Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

Zoë stopped dead. She couldn’t speak. She’d bought a diary. It was full of blank pages. The news was like a whiteboard filled with questions, wiped clean in a second. She stood in the scentless, clinical airport with people rushing around her. Noises echoed. A baby cried and its tired keening mirrored Zoë’s despair.

  ‘They took her fingerprints,’ Don continued. ‘They don’t match Megan’s. The girl’s being questioned but refuses to talk.’

  Zoë recalled the day Megan disappeared. The police had taken a cola can from Megan’s room to get prints. She had insisted. The officer in charge said Megan was likely to return within forty-eight hours. She had left a note saying she was leaving, and had taken some clothes, so she was probably just staying with a friend. Zoë had urged them to treat her disappearance more seriously.

  A chill rushed through Zoë. If the girl had found the bag, then her dreams of finding her daughter could turn into her worst nightmare.

  ‘Zoë, speak to me,’ Don said.

  She snapped back, ‘I’m going anyway, Don. The girl had Megan’s bag, so she’s probably seen her.’ There was a silent moment as they both considered the alternative. ‘Cancel my court cases. I’ll stay in Manchester for a few days. I know she’s alive, Don. Call it gut instinct, but for the first time, I feel I’m really close to finding her. You can’t imagine what it’s been like, adrift, wondering, imagining the worst. I know it’s still possible that’ – she swallowed hard – ‘well, you know my fears, but somehow, I feel confident Megan is out there and I’m close to finding her.’

  ‘I can imagine the hell you’ve been going through, Zoë. Is there anything I can do?’

  She spoke her thoughts as they rushed into her head. ‘You said Megan had a passport. Her last one expired before she ran away, so she must have had an interview at the issuing office. I need that information – will you find out as much as you can?’

  She thought about the pictures on the website which Josh helped put together, wishing she had copies of them with her to hand out.

  ‘Don, when Megan applied for a passport, she must have had a recent photo. A duplicate would be invaluable, and I wonder who signed the back?’ Megan might have changed drastically in the last few months. What if she were to walk past her own daughter in the street without noticing? Surely that wasn’t possible. But she wished she had a recent photo. ‘Can you call the issuing office, pull a few strings? I’ll find her, Don, I will.’

  ‘That’s the attitude. I’ll do everything I can, and get back to you soon. Phone if you need anything else. Any time, okay?’

  ‘They’re calling last passengers. I’ve got to go. Will you tell Josh what’s happened? I’ll call him this evening.’

  On the plane, Zoë took out her notebook and made a to-do list. Her thoughts returned to the passport. She pulled hers from her handbag and flicked through the pages. Zoë Eleftheria Johnson. The woman in the photograph appeared much younger than the one staring at it. Well groomed, with carefully applied make-up on a line-free face. Today, Zoë could be mistaken for her mother, age-wise. As far as looks were concerned, she must have taken after her father, whom she barely remembered. Zoë’s mother, Anna, had been a short, fine-boned woman with an aristocratic look. Although Zoë was slim, she was curvaceous and tall.

  The last time Zoë used her passport came to mind: when she returned from her mother’s funeral. A hollow of sadness expanded inside her. She had not found the space to grieve, and that in itself was heartbreaking. Her mother had been a saint, and deserved her daughter’s sadness and sense of loss. Now, Zoë wished she had spent more time with Mama. An enormous need to tell her she was sorry had nowhere to go. Zoë’s mother knew she had cancer but kept it to herself, so that all Zoë’s energy could go into searching for Megan.

  She unclasped her seat belt and stared out of the aeroplane window. Her mother was from Crete, where she had met and married Zoë’s father. She didn’t know much about her parents’ past; Mama never wanted to talk about it, always said it was too painful. All Zoë knew was that her father was a soldier who died in Greece in 1975, and Mama had brought Zoë to England as she approached school age.

  Zoë had been devastated when Mama announced she was returning to Crete, barely a month after Megan disappeared.

  ‘You’ll be better off with me out of the way,’ she had said. ‘It will give you more time to concentrate on looking for Megan. Besides, I’d like to spend a little time with my sister. We’re not getting any younger, you know.’

