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JACK
HIGGINS
THE DARK SIDE OF
THE ISLAND
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Harry Patterson 1963
Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ISBN: 978-0-00-723490-5
Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007290505
Version: 2020-10-21
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Publisher’s Note
Foreword
Book One: The Long Return
Chapter 1 - On Kyros, Nothing Changes
Chapter 2 - A Man Called Alexias
Chapter 3 - Two Candles for St Katherine
Chapter 4 - The Bronze Achilles
Book Two: The Nightcomer
Chapter 5 - Cover of Darkness
Chapter 6 - A Willingness to Kill
Chapter 7 - Of Action and Passion
Chapter 8 - ‘The Little Ship’
Chapter 9 - Temple of the Night
Chapter 10 - Fire on the Mountain
Chapter 11 - No Hard Feelings, Captain Lomax
Book Three: A Sound of Hunting
Chapter 12 - One Should Never Return to Anything
Chapter 13 - To the Other
Chapter 14 - A Fine Night for Dying
Chapter 15 - A Prospect of Gallows
Chapter 16 - The Run for Cover
Chapter 17 - Confessional
Chapter 18 - Dust and Ashes
About the Author
Also by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Publisher’s Note
The Dark Side Of The Island was first published in the UK by John Long in 1963 and later by Signet in 1997. It was originally published under the name of Harry Patterson, an author who later became known to millions as Jack Higgins.
This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2010, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back The Dark Side Of The Island for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
Foreword
One of my earliest forays into the Second World War. A holiday spent visiting the Greek islands and my discovery of the undercover work there by the SAS in its earliest years gave me the idea for a thriller which has the hero return to the island that had been the scene of his most brilliant exploit, only to find that the local people believe him a traitor and responsible for the executions of many partisans. In a way it is a whodunit, as he tries not only to stay alive but to find out who was really responsible.
Book One
The Long Return
Chapter 1
On Kyros, Nothing Changes
Lomax lay on the narrow bunk in the airless cabin, stripped to the waist, his body drenched in sweat, and stared up at the stained and peeling ceiling.
Looked at long enough, it became a pretty fair map of the Aegean. He worked his way down from Athens through the Cyclades to the larger mass that was Crete, but where Kyros should have been there was only an empty expanse of sea. For some reason it made him feel curiously uneasy and he swung his legs to the floor.
He got up, splashed water into the cracked basin that stood beneath the mirror beside the bunk and washed the sweat from his body. His shoulders were solid with muscle, his body bronzed and fit, and somehow the ugly puckered scar of the old bullet wound beneath his left breast looked sinister and out of place.
As he dried himself, a stranger stared out of the mirror. A man with skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones and dark, sombre eyes that examined the world with a curiously remote expression he could no longer analyse, even to himself.
As he reached for his shirt, the cabin door opened and the steward looked in. ‘Kyros in half an hour, Mr Lomax,’ he said in Greek.
The door closed behind him and for the first time Lomax was conscious of a faint stirring of excitement, a cold finger that seemed to touch him somewhere inside. He pulled on his linen jacket and went out on deck.
As he stood at the rail watching Kyros grad-u ally rise out of the sea, Captain Papademos emerged from the deck-house and paused beside him. He was heavily built and almost blackened by the sun, his face seamed with wrinkles.
He put a match to his pipe. ‘It’s difficult in this heat haze, but if you look carefully you can see Crete in the distance. Quite a view, eh?’
‘Something of an understatement,’ Lomax said.
‘I’ve been everywhere a sailor can go,’ Papademos continued. ‘In the end I found I was only travelling in a circle.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Lomax said.
He took out a cigarette and Papademos gave him a light. ‘For an Englishman you speak pretty good Greek. The best I’ve heard from a foreigner. You’ve been out here before?’
Lomax nodded. ‘A long time ago. Before the flood.’
Papademos looked puzzled for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘Ah, now I see it. You were in the islands during the war.’
‘That’s right,’ Lomax said. ‘Working in Crete with the E.O.K. mostly.’
‘So?’ Papademos nodded, serious for a moment. ‘Those were hard times for all of us. The people of these islands don’t forget how much the English helped. Have you been back before?’
Lomax shook his head. ‘Never felt like it. In any case, I always seemed to have something more important to do. You know how it is.’
‘Life, my friend, she grips us by the throat.’ Papademos nodded sagely. ‘But seventeen years is a long time. A man changes.’
‘Everybody changes,’ Lomax said.
‘Maybe you’ve got a point there, but why Kyros? I could think of better places.’
‘There are some people I want to look up if they’re still around,’ Lomax said. ‘I’d like to see if they’ve changed too. Afterwards, I’ll move on to Crete and Rhodes.’
