*
I didn’t know much about politics, and nor was I interested. I kept the promise I’d made to Mama, minutes before she was killed, and stayed away from all things political. They said the civil war was over, that Greece was now under the thumb of America because the USA had given vast amounts of money towards our recovery from the war. The central party, EPEK, had inadequate influence over parliament, and at the last election the government were defeated.
The political situation confused me. I think it confused everyone. Feelings ran high not only between neighbours, but also in the hearts of families, too. My country seemed to have returned to a ‘communists versus capitalists’ conflict once again, only now America had everyone’s arms up their backs. One thing I did understand, from Markos’s conversation with Spyridon tonight – father and son supported opposite sides of the political spectrum.
*
At 3 a.m., I got out of bed and drank some cold water. Sleeping with a full stomach was not something I was accustomed to. On top of that, I couldn’t believe the proposal Mr Papas had put my way. What an opportunity! He wanted me to cut a record. Me . . . a record! And even more exciting, the great Maria Callas had a concert scheduled this autumn, in town, and he was going to try and get me a spot at the start. Just imagining the great singer and her enormous audience thrilled me.
I could not stop thinking about my mother. She would have been as great a celebrity as Callas if she had lived. As I climbed back into bed, I decided that my mother was alive, inside me, in my heart, and that I would make her proud.
*
Mr Papas told me I could work one more week singing at Madam Magdalena’s while she found my replacement, and the same with my cleaning job at El Greco’s. Then he would find me a new apartment in the city, and hire a piano teacher to coach me.
‘You are destined for stardom, my girl! I’ve heard a whisper that Callas is not taking any more bookings in Europe. She’s going back to America after her next concert here. Athens needs a new star, and I intend to make sure you fit the bill.’
My thoughts went back to Markos. His laughter had infuriated me, but why should I care what he thought? Next time I was in his company, I would simply ignore him.
CHAPTER 17
MEGAN
Manchester, present day.
ONCE INSIDE THE BUILDING, MEGAN turned on the torch.
‘Is anyone here? I’ve got a knife!’ she yelled.
She wished she did have a knife – not that she had the guts to hurt anybody. After picking up a length of broken wood near the oil drum, she ventured up the stairs.
She found the filthy bathroom on the second floor. The place was covered in graffiti, mostly giant dicks and women’s bits. The toilet was blocked and shit-splattered, and there were shitty finger streaks down the wall next to it. She decided to just hold it.
On the third landing she opened the door cautiously, stepped inside and closed it quickly behind her. Then she nailed the length of wood across the door with the hammer, bashing her thumb a couple of times and swearing in the dim light. She propped the redundant light fittings against the door, stood back and considered her security system reasonably well done.
The mattress appeared even more disgusting than before. Just being in the same room as it made her itch. The stink of the bathroom still cloyed in her nostrils. Despite the morning’s shower at Centrepoint, Megan felt filthy. Using the baby wipes, she cleaned her face, ears, neck and hands until half the pack of wipes had gone. Then, feeling better, she sat on the mattress and realised how hungry she was.
The hot dog tasted great, smothered in extra mustard and ketchup. She ate noisily with her mouth open – a rebel and loving it – for transient moment. Stuffed full and feeling warm inside, she decided to save the Mars for breakfast. She popped the Coke can, threw her head back and drank. Brilliant!
As she drank, she spotted a piece of paper stuck to the dusty window. The dim streetlight shone through it and, even from the mattress, she could make out handwriting.
If someone had left a note, that meant they were expecting another person to come and read it. That could be bad. She should get out of there, leave the building. Perhaps her security system wasn’t exactly fantastic. When she’d finished her drink, she would chance Centrepoint, or ask around the doorways where the Sally Army shelter was. Darkness had already fallen outside, so she had better hurry.
As Megan got to her feet, she heard voices drift up from downstairs. She glanced at the door, and jumped when somebody rattled it. Her skin shrank. She leaped back and stared at the shaking fluorescent light fittings, then snatched up the note, ready to slide it under the door. If they got what they’d come for, perhaps they’d go away.
