PROLOGUE
CYPRUS 1955.
It was late afternoon when a man, aged before his years, came down from the northern Pentadaktylos mountains. For him, the stone path which led to the stone cottage had become refuge, become home again, despite the troubles. He had seen trouble before, of course, had dealt with it in his own fashion. Now all he wanted was to be left in peace with his sons, his herd of goats, and his memories.
A smile crossed his dry lips as he thought of her. The way she would look at him, how her bright eyes sparkled and danced under the light from a full moon, and how she made fun of his dark skin and brown gaze. And he remembered too, the lilt in her voice when she sang beside the river.
Stopping, he turned an ear to the wind and listened for a moment. It was nothing he thought, just the memory of her laughter playing tricks inside his head again. Then he sighed, removed his cap, took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the band.
It was so long ago, he thought so long. Yet it was still a fresh and loving memory, vital and sharp as baby's teeth. He kicked a stone along the dirt path, and moved on.
Crossing a narrow stream where Carob trees stood, he saw the small light in the cottage window beyond, smoke spiralling effortlessly upward from the oven chimney, the aroma of freshly cooked lamb teasing the wind.
Outside, Rhonan his eldest son, washed before dinner. The stars had just appeared against a cobalt sky, and cicada had begun their night-time vigil. For the old man was happy now, back where he started though he did miss her greatly.
But as he walked between a passage of stone walls and poled gates, which separated the citrus from the Aleppo Pine trees, he somehow felt uneasy.
It was nothing, he thought to himself, he was just getting old, the walk down the mountain had tired him, and she would never again be waiting for him.
As he entered the yard, dogs came yelping between his legs, snuffling and fussing around his feet. He was being unreasonable, he considered and was happy once again.
Near the far stone wall, he stopped to look across the valley towards the sea. In the distance, where rocky fingers extend into the Mediterranean, was a view which reminded him of another place reminded him of her. And he smiled the secret smile, saw in his mind her lovely face, smelled her closeness and sensed his touch against her skin, yet he was still sure he had heard something, and turned away.
Then a voice, young and strong strong as he was, at the boy's age, said, "It is ready," and he turned to see his youngest son near the door.
He was twenty now, the old man reflected, yet he looked much like himself at that time. Only Rhonan looked like her.
Andreas was big and ugly like him. Heavy features, dark skin, deep penetrating eyes. They may call him The Ox too, just as they called him The Ox, but not until after his death, he reasoned. There was plenty of time for that.
For he loved them both in his own way, they were all he had now all he knew, and he treasured them deeply.
But it was getting dark, with a damp smell in the air. Could be rain soon, the old man thought as he stepped inside the house.
Yet they needed rain. It had been a long summer, and the animals had moved further up the mountain to get better pasture. Still, he considered, it would rain soon. He knew it would. He could smell it on the wind.
The three men sat around a central wooden table. The old man at the head, where he always sat, with Rhonan to his right, the younger to the left. They placed food and meat on the table, and each bent their heads to give thanks, making the sign of the cross before breaking bread.
"Makarios still preaches Enosis," Andreas said.
"It will not come," his father answered. "There are too many others to consider. Fazil Hütchük for one. Cevdet for another. These are Turks with..." He caged his fingers. "Turks with an ideology of their own."
"Is this country not a democracy?" questioned Rhonan. "Does not the will of the majority, rule over the minority?" He punched himself in the chest to signify that he too, was part of the majority.
The old man chewed into a succulent piece of meat and thought of her. These could have been her words their son had just spoken. For there too, in her beloved Eire, they were always fighting seeking control. Still, there were others to consider. Was it not so? he asked himself, as he devoured slowly, savouring the flavour in his mind.
"The Turks will start trouble," grumbled Andreas. "We should do something about it here on the mountain." He finished for a moment, tapping the table with the handle of his knife before he continued, "We should join with Colonel Georgios EOKA would save us." Only then did he return to his food, pleased with his opinion.
"What would you have me do?" said the old man, as he reached for a glass of wine. "Turn my back on old friends, people we have known and worked with for generations." He shook his head in disgust. "No," he reiterated. "That is not the way. EOKA, this National Organization for Cypriot Struggle Hah. What do they know? I, The Ox, have carried enough of a load. They shall struggle without me."
He pointed with his knife.
They ate in silence for several minutes before the dogs began to bark. Each looked casually towards the door, then turned back to the meal. They had heard the dogs bark before. It was probably some animal or Chameleon crawling near the shed. It was nothing new, it would pass.