  ‘Please don’t go, Mama!’ Zoë had begged.

  ‘It’s something I have to do. You’ll be fine, Zoë. Megan will come back soon – she’s only been gone a few weeks. The novelty will wear off and she’ll realise she’s better off here, trust me. I’ll see you all when you come to Crete on holiday.’

  ‘But you can’t just walk out on us. We need you so much.’ Zoë wasn’t just being selfish; she wanted her mother to know how much they all appreciated her. Neither Frank nor Zoë could have progressed in their careers the way they had without the rock that was her mother at home, taking care of the kids. ‘I know I haven’t been the nicest person to live with lately, Mama, and I’m truly sorry. It’s just the stress. I can’t seem to hold it in sometimes. Please don’t tell me I’ve driven you away too.’

  ‘No, my darling, of course you haven’t. I’m going to miss you all terribly, but perhaps you need a little more time alone with Frank, too. I’d have to be blind not to see that you’re both struggling, but I know you still love each other. He’s a good man, Zoë. I hate to hear you two fighting after so many happy years together.’

  ‘But how will I manage without you?’

  ‘That’s the trouble – you’ve never had to. My fault entirely. I’ve always given you everything you wanted, but I can’t help you now. You’ll be fine. You just have to work this out for yourself. And trust me, I’m confident Megan will come back.’ She took Zoë’s hand, peering at her daughter, and as she did, Zoë saw the gentle smile on her lips, but also the deepest sadness in her eyes. ‘Sometimes, it’s a mother’s job to step back, let their children grow to reach their full potential. Even push them out of the nest when the time is right. It’s the nature of things.’

  ‘We need you,’ Zoë had repeated.

  ‘I know. But there are people who need you, too. It’s not because I don’t love you. You’ll never understand how much I do. We never love our parents as much as they love us,’ she said softly. ‘One day, you’ll understand. Like I said, I’ll see you when you come over on holiday.’

  And now Zoë understood the secret behind her mother’s departure: Anna knew she was dying. She had wanted to be buried in her homeland, and hadn’t wanted to give trouble to those she would leave behind. If only Zoë had known. Resting her head against the plane’s window, she cried silently.

  The man next to her left his seat and, a minute later, a flight attendant offered her a cup of water. She smiled ashamedly, tears still wet on her face.

  *

  Outside the arrivals lobby, a tall man waved a sheet of card, her name written in broad black marker. He wore a green tweed jacket and pale yellow turtleneck.

  ‘Colin Dylan . . . Colin,’ he said, offering a hand with long spindly fingers. ‘Court liaison officer. Your colleague, Donald Wilkins, was in touch. How was the journey, Mrs Johnson?’

  She caught a whiff of spearmint with garlic undertones. ‘Zoë, please. The flight was fine. Good of you to meet me.’

  Although desperate to interrogate him, she decided to wait until they were clear of airport traffic. They joined cars and minibuses in a rush to flee the terminal. Minutes later, on the M56, they hogged the middle lane, heading for the city through a sudden shower.

  ‘You’re positive she’s not my daughter, Colin?’

  The wipers counted her heartbeats before he turned them off.

  ‘Yes, we’re sure. The young lady refuses to give her name. Security cameras caught her stealing, then she threatened the store detecti
ve with a knife. It’s a serious offence.’

  A knife . . . Zoë yanked the seat belt away from her neck.

  ‘The police took her prints.’ He shook his head. ‘No comparison. The girl bears a strong resemblance to the passport photo, though. Had us all fooled for a while.’

  ‘And she won’t say why she has Megan’s things?’

  ‘No, but you might have more luck. We’re going straight there. You can talk to her.’

  Zoë pulled the notebook from her pocket and scribbled a list of questions to ask this girl, wondering how stubborn she was and how difficult it would be to get her to talk. If she had met Megan, if she knew her, then just maybe she could give Zoë the information she needed.

  They turned left into the city of Manchester and Zoë leaned against the car door with the momentum. Her life revolved around London. She believed it was the best city in the world, that nowhere could compare to the capital. But with the first glimpse of Manchester, her preconceived ideas faltered.

