them from our inquiries, if that is possible. If I can speak to her and perhaps gain willing access to Mehmet and his brothers . . .’
‘Do you want me to come with you, sir?’
İkmen paused. He didn’t look as if he was actively considering what his sergeant had just said, but when he replied it was obvious that he had been. ‘No, Orhan,’ he said and patted the younger man gently on the shoulder. ‘You go home to your wife and family now.’
‘But . . .’
İkmen looked up at what was now a very large and bright full moon. ‘No,’ he said with a cracked laugh, ‘those of us of Balkan origin should meet alone on nights like this.’ He turned back to Tepe. ‘If Angeliki turns into a werewolf, you, as a Turk, might be alarmed.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on, Orhan!’ İkmen said impatiently. ‘You must know that the world’s most disordered legends have come out of eastern Europe. Werewolves, vampires, the fucking un-dead. Only they really understand this rubbish. I was simply saying that as someone who has received half his blood from such a source I am rather more adapted to deal with it than you are. It was, if you can appreciate this, something of a joke.’
‘Oh.’
‘But don’t worry about that for the time being, Orhan. You just get off home now. It’s OK, really.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ İkmen said as he drew level with his car and unlocked the door. ‘I mean, even if Angeliki Vlora should turn into a beast right in front of my eyes, how bad can it be, eh?’
And then with a twinkling smile that was almost evil, he slid into the driving seat, turned on the engine and left. It was only when he was halfway down the road that the memory of just how much his wife disliked his transsexual cousin came back to him. With Samsun in the apartment, even if she were being looked after by Çiçek, Fatma would be at the very least in a foul mood when he got home.
‘Shit,’ he said out loud and then burst into laughter as he tried to decide whether he would rather face his wife in a mood or Angeliki Vlora as a werewolf.
He concluded that the latter possibility was less painful.
Chapter 8
----
Whether or not Samsun Bajraktar had learned to behave like a woman from watching too many Turkish historical movies was not known. That her femininity was of the nineteenth-century ‘fainting with anxiety’ variety was, however, evident to everyone in the İkmens’ apartment that night. Not that this heightened emotion had a great deal to do with the threats of Mehmet Vlora now. No. Since being almost carried back to the apartment by her cousin’s daughter, Çiçek, some hours before, Samsun had spent a considerable amount of fruitless time trying, without success, to contact her lover, Abdurrahman. He was not in his leather shop or their apartment, and she could not imagine where he could be. Even his mobile was switched off, which, for the technology-addicted Abdurrahman, was unheard of behaviour.
‘If he’s with some girl . . .’ Samsun began as she accepted yet another glass of tea from the sympathetically attentive Çiçek.
‘I’m sure he isn’t,’ Çiçek replied soothingly. ‘From what you’ve told me, he sounds really very nice.’
‘Why don’t you peer into a bowl of oil and find out,’ a sharp female voice from the kitchen retorted. ‘It’s what your aunt would have done.’
Çiçek moved towards the kitchen, her face set in anger. ‘Mum! I—’
‘Look, if Samsun’s in danger, he’s welcome to stay as long as he likes,’ Fatma said as she appeared, red-faced and headscarfed, from the kitchen. ‘I have never turned anyone in need of help away from my hearth. But if he’s going to go on about his relations with other men . . .’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Fatma,’ Samsun said, turning to look up into her reluctant hostess’s face. ‘I know that I’m the most dreadful old—’
‘Why has that lady got such big feet?’
As one, all
‘Do you want me to come with you, sir?’
İkmen paused. He didn’t look as if he was actively considering what his sergeant had just said, but when he replied it was obvious that he had been. ‘No, Orhan,’ he said and patted the younger man gently on the shoulder. ‘You go home to your wife and family now.’
‘But . . .’
İkmen looked up at what was now a very large and bright full moon. ‘No,’ he said with a cracked laugh, ‘those of us of Balkan origin should meet alone on nights like this.’ He turned back to Tepe. ‘If Angeliki turns into a werewolf, you, as a Turk, might be alarmed.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on, Orhan!’ İkmen said impatiently. ‘You must know that the world’s most disordered legends have come out of eastern Europe. Werewolves, vampires, the fucking un-dead. Only they really understand this rubbish. I was simply saying that as someone who has received half his blood from such a source I am rather more adapted to deal with it than you are. It was, if you can appreciate this, something of a joke.’
‘Oh.’
‘But don’t worry about that for the time being, Orhan. You just get off home now. It’s OK, really.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ İkmen said as he drew level with his car and unlocked the door. ‘I mean, even if Angeliki Vlora should turn into a beast right in front of my eyes, how bad can it be, eh?’
And then with a twinkling smile that was almost evil, he slid into the driving seat, turned on the engine and left. It was only when he was halfway down the road that the memory of just how much his wife disliked his transsexual cousin came back to him. With Samsun in the apartment, even if she were being looked after by Çiçek, Fatma would be at the very least in a foul mood when he got home.
‘Shit,’ he said out loud and then burst into laughter as he tried to decide whether he would rather face his wife in a mood or Angeliki Vlora as a werewolf.
He concluded that the latter possibility was less painful.
Chapter 8
----
Whether or not Samsun Bajraktar had learned to behave like a woman from watching too many Turkish historical movies was not known. That her femininity was of the nineteenth-century ‘fainting with anxiety’ variety was, however, evident to everyone in the İkmens’ apartment that night. Not that this heightened emotion had a great deal to do with the threats of Mehmet Vlora now. No. Since being almost carried back to the apartment by her cousin’s daughter, Çiçek, some hours before, Samsun had spent a considerable amount of fruitless time trying, without success, to contact her lover, Abdurrahman. He was not in his leather shop or their apartment, and she could not imagine where he could be. Even his mobile was switched off, which, for the technology-addicted Abdurrahman, was unheard of behaviour.
‘If he’s with some girl . . .’ Samsun began as she accepted yet another glass of tea from the sympathetically attentive Çiçek.
‘I’m sure he isn’t,’ Çiçek replied soothingly. ‘From what you’ve told me, he sounds really very nice.’
‘Why don’t you peer into a bowl of oil and find out,’ a sharp female voice from the kitchen retorted. ‘It’s what your aunt would have done.’
Çiçek moved towards the kitchen, her face set in anger. ‘Mum! I—’
‘Look, if Samsun’s in danger, he’s welcome to stay as long as he likes,’ Fatma said as she appeared, red-faced and headscarfed, from the kitchen. ‘I have never turned anyone in need of help away from my hearth. But if he’s going to go on about his relations with other men . . .’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Fatma,’ Samsun said, turning to look up into her reluctant hostess’s face. ‘I know that I’m the most dreadful old—’
‘Why has that lady got such big feet?’
As one, all
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