Chapter 2: The return of Nick the Greek

The lights of the dojo reflect from the blue protective helmet my opponent wears. She's moving warily towards me across the mat, stalking me stealthily. I'm up on the balls of my feet and holding a high guard while I assess her. I know her style and her tactics well but she's blessed with superb reflexes; sometimes being able to predict what somebody is going to do doesn't mean you can stop them doing it! She launches her attack! I duck aside from her high kick and have to block the right handed fist strike that she used the kick as disguise for. We break apart and circle each other, I'm not switching over to attack myself yet, and I want to see what she's got. Seconds later I find out.

She launches a hitch kick at me with blinding speed but I block it to one side and try a kite strike to her liver forcing her to spin away again. I move in on her, I've got height and reach on her so I figure she'll use her legs mainly, legs are longer and stronger than arms. To my surprise she back peddles and, using my momentary confusion; comes soaring back at me through the air like a clip from Bruce Lee in "Enter the Dragon". I barely dodge her flying foot but my block throws her off balance in mid-air and she goes down hard and uncontrolled. Or it seems she will. Taking her weight on her shoulder she turns the shoulder roll into a shoulder spring and glides smoothly to her feet.

We're facing each other in guard position when I step back and crack my palms together to indicate the sparing session's over. Clenched fist against open palm we bow to each other then I straighten and hurtle across the matting to sweep her off her feet and whirl her around like a ride at a fair.

"I knew you could bloody well do it Sylvie. That shoulder spring was perfection! You've got it love you've got it."

For good measure I plant a sloppy kiss smack between her eyes.

Wrenching off her helmet to reveal her silver dyed hair, slicked to her skull with sweat, my lady looks at me doubtfully.

"You sure Wendy? You've been trying to teach me that for ages and I never got the hang of it till just now. As I was going down I thought "what the fuck" and it came sort of automatically."

"Don't worry love it'll be there when you need it next time, believe me. Now go shower, I'll tidy up here and join you in a minute."

Stripping off her protective body padding my slender lady slopes off to the instructors changing room and the showers while I straighten up the dojo before leaving. Turning round I spot the unmistakable form of my Aikido sensei, Max Raeger, lounging in the doorway. Max is turned sixty but it would be a foolish person, or gang for that matter, who tried it on with him. No more than an inch or two taller than my five foot six and weighing in at maybe a stone more than my 140 pounds he looks like everyone's favourite uncle.

Rimless specs over his twinkling blue eyes, short stubble of grey hair starting to show through since the last time he had his thinning locks shaved, he's wearing a baggy corduroy jacket and faded blue jeans. An ancient pair of battered basketball boots completes the outfit.

"How's she doing Wendy? She looks good; you say she's changed a lot since she joined up with you. I'd say she's changed for the better."

Max hits the nail on the head with his usual accuracy.

"She's doing brilliantly Max; I swear she'll be taking her black belt next year."

"Then Jimmy Blake wasn't hasty when he handed her a brown belt? Jimmy knows you've been giving her one on one tuition since you hooked up with her but she's gone up the rankings so fast."

I'm a little hurt by even a half an insinuation from my good friend.

"Max, believe me, I'd never ask another instructor to bend over backwards to award somebody a ranking they don't deserve. Jimmy's okay but he's not a buddy of mine and he gave her brown on merit. And you know I certainly wouldn't grade her myself in case people got the idea teacher's pet got special treatment."

Both hands raised and a rueful smile on his face one of the finest Aikido masters around backs away as though scared to death.

"No offence Wendy, I've seen how hard she works and how good she's getting. When you're ready we'll get together and give her some intensive Aikido to go along with the Karate. I know you've already got her started on basic Aikido but with her talent she's probably ready to move up a step or two."

Max ambles off and I amble in the direction of the showers shedding body armour and Karate gi as I go. My lady is luxuriating in the hot spray and sudsing herself down comprehensively. As usual her body takes my breath away, perfectly formed from head to toe though the intensive work in the dojo has added some lean muscle under those delightful curves. I step under the spray with her and hug my lady to me.

"I'm so proud of you love, you said you wanted to change and you've bloody well done what you said you would."