Andreas reached for the wine and poured himself a hefty measure. "You..?" he indicated to his brother, offering wine. Rhonan smiled and shook his head. The old man nodded to himself and took another bite of meat.
Andreas probed, "You going there again tonight?"
Rhonan raised a brow, but said nothing.
"Why don't you sleep over," Andreas sneered. "You begin to smell of the Turkish whore."
Before Rhonan could reply, his father stood, scraping the chair away from the table. "You are out of place," he commanded. "It has nothing to do with you."
The sinews at the side of Andreas' neck tightened. His jaw flexed, but his eyes fell before his father, for his father was The Ox, and his strength was legend.
He himself was strong, he knew that. He was young, while his father was old. Yet it was wrong to answer, for he had respect, he understood respect, he lived with respect. Even if the woman was Rhonan's, even though she was young and pretty, and only ever laughed at him because he was big and awkward like his father.
He lowered his dark eyes in regard for his father, even though she was a Turk. "I am sorry," he stammered. "It was not my intention to cause such upset."
The old man leaned forward, his clenched fists resting on the bare table-top. "You are my son," he said sternly. "A son should respect his mother and father. You are young and foolish " then laughed and sat, " and maybe a little jealous, yes?"
The three man looked at one another and laughed.
"Maybe..." Andreas said, just as the door burst open.
Maybe... his words echoed in their minds, just as the first bullets entered his chest, ripping apart flesh and bone, blood and sinew.
Maybe... The words died as Rhonan stood, his face blown apart from a shotgun blast.
Maybe... The words faded into the darkness of the night, when an old man fell across the dead bodies of his sons. When the last breath, damned between thin lips, could only utter her name. When the last thought of the brain, was the thought of her, the vision of her, the smell of her hair and touch of her skin And the knowing he would soon be with her again. With his beloved Cathrine.
Maybe...
Faces distorted red under the heat from the fire, looked across to the sea and watched the old Greek's cottage burn to the ground.
No-one spoke at first, no-one need say anything until the embers turned cold and the incident became history.
Then a Turk, who lived near the sea, said to his son. "We shall live with what we have done, for the rest of our lives. What is done, cannot be erased."
And the son answered, "This is just the beginning. You are The Lion. We shall fight for our beliefs. It is the will of Allah."
And a Turkish Cypriot mother cried, for bearing a son. While her daughter cried, for loving a Greek. Until the hate and ashes dissolved in their mouths.
Maybe...
For this was the destiny of The Lion and The Ox, and all those who would come between.
CHAPTER ONE.
Doctor Edmond Fitzgerald sat with his back to the wall, and watched two men outside Antonella's Sandwich Bar. His gaze changed with a slight movement of the head, as he first observed through his glasses, then studied them over the rim of his bifocals.
"Now isn't that a curious thing," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
"Curious?" I answered, resting my pencil from my sketch of tall Palms and flowering bushes, encased in unsightly concrete squares the local council considered sophisticated.
He turned, smiled, and tipped his head towards the objects of his study.
"Them pair of Irish immigrants,"
I laughed. "You're joking of course."
"Joking did you say. Now why on earth should I joke about such a thing? I'm Irish m'self and know what I know."
I tapped my pencil against the pad to emphasise my point, and leaned towards him at the same time, causing a speckled effect of Staedtler lead to distort a drawn Pigeon, much to the doctor's amusement and my annoyance.
"How can you be so sure they're Irish? You don't know for sure. You're just guessing to bug me."
"I'd rub that out if I were you," he tapped the paper with his finger nail. "I know pigeons are famous for leaving little calling cards all over the place, but you've just drawn it like falling rain. God help that pedestrian walking down the mall. Still, he might get lucky and win that blasted Lotto everyone prattles on about."
I swore something and retrieved an eraser from my shoulder bag.
"You're just bored, that's all. And you're taking it out on me. Well I'm not bored. I'm enjoying myself here. The sun is beautiful..."
"It is,"
"The sky is clear..."
"Absolutely,"
"And Australia is a great place to be right now."
"To be sure," he echoed. "And them two Irish immigrants are enjoying it to."
I growled. I know I growled, and said 'Bullpit' through tense lips. It had been nearly five months since the Doctor had solved the murder of cousin Alice, and we had set off to see the great Australian continent, before returning home to Wales, and the cold wet weather of Britain.
