides and I said to Barbara what on earth is going on, some oik is trying to turn the place into Blackpool. So we called the authorities and now the local donkey sanctuary has sent someone to take the poor abused donkey and look after it.”

“And we’ve signed up for volunteer work at the donkey sanctuary,” Barbara butted in, eager to have her face on camera.

As the news faded to another story Masha said, “We ‘ave to go the donkey sanctuary tomorrow and get Onos back. I’ll explain my amnesiac husband lost her and can’t live without her.”

“Well at least you can rest assured the donkey is in good ‘ands tonight,” Evangelia said.

“Pedro, yous will come with yous pick-up to bring ‘er ‘ome tomorrow?” Masha reminded him. “I’ll be up at the hospital with Vasilis all day.”

“I ‘ave fishin’ tomorrow, but I will pick yous up outside the ‘ospital at five sharp an’ we’ll drive to the donkey sanctuary to fetch Onos home,” Pedros promised the Russian, unaware the scheming Kazakh was synchronizing his watch for the dot of five the next afternoon.

“Shush, there’s another breaking news story,” Tall Thomas shouted.

Everyone was glued to the screen as the gripping tale of an American serial killer known as Marvin the Mincer unfolded. Reports from the FBI revealed the psychotic murderer, who had a predilection for chopping up his victims, mincing them into pies and slicing their hair off to stuff into embroidered pillows, had amazingly managed to tunnel out of his death row cell and escape the impenetrable prison. The FBI agents on his tail had uncovered evidence to show Marvin the Mincer had developed an obsession with the famous Greek television weather girl Masha and was attempting to flee the country in pursuit of his next victim. The reports reiterated there was no evidence ‘the Mincer’ had managed to leave American soil, but Greek police had been warned to be vigilant of any sightings of a one-armed man armed with a pair of scissors.

Mel squeezed Evangelia’s hand sympathetically, knowing she was feeling guilty but seeing no reason to allow her to shoulder the blame for first bringing Masha to the Mincer’s attention when she was already so famous and easily discoverable by random serial killers.

“I didn’t know he was a one-armed bandit,” Mel whispered to Evangelia.

“Oh yes, I’d say it was poetic justice. He got one of his victim’s legs wedged in the mincing machine and when he stuck his arm in to release it the machine shredded it,” she whispered back.

“Fancy yous being famous over in America,” Yiota said, impressed one of their own had attained international stardom.

“Is yous a bit scared after ‘earing a serial killer is obsessed with yous?” Soula asked, putting a reassuring arm round her friend’s shoulder.

“Po po, I’m more worried about that creepy Kazakh ‘anging around than someone on the other side of the world. Dastan ‘asn’t stopped staring at me all night with ‘is evil eyes.”

“Stay at ours tonight,” Soula invited. “Yannis ‘as chainsaws all over the house so yous will be safe.”

Bald Yannis seconded Soula’s invitation, adding “Pancratius is expecting some armed police from Athens tomorrow. If the Kazakh is still ‘anging round they’ll arrest him for industrial bribery. Pancratius thinks it will be too dangerous to try an’ arrest the malaka without reinforcements.”

“Yous is good friends,” Masha smiled in relief, amazed to think she would ever consider Bald Yannis a benevolent protector.

Mel and Evangelia rejoined the two old crones; with Evangelia trying to hide her annoyance that her romantic first date had been gatecrashed, but not faulting Mel’s loyalty to his possibly long lost relatives who had welcomed him into their home. In no time at all Nitsa had roped Tall Thomas into helping his aunty out with the new business venture by agreeing to allow his mobile refrigerated fish van to become part of the distribution network, alongside Nitsa’s old Mercedes taxi, for ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All.’ Business plans were hammered out with some lively brain-storming and it was decided Fotini would be in charge of production in her kitchen, with Hattie responsible for picking and scrounging the essential ingredients.

“If we crank up production I might need a bit of yous spit Nitsa, there’s only so much in me and I ‘ave to save some in case there’s any weddings comin’ up,” Fotini cackled.

Deirdre, delighted that for the first time in days the warts on her feet weren’t giving her gyp, was happy to extol the wonders of ‘Granny’s Traditional Cure All’ to the other taverna goers. Thea and Soula, who had both been suffering with warts ever since enjoying their free fish pedicure at the beauty parlour, eagerly purchased some of the exorbitantly priced cure from Nitsa. Soula, who had passed her contagious warts to her husband, easily persuaded Bald Yannis, “We really should sell this in the hardware shop when it goes into full production.”

The sudden entrance of Pancratius the village policeman prompted Bald Yannis to speculate, “’Appen he’s come for the dastardly Dastan without waitin’ for the armed police back-up. It could be a risky move.”

Everyone was shocked and deflated when instead of heading over to the universally loathed Kazakh, Pancratius zoomed in on Toothless Tasos, brandishing his handcuffs and apologetically saying “I’m sorry it has come to this Taso, but the vindictive prosecutor is insistent I take you into custody for faking your own death. If he had his way he’d give you the death penalty, just be glad we don’t have the electric chair in Greece. Sorry, I have no choice but to deliver you to Paraliakos prison.”

Toothless Tasos and Thea exchanged tearful glances, meekly accepting Tasos’ fate without creating a scene, having previously prepared themselves for this moment.

“Shame on yous Pancratiu for doin’ that malaka’s bidding,” Prosperous Pedros shouted. “An’ to do it in a public place rather than arresting ‘im quietly, to save ‘is dignity.”