At that moment I want her so badly it hurts and I drop on my knees before her while the tip of my tongue finds her sex, fluttering and teasing it. I seldom take the lead in love making with Sylvie but I'm aching to please her. She's eerily quiet whenever we make love and this time is no exception, over the hiss of the water all I can hear are her gulps of air and the short gasps as she moves closer to climax. When it comes, she widens her thighs, and a tremor runs through her from head to toe then she's on the tiles with me and we're kissing; gently.

Our dojo is in comfortable walking distance of my home, as is my library workplace, which is why I don't own a car. I can always borrow a banger off my buddy Dougie if I need to travel any distance. To get to Curlew Avenue, where we live, we walk down Simmons Street and turn left then straight ahead. Unlike my leafy road, Simmons is a mixture of terraced homes and shops.

I'm so happy it was my turn to cook tonight. Mum raised her three kids to be able to cook, sorry never mentioned it but I have a big brother and kid sister, more about them later.

I can roll out shepherds pies, steak and kidney puddings, or roast a leg of lamb. Good but plain grub! Everybody tells me Sylvie is a wonderful cook, maybe true, but what she puts into her meals is killing me. I love her to bits but I think she's out get me. Chillies, curry power, peppers; if it's hot then Sylvie cooks it. Since it's a choice between kicking her out of my bed and home or eating her menus I've compromised and laid in industrial quantities of industrial strength antacids. My domestic bliss remains assured therefore.

Strolling along Simmons Street with my arm around Sylvie's waist and her head resting on my shoulder we're passing Ahmed's mini-market, it's late April and unseasonably fine weather. Dusk is settling. Then a voice intrudes on our comfortable and companionable silence.

"Fucking pair of dykes."

I brake gently and turn round, sitting in Ahmed's doorway are the inevitable hooded horrors. Black gear from head to toe on all three, can't they buy any different shade? Two are sharing a spliff, sixteen, seventeen years old? While the third, a good ten years older than them and inches taller, is propped up against the door. Anyone wanting to go in or out has to ask permission of these pricks. Mr Ahmed won't say a word; he doesn't want his shop burning out one night. Painting a smile on my face I enquire of the one dragging on his joint.

"Did you say something sonny?"

My tone is so saccharin sweet it makes my own teeth ache. He smirks at me!

"What's up with you lesbo bitches, why don't you get a real man and have real sex?"

This real man has rotten teeth and acne scars that have left his face like the craters of the moon. It's then I notice the other teenager has jumped to his feet and is pressed back against the door, rigid. He's gone ashen, stiff as a board, and looks terrified. My memory stirs. Yep! Got him.

"Larry Parker isn't it? Thought I recognised you."

Larry Parker was one of the two deadbeats who did a runner the night I kicked teenage ass in my garden when the rest of his mates were trying to set fire to my Siamese cat Buster. He gave evidence against me at the trial that sent me to Burkinshaw prison where, thank God, I met Sylvie. His phoney testimony rolled out of him then. Now he can't even speak but his companions don't seem to have noticed.

"Were you guys hoping for a fast fuck off me?"

The taller, older one, pipes up for the first time.

"I'd give your mate one darling, you can't hack it."

I should say here that I'm not exactly chopped liver. Five foot six, ten stone, my figure might be a little sinewy after twenty odd years in the dojo but I never had too much trouble finding a boyfriend; or the occasional girlfriend for that matter. Sylvie however is drop dead gorgeous! She lowers her sports holdall onto the pavement and shows just how much she's changed herself since we first met while doing time.

"Fancy me do you? I'll make you an offer. If you can put me on the ground you can fuck me anyway you like any time you like."

His hungry eyes slide up and down her body. Sylvie's wearing trainers, well washed blue jeans, a tee shirt; and a lightweight jacket that she hasn't zipped. Her perfect breasts are tenting the thin cotton, perky nipples clearly visible. Sylvie never wears a bra. No more than five foot three and weighs in at a smidgeon over eight stone so this loony thinks he's on easy street. Two steps and he grabs her round the waist, lifting her off her feet. At that point it all goes pear shaped for him!

Sylvie locks her legs around his waist and digs her thumbs into the nerves that lie in the hollows of his collarbones. He sucks in his breath at the pain then Sylvie slips effortlessly from nerve pressure to a choke hold. The would be stud's eyes roll up into his head and she lowers him gently to the pavement as he goes bye byes.

