Strangers in Company

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  The bus had been climbing through pine groves for some time and now pulled into a car park that already had its complement of tourist buses.

  “It’s going to be crowded, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Adams gloomily.

  “Looks like it,” agreed Mrs. Spencer. “Well, it always is. So near Athens. One would need to come in mid-winter to have it to oneself.”

  Marian pulled on her heavy cardigan. If the temple was crowded, it could not be going to happen here. She did not let herself specify what exactly she meant by “it.” What was the use. She would find out soon enough. But climbing down from the bus, she could not help a quick look round the car park, or a pang of disappointment at sight of several cars, one of them a small red one that might be unpleasantly familiar, but no motorbike.

  The temple was as crowded as the one at Sounion had been, and thinking this, Marian felt as if she were looking back on some remote, almost archaeological past. She remembered escaping from the crowds there and sitting peacefully, dazed with sleep as she was today, among gold and yellow flowers, brooding about the twins. That was the day when Mrs. Hilton had sealed her own doom by insisting on sitting with her on the bus going back. The professor had not been there, but the Adamses had, and had doubtless reported Mrs. Hilton to him as a possible hazard. Was she really thinking of the professor as the leader of this gang? It was horrible, but granted his part in it, she could imagine him as nothing else.

  The harassed custodian of the site was shouting at a party of German boys who were clambering on the rare upper row of pillars. “Disgusting,” said Mrs. Adams, “they ought to be kept under better control.” She looked at her watch. “It’s about time we were going.”

  “Going?” They were in the midst of a group of older Germans, who were busily discussing their guidebook.

  “Yes. Don’t you remember, you wanted to walk down? I still think it’s a bit much for you, but since you insist, I’ll have a word with Mike, and we’d better get started. If we leave now, we ought to get to the café in Aghia Marina at about the same time as the others. So long as you’re sure you’re up to the walk.” This was a little louder, for the benefit of Mrs. Spencer, who had climbed over a fallen pillar to join them. “Mrs. Frenche wants to walk down to the village,” she explained. “It was an idea of Miss Marten’s actually.” The name rang a warning bell in Marian’s head as was undoubtedly intended.

  What had Marcelle said? “Do nothing.” Well, surely that meant go along with what was suggested. Besides, for Stella’s sake, she must. “Of course I’m up to it.” She sounded quite convincingly cross. “This place is too crowded to be borne. But let’s just have one more look at the view.”

  If it was her last, of any view, it was worth it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Hi, there!” Marian and Mrs. Adams had cut through the car park and started down a narrow path through the pine woods, when the shout from behind made them stop and turn. Mrs. Spencer was hurrying after them. “Wait for me!” she called. “I want to walk down, too.”

  Marian, who had already been encouraged by the fact that the sinister little red car was no longer in the park, felt a wild leap of hope. Surely Mrs. Spencer’s presence must be some kind of protection? Mrs. Adams was certainly greeting her with a signal lack of enthusiasm. “It’s a very rough path. Are you sure your shoes are up to it?”

  “Yes, don’t you think you’d be better in the bus?” Remembering the gang’s ruthlessness, Marian felt it the least she could do to try and protect Mrs. Spencer.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Spencer fell into line behind Marian on the narrow path.

  It was surprisingly quiet among the trees, and dark with the sinister darkness only pine woods have. Ahead, Mrs. Adams set a brisk pace that left no time for conversation. Stumbling, sometimes, with fatigue, Marian was aware of Mrs. Spencer coming steadily along behind her. The path came out into the opening suddenly to cross a bend in the road that zigzagged its way up the hill. They paused for a moment, to let a minibus pass, then crossed and plunged into a still deeper, more silent stand of pines. No birds sang here, and even the noise of cars from the road seemed muted. Only the sharp smell of the pine trees served as a reminder of living.

  “Here.” Mrs. Adams stopped at a fork of the path. “This is our way.” Suddenly, she and Mrs. Spencer had an arm of each of Marian’s as they turned into a surprisingly broader path, wide enough, surely, for a small car.

