1 The Assassins' Village

by Faith Mortimer

  Standing up to face him she tried once more. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked with a note of begging in her voice.

  ‘Sweetheart, I just told you. There is nothing to do. It has all been just marvellous. Now, be a good girl and tell me if you can meet here again tomorrow. It will have to be a little earlier though as I’m rather busy later on. This place is as good as any. Nice and secret? Hmm?’

  Leslie said all this without a trace of remorse. ‘As I’ve only got a short while left here, we might as well make the most of it, what?’

  Antigone stepped back as if she had just been slapped. Of course it meant nothing to him! He was a gentleman officer, and she just a simple village girl. Under-educated and a peasant. He probably had a girl back home, although he never made mention of one. Oh, surely not? Could he be that cruel?

  Choking back a sob Antigone searched for her shoes, keeping her face turned away as she struggled into them. Her fingers shook with clumsiness, her dishevelled hair falling in her eyes. With stubbornness, she decided that she would never, never let him know what he had done to her. Not just the sex, but for destroying all her dreams and aspirations. Without taking another look at Leslie she darted over to the hedge. Pushing her way through, heedless of the thorns as they attacked her and leaving bleeding scratches down her bare arms, legs and face, she fled.

  Leslie remained where he was; the poet and artist speechless for once. What had she expected an offer of marriage? He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Just what would his mother have had to say about that? She certainly would not have related all that to her bridge partners back home.

  It was all a bit tedious in the extreme. She would have been just one more notch on the bedpost, albeit one notch that was certainly a lot sweeter than expected, and apparently a bloody virgin to boot. Totally unexpected! He looked forward to the next time – he knew he could talk her round. Next time he would properly finish the delightful task he had set himself.

  His cigarette spent, he crushed the stub into the ground, gathered up the rug and basket, and scattered the remains of the picnic over the grass. Glancing at his watch, there was just time for a quick shower before going down to the Officers Mess, if he got a move on. There was going to be a bit of a bash tonight. A dinner dance complete with a military band. An event like that always attracted the nurses from BMH too; they were always game.

  The eerie silence was all around him as Leslie pushed his way back through the thorn hedge. The few birds had ceased to sing and the cicadas were no longer as raucous as before. A strange feeling stole over him as he stepped onto the path and he took a quick look around him in alarm.

  There was nothing there, just the empty path stretching before him and disappearing into the distance. He gave a shrug at his fancifulness; for a moment it had felt like something had been watching from the shadows.

  As he made his way back up the track, whistling a cheery tune, he returned his thoughts to tonight’s dance and wondered idly just what his wife would be wearing.

  Chapter 27. Antigone

  Come seeling night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day.

  Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 2

  Reaching the village outskirts, Antigone forced herself to slow down. Stumbling along in her grief, too inexperienced to analyse her feelings, she failed to realise she was traumatised by Leslie’s cruel and brutal attack. In her innocence it was enough that he had used her purely for his own selfish gratification. All his promises and hints, fine manners and gentleness; surely she couldn’t have imagined them? With slow, fat tears trickling down her face she found it hard to drown out her sobs.

  Right now, she had to run the gamut of the villagers. If someone took one look at her hair, and dishevelled clothes, they would jump to a horrible conclusion. Stifling her sobs, she dried her tears on her skirt and then glancing down, straightened her attire and noticed the missing button from her bodice. It left a small triangular tear where it had been wrenched off in her struggle. Her arms face and legs were scratched from the thorny bushes and the inside of her thighs felt bruised from where Leslie had forced her legs apart with his knees. She had yet to hear of the word violated.

  Pushing her sweaty hair out of her eyes, she raked her trembling fingers through the tangles, removing embedded bits of leaf or twig. She knew that she had to keep all this to herself. No one was going to believe or help her. Too late, she remembered she had left her bag and staff at the old house. Nothing would make her go back to collect them. She shuddered. Her throat ached with her wretchedness. It was all she could do to stop herself from jumping off the roof of the nearest building.

