HUNGARIAN MISADVENTURE
By Alan Leak 2003

The worst of the towering cumulonimbus were far behind them now, and all other things being equal, the rest of the flight on this glorious July day promised to be pleasant and uneventful. Ken, Eurofreight's co-pilot for the lucrative cargo charter to Budapest, was palpably relieved. Although a veteran of many trans European flights he shared the same respectful fear for nature’s awesome power, as did any sensible aviator. The flight engineer Bob, a grizzled and self-opinionated Scotsman of 40 years experience, was no less relieved.
“Och, I’ve seen worse in my time, much worse,” he mumbled without conviction.
“Mebbe so,” replied Matt, a company engineer along for the ride, “but that was bloody awful –nearly lost my false teeth!”
“Not to worry Matt, the weather’s fine ahead – soon be on the ground,” said Geoff the captain, a company stalwart of almost 15 years.
“Yeah, I reckon the beers are on Ken tonight” replied Matt knowing that Ken's birthday was only a few days away.
“Damn right,” echoed Bob, “ Mine’s a large scotch and water, easy on the water.”
The bad weather was a receding memory now and Bob relished the prospect of a few free drinks, especially from that cocky little excuse for a co-pilot.
The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, and soon the old but reliable Boeing trijet was descending gracefully towards Budapest’s active runway. Ken, the handling pilot for the day’s charter, turned onto the final approach with practised ease; he was as one with the aircraft, and the text-book landing that followed was no surprise to anyone.
“Piece of cake, don’t know how I do it” Ken offered to no one in particular, with a look of supreme smugness spreading across his weasel-like features.
Sixty-five tons of aircraft, fuel and cargo groaned and lurched as Ken applied full reverse thrust to the three turbo-jet engines. The jet decelerated, slowly at first, then more quickly as he applied more pressure to the footbrakes. As the aircraft slowed to 60 knots Geoff took the control column and planted his feet firmly on the footbrakes.
“I have control,” he said.
Ken reluctantly handed over the aircraft as Geoff brought the Boeing to a complete standstill and stowed the speed brakes before vacating the runway. The aircraft was heavy and cumbersome as Geoff negotiated the maze of taxiways en-route to the airport’s freight area where they would be unloaded, hopefully sooner rather than later. The cockpit temperature was now an uncomfortable 33 degrees as Geoff rolled to a halt on the sun-baked and seemingly abandoned apron.
“God I need a shower” said Matt stating the obvious as he wiped rivulets of perspiration from his balding head and neck.
Despite the blistering heat Bob and Matt completed the shutdown checks and had the aircraft secured for the night in record time. The freight had been quickly unloaded since the handlers were no less keen to return to more comfortable surroundings than were the crew.
“Here’s the transport!” Matt shouted as he strained to be heard above the racket of the ground power unit.
Within minutes the weary travellers were hotel bound. The vehicle was a weather-beaten death trap with dodgy suspension, and the driver had no noticeable road sense; the ride was bone jarring and seemingly endless, and Geoff thought they were perhaps being kidnapped for ransom. When the hotel façade finally hove into view there was a universal sigh of relief.
“Bloody maniac!” Bob muttered, as he struggled to fit the combined bulk of body and suitcase through the unfriendly revolving doors.
As Geoff slipped the card key into his jacket pocket his gaze wandered from the petite receptionist to the palatial splendour of his immediate surroundings; he couldn’t help but make the comparison with the shabby and impoverished back streets they had just driven through – streets reminiscent of his own childhood years. Bob’s words interrupted his thoughts: “See you guys in an hour then – and don’t be late.”
“Yeah, better not keep the ladies waiting” smiled Matt as he scuttled off for a much-needed shower.
“Easy on the mini-bar Robert” quipped Ken, “don’t want you incapable before the night’s entertainment.”
“Cheeky young whippersnapper – don’t know yer arse from yer head!” Bob retorted before stomping off into his room.
“OK dad, see you later” replied Ken, determined as ever to have the last word.
Geoff sprayed a liberal measure of deodorant under his armpits, ran a comb through his gently receding hairline and dabbed some lotion under his freshly shaven chin. After a careful scrutiny of the bedroom he picked up his wallet and then headed towards the lobby.
“What’s it to be then?” said Ken looking in Matt’s direction, “You’ve stayed here a few times over the years haven’t you?”
“I have, but not for a while though…you got any ideas Geoff?”
Geoff wasn’t feeling particularly sociable; his idea of a good evening was watching a decent movie and reading a Stephen King novel – still, he felt obliged to make some sort of effort. Bob and Matt were OK guys but Ken was hard work – mouthy and full of himself – and he didn’t relish an evening listening to Ken’s verbal diarrhoea.