“It is better it is done ‘ere so yous can all witness this terrible miscarriage of justice,” Thea cried, adding, “Pedro, see if yous can get ‘old of Slick Socrates on ‘is phone. Tasos should ‘ave ‘is lawyer present.”

Sofia, bored rigid by spending the evening in a taverna with a very dodgy Wi-Fi connection, suddenly perked up, asking the policeman “Are you really arresting old Toothless?” She immediately began posing for selfies of herself with the handcuffed Tasos and posting the pictures on social media.

“Socrates is up at the ‘ospital with Stavroula. He says he will meet yous at the prison,” Prosperous Pedros piped up as Pancratius led Toothless Tasos away after he and Thea shared a final frantic embrace.

“I don’t know ‘ow I am going to cope without Tasos,” Thea lamented. “I’ve really grown very attached to him.”

“You’ve got me Nona,” Sofia assured her, planting a kiss on Thea’s cheek.

“It will be a great comfort to me ‘aving yous and the cat at home,” Thea agreed.

“Tomorrow I will bake Tasos a cake with a file inside it,” Fotini generously offered.

“’Ave yous forgotten ‘ow I broke a tooth when you baked me a prison cake with an ‘idden file?” Nitsa reminded her.

“But old Toothless ‘as false teeth,” Fotini pointed out.

“I thought yous lost yous tooth when the evil prosecutor punched yous in the mouth, Aunty,” Tall Thomas said, confused by this conflicting new information.

“Thoma, I was stretched limb to limb and hung from a hook in the prison dungeon,” Nitsa insisted. “Can yous blame me for exaggerating what ‘appened to my tooth when I ‘ad all that torture to put up with?”

“Gosh, you are so brave to have suffered such brutality yet retain such a positive attitude,” Sofia gushed. “We really must arrange a night out to go clubbing; you’d be a big hit in that shimmering silver Lurex jumpsuit.”

“Po po, she looks farcical in my cast-offs and copying my hair extensions is a joke,” Masha sneered. “Yous really ‘ave to stop pilfering my rubbish, old woman.”

“Wait till yous is old an’ ‘ave to make do on a meagre Greek pension,” Nitsa fired back. “Yous will be glad of Sofia’s old cast-offs by then.”

“If yous ‘ave money for exorbitantly priced fake hair then yous ‘ave the money to shop at the ‘ardware shop for hideous old lady dresses like all the other old crones,” Masha scoffed.

Nitsa protested “I’m a very young eighty-two an’ if I want to grow old disgracefully I will.”

Their argument was interrupted by Takis shushing everyone as another breaking news story was unfolding on the television. The local news presenter from Paraliakos studio appeared on the screen, announcing:

“News is just breaking of a botched escape attempt from Paraliakos prison. Over now to our man on the ground, who has all the latest. What can you tell us?”

“Well this has to be one of the most extraordinary prison breaks we have ever reported on, involving a group of hardened old age pensioners. It seems two prisoners have actually managed to make their getaway via a daring escape when a helicopter briefly landed in the prison grounds. The successful escapees are two senior citizens who were sentenced for tax evasion after failing to declare the income from their sales of home grown vegetables. A third convict, imprisoned for defrauding the state of his dead sister’s unmarried woman’s pension, lost his grip on the rope ladder dangling from the hovering helicopter and is sprawled out on the prison yard after falling from a great height. Our camera team managed to capture the moment the prisoners made their bold escape attempt.”

Footage was played showing three geriatric convicts hobbling briskly towards a helicopter. As the first two men reached the flying machine footage appeared to show someone inside the helicopter trying to push the two men away and then reluctantly helping them on board as the shrill noise of the prison alarm suddenly sounded. The helicopter then took off with the third convict on the ground desperately grabbing the end of the rope ladder and attempting to climb. The camera panned in to show the man losing his precarious hold on the rope ladder, falling and landing with a bone crushing smack in the concrete prison yard. The pensive silence of the taverna was shattered with an ear-piercing wail as Soula screamed “Father.”

Chapter 36

Just for Show

The kafenion was packed first thing the next morning as the villagers gathered round Bald Yannis to hear what had transpired after he’d whisked Soula away when the news broke about her father’s botched prison escape.

“Yous know I picked a good wife in Soula, the best. As we sped up to Paraliakos last night her main concern was that her father’s actions would bring disgrace on my good name. I kept telling ‘er she’s not responsible for the miserable malaka’s doings.”

Bald Yannis explained the prison break had been meticulously organised by some dangerous convicts who’d been caught brewing illicit prison hooch and thrown into the punishment block just before the helicopter had been due to land and spirit them away to freedom. When the helicopter arrived the only people in the prison yard were three old cons on gardening duty who’d decided to take this unexpected opportunity to leg it, even though those facilitating the escape inside the helicopter were dead set against them hopping onboard.

“The two tax evaders were chucked out over the sea and rescued by fishing boat. They are back in prison already. Soula’s father was dead as soon as he hit the concrete with a splat.”

“How dreadful for Soula, is she okay?” Iraklis asked.

“Just a bit shocked. He was a tyrannical an’ brutal father, not deservin’ of ‘er tears. He was a bad ‘un who treated them four daughters of ‘is no better than slaves. It was ‘im stashing his dead sister’s body in the deep freeze that sent Soula’s sister Koula crazy,” Bald Yannis explained. “‘Appen it will be a relief to Soula’s sisters Toula an’ Voula that the miserable old sod won’t be returning to that desolate old farmhouse up in the high mountain village of Osta.”

