Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Isabella! Isabella!’ he cried.

  Only five-year-old Marina showed any sign of life. She had been playing with her dolls under the table, as she so often did. Her little body hung limply, yet as Papa lifted her, she blinked at him and smiled. Then she was gone.

  Markos forced himself to remember Papa’s tears. They ran into his beard the next day as he swung the skapáni, bringing it hard down into the earth with a cry of anguish, venting his anger and grief to dig the family grave.

  Together, they had carried Mama’s body into the centre of the rectangular dig. How tenderly Papa had unbuttoned the front of her dress. He placed his dead, unnamed baby at her breast while muttering holy words between sobs. Then he straddled Mama’s body and fell to his knees. He moved his face over hers to meet her lifeless gaze. Smoothing her thick, dark hair, he whispered, ‘I’ll always love you, Isabella,’ his voice heavy and choked. Then he closed Mama’s eyes.

  Markos had cried too. He could almost hear his mother’s whispered reply. I love you too, Spyridon. He longed to feel her arms around him again.

  ‘Pass me little Kiki,’ Papa whispered. He spread Mama’s arms wide, the way she often did to gather her children.

  Markos lifted his two-year-old sister. She lay silent in her eternal sleep, featherweight, limp against his chest. He kissed her forehead, his grief heavier than he’d ever thought possible. He handed her over, and Papa placed her to rest, curled towards Mama’s heart, her head lying on her mother’s shoulder. Then Markos helped his father lay five-year-old Marina on Mama’s arm, next to her sister. He turned her head to face her mother and placed her little rag doll in her hand.

  Poppy was eight years old, the double of her mother but with the determination of her father. She wanted to fly aeroplanes when she grew up. Everyone laughed and said she never would.

  How right they were.

  He imagined her now, flying on angel’s wings, looking down on him with a smile.

  See, Markos, I told you I would fly . . .

  ‘Fly . . .’ he whispered into her ear, unable to say more.

  Poppy wasn’t heavy, but Markos’s tears had unmanned him. He struggled, distressed and ashamed that he couldn’t carry his dead sister to her resting place.

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa, sorry . . .’

  Markos’s father climbed out of the grave, took Poppy from him and laid her on the grass. He pulled Markos to his chest and held him tightly. Neither spoke; their grief racked both of them with shuddering sobs.

  Finally, they managed to lay Poppy on Mama’s other arm.

  Papa rested two coins on Isabella’s eyes for the ferryman.

  ‘Safe journey, my darling wife, darling mother of my children,’ he whispered.

  Together, they shook out Mama’s best embroidered bed sheet and placed it over their cold, dead family. Markos opened the sack of myrtle branches he had collected that morning and spread them over the sheet. With each shovel of earth, the sweet scent of crushed herbage rose on the air.

  *

  In the narrow tunnel, Markos mourned the innocent lives destroyed by Churchill’s bastard plot. The British leader was determined to restore the loathed Greek monarch, George II, to power. Like Churchill, King George hated the communists and despised their ideals.

  Churchill had forgotten how Markos’s older brother and his comrades had fought and died for the British during the war in Greece and Albania. Some were still fighting, facing death to support the Allies. And the British leader repaid them by bombing the homes of their families while they were away.

  The tables were about to turn. He thought about the British warlords, sitting in their comfortable theatre seats above his head.

  Markos felt the tug of wire and rolled in the stinking muck to release another loop from around his waist. He slid along with renewed fervour until he came to the explosives. They filled half the tunnel. His heart thumped and his head reeled from the putrid air in such a confined space. After wriggling out of the last metres of fuse wire, he pulled the negative and positive wires apart, attached a detonation cap to each, then stuck them deep into the dynamite putty. His task almost completed, he had to return to the alley without snagging the wire and pulling the caps out of the explosives.

  Before he started his long crawl back, he crossed himself.

  This is for you, Mama. For my baby brother, for little Kiki, for Marina, and for Poppy flying on her angel’s wings.

  *

  Sofia, Athens, 1944.