  They passed over a quaint canal bridge, and up ahead, an unusual building grabbed her attention. The angular structure seemed sci-fi in the early dusk light. The construction was an irregular tower of glass cubes protruding from the sides with no visible means of support, like a filing cabinet with the drawers pulled open to various degrees. What appeared to be a flat steel spine rose through the centre of the structure. Light and shade shifted as they approached, and Zoë found herself mesmerised by the complexity of the architecture.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked Colin.

  He smiled. ‘That, my dear lady, is the Civil Justice Centre. Largest court complex in the UK – forty-seven courtrooms, seventy-five consultation rooms, and all the amenities to go with them.’

  Zoë forgave him for addressing her as my dear lady. ‘I’m impressed. Is that where we’re going?’

  He nodded.

  They stopped at traffic lights. On the opposite corner, with her back to them, a skinny girl juggled with white clubs that appeared too big for her small hands. Clearly talented, she threw the skittles high, then dropped one. As she bent to pick it up, the black bowler fell from her head. She rolled it along her arm, flicked it into the air, then caught it. All part of the act, Zoë realised. After a sweeping bow, the girl ran along the line of cars with the hat held out. Zoë found herself smiling as they pulled away.

  Her focus returned in the lift as it rose through the central spine of the building. The girl in custody had probably stolen Megan’s bag. Her defences would be up. A difficult situation awaited, and everything depended on the right tactics.

  Colin led her to his office, where a child psychologist joined them. She talked condescendingly for twenty minutes on how to handle the offender, and Zoë’s nails dug into her palm. She did know how to deal with troubled youngsters; it was part of her job as a youth court magistrate. In this case, they all wanted the same thing: to discover the identity of the young woman and learn where Megan was.

  ‘Right, are you ready, Zoë?’ Colin finally said.

  Zoë nodded and followed him to the interview room.

  The girl sat at a table in the centre of a square office. Waiflike beneath a mop of tangled dark hair, she didn’t look up. She thrust her chin forward, her forehead puckered in a frown as she stared at the tabletop. The large woman beside her wore a square, badly fitting grey suit. Beneath her red-blonde hair she had kind-looking eyes, and Zoë could see that she was probably very well suited to this line of work. She offered a hand for shaking.

  Colin introduced her as June Tree, the juvenile’s appointed solicitor. He gave Zoë an encouraging nod and then left the room. Zoë pulled her chair to the side of the table so as not to sit opposite the girl. The detainee lifted her head slightly, her glance not reaching anyone’s face.

  ‘Listen, I’m not here to make trouble for you,’ Zoë said softly. ‘I know you don’t want to be here and that it might be scary, but please understand I’m desperate to find my daughter, Megan.’

  The girl ignored her.

  ‘I haven’t seen Megan for seven months now, and for every one of those days, I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Can you imagine?’ The words that she thought so often, but never dared say, tumbled out. ‘I’ve feared the worst every single day. Feared she’s dead and buried on some wasteland. Terrified I’ll never find her or hear from her again. Can you imagine the hope and the dread that comes with every phone ring or knock at the door?’ As Zoë said these words, she wondered if they were true of this girl’s family, too. Where had she come from? Who was she?

  The girl did not move, and the room became almost tangibly silent. A pain grew in the back of Zoë’s throat and spread, making her neck stiff. Almost overcome by emotion, Zoë paused to let the words sink in. She suspected the girl sitting in front of her didn’t feel as tough as she was acting.

  The girl shrugged, and frustration crept in, briefly eclipsing Zoë’s misery. Zoë steeled herself, knowing that anger would get her nowhere here. Drawing all her strength and experience from questioning people in court, she continued.

  ‘Listen, I understand you don’t want this aggravation. I don’t care if you stole Megan’s bag, or if you found it, or if she left it with you. Please – I just want to know if you’ve seen her recently!’ The words were louder than she intended, then a cursed sob escaped her.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed, hateful. ‘Yeah, right. Nobody’s interested in me. Well, guess what? I don’t give a shit about your daughter, and she doesn’t give a flying fuck about you either.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ the solicitor said. ‘Mind your language. It’s in your best interests to co-operate. We’re both here to help you.’