  Sniffing back her tears, Antigone again wiped her dirt-streaked face with her skirt. She reached the narrow entrance to the alley, which a couple of hours ago she had skipped down with her heart singing and her head filled with joy. Now, peering round the corner before venturing out Antigone collided with Yanoulla.

  The older woman frowned, taking note of her scratches and clothes. Her sharp, black eyes missed nothing.

  ‘What on earth have you been up to Antigone? You look more of a mess than usual!’ she snapped, looking her up and down. Her mouth was turned down in contempt, her lips thinned in disapproval. Her sharp, beaky nose gave her more than a touch of the witch that it was whispered she surely was. She tossed her head of fine blond hair as Antigone hurriedly thought up an excuse.

  ‘I was rescuing a trapped kid that had been left by its mother. I-I slipped on some loose stones and fell into an acacia bush.’ Antigone blushed under the hostile woman’s scrutiny as she told her lie.

  ‘Well it must have been some bush. It is time you learnt to grow up a bit. Become tidier and less careless. Look at the state of your nails. Pah!’

  Glancing down at her hands, Antigone found they were streaked with dirt and dried blood and she hid them behind her back.

  ‘Please don’t say anything, Yanoulla. I’m always in trouble. Papa thinks I am useless. If he hears that I’m not looking after the goats properly I shall be punished.’

  Yanoulla looked steadily at the younger girl, noting her flushed, streaked face and overly bright eyes. She knew the girl was not being straight with her, and could have sworn she had been crying. There was something not right about her story; too lame. Perhaps her brother could get to the bottom of it. Besides, it would give her a good excuse to talk to the handsome Kristiakis.

  Shaking her head in condemnation, she carried on. ‘Perhaps you should stay at home more,’ she hissed. ‘Learn to be a good Cypriot woman, leave the goats to the men. It’s about time a husband was found for you to keep you in check. But no, I’ll not say anything to your father.’

  Giving her a smile of gratitude, Antigone thanked Yanoulla and made her way up the alley. It took all her self-control not to wince at the pain in her back; she needed to keep a blank face.

  Yanoulla watched Antigone, her mind rapidly assaying all she had seen. Just what had the sly little slut been up to? Despite what she had just said, she would definitely mention it to her brother. Perhaps it was time someone took the whip to her and rid her of her lies. She was becoming far too independent. It was ever since she had the ridiculous notion of becoming an interpreter.

  Antigone was thankful to escape the watchful eyes of Yanoulla. She knew her for a mean, spiteful woman who was frustrated over her brother, Kristiakis. For years she had fancied him, only to watch him work his way through all the other village girls.

  She turned off the alley, the family house before her. Peering into the courtyard, Antigone gave the Lord thanks out loud when she discovered no one at home. Kristiakis would be working on his building project and papa, no doubt, would be starting on his first drink of the day. She limped over the crazy paving and opened the door to the semi-gloom of the living room. It was all quiet and empty, except for the dog that raised a lazy head at her entrance. It rose to greet her, tail wagging.

  ‘What are you doing in here,’ she whispered to him, rubbing his velvet nose
. ‘Papa would kick you if he knew where you’d spent the afternoon.’ As he muzzled her with affection she felt the pricking of fresh tears. She had to get moving.

  With a final pat of the dog, she tore into her room, stripping off her clothes as she went. Bundling them onto her bed she found a clean blouse and skirt. Once dressed, she paused in front of her brown spotted mirror and was horrified.

  The girl that stared back at her showed a dejected and wild look in her eyes. She had scratches down her left cheek and neck, and her long tresses needed a good brushing. Pouring water into a bowl, Antigone began to scrub herself clean of dirt and blood. The coarse soap made her wince as it found its way into her cuts and grazes. Once finished she took another look at herself. She still appeared wide-eyed and miserable with tousled hair, but at least she was clean. Gently touching the scratches with her fingertips she decided they would heal quickly. Time was ticking on; her brother and father could walk in at any moment. They would be expecting a hot dinner placed before them.