  The auditorium fell silent as the curtain went up. I was expecting Mama, but instead a compère stepped forward and made a long and tiresome speech, welcoming the British dignitaries. Crouched in the cramped space, my legs tingled. I longed to stretch out, to move, but the usher remained at the top of the aisle, blocking my chance to creep down to Papa and the boys. Finally, the master of ceremonies ended his monologue. The spotlight died. I held my breath.

  In the darkness, the orchestra struck up with a few bars of Mahler’s Third Symphony. The gentle notes drifted through the theatre.

  Then came the moment I had waited for.

  The spotlight blazed down again, a cone of light, centre-front of the pitchblack stage. Mama stepped into that circle and my heart soared. Applause thundered. I rested on my haunches and clapped so hard my palms burned. Mama, in her wonderful dress, appeared to bow to the foreigners, but I knew the curtsy was intended for my father and brothers behind them. Then she bowed to the audience, who clapped even harder. She acknowledged the conductor. He lifted his baton. Silence fell.

  The orchestra played the introduction to Mama’s latest refrain, and my skin tingled. I took a breath and mouthed the words as she sang them.

  Mother, you are life’s sweet song,

  Without you, it’s hard to be strong.

  But you live in my heart

  Even though we’re apart,

  So, I’ll sing for you life’s sweetest songs.

  My child, you were life’s sweet song,

  Though you were not with me for long.

  I glimpse your empty chair,

  Through tears, see you there,

  Lullabies are now your sweetest songs.

  Oh, lover, you are life’s sweet song,

  I’ll see you again before long.

  Angels, wings give you flight,

  Every star-spangled night.

  My love, you are life’s sweetest songs.

  Mama sang that long last note, and I felt tears on my cheeks. I pressed my back to the wall and stood, no longer caring if they threw me out. A second spotlight played over the spectators as some people rose from their seats, applauding. Mama raised her eyes from my father’s row and glanced over the auditorium. At the back, I waved my white hankie high above my head. Mama held her hands in my direction. She had seen me! Her final word of the refrain, ‘songs . . .’ went on and on as she gazed at me.

  Then the audience were standing, blocking my view. Applause thundered. The lights went up a little to show the audience’s appreciation, and I imagined Mama’s joy, her deep bows and her wide smile.

  Grinning and crying at the same time, I ducked back down behind the seats and knuckled my eyes. The barley sugar Big Yiannis had given me fell from my pocket and rolled under the seat. I flattened myself to reach for it.

  And then—

  CHAPTER 4

  MEGAN

  Manchester, present day.

  ‘HELL, EMILY, IT’S THE RAINIEST day ever!’

  Megan stared at the reflections of red-brick Edwardian buildings in the wet pavement. Manchester alternated between being magical and morbid, and Megan missed home.

  She had hardly known Emily a week, but they quickly became friends and the aching loneliness of homelessness had eased a little. If only she could go back to her family . . . but she had caused too much trouble already. She could imagine the headlines – it would all come out. What if someone had taken photos and was just waiting for the right moment to sell them to the press
? Her parents’ careers would be over. She could see the headlines: The underage daughter of prominent MP involved in scandalous sex party and drug abuse.

  Mum and Dad would never forgive her. Better if she just disappeared. Let them get on with their busy schedules and dynamic careers.

  She thought of Josh guiltily. He must miss her. She missed him.

  Megan held a plastic bag over her head and jogged after Emily.

  ‘Manchester must be the wettest place on earth, and I’m bloody starving!’ she cried.

  ‘There’s a hot dog stand round the next corner,’ Emily called over her shoulder. ‘Pete’s Dogs.’

  Megan saw the white van, overtook Emily and raced towards it as the shutter lowered over the counter.

  ‘Stop, stop!’

  The side rolled halfway up and a broad man in a grease-spattered overall said, ‘Watcha, girls. I’m shuttin’ shop.’

  ‘We’re so hungry,’ Megan pleaded. ‘Have you got anything left? Scraps, anything at all? Please.’

  A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. ‘Why don’t you come inside and get warm, girls?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Emily said, and then staggered sideways with the force of Megan’s punch against her arm.