‘On Kyros nothing changes.’ Papademos spat down into the water. ‘Ten years I’ve been making this trip and they still treat me as if I’ve got the plague.’
Lomax shrugged. ‘Maybe they just don’t like strangers.’
Papademos shook his head. ‘They don’t like anybody. You sure you’ve got friends there?’
‘I hope so.’
‘So do I. If you haven’t, you’re in for a pretty thin time and you’ll be stuck for a week until I call again.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
Papademos knocked the ash from his pipe on the rail. ‘We’ll be here for four hours. Why don’t you have a quick look round for old times’ sake and then go on to Crete with me? They’ll show you a better time in Herakleion than they will here.’
Lomax shook his head. ‘Next week I’ll take you up on that offer, but not now.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Papademos shrugged and went back into the deck-house.
They were close inshore now, the great central peak of the island towering three thousand feet above them. As the little steamer rounded the curved promontory crowded with its white houses, a single-masted caicque, sails bellying in the breeze, moved out to sea. It passed so close to them that Lomax could see the great eyes painted on each side of the prow.
The man at the tiller waved carelessly and Lomax raised a hand and then the throbbing of the engines began to falter as they slowed to enter the harbour.
On the white curve of sand, brightly painted caicques were beached and fishermen sat beside them in small groups mending their nets while children chased each other in the shallows, their voices somehow muted and far away.
He went back to his cabin and started to pack. It didn’t take long. When he was finished, he left the canvas grip and the portable typewriter on the bunk and went back on deck.
They were already working alongside the stone pier and as he watched the engines stopped and everything seemed curiously still in the great heat.
On the pier, three old men dozed in the sun and a young boy sat with a fishing line, a small black dog curled beside him.
As the steward emerged from the cabin carrying the canvas grip and the typewriter, Papademos came out of the deck-house. ‘You travel light.’
‘The only way,’ Lomax said. ‘What happens now? Do I just walk off the boat? Doesn’t anyone want to see my papers?’
Papademos shrugged. ‘There’s a police sergeant called Kytros who attends to all that. He’ll know you’re here soon enough.’
By now a couple of sailors had the gangway in position. The steward went first and Lomax put on a pair of sunglasses and followed him.
As he took out his wallet to tip the man, he was aware that the three old men were all sitting up straight and looking at him curiously.
The boy who had been fishing was winding in his line. As the steward went back on board, he hurried across, the dog at his heels.
He was perhaps twelve with brown eyes in a thin, intelligent face. His jersey was too big for him and his pants had been patched many times.
He looked up at Lomax curiously for a moment and then said slowly in English, ‘You want a good hotel, mister? They look after American tourist real nice.’
‘What makes you think I’m an American?’ Lomax asked him in Greek.
‘The dark glasses. All Americans wear dark glasses.’ The boy replied in the same language instinctively and his hand went to his mouth in astonishment. ‘Say, mister, you speak Greek as good as me. How come?’
‘Never mind that,’ Lomax said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Yanni,’ the boy told him. ‘Yanni Melos.’
Lomax extracted a banknote from his wallet and held it up. ‘All right, Yanni Melos. This is for you when we reach this hotel of yours where they treat Americans so well. It had better be the best.’
Yanni’s teeth gleamed in his brown face. ‘Mister, it’s the only one in town.’ He picked up the canvas grip and typewriter and hurried ahead, the dog at his heels, and Lomax followed.
Nothing had changed. Not a damned thing. Even the pillbox the Germans had constructed to guard the pier was still standing, its concrete crumbling a little at the edges. All that was missing were the E-boats in the harbour and the Nazi flag over the town hall.
The boy led the way between tall, whitewashed houses, moving away from the waterfront. Once or twice they passed someone sitting on a doorstep, but on the whole, the streets were deserted.
The hotel formed one side of a tiny cobbled square with a church opposite. There were several wooden tables outside, but no sign of any customers, and Lomax guessed that the place would probably liven up in the evening.
He followed the boy into a large, stone-flagged room with a low ceiling. There were more tables and chairs and a marble-topped bar in one corner, bottles ranged behind it on wooden shelves.
Yanni put down the canvas grip and the typewriter and vanished through a door at the rear. It was cool and pleasant after the heat outside and Lomax leaned against the bar and waited.
He could hear a murmur of conversation and then a girl’s voice was raised, high and scolding. ‘Always you lie to me!’ There was the sound of a slap and Yanni ran into the room head down, a young girl in a blue dress and white apron in hot pursuit.
She came to an abrupt halt when she saw Lomax and the boy made a dramatic gesture. ‘There, am I not speaking the truth?’
The girl was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a round, pretty face, and she came forward, wiping flour from her hands on the apron.
She stood looking at him helplessly, crimson with embarrassment, and Lomax smiled. ‘It’s all right. I speak Greek.’