  Antigone tidied the room and set about preparing that evening’s meal, her hands still shaking. Inside she felt raw; but she was more afraid of what her father and brother would do if they suspected that she had met a man in secret, and worse, a man who was old enough to be her father and an Englishman to boot.

  She thought of Yanoulla, hoping she had behaved innocently enough to dispel any ideas that the nosey woman might have. Her glance stole across the room to where the icon of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall. The Saint’s usually serene and benevolent face seemed to question Antigone with a sorrowful look in her eyes. Antigone looked away, hurriedly crossing herself.

  With a huge sigh, she opened the wire-meshed food cupboard and removed the rabbit Kristiakis had shot yesterday. She’d skinned the animal earlier that morning and now she cut it up into large pieces. She took the pan with the wide base and heated some olive oil on the little gas hotplate. She then threw in the rabbit, onions and herbs plus a glass of the local rough red wine. After adding some water, she placed a lid on top and then left the Kounelli Stifado (rabbit stew) to simmer. As she worked her hands steadied, the task was therapeutic. Her heart grew calmer and less erratic.

  She thought about Leslie. Was he right? Had she known all along, the risks of being alone with a man?

  Her head was full of romantic thoughts over what she believed to be a handsome and gentle stranger; so unlike her rough brother and worse father. Like villages the world over, domestic violence was often rife and very little was done about it officially. Nobody interfered, especially with a wayward wife or daughter.

  Of course, Leslie never actually said that he planned to take her away from the village. But he had dropped hints. She knew he found her attractive. It was flattering to a young village girl, especially when he ignored the others and singled her out.

  She sniffed, wiping her runny nose on her arm. Never since her mother passed away had she felt so wretched. Suddenly she stiffened, a feeling of dread crept over her. Familiar footsteps were approaching the house.

  Chapter 28.

  Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

  Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 2.

  The fragrance from the rabbit dish filled the courtyard with a wholesome, comforting aroma. Replacing the lid to the pan, and with a tremulous smile upon her face, Antigone turned towards the gate.

  Kristiakis stood glowering beneath the canopy of the tree. His lips were white with rage and his dark eyes glittered like hard black bullets.

  Cowering in trepidation, a tremor went through Antigone as she waited for the onslaught.

  ‘So you little harlot, you’ve betrayed us,’ his voice rasped over her.

  She raised a hand to her mouth. ‘No! I don’t understand. You are mistaken,’ her voice was husky with fear.

  ‘Mistaken? You are a lying little whore. Don’t lie to me. I saw you. Saw you. Coming back along the bottom lane and I wondered why the Englishman was only a step behind,’ he spat his words at her. ‘At first I didn’t believe it, my sister meeting with a foreigner. But what else should I expect? The last few weeks you’ve been following him around like a tramp, a lovesick puppy. Hypnotised by his clever words, grovelling whenever he called you, and what for? Oh, I didn’t want to believe what my eyes were telling me. But then Yanoulla comes along, that nosey, interfering bitch. And she tells me that you’d come home with scratches all over you and a torn dress. Looking like you’d been lying in a goat shed all day,’ he paused for breath before continuing. ‘Then I knew. I knew that you’d been lying to us all along. You are a little slut. You lay with a foreigner, an Englishman! You opened your legs for him! For that I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll not forget. That piece of shit isn’t a man. I’m going to show you just what a fine Cypriot man is made of.’

  His face was mottled, and spittle hit her as he spewed out his hatred and disgust. With one swift movement he removed the thick studded trouser belt that he was so proud of, wrapping one end around his knuckles. Raising his brawny arm, he brought the leather down upon Antigone’s back as he grasped and tore open her blouse with his other hand. He stared down at her, his eyes glazed. She screamed...

