Read Online No Sharks in the Med and Other Stories by Brian Lumley - Free Book Online

always fell prey to moussaka, be it good or bad. But she usually recovered quickly, too.
    “Came on when I was on the beach,” she said. “I left the blanket…”
    “I saw it,” I told her. “I’ll go get it.” I gave her a kiss.
    “Just let me lie here and close my eyes for a minute or two, and I’ll be OK,” she mumbled. “An hour or two, anyway.” And as I was going out the door: “Jim, this isn’t Nichos’s bad water, is it?”
    I turned back. “Did you drink any?”
    She shook her head.
    “Got crabs?”
    She was too poorly to laugh, so merely snorted.
    I pocketed some money. “I’ll get the blanket, buy some bottled drinks. You’ll have something to sip. And then…will you be OK if I go fishing?”
    She nodded. “Of course. You’ll see; I’ll be on my feet again tonight.”
    “Anyway, you should see the rest of them here,” I told her. “Three old sisters, and one of ’em not all there—a little man and fat woman straight off a postcard! Oh, and I’ve a surprise for you.”
    “Oh?”
    “When you’re up,” I smiled. I was talking about the white kid. Tonight or tomorrow morning I’d show it to her.
    Feeling a bit let down—not by Julie but by circumstances in general, even by the atmosphere of this place, which was somehow odd—I collected the sunscreen blanket and poles, marched resolutely back to the taverna. Dimitrios was serving drinks to the spinsters. The ‘sunstruck’ one had recovered a little, sipped Coke through a straw. George and his burden were nowhere to be seen. I sat down at one of the tables, and in a little while Dimitrios came over. This time I studied him more closely.
    He was youngish, maybe thirty, thirty-five, tall if a little stooped. He was more swarthy peasant Greek than classical or cosmopolitan; his natural darkness, coupled with the shadow of his hat (which he wore even here in the shade), hid his face from any really close inspection. The one very noticeable thing about that face, however, was this: it didn’t smile. That’s something you get to expect in the islands, the flash of teeth. Even badly stained ones. But not Dimitrios’s teeth.
    His hands were burned brown, lean, almost scrawny. Be that as it may, I felt sure they’d be strong hands. As for his eyes: they were the sort that make you look away. I tried to stare at his face a little while, then looked away. I wasn’t afraid, just concerned. But I didn’t know what about.
    “Drink?” he said, making it sound like ‘dring’. “Melon? The melon he is free. I give. I grow plenty. You like him? And water? I bring half-melon and water.”
    He turned to go, but I stopped him. “Er, no!” I remembered the conversation of the spinsters, about the melon. “No melon, no water, thank you.” I tried to smile at him, found it difficult. “I’ll have a cold beer. Do you have bottled water? You know, in the big plastic bottles? And Coke? Two of each, for the refrigerator. OK?”
    He shrugged, went off. There was this lethargy about him, almost a malaise. No, I didn’t much care for him at all…
    “Swim!” the excited voice of one of the spinsters reached me. “Right along there, at the end of the beach. Like yesterday. Where there’s no one to peep.”
    God! You’ll be lucky , I thought.
    “ Shh!” one of her sisters hushed her, as if a crowd of rapacious men were listening to every word. “Don’t tell the whole world, Betty!”
    A Greek girl, Dimitrios’s sister or wife, came out of the house carrying a plastic bag. She came to my table, smiled at me—a little nervously, I thought. “The water, the Coke,” she said, making each definite article sound like ‘thee’. But at least she can speak my language , I had to keep reminding myself. “Four hundred drachmas, please,” she said. I nodded and paid up. About two pounds sterling. Cheap, considering it all had to be brought from the mainland. The bag and the bottles inside it were tingling cold in my hand.
    I stood up—and