  ‘So, you have seen her?’ Zoë’s scalp tingled.

  ‘I’m not sayin’ nothin’. It’s my right.’ The girl reconsidered for a moment. ‘I found the bag. I was going to give it back to her.’

  She found it? What did that mean? For a moment Zoë lost her concentration. Every word mattered in a situation like this. She had to be professional and bottle her emotion.

  ‘Can you tell me where you found it?’ she asked.

  The girl picked at chipped black polish on her bitten thumbnail.

  ‘You must know Megan. Otherwise how could you give it back? How could you know what she thinks of me?’

  Startled for a moment, the girl lifted her head. Her eyes reached Zoë’s. She saw anger, stubbornness and, sparking like static somewhere in the back of her eyes, she saw fear. The girl rolled her lips and bit down.

  Zoë turned a pleading glance to the woman in grey, who said, ‘Mrs Johnson, you’ve had a long journey, how about a coffee?’

  Realising the solicitor was using it as an excuse to leave the room, Zoë said, ‘Thank you. No milk, no sugar.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be ten minutes.’ She turned to the girl. ‘I’ll bring you a Coke. I’m locking you in, so behave.’

  The girl glared. The solicitor frowned, left, and a key turned in the lock.

  They sat in silence for a moment before Zoë softened her voice and tried a new tack.

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to trick you, or trap you, I’m just searching for my daughter. If I sound a bit brittle, it’s because I’m exhausted. I’ve just come all the way up from London to talk to you. You’re my only hope. Will you at least tell me your name?’

  The girl remained silent.

  ‘I wish you’d understand that I’m on your side. In fact, I can help you. Have they told you that I’m a youth magistrate?’

  Her head snapped up.

  ‘Not from here,’ Zoë said. ‘I work in London, but I can put in a good word for you.’

  The girl glared about the room, fixing on nothing.

  ‘You do understand the gravity of the offence?’ Zoë said. ‘Threatening behaviour with a serious weapon, obstruction and theft. If you help me, I can help you.’

  ‘Get lost. You’ll just get what you want and go,’ she snapped. ‘That’s what always happens. I’m
not stupid.’

  ‘You have my word. Now, please, tell me about Megan.’

  Bolder now, she stared at Zoë. ‘How’ll you help me then? What can you do?’

  With a sinking feeling, Zoë knew she was about to do something that went against her principles – buy information. She leaned forward and placed her hand over the girl’s, who pulled away. Then she asked, gently, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  CHAPTER 7

  SOFIA

  Athens, 1944.

  ‘I HAVE TO GO AND take care of my wife,’ Big Yiannis said, lowering his eyes. ‘Will you be all right on your own, Sofia? Get something to eat, then off to bed. I’ll come back in the morning. Don’t go out, will you?’

  ‘No, I promise, Mr Yianni. Anyway, they’ll probably be back soon. I have to wait for them.’

  He got down on his knees, so our faces were level.

  ‘Sofia, your parents aren’t coming home,’ he said. ‘You have to understand – they were at the very heart of the explosion. Almost everyone in the theatre died, your family and my wife included. You and me – we were lucky to escape. I went outside for a cigarette, and you, under the seat at the back, searching for your sweet. The angels were looking out for us both.’

  Time seemed to stand still. I couldn’t process his words, they didn’t make sense. How could an explosion have a heart? If it had a heart, it wouldn’t have killed my family. And my heart, it was in bits, shattered beyond repair. And my mama and papa, where were their hearts? Not in Heaven. Surely not. Heaven could wait. I needed them now. My parents couldn’t be dead . . . not my brothers, and Mama and Papa. People like that, they lived forever. Mama was always saying ‘I live for my children’. Let her live for me, now.

  Please, God, send them back. Give me one of your miracles. I’m begging you with everything I have.

  I tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway.

  Big Yiannis pulled me to his chest and I sobbed.

  ‘There, there,’ he whispered. ‘It happened so fast, child, they wouldn’t have felt a thing. One minute they were in the theatre, full of happiness, the next moment they were in Heaven.’ He breathed deeply. ‘And my wife’s there with them, too, thanking your father for the free ticket.’