  “How far?” asked Mrs. Spencer.

  “Ten minutes. But we’ll have to hurry. There’s a lot to do.” And then, as Marian caught her breath. “Quiet now. Not that anyone could hear you. It’s a geological fault, if that means anything to you.”

  Marian was silent She was digesting her own extraordinary stupidity. Mrs. Spencer was one of them. If she had applied to her, back on the bus, it would have meant disaster.

  Well, and what was this? Marcelle, down in the village of Aghia Marina, seemed worlds away, and Stella, back in Athens.… Poor Stella. She was young.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs. Adams with satisfaction. The track had turned a corner and emerged into a clearing where stood a typical little one-storey Greek summer home, all white concrete and geraniums in petrol tins.

  A young man was sitting on a kitchen chair outside the front door, cleaning a gun. “Good.” He pushed the door open, and they filed into the large, main room of the house. Marian had recognised him as one of the two Greeks of the red car, which was doubtless parked out of sight behind the house somewhere. The other one awaited them inside. “You’re late,” he said.

  “I know.” Mrs. Adams turned on Marian. “No time to lose. Your clothes. All of them. In there.” She pushed her into a tiny slip of a bedroom, threw a black bundle after her and, mercifully, closed the door.

  The room was windowless and furnished only with a pallet bed and another kitchen chair. Marian sat down on the chair. What now? Every instinct told her not to cooperate. She had friends, after all. Marcelle and the young man on the motorbike must be somewhere. Time, now, had to be on her side. If anything was.…

  What had Marcelle said? “Don’t think of defeat.… Think of victory.” Time.… She got up from the chair, threw herself on the hard bed, which smelled, and pretended sleep. Was there a hole in the door? Were they watching? Apparently not. A few minutes passed with nothing but the sound of rapid Greek from the main room. It was, she supposed, not surprising that Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Spencer both spoke it fluently. She could hear their voices now, and another woman’s, loud, harsh, angry. Her double? She would know soon enough.

  The talk in the other room came to a crescendo, then stopped on one grating monosyllable from the strange voice. Marian made herself lie relaxed on the bed, as if she had fallen there in complete exhaustion. She heard the door swing open, and a furious exclamation. In a moment, Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Spencer were standing over her. “You said she’d cooperate.” Mrs. Spencer’s voice vibrated with fury.

  “She will.” Mrs. Adams’ blow caught Marian exactly on last night’s bruise. The pain was exquisite. She pulled her upright on the bed. “We’ve not much time. What we do to you here they do to that girl in Athens. It’s been hard enough to keep Adams off her as it is.”

  “If you mark her,” said Marian. “How will she explain it?”

  “The motor accident, cretin. No one’s seen her since, have they? Now, off with those clothes, or do we get the men in to strip you? I expect they’d enjoy it. A little.” As she talked she had pulled off the enveloping cardigan, was now busy with the buttons of Marian’s blouse.

  “Bra and girdle?” asked Mrs. Spencer, as one might have said, medium or rare.

  “No need. Marks and Spencer’s, and she’s got on her own size.” The word “she” carried a curious aura of respect, and for the first time Marian found herself actively wondering about this double of hers. Would she see her?

  “There.” Mrs. Adams pulled off her skirt. “Grateful to me now I made you wear your Marks and Spencer pants? Here!�
�� She threw her the black bundle. “Quick. She wants to see you.”

  It was the kind of shapeless black garment worn by elderly Greek women, and like the bed, it smelled, but Marian put it on gratefully, noticing, as she did so, that Mrs. Spencer had already vanished with her own clothes and bag.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Adams as the heavy, dirt-engrained folds fell around her. “Now, just once I will warn you. She is not one to cross. One word out of tune, and you are dead, and Stella, too. Possibly even I.… So, understand me, there will be no word out of tune.”

  “I understand,” Marian said.

  “Good. Then come and let her see you. Though how she will make herself so meek and sweet, God knows.” This was spoken in a quick undertone, and Marian was suddenly aware of waves of fear emanating from Mrs. Adams. If she was afraid.…

  Best not finish that sentence. She followed, meekly (“meek and sweet?”), as Mrs. Adams led the way into the main room, then stopped, amazed.

