As the deadline approached, she replayed the visit of the nasty men in her head over and over. It remained as fresh and as clear as though it were happening all over again, and the memory still had the power to make the breath catch in her throat. It still sickened her.
For the first time in her life she felt cold hatred. For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill. Not just the man who had hit her and threatened her girls, but the huge and silent monster at his back, and their boss, the person who pointed them in her family’s direction. She wanted to attack them with the ferocity of a mountain lioness protecting her babies.
She wanted to kill Alfred Lovejoy. Lovejoy! What a ridiculous name for such a vicious thug.
Justina imagined him lying in a gutter, with blood pouring from a gash in his throat. She imagined plunging the paring knife deep into the blond man’s neck, slicing open an artery. Each night for three weeks, as the Hallowe’en grew ever closer, the day they would be chased from their home, she’d dreamed of Lovejoy’s death and of the death of the hulking, silent brute.
She’d often wake with the soaking sheets bunched around her legs, afraid she’d scare the girls with her yells and her tears. Ore, too, lost sleep over the matter. It was making them both ill, but they could do nothing to prevent it.
She could do nothing but dream of murdering their tormentors. It was wrong to feel that way. It went against all the teachings of her faith, but the Lord had put so many obstacles in their path, how could she continue to remain strong?
At confession, Father Michael told her God never gave his followers more than they could endure, but Father Michael was wrong. The weight of their suffering was more than she could stand, and it had nearly killed poor Orestes. Were it not for her and the girls, he would surely have done something stupid by now. Instead, he disintegrated before her eyes. Her darling man. Her handsome, honest husband, bent low by forces beyond his control.
Justina made the sign of the cross, prayed to the Blessed Mother for deliverance and forgiveness. She massaged her aching shoulders. The pain in her neck had become a permanent feature of her waking life, the cross she had to bear, like the one Jesus carried on the Road to Calvary, but He had been prepared for the suffering. He had suffered the pain so humanity would gain access to Paradise. She was just a weak woman with no one to turn to for help.
Again, Justina wiped her eyes. She turned her back to the dining room and stirred the big pot. Her beautiful girls loved stifado. On such a cold and wet day, it would bring them warmth and comfort.
#
For weeks now, the building work had increased in intensity, the booming, crashing noises above and around their heads became more and more intolerable. The dust it created in their flat and the Bistro made it impossible to keep the kitchen and dining areas properly clean.
Some nights they served no covers at all and had to discard the prepared food. Such a waste. So expensive. Whenever she broached the subject of what they were going to do, Orestes would clamp shut his mouth and turn his back. To see him so beaten down and defenceless was almost the worst of it, almost more than she could withstand. She cried every day, but only on the inside. On the outside, she tried to be the same, smiling mother as always.
And still it worsened.
Another official-looking letter had arrived that morning, but Orestes had taken it with him to the office upstairs, unopened. Knowing him the way she did, he’d probably fed it through the shredder, still unopened. Her husband was always one to bury his head in the sand.
Lord, what will become of us?
Justina read the time from the clock above the front door. Ore was late with the girls. The bad weather brought more cars onto the road and made his journey even slower.
A car horn tooted three times.
She hurried into the dining room, pulled open the front door, and smiled.
As usual, Ore stopped the car outside, having to double-park. Kora and Rena jumped from the back and rushed into her waiting arms. Despite everything, they were still full of life, still the reason for Justina’s existence.
Justina absorbed the latest news from school while herding them to their usual table. She closed the door against the driving rain, which glistened on their school hats and blazers, despite the distance between the car and the front door being so short. Justina helped Kora remove her outer clothes and took Rena’s to tidy away.
“Mama,” Rena said, looking up through Ore’s dark brown eyes, “Miss Gupta said I could be Mary in the Nativity play.”
“Oh, that is wonderful, moraki mou. And what role is there for you Kora?”
Kora popped out her lower lip and tucked in her chin. “I’m a shepherd, Mama. They’re gonna make me wear a beard and Billy Philippoussis says they stick it on with glue and it’s scratchy and tickly at the same time. Will I have to use Poppy’s razor? ’Cause Billy says I will.”
Justina pulled her baby into another hug. “Don’t listen to that Billy Philippoussis. He is a foolish little boy. Everybody knows they use a magic potion to grow beards on beautiful little girls for just such occasions. The whiskers grow like that”—she clicked her fingers on one side of Kora’s head—“and they disappear just as quickly.” She clicked her fingers again on the other side.
Kora giggled.
Rena shook her head. “Oh, Mama. Nobody believes in magic anymore. Not even baby Kora.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m nearly six!”
“You must be a baby if you believe what little Billy Philippoussis says. Everyone knows he’s a big fibber. Duh!”
“What about Harry Potter? He uses magic.”
“Baby Kora. Kora’s such a baby!”
“Mama, Rena stuck her tongue out at me. She did!”
“Tattletale.”
“Rena, that is enough,” Justina said, trying to be firm, but not having the heart. “Now, sit while I finish making your supper.”
“Stifado?” they cried in unison.