“Dunno, let’s just wander around and see how we go.”
After several pubs and a few miles of walking Bob and Matt were beginning to falter; both had already consumed more than Geoff’s monthly limit, and Ken hadn’t stopped talking since they left the hotel. The light was fading rapidly and the gathering clouds were already releasing their first drops of moisture, with promise of more to come. Bob had had enough of walking and decided it was time to set up camp for the evening. Ken was inclined to agree; he had an idea and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
“A topless bar – you can’t be serious!” said Geoff.
Ken was rattled, almost offended by Geoff’s obvious reluctance to the idea.
“Come on Geoff…let’s go for it – not afraid of a few women are you?”
Geoff decided to ignore the remark and looked away.
Bob had stopped for breath a few yards behind and was attempting to light a cigarette – a feat made no easier by his racking cough and the steadily increasing rainfall.
“What do ya reckon Bob – you up for it?” Max said as Bob joined the group.
“Think I’ll give it a miss” he spluttered between drags. “The hotel’s not far away – I’ll pop in the bar and use some of that aircrew discount we’ve got. Anyway I’m getting too old for all that malarkey."
Geoff was outnumbered two to one and, much against his better judgment, reluctantly agreed to go along for the ride. He’d experienced these topless bars – or something very similar – during his air force days in Singapore, and knew the form.
As Bob wandered off in the general direction of the hotel – swirling smoke marking his unsteady passage – Ken, Matt and Geoff turned towards the city centre lights. Matt forged ahead as if on a crusade for the Holy Grail and Ken gibbered relentlessly. After five minutes Geoff was rapidly losing interest and patience in equal amounts; he was on the verge of following Bob back to the hotel when he saw Matt beckoning from up ahead.
“Guys, up here quick - I can’t believe this place is still here!” he shouted excitedly.
Geoff followed reluctantly as they were led down a maze of poorly lit corridors and into the main bar area. A mixture of anxiety and mounting apprehension clawed at his guts.
Bad, bad decision, he thought ruefully, as the doorman ushered them to their seats.
Ken and Matt were smiling inanely - like a couple of Cheshire cats waiting for cream – and the atmosphere, at least from Geoff’s viewpoint, felt stifled and claustrophobic. The red lighting was subdued and eerie, and lush synthetic vegetation seemed to crowd them in from all sides. An overhead fan whirred erratically and the insipid breeze – which was totally inadequate for cooling purposes – served only to agitate a few scattered palm fronds. There appeared to be just one entrance to the gloomy and forbidding enclosure – a fact that did little to bolster Geoff’s flagging confidence.
Perhaps I’m over-reacting, he mused hopefully, why do I always assume the worst?
As Geoff pondered the question, a seedy looking barman and three young women emerged from the gloom of the dimly lit bar. The girls, heavy with perfume and cheap jewellery, cackled like demented geese. They weren’t quite topless but the plunging necklines and mini skirts left little to the imagination. They sported knee length leather boots, jet black and sensual, complementing their firm and slender legs. Ken was rendered temporarily speechless, and Matt almost fell off the lounge seat as the waiter deposited six unordered drinks onto the table. The ladies settled themselves confidently as Geoff noted their different ethnic origins; one was ebony black, another Chinese, or possibly Malaysian, and the third appeared to be of Scandinavian descent with fair hair and icy blue eyes. They were beautiful and exotic, and as might be expected, proved to be excellent company.
The evening progressed and the drink and conversation flowed freely. Ken and Matt were both transfixed with their partners and seemed unaware of the passing hours. Geoff’s escort, a young woman from Zambia, was friendly and intelligent; however she appeared edgy and nervous.
“Relax Geoff” Matt said, managing to divert his gaze for a scant moment.
“Matt, it’s time to split this joint.”
“Ah, come on Geoff, we’re having a great time – what’s the problem?”
“No problem – I just think it’s time to go.” Geoff was becoming irritated.
The barman glanced suspiciously in their direction as if sensing Geoff’s growing unease. The atmosphere was thick with tension as the man – probably in his early fifties and unshaven for several days – averted his gaze and busied himself with some unseen task. He was of medium build, maybe five ten, mean looking in the extreme, and carrying a grotesquely large stomach; he looked as if he could handle himself despite the excess weight.
The man suddenly straightened, fiddled for a moment more, and then eased himself from behind the small bar.
“Please to pay the bill,” said the gruff and heavily accented voice.
Matt scrutinized the grubby piece of paper; he blinked in disbelief, and then his jaw sagged visibly.