At first, we enjoyed the landscape and diverse lifestyle of the ethnic community, balanced carefully in this multicultural society. We travelled north for a while, then flew south to Melbourne. That didn't last, as he wanted to return to the area he liked best - The Illawarra coast.
So here we were, sitting in Globe Lane watching people pass through the pedestrian mall, while I drew and he analysised everyone with increasing irritation.
He sighed and pushed a saucer towards me, with short little nudges.
"I wouldn't mind another one of them coffees."
"Fine. All you have to do is walk over there and ask. The lady is very nice. She won't bite your head off."
There was a short intake of breath.
"She's Italian," he stated matter-of-factly.
"They make the best cappuccinos," I answered sarcastically. "Besides, she speaks good English."
He reached over his shoulder and scratched the back of his neck, then rubbed his chin as though in deep thought.
"Me and them two Irish immigrants don't understand her all that well. She speaks too fast for me."
"Fine," I added, "Here's some paper. Write her a note."
He went quiet for a moment, then retrieved a fob watch from his short's pocket, tapped the cover twice, pressed the crown for the flap to open, looked at the time, then clipped it shut, while clearing his throat at the same time.
"There's more crime back in Britain, than Wollongong."
"You sound as though you're missing it," I snapped curtly, brushing the sketch with the back of my hand. "Thought you wanted to retire from forensic science. You're sixty three years old, you know. Take a break. Relax."
"I'm getting brain dead, Elizabeth. I'm doing what my father said he'd never do. Sitting on a park bench twiddling me thumbs, and watching the world go by."
"This is a pedestrian shopping mall. Not a park bench."
"Same difference," he muttered. I felt almost sorry for him. During the past year, ever since I'd known him, he was only happy when involved in crime.
"I can't go out and order you a murder."
"No, no," he agreed, "But you could be a good child, and get an old Irishman another one of them funny coffees."
I should have answered him, but it would have been pointless. I took the empty cups, crossed the uneven brick floor of the lane, and entered the arcade.
As I passed the wooden table outside, I heard one of the two men say to the other in thick brogue,
"Well Murphy, what d'yuh t'ink of the place?"
His companion answered "Hot!"
I rolled my eyes upward, ordered two funny coffees and made a mental note to ask the doctor how he'd known.
A few moments later he told me.
"You are luckier than most," he said. "You observe something, then transfer that information through the brain and onto paper as you draw. You observe - but your thinking is flat, Elizabeth. You see everything as two dimensional objects. In short, you have a camera instead of a brain."
I nodded and said 'three dimensional,' in defence of my artistic abilities. I think it was lost on him as he chose to ignore it.
"So next time you close the shutter of your mind, try to capture the other senses as well."
"I do,"
"Good," he answered, "Then perhaps you can tell me how I know, not only are they Irish, but brothers, hmmm? One followed the other to Australia, that they're called Murphy, came from Dublin and one has worked as a jeweller, while the newcomer has recently been discharged from the Royal Navy."
My mouth dropped open. I shook my head, then looked at him somewhat suspiciously.
"Bullpit!"
"I do wish you wouldn't use such a stupid profanity. Bullpit, indeed. If you're going to swear, say something sensible or correct. Not some child-like statement aimed at making it acceptable to gentle ears, such as my own. I have heard rude words and bad language, Elizabeth. I do know what they all mean, and have from time to time, seen fit to use them. Not for many years now of course. But know them just the same. Now..." he continued, "...your observations?"
As I looked over to the two men sitting at the outside table, the first thing I noticed was the pale skin one had. It was mid February now, and most people had a fine tan from a particularly good summer.
"He's white," I blurted.
"That helps. But it is only one piece of information. Anything else?"
"He's got reddish hair?"
Fitzgerald shook his head, dejected.
"Have you not looked in the mirror this morning, child, or forgotten for the sake of convenience, just how red your own thick locks are. Yet you're no more Irish than Maggie Thatcher. Think we'll pass on that one."
I looked over at the two men again. Both were wearing collared tee shirts, while the slimmer of the two wore dark navy shorts with buckles on either side. They both wore shoes and black socks. One of them had a small bag to his right, and they were in deep conversation, going over the local newspaper. Other than that there wasn't anything else to go on. I shook my head.
"Nothing else," I said, "I could draw them, but I don't see what else there is, based on what you've told me."
"Dear me. The brain is working, but the mouth is empty. Firstly you were right about the skin, but that alone doesn't make them immigrants. They're certainly not afraid of being in the sun, otherwise they wouldn't be in shorts, yet one's very white indeed.
