The Boat by Clara Salaman

the price he was now offering were quite remarkable.
    ‘Did you say four pounds?’ Johnny turned slowly and stared at the carpets. The eye appeared through the pile, refocusing, blinking itself out of a trance-like state.
    ‘Four pound sterling, yes please,’ he said wearily.
    ‘It’s a deal.’
    Clem was thrilled. She had spent the rest of the trip folding and unfolding the prayer mat. It wasn’t big, maybe three feet by two feet, but she had no doubt that the carpet seller was right: it was a magic carpet. Its prayers would be answered. She could feel its power. Its past and future history lay in her hands. One day she would show it to her grandchildren and tell them how she and Johnny had bought it on a bus for four quid.
    Back in Bodrum she carried it rolled up tightly under her arm as they made their way through the square. She was looking forward to showing it to Genghis. He was a man who knew a thing or two about everything and would surely be impressed with her bargain.
    They wandered through the throng and down to the front where the trees were all painted white from the waist down as if wearing petticoats to protect their modesty. They shook their leaves loudly as the wind swept through them. Someone had hung some lights in a tree and they bounced about in the breeze. Groups of men hung around on the street corners doing nothing in particular as the older ones sipped tea and played Okey. As usual they stopped talking and turned their heads as Johnny and Clem passed by. Just beyond the jazz café an old man with an enormous nicotine-stained grey moustache yelled something at them, waving his hand.
    ‘What’s his problem?’ Clem said. Johnny took her hand and walked a little faster. He hated the way the men here looked at her. Sometimes they even reached out and touched her – her crotch or her breasts, with him right by her side. He walked a little faster. Little dots of rain began to darken the pavement. They made their way down along the harbour where the dim lamplights dotted along the front of the quay shone double on the water’s speckled surface. Deserted boats tied to the heavy iron loops bounced up and down in the waves and others anchored further out in the darkness could be seen bobbing about, their rigging tinkling loudly in the wind. A yellow moon flashed sporadically through the clouds silhouetting the castle over on the far side as the sounds from the bars and restaurants filtered across the water.
    The rain was falling a little harder now and they jogged the last bit to Genghis’s pansiyon . Up near the marina they could see some activity going on: various police cars and uniforms were wandering around in the darkness flashing their torches along the boats. Johnny knocked on Genghis’s door but there was no response. He knocked again a little louder. A shuttered window on the first floor opened and Genghis stuck his head out. He said something in Turkish which they didn’t understand before glancing nervously up and down the street. He shut the window quickly and they heard him running down the stairs. The door opened.
    ‘Come quickly,’ he said, pulling them in, shutting the door behind them fast. He leant against it as if keeping someone out.
    ‘What is it?’ Johnny asked. He’d not seen Genghis looking in such a state; he was usually a man with an easy smile on his lips.
    ‘You must leave, Johnny,’ he whispered. ‘You must leave Bodrum immediately.’
    ‘What? Why?’
    ‘I don’t know what has happened… but they are everywhere looking for you.’ Genghis looked truly terrified, his mouth twitched and his eyes kept darting to the door.
    ‘Who? Who is looking?’ Johnny said, worried now by the state of him; the wonder and thrill of last night’s events suddenly dimming into something sinister.
    ‘This morning they go to your tent, they pull it down, they take your things. They go to Attila restaurant, they pull up a table, he say nothing…’
    ‘Who, Genghis? Who does