Acne boy is staring at Sylvie with his chin damn near on his knees, Larry Parker has broken his personal best time since the evening he scarpered away from Wendy, goddess of vengeance, that night a year or so ago. He's vanishing down the street like the Road Runner! Sylvie grins at the kid who's cradling his burnt out reefer.

"Tell your mate he was terrific, when he wakes up. I've never had a man like him in my life."

And she's speaking the whole truth!

Next day I'm working the 1 p.m. till 8 shift at the library so Sylvie's cooking, Lord help me! She's got herself a job in a local hairdressing salon and will be home early enough to rustle up whatever explosive delight she's planning to serve up to me. When I unlock our front door the fumes from the kitchen starts my eyes watering. After hanging up my coat I step into the rear living room to find my lady sitting on our sofa, the room's in almost total darkness, relieved by one small reading lamp. Even in this light I can see something's really wrong.

Leaning over her I kiss her cheek and I can tell she's truly distracted. Her chin is cupped in one hand and she's gazing into the middle distance. I ask her, softly.

"What's wrong love?"

Tilting her head up to look at me she spills it out.

"I've had a phone call, a phone call from Nick the Greek."

By now I'm sitting alongside her on the sofa, Nick the Greek? Means nothing to me.

"Who the hell is Nick the Greek love?"

So she gives me the whole story. When, before I ever met her, Sylvie was a high class; high paid hooker; she was run by a Greek pimp who also had his fingers in a mass of crooked pies. When she was caught in bed with her local lady M.P. and a cache of crack cocaine hidden in the flat he rented for her he disappeared into nowhere. Sylvie had told me the story before but never mentioned his name. Real name being James Nicholas Nicolides hence Nick the Greek from the old time Yankee gambling guy.

"How the fuck did he find me Wendy?"

I slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me; she needs physical contact and reassurance.

"Not that hard love, we had at least one bent officer at Burkinshaw, there's bent coppers. My case was in the national papers. I've been seen on T.V. outside the Court of Appeal then interviewed here for local news cover. I know you didn't get interviewed but you may have been caught in the background by a camera man when they filmed me in the garden. And Christ! You're on the election rolls for this address so you can vote! If this guy's deep in the rackets he'll have the contacts. Jesus! There can't be many Sylvie Chens knocking around. What the fuck did he say to you?"

"I'll be seeing you soon baby, keep your eyes open. I'm looking forward to meeting you again after all this time."

"Was that all?"

She grimaces and I realise that while she's centred on what's upset her she's not really scared. She's angry! I saw this starting while we were still behind bars, the gradual growth of confidence and fear being replaced by channelled anger.

"The prick told me he's still got my contract and he wants me back working for him."

"Contract! Is this guy fucking crazy Sylvie? Slavery's been abolished for hundreds of years, you owe him fuck all. He ditched you when the boys in blue arrested you and now he wants you back in his stable?"

Of course you don't have a contract as a hooker but he's trying to scare my lady into crawling back to her old life and that ain't going to happen. The Sylvie he knew is gone and won't be back. Ever!

I talk over what we should do about him with my lady. I tell her we can go to the police. I don't even convince myself with that one! Our politically correct police service seems generally more concerned with harassing law abiding citizens who exceed the speed limit by three M.P.H. rather than dealing with hard core crooks who know every human right in the book. Besides, as Sylvie points out, she's got a criminal record and I'm an ex-con too; even though my conviction was quashed. Also our local C.I.D. couldn't wait to charge me when I sorted out our local scum a year ago.

We table the talks for now and Sylvie and I dine on her latest incendiary masterpiece. That night, in bed, I get further proof that my lady has toughened up considerably. Last year she'd have been too distracted or nervous to think of making love while tonight it seems to have fired her up. Her passion is positively breathtaking and her lips, tongue, and fingers; reduce me to a quivering but sated jelly! When I take my turn to give Sylvie her reward that damned dinner she cooked takes its revenge and a severe case of the hiccups puts a spoke in the wheel. In the end we both collapse into hysterical laughter and eventually slip off to sleep with no decision on what we should do about Nick.