  ‘Please, mister, we’re starved,’ Megan pleaded, widening her eyes.

  ‘Yeah, don’t suppose you’ve any money either?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Dirty beggars, get yourselves some work, why don’t you?’ He took a plastic bag and tipped the contents of his heated tray into it, threw a couple of buns on top and held it out. ‘I don’t want to see you girls round here again, right?’

  Emily snatched the bag. ‘Ta!’

  They dodged bins and rubbish down a narrow alley, Megan following close behind Emily.

  ‘In here,’ Emily said, with her shoulder against a graffiti-covered door. ‘Help me push it open.’

  Inside, the building was dark and quiet as death.

  ‘Wait – leave the door open while I find my light.’ Emily scrabbled in her rucksack and yanked out a pocket torch and a six-inch knife.

  A police siren drifted in from the street. Emily shone the torch, and Megan recognised the place as an abandoned office. Partition walls had gone. Rubbish, empty bottles and rotting office furniture littered the floor.

  At the back of the space, Emily illuminated a crumbling staircase.

  ‘Is anyone here?’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got a knife!’ Her voice echoed.

  ‘Seems we’re alone,’ Megan whispered. ‘Let’s shut the door. It’s great to be out of the rain.’

  It was odd that their friendship had started with an argument over a pitch outside Debenhams and ended in a double act. Megan juggled while Emily rapped and mimicked her idol, LP. Emily also had a whistle that hit the notes and turned heads. They took advantage of the fact that they looked so alike – both skinny with a great mop of dark curls. They almost looked like twins.

  Megan had made more money busking with Emily than she had for weeks before, and after they’d split their profits, they decided to try and perform together every Friday and Saturday afternoon.

  The door dragged, seeming heavier than it was. The top hinge hung loose. They shoved together and then pushed an old desk against it.

  Megan rubbed the wet sleeves of her denim jacket and nodded at a drum half full of burned rubbish. ‘Look at that. Let’s light a fire.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘The ground floor’s not safe. I’ve dossed here before. Pissheads and druggies use it at night. Let’s get to the top floor. There’s a mattress there.’

  The torch beam turned orange, barely lighting the way.

  Emily swore. ‘Bloody batteries! Only put them in yesterday. Just shows you can’t trust nothin’ these days. We’ll nick a new pack tomorrow.’

  They picked their way up the dilapidated stairway to the third floor. The torch died as they reached the top of the stairs, but they managed to find the room by the light of a street lamp through the grimy windows.

  ‘Quick, let’s shut the door.’

  The room was littered with ripped-out fittings. A mouldering mattress lay in the corner on the bare floorboards. Crumpled at the foot rested a ragged duvet.

  ‘Let’s get the food inside us,’ Emily said, as she pushed the door closed and jammed half a dozen abandoned fluorescent light fittings against it. ‘We’re safe here if we’re quiet. If you need to squeeze ya lemon, go in the far corner, okay?’

  Megan frowned, then laughed. ‘Okay. Never heard it called that before!’

  ‘There’s a bathroom on the next floor down. We can use it in the morning.’ Emily pulled the food bag open. ‘Four dogs, two buns and a pile of onions – I should have nicked his mustard.’

  ‘Ha! He wanted to give you more than his mustard,’ Megan said, pulling off her damp jacket. She hadn’t felt so good in ages. It was great to share with a friend. To have a friend. They sat beside each other, shoulder to shoulder on the mattress, and ate everything.

  Grease from the fried onions ran down Megan’s arm. She licked it off and sighed.

  ‘God, that was good. Now I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Tough,’ Emily said. ‘There’s water in the bathroom, but best not go there now.’

  ‘You mean the tramps might get us?’

  ‘It’s not the dossers, it’s the pimps. They come like rats in the night, searching for the likes of us. Before you know it, they’ll have you drugged up and sucking dick.’

  Megan recoiled, and glanced at Emily. ‘That’s why I left London.’

  Emily’s eyes widened. ‘What? You had a pimp?’

