The Boat by Clara Salaman Page A

this? The police?’
    ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think so… Bad men. They go to boatyard, they take Australia man…’
    Johnny’s heart dropped. ‘They took Aussie Dave?’
    The Australian was not a man to get on the wrong side of. They had spent weeks working for him. He’d built his own boat out of ferro-cement specifically for smuggling purposes. He smuggled guns, carpets and God knew what. He would personally be after them if these other people didn’t get them first.
    ‘He’s in the hospital. They smash his boat up.’
    ‘Oh my God,’ Clem cried, the colour draining from her face.
    ‘They were here this morning asking me questions about a truck from the UK. They know you were in Kos. They go to Kos. They come back. They go to Marmaris. They come back. They wait. You must leave before they find you. Go, I say. Go!’
    ‘But it was nothing to do with us, Genghis…’Johnny said.
    ‘Don’t tell me anything. I must know nothing,’ he said, holding up his hands, a look of pure fear in his eyes. ‘You have made enemy. Just have to leave!’
    ‘What do we do?’ Clem turned to Johnny expectantly. Johnny heaved the bag back over his shoulder. What indeed? They stood out a mile. There were barely any foreigners in Bodrum – tourist season was still a long way off.
    ‘They’re coming back,’ Genghis said. ‘I thought you were them. You’re not safe here. You must leave. Come out of the back.’
    He led them through the pansiyon , his slippered feet scuffling quickly across the mottled tiled floor. Johnny grabbed Clem’s hand; he could feel her trembling, or it might have been him, his heart was punching at his ribs, his head spinning. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here, see what’s left in the tent and maybe if someone at the marina can give us a lift.’
    ‘No tent,’ Genghis said, opening the back door quietly. ‘No boatyard. No marina. Just leave. You don’t understand… this is not your country. This is very different. You don’t want police. Try fishermen. You have money?’ He was rifling in his pockets now.
    ‘Yes, we’re fine, Genghis.’
    ‘Not marina, OK? They wait for you.’ His round happy face was so serious and his kindness so touching that Johnny leant forward and hugged him.
    ‘Thank you, Genghis,’ he said.
    ‘Turkish people good people. I’m sorry.’
    Then he opened the door a little wider, checking first that the way was clear. They dashed out of the pansiyon into the rain, glad of its cover, and climbed over the little wall at the back and crossed the road to get out of the light from the street lamp. They set off up the lane at the back of the pansiyon before realizing it passed the field where their tent was and, sure enough, a car was parked near by, blocking the lane. They turned slowly and as they rounded the corner they started to leg it back down the hill, stopping at the harbour road.
    ‘Maybe we should just explain ourselves to the police,’ Clem whispered, panting, the prayer mat clutched tightly underneath her arm. ‘It was nothing to do with us. We’re not to blame.’
    ‘No,’ he said. Never trust policemen. His mind was racing. The rain had started to pour hard. He watched it fall in slants in the light from the street lamp. Up at the marina he could see a car turning round, headlights flashing across the water.
    ‘Someone’s coming,’ Clem whispered, looking behind them back up the lane where heels clicked in the darkness. Johnny was eyeing the road, his head trying to play catch-up, not quite believing or understanding what was going on. Down the road, the men from the tea houses had all gone inside, out of the rain, all except the man with the moustache who stood under an umbrella on the next corner looking around. Johnny squeezed Clem’s hand and dragged her forward, running across the road into a small area of scrub between the quay and the front. They ducked down into the bushes. He had to think; he had to come up with