“Soula did confide in me that ‘er father treated ‘er orribly. Should I call in on ‘er before I go to the ‘ospital Yanni?” mail order Masha asked. She’d spent the night with Gorgeous Yiorgos and Petula, afraid to be home alone with the dastardly Dastan still in the village.

“No, Soula’s ‘aving a bit of a sleep now, she needs it, after all she’s sleeping for three with twins on the way. I left her tucked up with Agapimeni. I’ll pop ‘ome to check on ‘er in a bit,” Bald Yannis said fondly, thinking he would call in the supermarket and treat her to a nice box of chocolates as women seemed to like that sort of thing.

Thea let out a gasp of surprise as Slick Socrates suddenly drove up with Tasos. “Taso, what ‘appened?” she screamed as her weary fiancé stepped out of the car and threw his arms around her.

“Get us both a strong coffee and a couple of rakis, it’s been a long night,” Socrates said. The two men grabbed seats at the kafenion and Socrates explained what had happened.

“When I met Pancratius and Tasos at the prison last night the place was in uproar with the prisoners rioting after the cons that arranged the escape were thwarted in their chance to break out. The prison guards refused to let Tasos in because of the riot, even though the vile prosecutor was adamant he still had to be locked up. In the end I managed to get him released on an ankle monitor.”

“Bravo,” everyone applauded, happy to have Tasos back in their midst.

“Of course the ankle monitor is just for show as the authorities haven’t got a clue how to wire it up, but at least it got the prosecutor off his back because he’s clueless it doesn’t work,” Slick Socrates laughed with a knowing wink.

“Are they likely to take Tasos away from me again?” asked a worried Thea.

“No Thea, they’ll let you keep him. He’s out on parole for three months and when the divorce is officially stamped he will be free to make an honest woman of you.”

Chapter 37

Playing Hard to Get

“I’m thinkin’ of going brunette. It creeps me out the way that old hag Nitsa keeps flaunting ‘erself in my cast-off clothes and copying my signature hair style,” Masha mused, leafing through the hair dye colour charts in the beauty parlour.

“I think you should stay blonde, Masha. It might help Vasilis to recognise you as he struggles to come out of his amnesiac state,” Evangelia recommended, contouring Masha’s eyebrows.

“I’m off to visit the old fool when yous ‘ave done my eyebrows and nails,” Masha said. “The doctor says he’s dribbling less today which is a good sign.”

“Sofia, you’re late again,” Evangelia admonished as her trainee arrived.

“Only because I stopped to pick up some juicy gossip you’ll be pleased to hear,” Sofia defended herself.

“We’ve heard all the latest gossip about the prison escape and Toothless Tasos’ return with his ankle monitor, thank you very much,” Evangelia replied sharply.

“No, it’s not that. I just heard the public health inspector has been taken badly with food poisoning so he won’t be able to inspect the salon over the fungal foot and wart outbreak,” Sofia revealed.

“Oh that’s wonderful news. Nothing trivial, I hope,” Evangelia declared sarcastically.

“Apparently his wife served him undercooked chicken and he’s got salmonella. He won’t be able to resume his duties for weeks,” Sofia beamed.

“He can’t expect anyone to take him seriously after that. What sort of health inspector allows his wife to keep a filthy kitchen?” Evangelia crowed with relief that he wouldn’t be around to pin the wart outbreak on the now decorative fish tank.

Thinking about warts prompted Evangelia to remark, “Who would have ever supposed Fotini could have invented a wart and fungal remedy that actually works. Mel is so excited about it he’s even talking about staying on in Greece to market it, rather than return to his gyros restaurant in Idaho.”

“I think yous is a bit sweet on ‘im,” Masha teased the blushing Evangelia. “Oh look, ‘ere comes Iraklis, make sure yous plays ‘ard to get Sofia.”

Iraklis stuck his head through the salon door, timidly stammering “Sofia, would you like to have coffee with me this afternoon? Mrs Kolokotronis is free to chaperone us.”

Before Sophia could reply Masha piped up, “Irakli, yous should get yourself some of Fotini’s ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All.’ She swears it’s good for acne.”

Iraklis blushed with embarrassment that Masha had drawn attention to his pimples when he was hoping to make a good impression on Sofia. His face fell even more when Sofia declined his invitation, simply saying “I can’t today Irakli. I have an appointment this afternoon,” without elaborating further.

Iraklis slunk off dejected and Masha said, “that’s the ticket, it doesn’t do to be too keen, keep playin’ ard to get. ‘Ave yous got a date with another boy?”

“No. Gosh I hope Iraklis didn’t imagine such a thing. I managed to persuade the Pappas to come along to the hospital so we can give blood. It’s my hobby. I was intrigued when Iraklis told me the Pappas underwent a personality change after receiving a blood transfusion and I thought it would be fun to see if he changes back again when he donates some,” Sofia explained.

“That’s a dangerous experiment Sofia,” Evangelia warned. “I’d rather see him stop as he is than revert to his old horrible self.”

“Po po, that god botherer won’t be able to keep up his fake nice act for long,” Masha scoffed. “I can see right through ‘is phoniness. Yous can share my taxi to the ‘ospital Sofia, it will take my mind off things ‘aving the Pappas to wind up because I know he hates needles.”

“It will be my first time to visit Paraliakos, I can’t wait to find somewhere that sells proper coffee,” Sofia said.

“Don’t be expecting to get one of your fancy cappufrothies at the hospital,” Evangelia laughed.

Sighing heartily Masha said, “I miss my good Russian Raf.”