Tuesday night we're holding a Martial Arts display at the dojo. Free entrance to kids who may want to sign up for the junior, novice, classes; for Karate or Aikido. Max and I take turns being attacked by groups of our students to demonstrate locks and throws. Jimmy Blake spars with Sylvie and they put on a show that has the kids gawping. By the end I can pretty well judge which of those that sign up will stick the course and who'll drop out. The ones chopping the air and making ludicrous kicks won't last the distance. I talk to one slightly overweight lad who wears glasses and a studious expression.

"What did you think son?"

"It looked too easy to be true miss, that little lady flattened that big guy so easily; it's got to be harder than that."

He'll make it! Of course Sylvie didn't really drop Jimmy, we have to choreograph these shows but the kid's attitude is right. He realises that to master anything you've got to apply yourself to it 100%.

Sylvie and I are wending our way home when, at the corner of Simmons Street and Curlew, a Jeep Cherokee with heavily tinted windows and windscreen pulls up in front of us. The front passenger door opens and a brawny guy in a leather jacket gets out and opens the rear door. The guy that gets out is big, six one or two and goes maybe fourteen stone or so though he's carrying quite a bit of lard. Beautifully cut suit and hand made shoes. He's dark skinned with a mane of thick, black, hair. Sylvie tenses. The Greek's put in an appearance!

"Sylvie my dear!"

If this guy's Greek his voice doesn't show it, cultured, upper class English tone.

"It's been too long; Ms Falconer has been asking when you'd be available again and so have a number of your regulars. I can't wait to get you back to them."

When I get angry I'm usually icily angry, if that makes sense, but he's talking about selling my lady like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop and I'm fuming inside. The leather jacket man is invading my personal space and looming over me; a beefy guy in a chauffeur's uniform has quit the driver's seat and is standing next to Sylvie. Fuck this I've had enough! Before Sylvie can say a word I jump in.

"Listen shit for brains, she's going nowhere with you so call off your dogs and get out of our way."

A false but beaming smile lights up his face and shows a fortune in cosmetic dental work.

"My word Sylvie I believe you've made another conquest, Ms Falconer will be jealous. I doubt that your friend can pay your normal fees so what's the attraction? She's hardly a raving beauty."

His gaze travels from my trainers up my tracksuit bottoms and over the ratty fleece top I'm wearing.

"Step aside my dear or I'll have Bruno here remove you."

He nods to the big guy in leather. Oh fuck this for a game of soldiers I've had enough! Some big men know how to fight but a surprising number don't simply because the bulk and strength they own means they win most of the time without being tested. I've weighed up Bruno and he doesn't move like a martial arts person so I decide to go for broke.

Ever watched those show girls dancing on stage? Seen them kick their height effortlessly? I did some dance training to incorporate it into my Karate. With absolutely no warning whatsoever I kick Bruno under the jaw! As he begins to topple backward I follow up and slam an elbow strike into his throat. The back of his skull hits the concrete flags with a sharp crack and he won't be getting up any time soon.

When I turn I see the chauffeur is doubled up on the ground, he has, recently and unwisely; scarfed down a huge prawn curry and rice. Whatever Sylvie's done to him in the moments I was taking out Bruno most of that curry is either on his uniform jacket or pooled on the pavement near his head. He's gasping and trying to heave up the rest as I watch. The Greek has lost his air of urbanity and his face is flushed crimson. This time when he speaks the beautiful diction has faded and I can catch the hint of an accent.

"Very fucking unwise ladies but I can see I've underestimated your friend Sylvie, and you've amazed me to say the least my dear."

I give him the vee sign and hustle Sylvie away around the corner, as we go I can hear him leave one last message.

"You'll be seeing me again ladies."

The worst thing about an event like that is waiting for the other shoe to drop as they say. Several days pass, then a week, and we've seen neither sight nor sound of Jimmy Nick or his heavies and both Sylvie and I are lulled into a sense of false security. We let down our guard and convince ourselves that he's decided it's not worth the effort.

One evening we decide we need a couple of bottles of wine to replenish our stock. Not that the two of us booze much. So I tell Sylvie I'll pop along to our nearest off licence and Sylvie says she'll come with me. I close and lock our front door behind me then we set off down the garden path, I'm passing the elm tree that shades the path in summer when something hard grinds into my temple, a gun barrel. I stop dead and so does Sylvie.