Immediate relief showed on her face. ‘You must excuse me, but Yanni is such a liar and he caught me in the middle of baking. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Yanni told me this was the best hotel in town.’
She looked as if she didn’t know what to say and he added gently, ‘You do have one available, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘You’ve caught me rather by surprise, that’s all. We seldom get tourists on Kyros. I’ll have to get clean linen and air the mattress.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘There’s no hurry.’
He took a banknote from his wallet and handed it to Yanni. The boy examined it carefully and his eyes widened. He looked longingly at the open door, sighed and held out the note reluctantly.
‘I think you’ve made a mistake, mister. It’s too much.’
Lomax closed the boy’s hand over the note. ‘Let’s call it an advance payment on your services. I may need you again.’
Yanni’s face split into a delighted grin. ‘Say, mister, I like you. You’re my friend. I hope you stay on Kyros a long time.’
He whistled to the dog and ran through the doorway into the square. Lomax picked up the grip and the typewriter and turned to the girl.
‘He is impossible,’ she said as she led the way out into a whitewashed passage.
‘He seems to speak pretty good English?’
She nodded. ‘After his parents were drowned, he lived on Rhodes with his mother’s people. I suppose he picked it up from the tourists.’
‘Who looks after him now?’
‘He lives with his grandmother near the harbour, but she can’t do much for him. She’s too old.’
They mounted narrow wooden stairs and turned into a corridor that seemed to run the full length of the building. She paused outside the door at the far end and said, ‘It’s a very simple room. I hope you understand that?’
He nodded. ‘That’s all I’m looking for.’
She opened the door and led the way in. It was plainly furnished with a brass bed, a wash-stand and an old wardrobe. As elsewhere in the house, the walls were whitewashed and the wooden floor highly polished.
The whole place was spotlessly clean and he went and opened the window and looked out across the red-tiled roofs to the harbour below. ‘But this is wonderful.’
When he turned, he saw that she was smiling with pleasure. ‘I am pleased you like it. How long will you be staying?’
He shrugged. ‘Until the boat comes again next week. Perhaps longer, I’m not sure. What do they call you?’
She blushed. ‘My name is Anna Papas. Would you like something to eat?’
He shook his head. ‘Not now, Anna. Later, perhaps.’
She smiled awkwardly and retreated to the door. ‘Then I will leave you. If there is anything you need, anything at all, please call me. I will be in the kitchen.’
The door closed behind her and he lit a cigarette and went across to the window.
Some fishing boats were moving in from the sea and he could see the rusty little island steamer moored beside the pier. A gull cried as it swept across the rooftops and quite suddenly he was glad that he had returned.
Chapter 2
A Man Called Alexias
He unpacked his bag and then washed and shaved and put on a clean shirt. He was pulling on his jacket when the knock came at the door and a small, balding man entered.
He carried a stiff-backed ledger under one arm and smiled ingratiatingly, exposing bad teeth.
‘Excuse me. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
Lomax took an instant dislike to him, but he managed a smile. ‘Not at all. Come right in.’
‘I am the proprietor, George Papas,’ the little man said. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Mornings I work in my olive grove.’
‘That’s all right. Your daughter looked after me fine.’
‘She is a good girl,’ Papas said complacently. He placed the ledger on the table by the window, opened it and produced a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘If you wouldn’t mind signing the register. A legal requirement, you understand? The local police sergeant is fussy about such matters.’
Lomax examined the book with interest. The last entry had been made almost a year before. He took the pen and entered his name, address and nationality in the appropriate columns.
‘You don’t seem to get many visitors here.’
Papas shrugged. ‘Kyros is a quiet place with nothing much to attract the tourists – especially Americans.’
‘As it happens, I’m English,’ Lomax said. ‘Perhaps my tastes are simpler.’
‘English!’ Papas frowned. ‘But my daughter assured me you were an American.’
‘A mistake the young boy who brought me here from the boat made,’ Lomax said. ‘I only live there. Does it matter?’
‘No, of course not.’ Papas looked distinctly uncomfortable as he swivelled the register to examine the entry.
‘Hugh Lomax – California,’ he mumbled. ‘Nationality English,’ and then his whole body seemed to be racked by a violent spasm.
For a moment, Lomax thought the man was about to throw a fit. He took his arm to lead him to a chair and Papas jerked it away as if he had been stung.
His face had turned a sickly yellow colour and his eyes were staring as he backed to the door.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Lomax demanded. ‘What is it?’
Papas managed to open the door with one hand and crossed himself mechanically with the other. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he breathed and stumbled into the corridor.
Lomax stood there for a moment, a frown on his face, and then picked up the register and followed him.
