DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - WHAT GOES AROUND

"Right. The best gyros in Lefkas is definitely from the little place near the church at the top of the main street," I say.

"Agreed," Lucy replies. We cross the busy road that abuts the quay and head through a narrow alleyway with corrugated iron houses on both sides before turning left towards the place we have in mind. We take the only table left.

"He's all alone," Lucy says. She's picking up the subject of Henri from earlier, but it takes me a few seconds to work that out. Your mind has to be agile to keep up with Lucy sometimes. "Something horrible happened to his family, he was the only survivor."

"Keeps things close to his chest, does he?"

Lucy prompts me for further explanation.

"Well, it's not the sort of thing that usually comes up when you're talking to someone for the first time"

"What can I say, I've just got that listening sort of persona," she says.

"Oh yeah, you're all ears," I say.

"Anyway, it wasn't when we'd just met. That was when he was out jogging. This was later when we met for a coffee."

A waiter comes to our table and we order. I'm having chicken gyros, Lucy wants pork. Too chewy for me at my age. Like every other part of me my teeth are in decline. Having had several no eating days on the trot I also throw in an order for chicken souvlaki for good measure.

"Why is it," I begin, "that gyros in Greece tastes so fantastic, when a kebab in the UK is so shit?"

"One of life's little mysteries, like, why is it that coca cola tastes fantastic out of a bottle but shit from a can?"

"Or why does the first cup of tea in the morning taste the best?"

We both pause to think of further examples but can't. The table next to us clears and almost immediately it is filled.

"Roydon, is that you? It bloody is isn't it?"

There's no denying it. It is me and at this moment I wish it wasn't. Sitting with her back to me, but now having turned her chair right around, thus making a quick casual conversation impossible, is Kirsty. I take in what she's wearing which is best described as provocative. Especially for a woman of late middle age. She's squeezed into skin-tight faux black leather trousers, an even tighter glittering silver top, and four-inch-high bright yellow wedged platform shoes. She has bleached her once brunette hair. She speaks with a loud northern accent. She is size fourteen but dressed as a size ten. Worst of all, she's my ex.

"Kirsty, how lovely to see you," I lie, badly to my ears.

Kirsty turns her attention from me to Lucy. She scans her up and down. She obviously thinks Lucy and I might be an item. This might be fun after all.

"And who is this?" asks Kirsty.

"I'm Lucy."

Kirsty gives a smile that gets nowhere near her eyes. It's all mouth. She drops Lucy from her gaze and turns back to me.

"How are you Roydon? Still drinking? Still doing weed? Still living on that disgusting little boat?" she asks.

"Guilty on all three counts, your honour," I reply. "However, I'm fine. Never better. You?"

"Well I haven't touched a drop or taken any form of unprescribed medication for about a year now. Strangely getting clean seems to have had something to do with not being around you."

Ouch. I guess you could call ours a toxic relationship. When she and I were together Kirsty certainly held her own in the drinking and substance department. I'm not sure we ever really liked each other, let alone loved each other when we were sober. It ended badly. I still feel some guilt over that, but I was desperate. Desperate to see the back of her. So, I threw her off the boat one day when we had anchored up on a little island. I can't even remember which one. I knew she'd blag a lift back from someone and obviously she did, but I'm not sensing a lot of forgiveness here. I'm searching for a way to shut down this conversation. Our food arrives and I'm hoping this will be a signal for Kirsty to turn back around and rejoin her friend who she hasn't introduced. She doesn't.

"We've just got back from Sofia," she says, "in Bulgaria."

"Yes, I've heard that's where it is," I reply. I'm staring pointedly at my plate now.

"We went by coach. We left Lefkas early Tuesday morning. Drove through the night and arrived Wednesday afternoon. Thursday was spent exploring Sofia, came back early yesterday. Pretty tiring but it was great wasn't it Cherry?"

Kirsty's friend nods but says nothing. Are they in a relationship I wonder?

"You certainly look knackered," I say.

Lucy has given up on the niceties and started eating her lunch. I decide to join her and slide the succulent spiced chicken pieces off the skewer.

"Do you know why it's called souvlaki?" Kirsty asks.

I couldn't give a monkey I just want to eat the bloody stuff.

"Souvla means skewer in Greek, they add aki to words if something is much loved, like skilaki means doggy."

"Gosh I never knew that," I say flatly. "Thank you."

"How was Bulgaria?" Lucy charges into the rescue before I poke out Kirsty's eyes with my little skewer. "I imagine it as being all stolen cars and money laundering, is it dangerous?"

"Oh no, no, no," exclaims Kirsty forcefully. I think she may have joined the Bulgarian tourism board. "People that think that are out of touch."

"That's me," I chip in.

"Sofia is now one of the trendiest destinations there is in Europe. The shops are amazing, and prices much cheaper than here. The hotel we stayed in was a five star. Our room was gigantic, wasn't it Cherry? Had a jacuzzi that could take four."

"And did it?, I ask.

Kirsty smiles a well-practised condescending smile. Her eyes flick to Lucy. "He's so funny isn't he?" she says. "As for crime, we never saw even a hint of it in our time there. Friendly people. Polite too. No all in all we thought it was a great place, much safer than here."

"Here? Unsafe?" Lucy asks.

I can see that Kirsty has pressed Lucy's alarm. If she had that panic room, she'd be on her way there now.

"Rubbish," I say. "Safe as houses round here. I don't even bother locking my boat." They both look at me.

"I read an article online the other day that really made me stop and think," Kirsty continues. "I've been here ten years now. When I first got here getting weed and stuff was tricky. It's as easy as buying a cheese pie today. Now I know why. The hardened criminals, the real "Mr Bigs," are leaving Spain in their droves. Market's saturated or something. Plus, they want a better standard of life."

"Like all of us. But what's that got to do with sleepy old Lefkas?" I ask.

"Apparently they're heading here."

"Don't listen to her, she's off her head. Too much coke in the seventies."

Kirsty's intervention has set Lucy's mind racing. She's more convinced than ever that Helen has been kidnapped, or worse, by some organised crime network operating in our corner of paradise. Her state of mind is not helped by the sudden proliferation of smartly dressed policemen on motorbikes that we have to stop for as we wait to cross the busy road to get back to Achilles.

"If you think I'm paranoid, then you should try Kirsty. She spent our whole six months together telling me that I would dump her one day," I say.

"You did. On some deserted island somewhere," Lucy says.

We both see the funny side of this, and the mood lightens.

"Shit," says Lucy, "I should have shown Kirsty the picture of Helen. She said that she was at the bus station Tuesday morning. She could have seen Helen. She would have had to come by bus to Lefkas and change for Preveza."

"Lucy, it's only the likes of you and me, well me more accurately, that rely on public transport. Much more likely that Helen was picked up from the ferry at Nidri, or that she got a taxi. Somehow I can't picture Helen sitting on the bus in all her finery."