“What’s that?” Sofia asked.

“It is strong espresso with creamy foam, one plain sugar and one vanilla sugar. The best Russian coffee ‘as a shot of vodka, but is not good for me now I’m pregnant.”

“I don’t know why you can’t be satisfied with traditional Greek coffee,” Evangelia said. “If you want something fancy you can always have Nescafe.”

Their chatter was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Kolokotronis clutching a bawling Andromeda. Masha leapt out of her seat to grab the baby, saying “Come to Nona, Andy. Let’s see if Evangelia ‘as a nice big pink bow to put in yous hair.”

With the baby occupied Mrs Kolokotronis turned on Sophia, asking “what on earth did yous say to young Iraklis, he left ‘ere all upset?”

“Nothing, I just wasn’t free this afternoon.”

“It doesn’t do for the girl to appear too keen, I told ‘er to play ‘ard to get. Iraklis ‘as to do all the running,” Masha interjected.

“’Yous know ‘ow shy the lad is, likely he’ll never pluck up the courage to ask ‘er out again,” Mrs Kolokotronis sighed. “He’s a good catch Sofia, but yous ‘ave to be more sensitive to ‘is feelings.  Remember this is all new to ‘im what with ‘im being a late developer.”

Her reprimand left Sofia crestfallen and she hastily said “I wasn’t playing hard to get, I have to go to the hospital to give blood. I didn’t mean to hurt Iraklis’ feelings.”

“There, there, dry yous eyes girl. Why don’t you pop over and eat with me and Iraklis this evening after yous shift.”

“Really, that’s so kind of yous,” Sofia said, selflessly adding “And it will give Nona chance to be alone with Tasos without me hanging around and cramping their style.”

Mrs Kolokotronis smiled widely; pleased her matchmaking skills were so effective. Scooping Andromeda off Masha’s lap she whispered to Sofia “Dont’s be taking tips on ‘ow to handle men from Masha, everyone knows she’s a bit of a trollop.”

Chapter 38

Handsome as a Movie Star

Nitsa dug deep into her stash of mail order Masha’s purloined cast- offs, selecting what had been a sexy skin tight gold beaded mini dress on Masha. On Nitsa it was transformed into a knee-length baggy shift dress with the deep cowl back exposing the elasticated waistline of her bloomers. Generous applications of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ to fix her festering fungal foot infection had resulted in the black hairs on her legs undergoing a miraculous growth spurt and they now poked out enticingly through her pop socks. The look was rounded off with a totteringly high pair of Masha’s gold wedges, much more suited for an outing to a geriatric disco than for hospital visiting.

Sofia and Nitsa bonded beautifully in the taxi on their way to the hospital. Something about the devil-may-care pensioner appealed to the teenager’s rebellious nature. Nitsa’s outrageous sense of style reminded Sofia she shouldn’t suppress her individual style simply to conform to village norms. She reasoned if Nitsa could get away with such idiosyncratic fashions in her eighties, then she shouldn’t completely abandon her distinctive Goth image. Even with her neon pink hair Sofia felt rather drab next to Nitsa’s gold luminescence, but cheered up immensely when Nitsa offered to lend her some clothes when they went clubbing together.

“They aren’t yours to lend, I want my stuff back yous thieving old hag,” Masha shouted.

“Dont’s be such a goat in the manger,” Nitsa retorted. “It was a harrowing an’ ‘orrible experience climbing into the stinking rubbish bins to retrieve yous chucked out glad-rags.”

“Masha my dear, the bible says ‘God loves a cheerful giver,’” the Pappas butted in.

“An’ what does it ‘ave to say about thieving old witches?” Masha snapped back.

“Well technically Nitsa didn’t steal your clothes as you’d already cast them away; think of it as pearls before swine,” the Pappas reasoned.

“Who’s yous calling a pig, yous obnoxious twerp?” Nitsa shouted, narrowly avoiding swerving into a ditch as she clouted the Pappas with the stick she kept in the cab to threaten any reluctant to pay passengers.

Arriving at the hospital Masha sashayed away to visit that old fool Vasilis. Masha had carefully chosen her most devastating outfit, a shocking pink mini dress with a silicone asset revealing low cut cleavage and matching pink stilettos, in the hope it would jog Vasilis’ memory.

“She looks sensational,” Sofia gawped in admiration, watching Masha walk away with a casual toss of her long blonde hair extensions. Nitsa clung to Sofia’s arm, finding it difficult to walk in Masha’s cast-off wedges. Sofia was disappointed to discover the blood bank didn’t open for another half-hour but approved the Pappas’ suggestion that it would be charitable to visit Stavroula and Vasilis whilst they waited.

“I can’t wait to meet Vasilis. He must be as handsome as a movie star to have attracted someone as gorgeous as Masha,” Sofia enthused.

“Po po, he’s nothing but a dirty old man with a bank balance big enough to buy a mail order bride,” Nitsa scoffed. “Even when he was young he was an old letch, I remember ‘im trying to lure me into an overgrown olive grove.”

“Indeed, I recall Stavroula was conceived in such circumstances,” the Pappas reflected. Reaching the hospital room he immediately launched into a pompous oration about his role in bringing the church to the sick in their time of need.

“Po po, the only time I’ve known my old fool of a father go to church was when he was inside his coffin at his own funeral, an’ he ‘ad no say in the matter. An’ I wont’s be putting another foot in the church till they sack yous,” Stavroula said contemptuously. She would never forgive the Pappas for withholding her mother’s deathbed confession about her paternity from her until it had suited him to use it for a spot of blackmail.