  Megan heard the shock in her friend’s voice and for a moment enjoyed it.

  ‘No, not really. I was with this guy, Simon. I stayed at his flat and everything, but he was an arse. Started usin’. He brought this bloke round one night, tried to get me to snort stuff. Things got nasty. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, stick with me and you’ll survive. How long you been juggling then?’

  ‘Six months. Started while I was living with Simon.’

  ‘I got some balls, too. Shacked up with this guy who dealt in this and that, a bit fishy, but he always had loads of dosh. He got a consignment of juggling balls from China, so I helped myself to a set and scarpered. Never got the hang of it though.’

  ‘You got them now? It’s just a knack – I’ll teach you.’

  ‘Cool!’ Emily pulled the knife out of her bag and fingered the point, then produced a set of three juggling balls. ‘How much did you get today?’

  ‘Fifteen quid, outside Deansgate Station,’ Megan said. ‘Took the entire day. It’s much better in London. I could get nearly double that in a couple of hours.’ She pulled her own juggling balls from the long pocket of her camo trousers. ‘Look, first you have to get used to the rhythm of throw and catch. Here we go. Do what I do.’ She threw a ball in the air and caught it, again and again. Emily did the same with hers – and then dropped it. The room was too dark to see it among the rubbish.

  ‘Don’t fret, I’ll find it in the morning,’ Emily said. ‘Fifteen quid’s good.’

  She slid the knife under the edge of the mattress, and yanked the duvet over them.

  ‘I’m saving to go to Greece,’ Megan said. ‘I’ll be going any day now. Just waiting for the ticket prices to drop. My gran’s from there. What about you, how much d’you get?’

  ‘Six quid altogether, rapping in the doorway next to Boots, but I spent three on a McDonald’s. Where’s your nan live then?’

  ‘She was a refugee from Athens when my mum was a kid, but she was actually born in Crete.’

  Emily’s face blanked.

  ‘It’s a Greek island. My brother told me she went back there just after I left home. We went there on holiday lots of times when I was little – I’d kick up a right fuss when we had to leave for home.’ Megan smiled, remembering how it became the family joke. Then she shook her head. No point thinking about he
r parents now. ‘Granny Anna’s amazing. You ever been to Greece?’

  Emily shook her head.

  ‘It’s just pure magic. I love it.’

  ‘What makes it so special?’

  Megan thought for a moment. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Look, remember when you were a kid and you had a doll’s house?’

  Emily stared, but said nothing.

  ‘You know, you move things around and imagine you’re inside, living there, and you have this great feeling of control, like with juggling. When you look out, you don’t see the bedroom carpet, you see groves of beautiful lemon trees, colourful butterflies and birds, and everything is zippadee-doo-dah. Well, that’s Crete – magical. You feel anything’s possible, and my Granny Anna is a hundred per cent fairy godmother.’ She paused for a moment, and realised she was grinning. She loved her grandmother so much. ‘She has a little stone cottage in a fishing village. I don’t think she’s ever bought a packet of biscuits from a supermarket. She bakes every day and the house always has that lovely honey-herby smell.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll tell you something mad. She’s not just this cute old lady – she’s sort of sexy, too. I was at a bus stop with her once and I saw this old geezer wink at her, and she stuck her chest out and grinned. I mean! She’s got plastic teeth and everything . . . unbelievable! She’s like the queen of our family. I’m going to go there and live with her for a bit. She’s cool – she won’t tell my parents if I ask her not to.’ She paused, knowing that was a hope rather than a certainty. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m from Albania, like me mam. Illegal. My dad was from London, but they never got married. You’re not illegal then?’

  ‘No, got a passport and everything.’ Megan patted her tote. ‘Just need to get some more money together for Crete. I have to pay my way, you know. My gran’s not rich and I don’t want to bum off her. I’ve got most of it. When I get there, I’ll basically be a travel rep. I hear they’re always looking for them through the summer. But my passion’s to perform. Like it’s in my blood, you know? Anyway, they have this really cool Mardi Gras there, in the next few weeks. I’m desperate to juggle in the carnival.’