“This can’t be right!” he said, handing the receipt to Geoff.
“I think it probably is,” Geoff replied, trying to remain calm as he took in the figures.
“Please to pay,” the man repeated.
“Wassamarra?” said Ken.
“Well, if I figure this right…” Geoff paused to take a deep breath, “…we’re looking at about forty quid each.”
For the second time that evening Ken was speechless. Suddenly and without warning he stood up, snatched the offending paper out of Geoff’s hand, crumpled it into a ball, and then threw it contemptuously into an empty ashtray. The girls – quiet and still during the brief encounter – now moved as one; almost in the blink of an eye they have melted into the shadows, only too aware of what was to follow.
The barman stepped back defensively, unsure of what to make of this unexpected defiance.
“Please to pay – or not good for you,” he repeated.
“Look you’ve made a big mistake and…” Ken managed before Geoff cut him short, realising that things were about to turn ugly.
“Ken just stow it. We’ll pay the tab and go!” Ken backed off. Matt was beginning to look worried – this wasn’t turning out the way he had hoped.
“No problem – we pay you,” Geoff assured the barman, hoping beyond hope that they could muster enough cash between them.
He stood up and reached into his back pocket, extracted his shabby wallet, and gestured for the others to do the same. Matt hastily gathered a small wad of notes and coins from a variety of pockets; Ken was less obliging and hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Geoff was fast losing patience and in no mood for further theatrics.
“Everything you’ve got - NOW!”
Ken grudgingly acquiesced, his eventual contribution adding little to the meagre amount already on the table. Geoff sat down again and began counting. His heart sank and an unpleasant sensation began to form in the pit of his stomach – they were well short of the needed funds.
As the knot in his nether regions tightened five ominous figures emerged from the Stygian darkness that surrounded them. The smallest man, dapper with close cropped hair and smiling malignantly, stood opposite Geoff, left hand clasped over the right, the combination resting authoritively above his groin. The four remaining men stood silently and solidly, each strategically positioned to discourage any thought of escape, no matter how futile. They were burly and menacing – practised bodybuilders – with piercing eyes watching their every move. The leader moved forward a step and looked at Geoff.
“English, I think,” he stated. The tone was derisive, almost mocking, it seemed to Geoff.
He was suddenly reminded of a fifties B-movie he’d recently watched in which a dishevelled private eye had been cornered by two heavies. For some reason they had wanted him dead; the P.I. had tried to talk his way out, but they were having none of it. They closed in to finish the job, one brandishing a vicious blade, the other toting a heavy black cosh capable of felling an ox. He smiled benignly, nonchalantly pulling a .38 revolver from the innards of his raincoat. The nearest man staggered backwards, a black wetness staining his shirt, eyes disbelieving as he surveyed his bloodied hands for the last time; the second man stared sightlessly into eternity before dropping to his knees and collapsing face down with a bone crunching thud, blissfully unaware of the small, smoking hole neatly dividing his bushy eyebrows.
If only it were that easy, Geoff thought, subconsciously reaching for a non-existent weapon.
“Ah yes, the English, very good, plenty money, we like you. We hope you enjoy our city and our little club. Perhaps you pay now and we all happy.” The words were smooth and beguiling, almost reassuring, but underneath lay a thinly disguised streak of pure venom. Geoff could see that this guy meant business; he wasn’t the sort you messed around with, especially when backed up by four pumped up bruisers looking for some light entertainment.
“This is all we have – I think it’s a bit short. I’m sorry but we have no more money,” Geoff reiterated, “We have credit cards if that helps.”
“No card – only cash.” The statement was plain and unequivocal.
The silence was unnerving, and Geoff felt trickles of sweat running down the ridge of his spine as the tension became almost unbearable.
The bouncers edged closer. Geoff realised they were on a knife-edge, and if they were to walk away unscathed, then he had to come up with something quickly. He looked toward Ken and Matt for inspiration, but none was forthcoming. Matt sat timidly, his hands clasped firmly together and between his legs, his balding head bowed and shining in the subdued light. Ken sat submissively, elbows resting precariously on his spindly legs, hands drooping over his knees, and his head lolling about like a demented nodding dog.
“Please,” the small man said quietly but firmly.
The scene was almost surreal as Geoff felt the walls closing in; time ebbed and flowed with a will of its own; was it 2, 3 or 4 in the morning? He had no idea and even less interest. Suddenly he just wanted to be out of there, preferably in one piece, and watching the most boring movie he could find. Illogically he found himself wondering if the company insurance would stretch to three or four days of inadequate hospital treatment.