“It is never too late for Vasilis to be welcomed into the fold,” the Pappas intoned.

“’Ow dare yous try to take advantage of an amnesiac, yous bogus bible basher,” Stavroula shouted.

“Leave ‘im alone, I could do with a bit of church comfort,” Kyria Moustakos interrupted in a shaky voice. As the Pappas approached the ancient woman’s bed she grabbed hold of his sleeve with a withered old hand, pulling him close and whispering “give us a slug from yous hip flask.”

The Pappas recoiled in horror from her fetid breath, uncharitably thinking it wouldn’t take the requisite seven years for her to rot in the coffin.

Sofia was shocked to discover the scrawny dribbling mess with his head pressed into Masha’s cleavage was the glamorous Russian’s husband and immediately felt ashamed she’d been a tad embarrassed by Iraklis’ acne.

“Vasili, yous ‘ave to snap out of this,” Masha shouted. “’Ow can yous not remember me in this stunning dress, it’s yous favourite. See, I even ‘ave the gold brooch in the shape of a donkey, with diamonds for eyes, pinned on my voluptuous breast. Yous must remember parting with a small fortune for it.”

“Who are yous?” Vasilis replied. “Why do you keep saying yous is my wife? She’s been saying the same thing all night,” he stammered, pointing at Kyria Moustakos.

“I was just teasing the old fool,” Kyria Moustakos cackled. “Dont’s worry, he was in no fit state for marital relations.”

“Of course he wasn’t, I binned all his Viagra when I got pregnant,” Masha revealed. “Where is the smitten old doctor? I am going to find ‘im, there must be something he can do to speed up the return of my ‘usband’s memory.”

Masha flounced out in search of the doctor and Kyria Moustakos turned her attention to Sofia, saying “Yous is a pretty young thing. Yous would make a lovely wife for my young Fotis, much better than that disgraceful Nitsa with her man ‘ungry ways.”

“Sofia, just ignore the old bat. Fotis is my boyfriend, but I’m thinkin’ of trading ‘im in for a toy boy.”

“You have so much spirit Nitsa, perhaps we can find you a toy boy when we go clubbing.”

“I must find out what this ‘going clubbin’ is,” Nitsa hissed to Stavroula as Sofia and the Pappas left to donate their blood. “I don’t want to end up joinin’ a club of old fogies where they sit around doing cat jigsaws or folding tea towels into decorative swans.”

Masha returned, followed by the smitten old doctor with his eyes glued to her silicone enhanced bottom. “Yous ‘ave to do something doctor, the old fool’s no use to me like this. He’s an expectant father and needs to be acting like one,” Masha beseeched him.

“The only thing that made a discernible difference to his condition was the presence of his beloved donkey,” the doctor mused. “I think I can approve another visit from the animal in the hope it will help your husband to regain his memory. The sooner his memory returns, the better.”

“Onos is in the donkey sanctuary after being rescued from the cruel clutches of a criminal who put ‘er to work giving donkey rides on the beach,” Masha revealed. “I ‘ave to go there and sort out her release papers.”

“Paperwork can be so time consuming and onerous with all the petty bureaucracy and official stamping,” the smitten old doctor sympathised.

Thinking it would offer the perfect opportunity for him to get up and close and personal with the delightful Masha, the doctor suggested, “It may speed things up my dear if I was to come with you to the donkey sanctuary and stress the importance of the donkey’s early release on medical grounds.”

“That’s very good of yous,” Masha said, batting her false eyelashes beguilingly before turning to Nitsa and saying, “Nitsa, Prosperous Pedros is expectin’ to meet me outside the hospital on the dot of five. Can you pop down at five and tell ‘im I ‘ave already left for the donkey sanctuary with the doctor, and tell ‘im to drive straight to the sanctuary to collect the donkey in ‘is pick-up.”

“Can I keep the clothes I got out of the bins?” Nitsa negotiated.

“Yes, okay, but don’t forget, the dot of five,” Masha reminded her as she left with the doctor.

Chapter 39

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Mail order Masha enjoyed an emotional reunion with Onos the donkey, quite overwhelmed by the obvious affection the donkey lavished on her after being rescued from the horror of being forced to give beach rides to fat tourists.

“I think yous is as ‘appy to see me as yous would be Vasilis,” she cooed into the ear of the cheerfully braying donkey. Bill and Barbara, the ex-pat Brits now volunteering at the donkey sanctuary, ran around fetching Onos a saucer of ouzo, star-struck to meet the famous weather girl celebrity in the flesh. Masha claimed the donkey sanctuary’s only comfortable chair and happily sat examining her nails whilst the smitten old doctor tackled the reams of paperwork necessary to secure the donkey’s release.

Back at the hospital Sofia was on tenterhooks wondering if the Pappas’s personality would revert to the innate nastiness she’d heard was his defining characteristic prior to his blood transfusion. Sofia offered a reassuring smile as the nurse stuck the needle in the Pappas’ arm.

“Thank goodness you have a gentle touch, I have to confess to a dread of needles,” he said kindly while visibly cringing.

Sofia watched like a hawk as the blood pumped out of his arm whilst he sat back with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. “Hmm, let’s see,” she muttered, deliberately thwacking him hard on the head with a fly swatter to see how he would react.

“What the blazes?” the Pappas screeched, before regaining his composure and meekly saying “flies can be such a nuisance,” feeling around to locate the presumably by now dead fly squashed on his head.