  …he dragged a crushed Antigone into her small bedroom and threw her onto the bed. The beating had raised his blood. He placed one heavy calloused hand over her mouth as he stripped away her remaining clothes.

  ~~~

  Later, he decided the Englishman would pay; for his arrogance and shaming his sister.

  He pointed a finger at her bedroom door and growled. ‘Stay here. I’ll deal with you again later.’

  Kristiakis slammed out of the house leaving a broken Antigone behind. He knew where he could find Leslie at this time of day. He would have finished his work for the week. No doubt he would be planning his weekend back down at the Episkopi camp.

  Approaching Leslie’s temporary billet, Kristiakis knew that late in the afternoon security was more lax than usual and he entered the low ramshackle building with ease. His mouth had a savage curve as he considered what he would do when he confronted Leslie. One beaten up girl was no substitute when he could thrash the real culprit. He would vent his entire, pent up frustrations and anger on this intruder of Kypros! Perhaps he would kill him. Kristiakis was no longer thinking straight.

  As soon as he found Leslie it went wrong. Making no attempt to quieten his heavy booted footsteps he tore along the off-white tiled corridor. The rooms leading off all appeared to be empty, good. But what he had forgotten, in his white rage and haste, was that soldiers carry guns. From his window Leslie had espied Antigone’s brother hurtling towards the building. Turning back into the room, Leslie had taken his Webley revolver from its leather holster and then calmly sat back down at his desk. His wicker chair creaked as he leaned back, watching the open doorway. When Kristiakis’ body filled the frame Leslie picked up the revolver and pointed it steadily at his chest. He sneered as he saw the look of astonishment on his adversary’s face.

  Kristiakis paused, his breath coming in ragged gasps. In his halting and broken English, Kristiakis growled out his grievance. His body shook with anger.

  ‘Your sister’s honour! Oh, do me a favour old chap!’ Leslie leaned forward, his eyes narrowed as he hissed in Kristiakis’ direction. ‘There was no honour to be lost. The little bint was begging for it. She’s been following me round for weeks.’

  He lolled back in his chair, giving him a bright smile. ‘Tell you what though. She was the best. The sweetest little bit of skirt I’ve had in a long time. Give her a few months and she’ll be spreading her legs for anyone. She couldn’t get enough.’

  He lowered the gun, and with crude deliberation, he lifted his left hand to his nose, took a long sniff and then drew his tongue along his index finger.

  Despite his lack of English, Kristiakis knew immediately what Leslie’s vulgar gesture intimated, and bellowing with rage he lurched forward. Leslie calmly cocked the revolver and took aim.

  ‘Don’t even think
about it old boy. I could kill you in one shot. It’s not worth it over some little eager fanny. Now why don’t you run home and have a drink. Better still find a girl. I’ve finished here so you’ll be rid of me after tomorrow anyway. Now, get out before I really do shoot you.’ He waved his gun dismissively, as if he was ridding himself of some annoying pest.

  Kristiakis glared at Leslie, unsure of what to do. As he hesitated there was a sound of running footsteps in the outside corridor and a breathless corporal materialised behind him. The young soldier looked shocked as he took in the scene before him; the gun in his officer’s hand and the rough looking Cypriot workman with fists as big as hams. His worried eyes swivelled to his officer. ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s all right Jones, he’s just leaving. It might be a good idea if you escorted him off the premises though. Here, you might need this. Oh, and when you’ve done that you might finish the packing. I’ve decided to leave this evening. I’ve accomplished all I needed to do here.’ The double meaning was lost on both other men, but Leslie obviously thought it funny as he gave another laugh.

  ~~~

  Finishing his report, Leslie signed it, and put it in a large buff envelope ready for delivery to his senior officer. He was satisfied with what he had achieved here. His time well spent. The highly specialised radio equipment and tall masts were all in place, ready for the connection with HQ back in Cheltenham. One more listening ‘device’ to keep us safe, he thought. Placing the last remaining items from his desk drawer into his attaché case Leslie sat for a moment, lost in thought.

  He’d had very little to do himself in the village, apart from oversee the operation. He’d whiled away his boredom doing what he liked best. Antigone was only a simple peasant girl. She was obviously besotted and flattered by him and his attention. So, he had set out to deflower her. So bloody what? Half the women here were pregnant before they married. The men needed to know that their prospective wives could bear children and weren’t barren. Mind you, he hadn’t reckoned on her brother taking a stand. It was a good thing he’d been ready for him.