"personal demons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fowler Christopher)

Stephanie had a tough time making herself heard before the Economy passengers, several of whom had stripped down to shorts, climbed up on the roof of the departure lounge and were now dancing to blurred techno from their portable music system. The island had a healthy rave culture that attracted clubbable youngsters from across Europe.
'Look at this shower,' spat Trevor. 'The roof's covered in pirouetting queers. Presumably they have no future appointments arranged in their empty lives and don't need to worry about reaching Heathrow on time.' He mopped his forehead angrily. 'Stay here, Celia. I'll find out what the hell's going on.'
'You're entitled to a complimentary sandwich from the buffet,' promised Stephanie, her hard little face and voice hardening still further as Trevor glared at her. 'And a Sprite.'
Trevor looked suddenly lost. There was no social order here in the airport. There seemed to be no-one with overall authority, and there was no foreseeable escape route that could be accessed with the wave of a credit card.
'Well, we can't stay here,' he snapped, and found he was talking to himself. Celia had wandered over to the gift shop, which was selling mutated ceramic donkeys, headsquares printed with out-of-register pictures of the island's hotels, phallic bottles of sickly yellow liquor and week-old copies of El Pais. 'Celia, for God's sake!'
'I was looking for stomach pills. If we're going to be eating- '
'We're not going to be eating anywhere,' hissed Trevor. 'That stupid girl has no idea what's going on.'
'So what do you suggest we do?'
'Excuse pliz?'
A short, overweight taxidriver was standing behind them in a sweat-stained tropical shirt. 'Are you speaking to me?' asked Trevor, horrified.
'There will be no plane here tonight.'
'What do you mean?'
'This happen every week.' He held his thumb and forefinger together, counting out the words. 'There - will - be - no - plane - tonight. It come in morning, eleven or twelve, not before. Never before this hours.'
'Are you quite sure?'
The taxidriver smiled, revealing an unbroken row of gold teeth beneath his ratty moustache. 'You smart gentleman. Would I lie to you?'
Trevor queued to use the only pay-telephone that was working, and eventually managed to speak to their hotel manager. 'But you must have a vacancy,' he shouted, 'if my plane doesn't turn up, you'll have no guests arriving on the incoming flight, will you?' The argument ended with Trevor slamming down the receiver.
'What did he say?' asked Celia, fanning herself with a postcard.
'They're overbooked. Some sort of conference. He's already installed new guests in our room.'
'You should never have tipped him so much,' she sniffed. 'It gives them airs.'
'Don't you see, if our own hotel can't put us up for the night, that ghastly woman will try and put us in one of her disgusting tavernas.' Suddenly aware that their conversation was being overheard, they turned to find the little taxidriver watching them happily.
'And what on earth is he grinning about?' asked Celia loudly.
'Pliz, I have a cousin.'
'How very nice for you.' Celia snapped her sarcastic smile off and turned back to her husband. 'Well? We can't just stand around here with all these appalling people.'
'Pliz, I have a cousin who has hotel, very nice, very clean. Everything else booked.'
'We're not interested in your - '
'Wait,' said Trevor, gingerly touching his sweat-slick arm. 'Why is everything else booked?'
'Start of high season,' came the reply. 'School holidays.'
'Why isn't your cousin fully booked, then?'
'Hotel not finished yet. He can't get his licence until government inspection.'
'Then he's not supposed to take in guests until then.'
'He needs the money. Don't worry, no-one knows you stay there.'
'Where is this place?'
'Trevor, you're not seriously thinking of - '
'Do you have any better ideas?'
Behind them, Stephanie was organising a queue for sandwich vouchers. Celia shuddered as she watched the sunburned line shuffle forward.
'My name is Gregor.' The taxidriver wiped his hand on his shirt and proffered it. 'You like my cousin's hotel, I promise. If not I drive you back here, free of charge, okay?'
'Okay,' commanded Trevor, as droplets of sweat bulged on the tip of his nose. 'Lead on.'
Unlike the earlier driver, Gregor was happy to load their luggage into his ancient Mercedes without assistance. As the thumping from the speakers of the airport's unconcerned revellers dwindled into the distance, they turned from the main road on to a pot-holed single-lane track and spent the next twenty minutes bouncing around in the back of the car until they felt sick. The sun had passed its white-hot zenith, and a kind golden light now swathed the banks of dessicated eucalyptus trees. The rasp of cicadas sounded like a hundred lawn sprinklers. Celia tried to wind her window lower, but it was stuck. God, how barren the land was before irrigation! Ahead lay a gentle downward slope to the sea, but no sign yet of a hotel, unfinished or otherwise.
Gregor did not speak as he drove. He had no need to. He knew all he needed to know about the discomfited couple jiggling in the back of his car. Without a doubt the man was Trevor Colson, the crooked financier and British member of parliament who had been featured on the front page of his Daily Mirror nearly every day for the past two weeks. The pinch-faced woman next to him was too plain to be anyone but his wife.
Gregor had many, many cousins. He also had quite a few brothers, two of whom operated a chain of highly successful takeaway shops in England. Every month they sent money home so that Gregor and his cousin could complete the building of their hotel in time for the start of high season. But this month no money had arrived, because the brothers had lost every penny they had ever earned when their bank - their sensible English bank - had collapsed and vanished overnight.
Thanks to the tabloid press, Gregor knew all about the fiend in human form who had triggered that collapse, and now the gods had miraculously delivered him into his hands. He knew that revenge was a dish best served cold, but in this land nothing was cold for very long. He prayed he would at least be able to keep his temper until justice had been meted out.
Justice was the problem; Gregor was a civilised man, not given to violence. His creed was a simple one. He believed men made their own destinies. It was not in his nature to be cruel, or to encourage cruelty in others. How, then, to take revenge fairly?
'It's beautiful,' whispered Celia, nodding to the white-washed villa that had appeared to the right of the car. Bouquets of scarlet bougainvillea were stippled across a curving white entrance, before which stood the empty marble basin of a fountain. Trevor returned a pout and a raised eyebrow, meaning perhaps we're not being ripped off after all.
The hotel's open-fronted foyer was deep in shadow, its tiles cooler to the touch. An emerald lizard skittered across the floor like a clockwork toy and vanished behind the check-in desk.
'I'm sorry no lights,' puffed Gregor, setting down their luggage. 'But hot water and electric fans all work. You sign in please.' He pointed to the guest-book on the desk, mentally improvising possibilities; Colson's signature might prove useful to him at a later point. Trevor dug a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and scrawled his name across the top of the page.
'We're your first visitors, I see. Quite an honour.' Beware my husband loud and jovial, thought Celia. He sounded so false when he was being nice to the natives. She never bothered; it required too much of an effort. 'Is your telephone working?' she asked. She wanted to call Sebastian at his boarding school and warn him of their late return.
'No, not yet, next week maybe. This way pliz.' Gregor hoisted their bags and led them off along a gloomy marble corridor, thinking frantically.
'How many stars will the hotel merit when it's finished?' asked Trevor, addressing their host's back.
'Pliz?'
'Stars - how many will this hotel rate?'