  She faced herself across the room. “Good,” said the other woman, in Marian’s voice. “Very good. She knows herself. Speak to me, Mrs. Frenche. The tape recording is not always perfect. I may have some accent wrong. You will tell me … show me.”

  It was extraordinary. Her own voice? No, not quite. But once she had spoken to this consummate mimic, it would be. So: silence. She folded her lips in a mutinous gesture remembered from the twins and stood there, silent, still, aware of the smell of her garment; beyond humiliation.

  “So?” said her double. “We must make you speak? In Athens, Miss Marten will not even have the comfort of crying out. She is gagged, of course. Nikos, the telephone, that our guest may know we mean what we say.”

  But—gagged, thought Marian, as the Greek called Nikos picked up a telephone in the corner of the room. Then, surely, still in the Hermes? Perhaps, even, rescued already? But he had made the connection, spoken swiftly in Greek and nodded across the room to the nameless woman, who was so nearly Marian. Why not quite? The wig was too tidy, for one thing. Doubtless it had been made back in London, when Marian was looking for jobs, keeping herself, always, scrupulously tidy. Besides, her hair had grown on this trip.… But that would be no problem.

  Her double was exchanging look for look as the unintelligible conversation continued. Now he smiled, and Marian could have laughed with relief. There is something extraordinarily disconcerting about seeing one’s other self. But the smile had split their personalities once and for all. Her mirror had never shown her a smile capable of that cruelty. No wonder, Marian thought, freed from a burden of superstition she had not knowingly borne, no wonder this woman’s own people were afraid of her.

  “Who are you?” She regretted the question the moment it was spoken.

  “Good.” A gesture stilled the young man at the telephone. “‘Who are you?’” The imitation was horribly perfect, the faint, false intonation wiped out, as by the reverse feed of a tape recorder. “I am Medusa.” Again that terrifying smile. “And”—satisfied—“you have never heard of me.”

  “I have, Medusa.” At the professor’s voice, every head in the room swung round. “I have waited a long time to meet you again.” He was standing in the doorway, holding the gun the Greek outside had been cleaning. “If any of you move, I shoot her.” His gesture showed that he meant the woman called Medusa. Behind him, men were coming quietly into the room, disarming first the second Greek, then Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Spencer.

  “Good,” said Edvardson. “Line up against the wall there, facing outwards. All but her. I want to talk to her for a moment”

  The woman called Medusa spat something at him in Greek, and he shook his head. “We will keep it in English, if you please. My friends all understand it, and so, I think, do yours. I wonder how many of them know just what they were doing.” He turned first to Marian, who had been surveying his friends with astonishment One was the proprietor of the café the three of them had visited, another the restaurant owner, another, surely, the stand-in bus driver who had brought them from Delphi. The bus driver confirmed this by winking at her cheerfully.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Why should you? And we’ve no time for explanations. But what I must know is what Stella told you. Trust me, Marian.”

  Absurd? But she did. Completely. And tears of the most exquisite relief and happiness were running down her face to prove it. “Yes,” she said. “I trust you.” And, saying it, knew how much more she was saying. The air between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken messages. No time for them now. Marian turned to gaze at her double, the woman called Medusa. “She’s a liberal sympathiser.” Her voice totally failed to carry conviction. “Stella thought she was a friend of Madame Vlachou.” Impossible, now, to believe it. “She’s escaped from the prison here on the island. She was to take my place on the plane home.”

  “And you hers in prison? Or just be found convincingly dead, I suppose, thus ending the search. And the rest of you?” His gaze swung along the row of staring, angry, puzzled faces. “Is that your story, too? A gallant bid for freedom by a tortured woman? She doesn’t look too bad, does she, for someone who’s been in solitary confinement for years? In fact, they only caught her six months ago, when she made the mistake of coming back to Athens.”

  “Coming back?” This startled Mrs. Adams into speech.

