Traveller Probo

McAlister found the streets of Old Kusadasi delightful. Having been raised in the once decrepit suburbs of East London, he had a natural affinity to the narrow streets of his childhood.

He staggered and placed a friendly arm around the muscular shoulders of Erol, one of the Turkish Travellers with whom he had become good mates. His normal drinking buddies, Parker and McFee, had already headed back to their quarters leaving him and Erol to flirt the night away with two gorgeous American girls.

The cobbled street was steep, so they stumbled and paused to laugh. Their quarters were in a less than salubrious guest house in the old part of the town, though the rooms were comfortable and sufficient for their needs. They had become popular repeat guests, so other guests now stayed with the hope of catching a glimpse of the famous men.

McAlister looked down one of the narrow lanes to see the silhouettes of a couple of men. He nodded and waved but they uncharacteristically did not respond so McAlister just shrugged. He had never experienced any trouble in Turkey but that did not mean the country did not have its fair share of dickheads. Every place was sure to have a few, especially at 3am.

Erol gave a nudge and McAlister looked up. The silhouettes were closer and looked to hold sticks in clenched hands. They could only see by the dim light from one of the nearby guest houses, for the alley had no street lights. The shadows seemed to exude an air of menace. McAlister’s drunken humour vanished. They did not look like a couple of harmless locals. They were too aware, too observant. He cast a quick glance to Erol, his eyes wide to let in as much light as possible.

The shadows moved towards them. Old anger surged and his mind cleared.

Let them come.

One of the men moved stealthily to the other side of their street. There was a glimpse of reflection from bladed weapons, like a sword or machete. This might still be a training exercise devised by Chuck and Baki. They had left Hami at the club, so it wasn’t his doing. McAlister felt no fear, thanks to their training. They had to treat this as a real attack.

The Travellers separated to both sides of the narrow street. The shadow of a ubiquitous stray cat scuttled across the cobblestones but nothing else moved. He heard Erol take a breath. One of the men, the one facing Erol, smiled a white-toothed smile but neither moved.

“Can we help you?” asked Erol in Turkish.

The man in front of McAlister hissed but it was the other who spoke. “You must die. It is against God’s will that you travel to the infidels. They were destroyed because of their evil.”

McAlister snorted, so the other man turned to him. “Foreigners and unbelievers will be slain for the truth. It is God’s will!”

Erol spoke quietly, “I am a Turk and a believer, brother. You have been influenced by liars. This is not our way.”

“No! To be sent into a past that is gone, that is not God’s way!” spat the original speaker.

McAlister watched the other man, who had not moved. “So, is that what you’re here to do? Are you going to stop us?” asked McAlister. He spoke quietly, for they were to attempt to talk any attacker down. An attack seemed certain. The men before them felt themselves superior, armed as they were, and no amount of shouting would alert nearby locals in time to frighten them off.

Erol continued calmly, “To kill is not God’s way brothers. Love is God’s way. We only serve Him and seek greater knowledge.”

The man in front of McAlister turned uncertainly to the other man, who shook his head angrily, “How can you say that? Hypocrite! You serve those who seek to push us down, who fight against all true believers. They take believers and have them fight against believers. It is their way!”

“What are you talking about, you fool!” growled McAlister, no longer interested in any peaceful outcome.

The speaker waved a machete and shouted, “Fool am I? This fool will blood you and leave you in pieces!”

“Oh God, spare us from your stupidity, pig-fucker! I’ve killed so many cock-suckers like you I can’t count!” growled McAlister disparagingly in Turkish so coarse that even Erol looked across in surprise. The effect on the men with the machetes was electric, for both froze in stunned silence.

McAlister waited. If an attack was imminent, perhaps it was better to inflame the emotions of the attacker to the point that they would become erratic and make a mistake.

That was a theory anyway.

One of the men hissed again. McAlister was unsure if the hissing was to install fear or because he was nervous but the Englishman chuckled. Having gone into battle against the Vikings had been the hardest thing he had ever done and he was determined never to be afraid again, no matter who wielded the blade.

“What did you say?” asked the shadow, incoherent with rage.

Erol went to speak but McAlister was on a roll. He would not be cowed. “Pig-fucker – well the two of you that is. Only a true pig-fucker would hide in the shadows with a blade and hope to kill us. My friends are true Turks, not pig-fucking shit like you.”

The other shadow hissed again and McAlister laughed, “What are you? A balloon? Well, are you going to have a go or are you going to fuck off! Go on! I hear little piglets squealing for your tiny little cocks.”

The speaker roared and swung at Erol who, having practiced dodging blows for the past months, twisted so the machete harmlessly missed and struck the road hard enough to draw sparks. The wielder had obviously failed to consider the consequences of a miss as his shoulder dropped, leaving his face exposed. As his body weight swung downwards, Erol’s iron-hard fist swung upwards to meet his nose. His head snapped back but not before his nose was smashed flat. He simply fell forward to the road as if he had tripped.

Seeing his companion attack, the other shadow, the hisser, swung at McAlister with a horizontal sweep that the soldier easily dodged. Even in the dim light, McAlister saw the man was young and looked wide-eyed and afraid.

“Don’t do it lad, you’ll be sorry,” warned McAlister with a growl. Anyone who attacked with a blade deserved whatever was coming to them but he had to give the fool a chance. The lad looked up and, with both hands holding the machete high, ran at McAlister.

As the Englishman dodged, he twisted to drive his knee into the young man’s lower ribs. Why did attackers always leave themselves so exposed? There was a gut-wrenching gurgled grunt as McAlister twisted and drove his fist downwards to sharply strike the curve of the jaw. He felt it break. The young man fell heavily, his forehead striking the cobblestones with a sickening thump as the machete clattered away.

Erol looked to McAlister and nodded. The attack was stupid but could herald more violence against Travellers everywhere. Next time, it might not be so poorly executed. McAlister knew his goading was a risk but he was through with trying to talk aggressors out of violence. After Giolgrave, there would be no more fooling about.

They glanced at the bodies at their feet. The first groaned and struggled feebly, barely conscious. McAlister shrugged and sighed. “I’ll run up to the guest house and get them to call the police. They’ll want to talk to these two. You be all right then?”

“Oh, I think so,” Erol chuckled quietly and he waved him away.

As he turned and jogged up the steep, narrow street, McAlister felt no regrets. Adrenalin coursed through his body and he was grateful for the chance to run it out. Osborne would need to know about this. Were they backyard jihadists, or just muggers hoping to take advantage of a couple of drunken Travellers?

It would be interesting to find out.