Justina nodded. “I did promise. You can tell me if it is good enough to serve the customers tonight or if I should start again.”
“Oh, Mama,” Kora said, “you and Daddy never have to make over. Not ever.”
“Thank you, moraki mou,” she said, nudging Kora’s chair closer to the table. “Now, you behave yourselves while I finish cooking and serve you two tiny bowls.”
“The big ones, Mama. The big ones,” Kora cried.
Justina helped Kora unpack her satchel. “Start on your homework, I’ll be right back.”
Kora sorted through her pack of colouring pencils, no doubt looking for the pink ones, Rena started her exercises, and Justina returned to the kitchen. She hung the blazers on the rail beside the back door, smiling sadly as she listened to the girls chattering away as though the world was all butterflies and sweetness. As though men such as Lovejoy and the Tugboat didn’t exist.
The back door burst open allowing a blast of freezing, rain-heavy air into the kitchen. Ore dived inside and leaned on the door to help it close more quickly. He peeled off his coat, hung it up, and stood still, breathing warm air on his hands and rubbing them together hard.
Although he smiled, his red, puffy eyes, and the dark lines beneath, showed the effect of weeks without proper sleep. Normally impeccable, he had not shaved that morning, and the stubble on his chin scratched as he bent to kiss her cheek. He was tired, but putting on a brave show for the girls.
“Winter’s arrived early. Chuffing freezing out there.”
She nodded. “It never was like this on Kos. Sometimes I wonder why I ever left the island.”
Ore pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. His clothes were cold and damp.
“In that case, my darling, we would never have met, and the girls would never be.”
She shook her head into his shoulder. “The Good Lord would have led us to each other.”
“Perhaps.”
He relaxed his grip and held her at arm’s length. “How’s it looking tonight? Any more boo
kings?”
“A table for four, and the Spanos will be here at eight o’clock as usual.”
Ore frowned and allowed his shoulders to fall.
“Seven covers on a Friday night. That all?”
“It is not what we would expect, but” She eyed the girls at the table and lowered her voice. “What are we going to do, Ore? We have such little time.”
He drew her close once more. “I’ll think of something. I’ll protect my family.”
Typical of Ore. He could never face the truth, never make a decision. In the past, he had left everything to Papa Onassis, and now the problem fell on his shoulders and he couldn’t manage.
She patted his chest. “Go sit with the girls, I’ll bring supper. Tomorrow, we can talk to my sister and to Christos. They may be able to help.”
“That’ll only be a stopgap. I’m working on something for the … longer term.” He ran his hands through his thick curls and pulled so hard his eyes opened wide.
“What, Ore? Where were you this afternoon? I called many times but you didn’t answer your phone.”
There it was again, the same pained expression she saw every time he looked at her since the attack. It was as though he blamed himself and felt guilty for not protecting her. Poor Ore, his manhood had been challenged, and it had been found wanting. For a Greek man to be unable to protect his wife and family was the worst thing imaginable. Emasculation. Many Greeks would prefer death to such dishonour.
He frowned. “Sorry, the battery’s dead. Forgot to charge it last night. But don’t worry, I might have found a way to get us out of this mess. You keep the restaurant ticking over, and I’ll handle the … other matter. Okay?”
Justina’s heart lurched.
“Ore, you’re scaring me. What are you planning?”
“I’ve been talking to Ivan.”
The breath caught in her chest. “What? No, you promised. No more gambling! That will not help us.”
“No, you don’t understand. I made a promise never to play poker again, and I always keep my promises.”
“So, why did you talk to Ivan?”
He stepped closer, took both her hands in his, and clasped them to his chest. “It’s my job to keep you and the girls safe, and I can’t do that without protection.” He cast a glance at Rena and Kora before whispering, “I’ve asked Ivan to find me a gun.”
Justina gasped. She tore her hands free of his and covered her mouth in case she screamed and frightened the girls.
The stifado simmered in the pot, the traffic crawled past the window, and the girls chatted happily at the table.
One part of her mind rebelled against the thought of having a gun in the house. It was wrong, worrying. Illegal. Another part—the mountain lioness part of her—roared with defiance and hate. Yes, she would happily point a gun at Lovejoy and the monster and pull the trigger. She would do that to protect her family.
But what of the Good Lord’s teachings? What of her faith?
The argument raged within her breast, but one look at her girls, sitting at the table, playing so nicely together, made the decision for her. Yes, a gun might well be the answer.
“Do you know how to shoot?” she asked.
Ore’s mouth dropped open. He had clearly been expecting an argument. That she could still shock him into silence after all these years came as no surprise.
“No, no. I’ve never even held a gun. On the TV it looks easy. Just point and pull the trigger. But I thought if Lovejoy knew I had one, it would be enough.”
Pah! Silly man.
She had married a fool and had known it since the first time they had met. A soft, lovable, wonderful fool, and one she adored.
“You have not thought this through, have you, Orestes.”
“What do you mean?”
“So, you are going to wave a gun under the nose of Lovejoy and hope he soils himself and runs away crying to his boss? Or are you going to put a sign in the window that says, ‘I have a gun and am not afraid to use it’. Is that it?”