She stared down at it in disbelief, shocked to see MEGAN written across the top of the paper.
Somebody thumped on the door before she could read further. She stuffed the paper into her pocket and slung her bag onto her back, ready to run. With the hammer clenched in her fists, she backed into the corner, standing on the skanky mattress.
Then the banging stopped. Whoever was at the door seemed to have gone. Megan’s heart was beating hard. She waited a few moments and then, on her toes, crept towards the door.
It was probably Emily. Emily must have left the note, must have been the one who’d come back and tried to get in. Maybe she had come to say sorry and straighten things out, and bring her bag back.
‘Emily, is that you?’ Megan whispered. She wouldn’t want to shout her name, wouldn’t want the tramps to know who she was.
She listened hard, but no sound came from the door. Whoever it was had gone. She let out a long, slow breath.
The voices rising through the floorboards were louder, raucous, as if a fight was taking place on the ground floor. It didn’t sound like Emily. She stood in front of the door, deciding whether to go down or not, when . . .
WHAM!
‘Jesus Christ!’ Megan gasped.
The strip of pallet flew off the door frame and hit her. Some of the light fittings clattered to the floor, but three of them had jammed into the door panel, keeping it closed.
WHAM!
Megan squealed and threw herself against the light fittings, keeping them in place.
‘Go away! I’ve got a knife!’ she yelled. ‘I’m calling the police!’
If only she had a phone.
She pressed her ear against the door and heard men’s voices, clipped words that she couldn’t make out.
‘Hello! Emergency, police! I’m being attacked in an abandoned building, third floor, in the alley behind Pete’s Dogs, the hot dog stand. Come quickly!’
The voices faded as the men moved away. What should she do? Why had she gone up there? She was trapped. What a stupid plan.
She had no idea what would happen if she went downstairs. Perhaps the harsh voices below were just quarrelsome drunks. But it might be worse – pimps on the prowl, just as Emily had said. How many guys were there? What if they grabbed her when she tried to leave the building?
She thought of the state of the bathroom, and imagined their snagging, rough hands on her, black splintered fingernails gouging her skin . . . prodding her, groping, holding her down. She whimpered.
Trembling, she pressed into the corner of the room. What if she crept down the steps and then made a run for it . . . ? But the door was too heavy. She wouldn’t be able to shift it fast enough by herself. They’d get her, be all over her like rats. She daren’t go down. She daren’t move.
Megan had never experienced anything like this before. She’d only been on the streets for three months, since she left Simon, and she’d tried to spend as many nights as possible in the shelters. The only times she slept in deserted buildings like this were when she had somebody else with her. She had spent the night on the street a few times, too, but at least on the street you could run.
Megan froze in the corner of the room, crouched on the mattress with the hammer in front of her and her
bag still on her back. She stayed quite still, until the shakes stopped and her legs were going numb. She had no idea how long she’d been waiting. It might have been an hour by the time she straightened and rubbed the backs of her legs while the pins and needles raged and then faded.
The voices below had quietened. If she dragged the mattress to the door, nobody would be able to get inside the room. She didn’t want to shift the mattress and disturb whatever lived beneath it – cockroaches, woodlice, mice. She shuddered and went over to the window, rolling her feet over the floorboards, holding her breath.
After pulling her sleeve over her hand, she rubbed a space in the grime on the glass. The window was low, a single sheet of glass one metre wide and one and a half high. The sill, illuminated by the street light, was only two feet from the floor. She noticed a cleaner patch where someone had recently sat. Three floors to the alley below, but she saw no way down.
As Megan peered out, she saw a couple of men leaving the building. One of them turned and looked up at the window for a moment. What if he was a pimp? Emily’s words came back to her: Drugged up and sucking dick. They would never make her to do that.
She’d rather die.