“I missed,” Sofia apologised, inwardly elated she had spotted the first chink in his niceness.

By the time the requisite amount of blood had been drained from their arms Sofia had managed to slaughter seven more imaginary flies on the Pappas’ head, enjoying the sight of his composure unravelling with every calculated swat.

“Excuse me, my dear, I must step outside for a breath of fresh air, I’ll be back in a moment,” the Pappas said.

Sofia rubbed her hands with glee, muttering “I think it really was true the Pappas experienced a personality transplant with his blood transfusion and now he’s having his new personality sucked out of him through blood donation.”

Once out of Sophia’s sight the Pappas slipped into the toilets to throw cold water on his face. Experiencing an inexplicable urge to kick the paper towel dispenser, he settled for cursing Sofia, wishing the interfering girl hadn’t talked him into giving blood as it had left him feeling decidedly strange.

Nitsa scurried hurriedly past the toilets, on a mission to meet Prosperous Pedros on the dot of five to relay Masha’s message he should drive straight to the donkey sanctuary and meet the mail order floozy there. Stepping outside she spotted a handsome young security guard with a thick moustache and a full head of hair. Sidling over to him with a lascivious wink she muttered to herself “he’d make a lovely toy boy, he’s got the sort of bottom I could get my ‘ands round.”

The security guard stared open-mouthed at the sight of the hideous old crone wobbling towards him on unsuitable gold wedges, dressed in a gold beaded frock that looked like it belonged on a pantomime dame. As the vision of horror tossed her obviously fake hair extensions in a repulsive gesture she obviously thought was seductive and twirled round to expose the grubby elasticated waist of her bloomers, the security guard fled into the hospital, nearly sending the Pappas flying as he headed out for some air.

“Ooh, yous is bold, I like that in a man,” Nitsa cackled delightedly, feeling a strong pair of hands hoist her off her feet, erroneously presuming she was too much for the handsome young security guard with a thick moustache and a full head of hair to resist.

“I have you my magnificent beauty, you are my bride prize,” dastardly Dastan shouted triumphantly, tossing Nitsa into the boot of his car. The evil bride-kidnapping Kazakh, having synchronised his watch for the dot of five ready to steal Masha from her rendezvous with Prosperous Pedros, had seen no more than the flash of blonde hair extensions through his dark glasses before grabbing his victim and bundling her into his boot. Driving away at speed Dastan congratulated himself on the successful kidnapping of the beautiful Masha, totally clueless he had abducted Nitsa in error.

The Pappas stepped outside the hospital just in time to see a suited and booted man in dark sunglasses throw a struggling bundle with long blonde hair into his car boot, slamming the lid down hard before jumping into a car with tinted windows and driving away at great speed.

Having no clue Masha had left for the donkey sanctuary with the smitten old doctor the Pappas wondered if the kidnapping he had just witnessed was that of mail order Masha as she had very distinctive long blonde hair extensions. The panicking Pappas, in a total dither over what he had witnessed, was mightily relieved when Prosperous Pedros drove up in the pick-up, complaining “Is it too much to expect Masha to be waiting? She promised to be here on the dot of five.”

“She was,” the Pappas exclaimed, presuming Pedros’ rendezvous with Masha confirmed it was indeed the Russian who had been grabbed. “Masha was just here, I saw her with my very own eyes being kidnapped,” he asserted, instantly creating the impression he was a reliable witness.

“Are you saying yous just saw Masha being kidnapped?” Prosperous Pedros asked. “We must report her abduction to the authorities immediately. Jump in and we’ll head to the police station round the corner.”

Chapter 40

A Borscht Stained Memory

Stavroula was at her wit’s end with her amnesiac father. Despite the doctor pronouncing her well enough to go home she insisted on staying with the old fool. She was still desperate to be on hand to ensure the new will leaving everything to her was signed by Vasilis the second his memory returned.

Her relentless haranguing of Vasilis was beginning to elicit sparks of recognition in his addled brain. If she could only get through to him before Masha returned with the donkey she was certain he would sign his fortune over to his beloved daughter who had never left his side throughout this traumatic time.

That old fool Vasilis closed his eyes, wishing he could as easily block out the sound of the mad old hag claiming to be his wife and the shrew like harpy claiming to be his daughter. He smiled as a clear image of his beloved Onos formed in his mind. The image grew clearer, but now there was something else. He could see a shimmering vision of a voluptuous beauty clad in a gold sequin mini dress sitting astride the donkey. “Focus,” Vasilis told himself, inwardly squinting as the mental picture intensified. The blonde beauty had a blood red stain on her breast, triggering deep memories that had been repressed whilst he was in his coma.

Suddenly bolting upright Vasilis experienced a eureka moment. “It was borscht, not blood. It was borscht all over Masha’s dress. It spilled out of the Tupperware box all down ‘er front whiles we was on the donkey.” Turning to Stavroula he said accusingly, “Yous wouldn’t eat ‘er borscht, yous said it was nasty foreign muck.”

“Now don’t upset yourself father, just try to relax,” Stavroula soothed, realising she needed him to remember her fondly before she whipped out the will. Fortunately the doctor in charge of Vasilis’ case had gone to the donkey sanctuary with Masha so she still had some time left to work on the old fool.

Chapter 41

Wasting Police Time

Everyone sprang to attention in the police station when Prosperous Pedros and the Pappas turned up to report the horrendous abduction of mail order Masha, the much treasured Paraliakos weather girl. The Pappas provided a completely useless description of the vehicle used in the kidnap, only certain it had tinted windows. His description of the kidnapper was no better, limited to suited, booted and sun-glassed.