Ore took her by the arm and led her deeper into the kitchen, further from the girls.
“No, I was going to spread the word around the neighbourhood. The message would work its way back to Lovejoy that we aren’t going to let him force us from our home.”
Justina caressed his cheek and softened her stance.
“You silly, silly man. This isn’t Greece, Orestes. It is illegal to have a gun in England. This, I saw on the television. If Lovejoy found out you have a gun, he would simply call his friends in the police, and they would come quickly to take you away.”
Ore’s lower lip trembled and tears filled his eyes.
“I can’t think of another way, Justina. When you told me what he did to you …”
Justina leaned against him, burying her face in his chest. “I know, my love. But telling people we have a gun here is not the way. We need to keep it a secret.”
Ore jerked her away.
“What? What did you say?”
Justina wiped her eyes with the tissue once again. “I said, we will keep the gun a secret and use it when Lovejoy next comes to call.”
“I-I … are you sure?”
“When do you collect it from Ivan?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. It’s all arranged.” He blinked twice as though unable to believe what he was hearing. “Are you sure? I haven’t paid him yet and can always cancel. Ivan owes me big time, and he wouldn’t be upset.”
She stiffened her back. “I am certain. You will collect the gun and I will keep it safe.”
“You will? You don’t mind holding a gun?”
“Of course not. I am familiar with weapons of all types. On Kos, my Uncle Stefanos had many guns and was a good teacher. When I was still a small girl, he showed me how to use them. Semi-automatic pistols, revolvers, rifles. It has been many years, and I was never what the America cowboys might call a ‘crack shot’, but in a confined space such as this one I would hit the thing I was aiming at. Of that you can be certain.”
Ore’s shocked and relieved smile filled Justina’s heart. She could tell this one was genuine. She could always read Ore’s moods.
“Now that this decision is made,” she said, returning to the stove, “go sit with your daughters and get ready to eat. I hope you are hungry.”
The weight of the world seemed to slip from her husband’s shoulders. He even stood taller.
“I’m starving, and that smells delish, my angel.”
Pausing long enough to wash and dry his hands, he rushed into the dining area and sat with his back to the window. The girls showed him their homework. He studied each book in turn, made encouraging noises, and told them their favourite jokes. It was like the old times. The good times.
She filled a large bowl with salad, a pottery tureen with the soup, added a plate of pitta, and carried it all out to them on a large tray. Orestes helped her serve.
“Enjoy, my darlings.”
“Thank you, Mama,” all three said together, giggling in unison and picked up their spoons.
“Napkins, girls. Remember your table manners.”
Justina returned to the kitchen, happier than she had been in weeks. Although not the best solution for their problems, a gun gave her power and strength. She would point it at Lovejoy and would even pull the trigger to defend her family. Anyone who threatened her or her babies would not live to brag about it to their friends. As for the police and the legal situation, she would face all that when it arose.
Maybe the Good Lord would find a way to help them before she had to use the gun. He had certainly failed to do anything so far. She made a hurried sign of the cross and begged His forgiveness for the doubts she had shown. Perhaps, the gun was the sign she had been looking for. Perhaps the Good Lord had answered her prayers after all.
Justina washed her hands with antiseptic gel, dried them on a cloth, and bent low to take a saucepan from the floor cabinet.
An explosion shattered the quiet.
A shower of what sounded like pebbles cascaded to the floor. The traffic noise increased. A loud engine roared.
Justina jumped up, the saucepan heavy in her hand.
Rena. Kora. My babies!
She turned.
A pile of glass fragments covered the carpet near the front table, twinkling in the lights. One of the large windows was smashed and opaque, a large hole in its centre through which beat in the rain.
Justina dropped the saucepan. It crashed to the floor, the lid clanged like a cymbal and rolled away towards the back door. She screamed and rushed into the dining room.
The girls, mouths open in silence, eyes wide, stared straight ahead.
In front of them, Ore lay slumped forward over the table. A pool of red spread across the white tablecloth. It mixed with the spilled soup, the granules of glass, and the broken crockery.
The girls screamed.
Chapter 10
Friday 23rd October—Late Afternoon
Bistro Mykonos, London
Kaine crashed through the boarding house door and entered the night, swamped by the deluge and hit by the cold. Stationary cars filled all four lanes. Rain bounced off roofs and bonnets, adding to the noise. He darted across the road, dancing between the cars, climbing over bumpers, heading directly for the centre of attention, Bistro Mykonos.
One of the Bistro’s large windows had disintegrated and showered the inside with bullet-sized pellets. The frosted remains of the pane clung to the corners of the frame, ready to fall.
The screaming and crying continued.
Drivers sat safe and dry inside their cars, staring at the damage, but doing nothing to help.
Justina knelt in the debris hugging her distraught daughters tight, keeping their faces tucked into her chest, turned away from the table. She stared in horror at her husband, who had slumped forward in his chair. His head, right arm, and upper body lay across the table, unmoving. Blood flowed from a gash on the side of his head and ran onto the snow white tablecloth, mixing with the remains of the unfinished meal.
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 9