"Don't you move an inch cunt, I've heard all about you. That guy Bruno's in hospital with a fractured skull. Tell pretty girl there if she moves I'll blow your brains out."

I nod to Sylvie.

"Do as he says love, take it easy."

Right then, up the garden path, comes our old friend the chauffeur. He grabs Sylvie's arm and shakes her. He aims his message at me.

"You don't move a muscle you cow, I'm gonna give little Sylvie some pay back and if you as much as twitch Jason here pulls the trigger, the boss said don't mark her up too bad but I can have some fun."

He's pulling back his fist to punch Sylvie out secure in the knowledge that she'll take it rather than endanger me when fate spins the wheel! In the old Greek theatre, now there's a coincidence, the play would end well with the arrival of a god on stage to sort things out. They call it "Deus ex machina" and I guess the Egyptian cat god Bast smiles on us.

Siamese are very protective of their owners, who am I kidding, nobody owns a cat they own us! Madonna, one of my pair of Siamese, has been stretched out on a branch of the elm tree above us and she's pissed at the way this stranger is manhandling me. She drops from the sky like an avenging angel and lands right on the gunman's head. Sixteen claws dig in and she sinks her small sabre teeth into the fleshy part of his eyebrow where a silver ring glints in the moonlight.

He screams shrilly and I get the chance I need as his gun wavers away while he tries to drag a spitting snarling cat off his scalp. Close range and no half measures! I hammer a kite strike into his throat and don't pull it, if I fracture his larynx I don't give a shite. A tracheotomy might save him but I do not give a fuck if it doesn't. The follow up to his balls with my knee is pure reflex as he crumples. The chauffeur is really having a bad week. Sylvie's taken her chance in the uproar and, having locked his wrist, is pounding a series of hooks into his gut that sinks him to the floor and a second case of the heaves.

I pick up the gun, fairly new Browning semi automatic 9mm. Probably a twenty round magazine. Okay we've come out on top but now I'm worried. I'm up for hand to hand but guns? I need some serious back up now and I've a good idea where to get it. That's how I know a little about shooters. Remember I said I had a big brother? Brother Mike's serving in Afghanistan with the Paras and you can't have a brother in that mob without picking up a bit about guns. First though we need to remove our gunman and his driver. Fuck phoning the cops, I don't want to spend hours being grilled by my old friend sergeant Baines and her stooge Ali.

The gun guy is breathing with a rattle but no sign of blood leaking from his mouth so he's got lucky and ain't going to snuff it. Sylvie's left her guy out cold, he's two and nil now so I'd quit while I was still able to breathe if I was him. I check their pockets; Sylvie's victim has a driver's licence in the name of Barry Howard. The gunman has credit cards and a letter addressed to a Jason Gains. I'll keep them for future reference. I note with interest that he also has a collection of studs and hoops in ears and other portions of his anatomy but is now minus the silver eyebrow ring. Madonna must have taken a souvenir!

There's a roll of insulating tape in the Cherokee that's parked outside my gate so Sylvie and I tape the two guys up securely, including their mouths, and we manhandle them; with difficulty; into the back seats. I know just where to drop them. If the Mayfield estate that caused all my trouble is a pest hole then at least it's a small one. Now the Seaport estate is older, larger, and maybe worse. So Sylvie and I, with Barry's car keys, take the guys down there.

I pull the jeep up onto a piece of waste ground, in the distance the usual gang of shitehawks on foot and mountain bikes are raising Cain. They can have some more fun soon. We roll the two creeps out onto the gravel and I cruise a block or two closer to the mob. We jump out leaving the doors open and the keys in the ignition. I don't think the Greek's going to see his car ever again, at least not in one piece!

Back home I get on the phone long distance and leave a message that's a call for help!

Wednesday I ring in sick to the library, eyebrows will be raised since Wendy never goes sick. I get Sylvie to cry off from her hairdressers, they're not too busy so they don't mind too much. Mid-morning the phone rings, it's Mike, thank God he wasn't out on patrol in bandit country! I ask him if it's safe to talk and when he gives me the all clear I let him have the whole story as clearly and concisely as I can. Just like one of his army briefings. For a while there's silence.