When he went into the bar, Anna was polishing glasses. She looked up and smiled. ‘Can I get you anything?’
He shook his head and placed the register on the bar. ‘Your father left that in my room by mistake. I’d like to have a word with him if I may.’
‘I’m afraid he’s just gone out,’ she said. ‘I saw him crossing the square a moment ago.’
‘It can wait till later. Tell me, is there still a tavern on the waterfront called The Little Ship? It used to be owned by a man called Alexias Pavlo.’
‘It still is,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows Alexias. This year he is mayor of Kyros.’ She frowned in bewilderment. ‘But how could you know of Alexias and The Little Ship?’
‘Remind me to tell you some time,’ he said, and went out into the bright sunshine.
As he crossed the square towards the street that led down to the harbour, Yanni emerged from it and ran towards him, the dog yapping at his heels He was wearing a scarlet shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of white rubber shoes.
He halted a few paces away, held out his arms and pirouetted. ‘Don’t I look beautiful?’
‘What’s the idea?’ Lomax said
Yanni spread his hands ‘If I’m working for such a rich and important man I must look the part. These are my best clothes.’
‘That makes sense,’ Lomax said. ‘Where did you steal them from?’
‘I didn’t steal them,’ Yanni cried indignantly. ‘They were a present from a very good friend of mine. The best friend I’ve got.’
‘All right,’ Lomax said. ‘Have it your way.’
He moved down the cobbled streets towards the harbour and Yanni trotted beside him. ‘Where do you want to go first?’
‘A place called The Little Ship’
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t want to go there. That’s a bad place. Not for tourists. For fishermen.’
‘Where would you suggest?’ Lomax said.
‘Lots of places. There’s a Roman temple on the other side of the island, but we’d have to hire a boat. It’s a long walk.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Sure – the Tomb of Achilles, for instance.’
‘They buried him here, did they?’
Yanni nodded. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘It must have been a long haul from Troy.’
The boy ignored the remark. ‘We could always visit the monastery of St Anthony or what’s left of it. They blew it up during the war.’
‘So I’d heard,’ Lomax said, and his face darkened.
‘Of course that would mean climbing the mountain. You’d probably find it too hot.’
‘That being so, I think we’ll make it The Little Ship for the time being.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Yanni shrugged despondently and led the way along the waterfront.
The Little Ship was on the corner of a narrow alley and when they reached it, he hesitated at the entrance and turned appealingly. ‘Let me take you somewhere else, mister.’
Lomax ruffled the boy’s hair with one hand. ‘Don’t look so worried.’ He grinned. ‘Shall I let you into a little secret? I’ve been here before. A long time ago. Before you were even thought of.’
He turned from the boy’s astonished gaze and went down the stone steps into the cool darkness of The Little Ship.
Just inside the entrance a young man sprawled in a chair against the wall and sang in a low voice, his fingers gently stroking the strings of a bouzouki.
He wore a red and green checked shirt, the sleeves rolled back carefully to display his bulging biceps to better advantage, and his hair curled thickly over the back of his collar.
He made no effort to move out of the way. Lomax stared down at him for a moment, anonymous in his dark glasses, and then stepped carefully over the outstretched legs and moved inside.
The first person he saw was Captain Papademos sitting by himself in a corner drinking red wine. Lomax raised a hand in greeting and Papademos deliberately looked away.
It was then that he became aware of a curious fact. There were six people in the room including Papademos, four of them sitting together and yet no one was talking.
The man behind the bar was small and wiry, his skin tanned the colour of Spanish leather. The right side of his face was disfigured by an ugly scar and the eye was covered by a black patch.
He leaned on the bar holding a newspaper and completely ignored Lomax. The strange thing was that his hands trembled slightly as if he laboured under some terrible strain.
Lomax removed his sunglasses. ‘Is Alexias Pavlo about?’
‘Who wants to know?’ the man demanded in a hoarse voice.
‘An old friend,’ Lomax said. ‘Someone from his past.’
Behind him, the bouzouki player struck a final, dramatic chord. Lomax turned slowly and saw that everyone was watching him, even Papademos, and Yanni’s white, frightened face peered round the edge of the door.
In the heavy silence, the whole world seemed to stop breathing and then a man stepped through the bead curtain that masked the door at the side of the bar.
In his time, he must have been a giant, but now the white suit hung loosely on his great frame. He moved forward slowly with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a walking stick, and the heavy moustache was iron grey.
‘Alexias,’ Lomax said. ‘Alexias Pavlo.’
Pavlo shook his head slowly from side to side as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. ‘It is you,’ he whispered. ‘After all these years you’ve come back. When Papas told me, I thought he was insane. The Germans said you were dead.’
The bead curtains parted again and George Papas moved out. There was sweat on his face and he looked frightened to death.