Crying Blue Murder (MIRA)

by Paul Johnston

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  INSIDE the cave Eleni knelt down by the tarpaulin and shone the torch on the boxes and bags. ‘What is this stuff?’ she asked.

  ‘Army supplies,’ Mavros said. ‘They look old.’ The face of the British lieutenant in the photograph he’d found in the chimney flashed up before him. Could this be another link to Rosa and Liz, the women who’d stayed in the room in Rena’s house before him? ‘There was some undercover activity on Trigono during the war.’

  The archaeologist shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Theocharis. He was here. I heard him talking about it once to Aris.’ She put her hand on one of the boxes.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch that,’ Mavros said, carefully lowering the lid he’d raised. ‘From what I can tell, there are explosives in there.’

  ‘What?’ Eleni gasped, pulling her hand away. ‘Let’s get out of this place.’

  Mavros was on his knees at the rock face beyond the tarpaulin. ‘There’s been some movement of the wall here, but I don’t think we can get through.’ He glanced round at her, the sunlight from the narrow gaps in the far wall momentarily blinding him. ‘If you want to leave, we’ll need to go back.’

  Eleni squatted down under the natural windows. ‘Do we have to?’ she said reluctantly. ‘I really don’t want to see Aris. All he’ll do is shout at me for letting you on the site.’ She shook her head. ‘Not that it’s any of the bastard’s business. He comes here for a month every year and throws his weight around, then flies off back to his whores in New York.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Mavros said, giving her a tentative smile. ‘We’ll wait. Those explosives have probably been here for half a century. If we leave them alone, why should they blow up now?’

  Eleni didn’t look convinced but she nodded, clutching the Cycladic figurine closer to her chest.

  Mavros moved over and sat down beside her. ‘So what are you going to do with it?’ he asked, inclining his head towards the sculpted blue marble.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, running a hand through her hair. ‘I made the mistake of handing the first two to Theocharis. He told me he would pass them to the ephor of antiquities, but he didn’t.’

  ‘You could give it to me for safe-keeping,’ Mavros said, patting his satchel. ‘It would be out of sight in here.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Eleni replied, drawing back from him. ‘I’m not sure you are who you say you are, you liar.’

  Mavros realised he still had some persuading to do.

  As soon as she had put her son’s bones away, Kyra Maro felt a wave of exhaustion dash over her that was more than physical weakness; it was a terrible emptiness of spirit. She toppled on to her bed and managed to pull a blanket across her legs. Suddenly they were freezing. The shrivelled muscles and wrinkled skin seemed to be starting to detach themselves. She lay there, heart racing, and wondered what was happening. Was this the end at last? She opened her eyes and saw the photograph of her lover looking out from the recess in the wall with the hesitant smile she remembered so well.

  ‘Ach, Tzortz!’ she said in a faint voice. ‘Are you waiting for me in the dark country beneath the surface of the earth?’

  And in a flash she was young again, the wind on her shoulders as she scaled the steep northern slope of Vigla, keeping away from the tracks to avoid prying eyes. Her family had been openly hostile since the Italians went to Myli and captured seven of their fellow islanders. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected the landowner Theocharis of saying something about her and Tzortz. She had been kept out of everything to do with the supply of provisions to the British and Greek groups and told to stay in the village. But it had been a week since she’d seen her lover and she wasn’t going to wait any longer. She had climbed out of the window of the room she shared with her sisters when they were asleep and slipped through the empty streets like a ghost. It must have been after two when she approached the cave. She had stopped frequently to check that she wasn’t drawing attention to herself, and her legs were aching from the walk. Her absence, and that of the goat leg she’d taken from the kitchen, would be discovered at first light. This time she would not escape Manolis’s wrath.

  The moon was bright as she came round the western flank of the hill, casting her shadow long over the scrub and rocks. This forced her to slow her pace. She could see the great sweep of the ridge leading to Profitis Ilias and she knew that a Sacred Band sentry would be on it. And where was the Englishman with the murderer’s eyes? He would be watching somewhere near. Breathing deeply to calm herself, she looked out over the silver-grey water, ripples cutting across it under the moonlight like the lines on the back of a giant lizard. Even though she’d grown up on the island and seen its beauties a thousand times, they could still make her stare in amazement, a failing that her family regarded as evidence of her flightiness. For them Trigono’s stony earth and the man-consuming sea around it were proof of life’s bitterness, not of its bounty. Maro steeled herself and made the last zigzag approach to the cave. She arrived there without being stopped.