"Shooters hey? You're right Wendy you need serious back up. I know just the guys to help and they owe me big time. Stay home and fort up until they contact you. I promise you won't have long to wait."

I squeeze some details out of big brother about the knights that are riding to our rescue. Kenneth Frost and Benjamin Allen. Both now, and only recently, ex-SAS. They had been pinned down under heavy Taliban fire when sergeant major Michael Callaghan's patrol arrived on the scene. Mike took out at least a half a dozen turbaned maniacs personally and got the two of them home and dry. So they've a debt they'll be happy to settle. The two of them have set up business supplying armed guards to protect civilians in hot spots like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Following orders to the letter Sylvie and I lay low, living out of the larder and freezer. Two days later my phone rings and I can hear the noise of traffic on a cell phone. Ken Frost is calling.

"We're only a few miles from your address Wendy we'll be there in no time, see you soon."

A mud splattered Range Rover pulls up outside my gate minutes later and the two guys get out. Opening the door I get introductions, Ken is medium height, whiplash thin and tough looking. His hair matches his name, a frosty blonde colour. Benjamin, call me Benny he tells me, is black. Almost as big as my buddy big Dougie, and has that soft, delightful; Jamaican drawl.

We settle in the rear living room for a council of war and Sylvie and I get grilled for every scrap of detail we can supply about the Greek and his team, or what may be left of it by now after our two meetings. Benny gets on the phone to a contact, which is, amazingly, described as inspector Prior. Special Branch! My lady and I are then shooed out of the room to protect our innocence. Kenny leaves with Jason the gunman's home address plus his Browning wrapped in a plastic bag.

By evening definite progress has been made. Benny has full details of the criminal career and standing of one James Nicolides and associates. Kenny is back after a serious talk with a really husky voiced Jason and some very important intelligence. Jason did of course, as Mr Prior found out for Benny, have serious form. Twelve years for attempted murder with a hand gun. Only served half of that of course since our lunatic legal system lets out well behaved would be killers early.

Faced with a loaded Browning with his fingerprints on it and which is "hot" Jason realises that he talks or goes back inside for a decent stretch. Jason was on loan to the Greek from Derek's stable of nasties. Kenny now knows where and with who our Greek friend is boarding with while here in a city that's not his own.

Professional courtesy has been extended by Derek Stansfield, medium level crook of my fair city so Mr Nick is residing above Derek's "Glass Slipper Club" where ladies and the occasional line of coke are readily available for use. It's of interest that Nicolides has no staff of his own now. Bruno and the driver are both out of commission and Jason won't be working for him, he'll be heading for the hills now Kenny's talked to him.

It is, as they say, make your mind up time and Ken Frost asks us what we want to do with Nick and when we'd like to do it. Suddenly I realise that beyond getting these two trained killers here to cover our arses for us I've given no thought to what comes next. I query Ken what he would do in our position.

"Benny and I can go round there and slot the lot of them. Dead men tell no tales, we've no connection with the Greek or Stansfield so the plods will think its gang related."

I watch the colour drain from Sylvie's face; her normal golden skin's gone a muddy brown. Not giving her a chance to speak I ask Ken if the two of us can think things over and give him a decision tomorrow. He's happy with that but wants to get on with things one way or another before Nick gets reinforcements brought in.

I never thought I could lie in bed, naked, next to Sylvie; and not give a thought to making love but tonight's the night. We've hardly slipped under the duvet when Sylvie turns to me and gives me her final words on the matter.

"I can't let them do it Wendy! I know Nick's an evil bastard and the guys he'll be with are crooks too but I can't let them get slaughtered. Remember that night I asked you if I was a bad person? You said never in a million years! If I let this happen then I'm everything I said I don't want to be."

She's tucked into the crook of my arm, as usual, so I just hug her; nod; and tell her we'll tell the guys tomorrow. I'm terrified. If that bastard keeps trying he'll get lucky eventually and neither of us is bullet proof but I can't tell Sylvie what to do in this case. It has to be her decision for good or ill. Christ I wish Mike was here, it's a time I need family around me, just glad my kid sister Kathy isn't here though; if that isn't me contradicting myself. I've enough to worry about with Sylvie.