As quietly as possible, she stood the rest of the light fittings against the door. She gripped the hammer and the plank, which still had the nails sticking out of it. Back in the corner of the room, alone and afraid, she hunkered down and waited for dawn. She should have run to her mother when she’d had the chance. Now a long night stretched ahead.
Sometime later, her head lolled, jerking her awake. She wondered how long she’d slept. A few moments, or a few hours? The building was quiet as death. Megan listened for the traffic: just the occasional passing car. It must be the early hours.
As she rolled over, something crinkled in her back pocket, and she remembered the note. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she turned on the torch to read it.
Dear Megan,
Emily told me you sleep here sometimes. I’m at the Cherry Tree Hotel. Please get in touch. I’ve been searching for you ever since you left home. Emily told me some things about why you left. I am so sorry. I’ll help you, I promise. I love you more than you could ever know, Megan. Don’t run away from me. Remember, I love you very much. Mum
XXX
Megan gulped. Mum! Her mother had been up there, seen where she slept. Her face heated with shame. She remembered clean sheets, her comfy bed, clothes washed and ironed and hung in her wardrobe. Her mother’s Sunday dinners, always chicken, the best meal in the world, the kitchen bursting with delicious smells. Fighting Josh for the last roast potato, pulling the wishbone, laughing. Teasing Josh, loving the hero worship in his eyes when she exaggerated about some tale from school. No matter what had gone on through the week, Sunday dinner marked a new beginning.
Was it true? Did her mum really love her, really care about her? Could she ever go back to a life of rules and standards and pressure? Could she ever face her parents again? She didn’t know.
She would stay until first light, go and find her mother, then decide whether to speak to her or not.
She slipped the bag off her back, found the juggling balls, replaced her backpack and hunkered into the corner again. Juggling cleared her head, helped her think. The soft leather red, yellow, green and blue quarters cooled Megan’s hands and calmed her. The three balls curved rhythmically before her eyes, comforting, steady as a heartbeat. Scoop, throw, scoop, throw. Up and over, like life itself.
Megan would get herself on an up curve again. She needed to try harder, not feel sorry for herself. She would tell her mum the truth about her dad and that woman, tell her how unhappy she’d been, that she didn’t want to go to university, that she wanted to study performing arts. Then one day soon, she could be on that Greek island with Granny Anna, in the sun, with a proper job, and she could perform in the tavernas and theatres like she’d always dreamed of.
She would leave at dawn, when the tramps on the ground floor would be too drunk or passed out to be a threat. The drug dealers would be gone and the pimps also. She kept on juggling. Scoop, throw. Up and over . . .
Megan listened hard. Nothing.
Moonlight filtered through the window. Then she caught the acrid smell of smoke.
With a surge of panic, she remembered the oil drum of rubbish on the ground floor. The odour thickened. Vagrants could have set fire to the building. She jumped up, shoved the hammer up her sleeve and the juggling balls in her bag. She tugged at the light fittings and tossed them to one side, making no effort to be quiet. Her mouth dried, eyes watered, adrenaline pumping as the aluminium brackets clattered to the floor.
She turned on the torch and saw plumes of smoke drifting up through the floorboards. She had to get out of there fast.
Her mind raced. The stairs were cement, but how big was the fire? She was on the third floor. What if she had to run through flames? Was there time to douse herself in that awful bathroom? She cleared her exit, yanked the door open and raced down the smoke-filled stairway.
Spurred on by terror, Megan careered down steps she could hardly see, afraid of tripping. The big door was open a little way, but it was darker down there and the smoke thicker.
A pile of rubbish blazed in the back corner. No sign of the tramps. She hurtled over rubbish, a broken chair, rags and bottles and sprinted towards the doorway and the street. Then she remembered Pissed George, whom Emily had pointed out the other night. Was he still in there? She couldn’t leave somebody to die!