  “Children, the lot of you.” There was conviction and contempt in Edvardson’s tone. “Just gullible children. You did not begin to think, like Miss Marten, that it was a very violent plan for a political escape? That there might be some political detainees not quite so entitled to support? Even the name ‘Medusa’ gave you no clue?”

  “She’s too young. She explained all that.” It was the Greek by the door.

  “You’re too young, or you’d have recognised her for the lying Jezebel she is. Medusa”—he turned and spoke to Marian as if only she mattered—“was the name of a leading Communist in the rebellion after the war. You remember, I told you about Odysseus and Ares, the guerrilla fighters, back at Delphi? Well, she was one of them. The worst of the lot, in some ways. There’s no time to tell you the things she did, and I wouldn’t if I could, but she had reason enough to know about Stella as one of the Greek children who were carried off. I rather think she was her aunt. But we won’t tell Stella that, I think.”

  “Stella?” Marian was taking it in slowly.

  “Safe. She’s had a change of guards, that’s all. And now, we must get going. You”—he would not even use Medusa’s name—“into that room and out of those clothes, if you want a chance to live.”

  “What do you mean to do with me?” Her eyes challenged him across the room.

  “It’s a problem.” Marian was aware of tension between them, thick as dried blood. Then, visibly, he came to a decision.

  “It’s a problem,” he repeated ruefully. “We don’t kill, my friends and I, so easily as you do. And I cannot bring myself to hand even you back to the colonels’ police. But I would no more take your word than I would a viper’s. So my friends here are going to take the lot of you out into the wildest part of the island, tie you up and leave you. If you’ve not got loose by tomorrow, someone will come. If you try anything, I’ll hear of it and tell the police. But, frankly, I’d like to keep the police out of this.”

  You could see her weighing chances. “Very well.” She opened the door of the little room Marian had used. “Give me my clothes.”

  Ten minutes later, the exchange had been made once more. In her own clothes, and without the wig, Medusa did indeed look much older, and one of her own Greek followers spat at sight of her. “It’s true,” he said. “You are Medusa. Kyrie”—to Edvardson—“you must be the mad American. The one they talk about I am your man.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” said Edvardson cheerfully. “You’re for the bushes with the rest of them. You can sort it out among yourselves later.” He looked at his watch. “No time to be lost. We’re going to be late as it is. Stavros”—to the café p
roprietor—“you’re in charge of the island party.”

  “I shall enjoy that,” said Stavros.

  “Now, you two.” Edvardson turned to Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Spencer, who had stood rigidly side by side throughout all this. “Which is it to be?”

  “Oh, God, take me home,” wailed Mrs. Adams. “I had no idea.… He made me do it.” In her despair, she had aged incredibly. She’s older than I am, thought Marian amazed.

  “Do you know, I’m inclined to believe you,” said the professor. “Though you seem to have taken to violence pretty naturally. But you could be useful to us, and will be, if you want to get home. If you behave, we’ll get you out. But you’re something else again.” To Mrs. Spencer. “You joined the party in Athens—it was the first thing that made me wonder—and you are going to leave it here. I’ll explain to Mike.” He smiled. “Isn’t it a fortunate thing that your gang operates to such an extent in separate cells? Our friend Mike still believes I’m one of you. Right, off with you, Stavros, and tie them up tight.”

  “Believe me, I will.”

  “But not to kill.”

  “Since you say so.” His voice was regretful, but resigned.

  “Now.” Left alone with Marian, Mrs. Adams and the bus driver, Edvardson took another anxious look at his watch. “The substitution continues. You are Medusa, Marian, and you, Mrs. Adams, are in charge of her. If you want to get home alive, you won’t put a foot wrong. Loukas here”—he smiled at the bus driver—“is going to hitch a ride back with us across the island. He’ll be sitting right behind you two, and I’ll be in front. So, no idiocies.” He turned to Marian. “Can you do it?”

  Pretend to be pretending to be herself. “I don’t see why not. Her wig was wrong, did you notice?”

  “Yes. And so would they have, and cut it. They’re professionals.”