“English!” The impatient voice jerked him back to reality.
And then it struck him. Of course, how could he have forgotten: Ken’s new Swiss Army Original. Geoff glanced across at Ken’s right arm, followed it down to his scrawny wrist and was rewarded with a dull glint from the face of the black polyurethane case. If memory served him – no small feat considering the circumstances – Ken’s recently acquired timepiece was, according to Ken, worth at least 200 dollars, considerably more than the outstanding debt. Geoff knew these people only dealt in hard cash but figured it was worth a shot anyway. He decided to bite the bullet: “We have a Swiss Army watch worth 300 dollars…would you accept that as payment for the drinks?”
Geoff hoped he hadn’t pushed his luck too far with the valuation – he imagined the guy was nothing if not shrewd. He thought it was probably only worth about 100 dollars, maybe even less, allowing for the trader’s mark up and Ken’s naivety – no doubt the market trader knew a sucker when he saw one.
Geoff held his breath. His heart was thumping and his head throbbed mercilessly; his stomach churned and he thought the chicken and salad roll he’d eaten earlier would soon be seeing daylight again. His clothing was damp with sweat, the back of his shirt clinging like a second skin, clammily uncomfortable and irritating, and he was itching in a dozen different places. The man uttered a low, whistling sigh and rubbed his nose vigorously.
“Show me the watch…I will consider your offer.”
Geoff decided to start breathing again.
“My friend has the watch,” he said, pointing in Ken’s direction. “Ken, here a minute, I think we may have solved our problem.”
Ken was immediately suspicious.
Hope he hasn’t come up with some bright idea without consulting the rest of us…he thought bitterly.
Matt, still silent, shuffled along his seat so that Ken could squeeze out between him and the table. He rose unsteadily and negotiated the narrow passage as carefully as his condition would allow. He eased past the small man, carefully avoiding eye contact, and sidled up alongside Geoff, positioning himself as far from the bouncers as possible. “I’m sorry mate…” said Geoff, “…we’re going to need that watch of yours – there’s no way round it.”
Even as he said it he knew Ken would be livid, spitting mad probably, but Geoff was short on options.
“The watch please,” the small and dangerous man demanded.
Matt squirmed uneasily as he strained to hear the conversation above the incessant background muzak; he wasn’t sure but he thought Geoff mentioned a watch. Ken seemed to be upset about something, and that worried him more than anything. Matt pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his neck and brow, and tentatively surveyed the scene. It didn’t look good. They were flanked on all sides by solid muscle, and only one exit as far as he could see; escape was not a viable option. The little man appeared to be losing patience as Ken became more animated, and the bouncers reminded him of hungry dogs held back only by the nebulous whim of their master. He thought of Bob back at the hotel, no doubt senseless and snoring like a train, totally unaware of their predicament.
What in the hell was I thinking about? I’m married with five kids and I’m sitting in a seedy topless bar waiting for a beating…I need my head looking at!
“That watch has got more functions than you’ve got brain cells and it’s worth over 200 dollars and I’m stuffed if I’m giving it to a bunch of peasants!” Ken said uncompromisingly. “You’ll just have to think of…!”
The punch was delivered accurately and without warning. It struck Ken squarely on his right cheekbone with a dull, almost inaudible thud, blood spattering in all directions. Geoff had watched as Ken babbled – wincing at his naive foolishness – yet still was he unprepared for the pre-emptive strike. The blow arrived with a force that belied the man’s slightly built frame – a man used to dealing with upstarts and smart-mouthed foreigners. Ken felt nothing, knew nothing, as he staggered backwards, eyes rolling upwards to reveal the white beneath, his world reduced to a kaleidoscope of stars, moons and breath taking colours. Ken collapsed in a graceless heap, deathly still and out for the count, thin trickles of blood oozing slowly from his nostrils and mouth.
The silence was deafening, and Matt mouthed a silent prayer.
The man smiled at Geoff as he slowly massaged the knuckles of his right hand.
“Your friend is not polite. Perhaps he will show respect now. You I like because you have respect. That is good and so I will take the watch as payment. Take your friend and leave now.”
Twelve months later the incident was a distant memory as Geoff opened his latest work schedule. He noticed that he was rostered to operate the Brussels – Budapest – Brussels sector in two weeks time, not particularly unusual in itself since it was now a regular route; however – and this was quite a coincidence – he couldn’t resist a malicious chuckle when he read the names of his operating crew: a Scottish flight engineer renowned for his love of whisky, and a certain co-pilot, one Kenneth Frank Coates, much chastened and subdued since the events of a warm and memorable summer evening, long, long ago.