“I think he may have black hair, I can’t be certain officer, I only glimpsed him for the merest second,” the Pappas apologised.

“Contact the FBI at once and check if the escapee Marvin the Mincer has dark hair,” the officer instructed his team, desperately hoping Masha hadn’t fallen into the warped clutches of the American serial killer with a predilection for chopping and stuffing.

Turning to Pedros and the Pappas he asked “We must follow all leads. Do you know if Masha had any known enemies or any more deranged admirers?”

“Her husband Vasilis is in the hospital recuperating from a brutal attack by an unknown madman on the loose,” the Pappas volunteered. “He won’t be able to tell you anything about his attacker though as he’s only just come out of a coma and hasn’t recovered his memory.”

“So in addition to an escaped serial killer there is also a madman on the loose who may see the victim’s wife as a loose end to be tied up,” the officer confirmed.

“Or it could be Masha was his intended victim all along and that old fool Vasilis simply got in his way,” the Pappas suggested.

“There’s this mafia type from Kazakhstan that’s been ‘anging round Astakos with his eye on Masha,” Prosperous Pedros revealed. “Bald Yannis said our village policeman Pancratius is expecting armed police from Athens to assist with his arrest today.”

“Arrest him for what? It isn’t a crime to admire Masha; if it was, half the viewers of the weather report would be under lock and key,” the police officer reasoned.

“They will be arresting him for industrial bribery. He tried to pay off the mayor to turn a blind eye to opening a gold mine on the landfill site. Pancratius was waiting for armed back-up as he thought this Dastan character ‘as a gun.”

The police officer went off to consult with Pancratius by telephone, returning to say he would indeed be adding Dastan to the list of possible kidnappers as it was confirmed he had an obsessive interest in Masha. “I’ll have to add her husband to the list of suspects too, these matters are more often than not domestic.”

“But her husband is a dribbling fool that can’t even remember his own name and has no recollection of being married to Masha,” the Pappas objected.

“He has to be investigated, his amnesia could be a cunning act,” the police officer insisted, determined to grill Vasilis himself.

A police team was sent to Astakos and another to the hospital, in the hope they might find a more reliable witness to the kidnapping than the Pappas. An All Points Alert was put out to the ports and airports, with road blocks established to stop and search vehicles. The television news was saturated with images of Masha, with appeals for any sightings of the kidnapped weather girl and her dark haired, suited and booted, sun-glassed abductor.

Police soon zoned in on the hospital security guard who’d attracted Nitsa’s eye. “I was right outside at five on the dot and didn’t see any kidnapping,” he told the police.

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary at all? Did you see Masha?”

“No, if she’d been there I would have asked for her autograph, I’m a big fan. The only thing that sticks out is some hideous old crone who was trying to give me the come on,” the security guard remembered. “Actually, I did just step inside to get away from her, for all I knew she might have accused me of sexual harassment. Oh no, you don’t suppose the kidnapping happened then?”

The police officer who had interviewed Pedros and the Pappas arrived at Vasilis’ hospital room, shocked to discover the octogenarian ranting on about donkeys and blood red soup was actually lucky enough to be married to Masha. When he’d insisted the husband was under suspicion, Vasilis was not the spouse he’d imagined. Nevertheless he took an instant dislike to the gibbering old fool and decided to interrogate him.

“Kyrios, I don’t want to disturb you but I have some questions to put to you.”

“Yous is in luck as my memory ‘as just come back,” Vasilis replied.

“Now do you have any recollection about the vicious attack that landed you in the hospital? Do you think you could identify your attacker in a line-up?”

“I wasn’t attacked yous moron. I slipped in a pool of borscht and cracked my ‘ead open on the floor. I clearly remember lying there for ages wishing Masha wasn’t such a slut in the kitchen an’ ‘ad cleaned up the soup. Onos did ‘er best to lick it up but eventually I must ‘ave passed out an’ then woke up in ‘ere in a coma.”

“So, is it possible this Onos character attacked you rather than an unknown madman on the loose?”

“Onos is my donkey, yous half-witted cretin. She was trying to ‘elp me. I just told yous no one attacked me, I slipped in the borscht.”

Not liking Vasilis’ tone the police officer broached the matter of Masha’s kidnapping rather indelicately, saying “What do you know about your wife’s kidnapping? Whilst it is possible the escaped serial killer or the obsessed Kazakh has her in their clutches, I am of the opinion you paid someone to abduct Masha?”

All the colour drained completely from Vasilis’ face, leaving him looking like a pitiful sheet of wrinkled parchment against his white pillow. A horribly soulful pitiful moan left his lips, then fighting for air he screamed at the top of his lungs “Masha, Masha my love.”

“Yes, I’m coming, darling. Can you believe Pedros didn’t turn up with the pick-up or else I’d have brought Onos to see yous,” the dulcet tones of Masha wafted down the hospital corridor.

Suddenly realising her amnesiac husband had called her by name she broke into a run, shouting “Vasilis, ‘as yous memory come back?”

“Masha,” Vasilis called, giddy with relief to see his wife. The deluded ramblings of the policeman who’d claimed she’d been kidnapped had nearly given him a heart attack.

“I’m ‘ere yous old fool,” Masha cried, grabbing her husband’s hand to place on her stomach as she said “feel that, the baby just kicked.”

The by now very sheepish policeman was at a loss for words. Gathering his composure he interrupted the cosy bedside scene to say “Kyria Masha, do you realise half of Greece’s police force is out looking for you after a report you were kidnapped?”