She crouched and shone the torch in an arc around the floor. The smoke was less dense near the ground. Green and red light glinted from a nest of wine bottles. Something exploded with a crack, an aerosol or bottle. Flames leaped higher and then ran like water across the floor towards her.
And then she saw a figure, crumpled on the ground.
She pulled her sleeve down and held it over her mouth. Bending low and blinking furiously to clear her eyes, she dashed towards the tramp. Heat seared her face as she got closer to the flames, but it was the dense smoke she found most difficult to deal with. Her eyes and nose streamed. Pissed George seemed to be unconscious. She dropped the torch, grabbed his bony ankles and started to drag him over the twenty-metre obstacle course, towards the door.
Megan could hardly see, hardly breathe. Another leap of flames lit the smoke orange for a second. She pulled the neck of her sweatshirt over her mouth and nose. Closing her eyes as she lunged backwards, she managed to haul him further away from the fire. Her heels caught something solid. She stumbled and landed on her bottom. Turning quickly, she got to her feet, gripped the tramp’s ankles either side of her waist and, bending double, dragged him like a cart behind her.
Distant sirens grew louder and wailed in from the street. She didn’t know how she would get the unconscious tramp out of the doorway. With three metres to go, and her strength exhausted, Megan cried for help as she ploughed on.
Then the door opened and two firemen with blinding searchlights rushed towards her.
‘All right, love, we’ve got him,’ one of them said, holding something over her mouth that made breathing easier. ‘Anyone else in here?’
She shook her head. She was being guided out into the street. In the cool night air, she fell to her knees, sobbing, unable to speak. Someone placed a blanket over her shoulders and a bottle of water in her hand.
At the end of the alley, red, yellow and blue lights oscillated. Two uniformed men rushed towards them with a stretcher. George, still unconscious, had a mask placed over his face and was carried away. The next hours were a blur. Shaking and shocked, Megan allowed herself to fall under the control of the authorities.
*
She was taken to the local hospital and checked for smoke inhalation. While she was there, a policeman came and took her statement, and then she had a visit from social services.
Some time later, Megan found herself at the Salvation Army centre. She finally relaxed under a hot shower with shampoo suds runn
ing down her body. Tired and weak after a sleepless night and all that had happened, she thought about Pissed George. He could have died. She could have died. If she didn’t get her life in order, what would become of her?
Megan felt herself at a turning point. She had saved a life, done something good for once. Despite the circumstances, she knew her parents would be proud.
The Salvation Army towel was old but freshly laundered. It smelled of bleach, school swimming practice, her mum’s bathroom. She scrubbed the clean cotton against her body while forcing her mind back to happier times. The Sally Ann had given her a grey jogging suit and offered to bin her filthy clothes, but Megan wanted to wash them.
What if she got a job? What if she managed to become a real performer, or a stagehand at a theatre? Could she possibly impress her parents?
But then, she doubted anyone would give her a proper job. She hadn’t even finished school.
Megan loved performing. Even juggling in the street brought her a great deal of satisfaction. The sound of applause excited her. The performance itself meant more than the money spectators threw. The ability to capture and hold an audience, even if it was only a mother and child shopping in the mall, thrilled her.
She washed her camo trousers, the soapy water making the ends of her fingers white and wrinkled. She stared at them. If she had a soul, that was how it felt right then – anaemic, puckered and lifeless. She hung her clothes over a line in the drying cupboard and went into the women’s dorm.
Desperate for sleep, she stared at the twenty plastic-covered mattresses that lay on the floor. More than half were taken already. She looked at the ticket she’d been given; hers was number eleven. Someone snored softly. Megan used her bag as a pillow, lay down and closed her eyes. That had been the worst night of her life, and she wanted to put it right out of her head.
She relaxed her tense body and stretched out, taking herself away from the trauma, to another time and place. She thought of her last holiday in Crete, with Mum, Dad, Josh and Granny Anna.
*
‘This is totally amazing, the best holiday ever,’ she had whispered.
Greek Island Escape Page 14