Didn't you see the small leather bag with the British Airways sticker? Or the map of the Illawarra, and pamphlets from the Tourist Information office by his side?"
I began to feel stupid.
"But that doesn't answer everything," I protested.
"True. But them blue shorts he is wearing, is typical Royal Navy Issue. Most new immigrants to this country aren't used to wearing thongs, barefoot - So they wear shoes with socks - In his case, black naval regulation socks."
"And the fact they're brothers, come from Dublin and are named Murphy?"
"The tattoo on his left forearm. The figure of Hibernia and the harp. It's the town mark for Dublin, so it is. Then there's the initials J.M. beneath - Something a sailor would have done, don't you think? As Murphy is the most common name in Ireland, it's a fair guess his name is John Murphy, probably after his paternal grandfather. The resemblance between the two is more than obvious."
I finished my coffee, got to my feet, threw the sketch pad and pencil pouch back into my shoulder bag, and began to move off down the mall.
"And the fact his brother is a jeweller?" I prompted just before I left.
"Highly polished fingernails from standing at the mop. Reddish marks from jewellers rouge. And see the way he sits at the bench, shoulders haunched. Besides, he's shown his brother a gold bracelet three times, pointing out different details and turning it over between his fingers. Only a jeweller would caress gold in such a manner."
"Pay for the cappuccinos," I yelled, and walked off in disgust. He was too clever to be bearable sometimes.
Once on Crown Street, I turned right at the St George Building Society and headed east towards the beach. There were several dogs on display near the centre stage, going through a well rehearsed routine, expounding the benefits of a certain dog food, under the guise of entertainment.
So I made a point of trying to see with all my senses, just as Fitzgerald had suggested. Maybe he was right, maybe I only had a photographic plate for a mind. I narrowed my thoughts and began to concentrate.
As I walked down the mall towards the sea, several council workers hovered to enjoy the show. A few shoppers busied themselves and struggled through the crowd, while a white armoured truck throbbed slowly passed, the black bonnet contrasting starkly against the bright panels.
Not far from the fountains, I stopped to look in Roni's discount store, at the stack of merchandise, soap and glass, last years diaries in dumps, all guarded by an young blonde girl who looked totally bored out of her mind.
And there was the laughter of children in a nearby play area, and the rattle of bins, and a clack of skateboard wheels as it went illegitimately down the pedestrian mall towards the beach.
The armoured truck had stopped outside the State Bank by the time I came near.
A small child, no more than two or three years old, crossed in front of me, squealing as she ran from her mother. There were two council workers pushing trolleys, emptying garbage bins on the far side of the mall. While another man, taller, thinner, leaned against the IMB arcade wall.
Then the heavy sound of metal doors slamming attracted my attention. Two guards wearing yellow shirts, green shorts, walk socks and dark shoes, each with the ubiquitous .38 calibre revolver strapped securely to their hips, stepped towards the rear of the vehicle, and the small serving hatch on the side.
I was almost level with them by the time heavy, dark green canvas bags were passed out, from the man inside.
One guard, older, rounder than the other, smiled and stood to one side to let me pass. A child ran between us and stopped. We both looked down at her, yet as I reached toward her, there was a sharp burning sensation just behind my ear, almost as though I had been stung by a wasp.
Then I screamed.
As I looked up, everything seemed slow and surreal. Dark red blood burst through the guard's yellowed shirt, as warm liquid hit me in the face. There was disbelief in the old man's eyes, as he fell back against the whiteness of the truck, smearing blood along the side of the vehicle.
His hands came to his face, the shattered spectacles twisting away, spinning, spinning against the blandness of blue sky, as his head was thrown sideways - And there was the strong smell of cordite, enough to make me choke.
Almost the last thing I experienced was the pungent aroma of a man's bad breath, and could feel myself falling. I noticed too, a stickiness on my hands which wouldn't come off, and wondered why small pieces of glass were flying around in the air.
Finally, just before passing out, I was aware of the coarseness of the floor as it scraped my shoulder, the thud of my head as I hit the ground, a bright almost unbearable light which distorted images and flashed colours across the plate of my mind. And most ridiculously, a naive yet instinctive reaction to cover my breasts.
Then I heard sounds. Gunfire, voices, screams, passionate calls for help and a harsh voice yell, very, very staccato, 'Get the bitch...Get the bitch.' And everything went dark.
That was the last I knew of February the nineteenth.