“I’ve been at the donkey sanctuary,” Masha replied blankly.

“I should never have listened to that odious Pappas,” the police officer shouted. “I knew he looked shifty. I will have him arrested for wasting police time.”

The police officer caught up with the Pappas in the hospital lobby where he was sitting with Sofia, having sent Prosperous Pedros to search for Nitsa to take them home in the taxi.

“You are under arrest for wasting police time,” the police officer snarled, snapping his handcuffs around the Pappas’ wrists. “It is a very serious offence to make such false and wicked claims.”

“What are you on about?” the Pappas gulped.

“There was no kidnapping. Masha is upstairs with her old fool of a husband.”

“This is all my fault,” Sophia confessed. “I persuaded the Pappas to give blood and now he’s not right in the head. I wanted to see if giving blood would reverse his personality transplant.”

“There is nothing amiss with my faculties’ young lady. I saw a woman being thrown into the boot of a car. As I said to the officer it was a momentary glimpse, but she definitely had long blonde hair.”

“I can’t find Nitsa anywhere,” Prosperous Pedros announced, returning to join the others. “She can’t have got very far as ‘er taxi is still parked up outside.”

“Nitsa,” Sofia suddenly screamed. “Perhaps it was her long blonde hair extensions rather than Masha’s that the Pappas saw. Pappa is that possible? Maybe Nitsa was kidnapped by the wicked man in sunglasses.”

“Well I didn’t see the woman’s face, just a lot of hair and some gold beads,” the Pappas replied.

“Nitsa was wearing one of Masha’s cast-off gold beaded dresses,” Sofia shouted.

The police officer studied the three anxious faces before him, reluctantly releasing the Pappas from his handcuffs and asking “So who is this Nitsa?”

“She’s a harmless old lady,” Prosperous Pedros lied. “If my mother ‘ears Nitsa ‘as been kidnapped it will finish her off.”

After taking down Nitsa’s details the police officer instructed his teams to start searching for a sweet old woman who had been abducted. There seemed no reason for anyone to kidnap Nitsa so they worked on the assumption the kidnapper had mistaken her for Masha, naturally sending the Russian mail order bride into a fury when she heard.

“’Ow could anyone in their right mind mistake that hideous old hag for me? As soon as Vasilis is out of the hospital I’m off to the plastic surgery clinic.”

Chapter 42

The Pappas Erupts

“You look a bit glum,” Quentin remarked to Bald Yannis when he popped in the hardware shop for some illegal pepper spray Deirdre had demanded to protect herself from possible kidnappers and random serial killers. The shop was crowded with clamouring villagers all desperate for the defensive spray and all sick with worry about Nitsa’s fate.

“I expect you’re sorry you said all those nasty things about Nitsa, now that she’s missing,” Deirdre sneered.

“He ‘asn’t said anything we ‘aven’t all thought,” a tense Toothless Tasos opined.

“She’s a game old bird. If I ‘ad to put my money on ‘er or the Kazakh I’d go with Nitsa,” Bald Yannis grunted.

The police had ruled out Marvin the Mincer as Nitsa’s kidnapper when the FBI had caught him on a shoplifting spree, stealing pillows from a Texas department store, leaving the evil Kazakh as the prime suspect.

“Here comes the Pappas,” Quentin observed. “Maybe he has more up to date news.”

“Oh Quentin, please don’t encourage the odious little man,” Deirdre objected too late as Quentin had already waved him over.

The benevolent mood the Pappas had been in ever since his blood transfusion had begun to evaporate. He imagined the gossiping Goth girl would be laughing about how she’d tricked him into giving blood in some kind of warped experiment, and the sight of Iraklis trundling by on his tricycle reminded him his house was still like a pig sty without his dogsbody helper. The insufferable police officer’s attempt to arrest him had raised his blood pressure to dangerous levels, but the tipping point that sent him ballistic occurred when he walked into the hardware shop and recognized Bald Yannis’ blow up mannequin.

“You thieving malaka,” he erupted. “How did you get your hands on my Gloria?”

“I wondered ‘ow long it would take yous to recognise yous blow up sex doll,” Bald Yannis crowed in front of the packed shop of Astakostans, ripping the hideous old lady dress from the Pappas’ vinyl bedfellow to expose Gloria in all her glory.

Chapter 43

Shower Me with Gold

Dastan the Kazakh had been driving north for hours, hoping to sneak across the Bulgarian border without being detected. Even though his gold mine plans had fallen through he had the main prize in his possession, with the magnificent Masha stashed in the car boot. Her incessant banging was beginning to grate on his nerves so he pulled over to the side of a deserted road, hoping to quieten her with a kiss. Once she realised he had successfully stolen her as his bride in the traditional Kazakh courting ritual he was sure she would be compliant.

Stepping outside he looked around to double check the road was deserted before opening the boot to get his hands on his prize. Flipping the lid he recoiled in horror at the sight of the hideous old crone masquerading as Masha.

“What’s the matter, dont’s yous wants to ravish me and shower me with gold?” Nitsa cackled, dragging herself out of the boot and knocking Dastan out cold with the car jack.

Leaping into the driver’s seat she reversed over her evil kidnapper for good measure, before placing a call on Dastan’s mobile phone.

It was close to midnight when ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ erupted in an enormous cheer when Tall Tomas announced, “That was Nitsa on the phone, she’s no clue where she is, but she’s on ‘er way ‘ome.”

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~ Katerina Nikolas