  The interior of their secret place—the second cave beyond the almost invisible gap at the edge of the rock face—was pitch-black, the moon’s brightness reaching only as far as the outer area. For a moment she thought he wasn’t there, even though the marker stone was in place. Then she heard a swift movement and a hand slipped over her mouth.

  ‘Maro?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Is it you? What are you doing here?’ Then he kissed her and everything became sweet again.

  After they had lain together for a long and beautiful time in the heavy air of the underground chamber, Tzortz lit the lamp and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Ah, Maro,’ he said, his voice full of pain. ‘I didn’t think I would see you again in our own place. I…I have been thinking of other things.’

  ‘You forgot me?’ she said, pushing an elbow into his bare abdomen and laughing. She wasn’t concerned by his serious expression; she was sure their love was more important to him than anything. ‘How could you?’

  He smiled at her, sadness in his eyes. ‘What news from the village?’ he asked. ‘Ajax…I mean your brother never speaks to me now and Theocharis thinks that my men and I should be sent away. Has anything been heard about the hostages?’

  ‘Only that they are in the prison outside Athens,’ she said. ‘Chaïdhari is a very bad place.’

  Tzortz nodded, his expression distracted. ‘It…it was my fault, Maro,’ he said. ‘They found a book of mine in the—’

  ‘I know they did,’ she said, drawing him close and feeling his shoulders shake. ‘But you mustn’t blame yourself, my love. This is war and the people know that. Most of them still want to help in any way they can.’

  ‘But the seven that were taken may be tortured, they may be shot,’ he said, his eyes flickering. ‘I could have their blood on my conscience for the rest of my life.’

  Maro shook her head, soothed him, told him the Trigoniotes would willingly sacrifice themselves for their country’s salvation. Eventually she persuaded him. He grew less agitated and kissed her again with the passion she had grown used to. Poor Tzortz. He must have been tormented for years by those wasted lives. What did it do to him, the knowledge that three of the men were executed after refusing to name resistance members; that two of the others died from typhus and malnutrition; and that one more was sent to Dachau and never heard of again? And Styliani, the sole woman to be taken? What might he have felt about brave Styliani? She had returned to Trigono after the war a shadow of herself, never speaking of what had happened to her before her untimely death in the late forties.

  ‘You know we’re going to carry out more sabotage, Maro,’ her lover said after they’d joined their bodies again, unable to resist the urging of desire. ‘There may be more reprisals, worse reprisals.’ His voice was strong again. ‘But the struggle must go on.’

  And she had nodded eagerly in her innocence, saying, ‘I will stay with you and help you, my love. I cannot go back to
my family now.’

  Tzortz had looked at her sternly, as if her words had been unwelcome, then he gave her a sweet, sad smile.

  But life is not as simple as war. Maro had learned that lesson in the long years that followed. Life is a valley of woe. It begins in pain and ends in eternal darkness. She wanted to believe that there was companionship in the underworld, that she would see her loved ones again—the one she’d given herself to so joyfully and the one she’d carried inside her body.

  Maro closed her eyes, shutting out the images of Tzortz and Tasos. If only she had faith that there would be a meeting beyond the grave. If only…

  Eleni was glaring at him, the torchlight in the cave turning her face sallow. ‘How do I know who you’re really working for? This brother of Rosa could just be a front. You could be collecting information for one of the big dealers.’

  Mavros shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘Eleni, did anyone leave the bar after me last night? You stayed, didn’t you?’

  She extended a hand to his chin and turned his injured jaw to the light. ‘That’s very nasty, Alex. Are you sure the doctor said you could be on your feet?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ he said, watching as her eyes widened at the roughness of his tone.

  She pursed her lips and then nodded. ‘Yes, I stayed for another hour or so. And no. No one left for quite a long time after you.’ She ran a hand through her curls. ‘I think Aris and Dhimitra were the first to go, but that must have been at least half an hour afterwards.’

  ‘Did anyone make a phone call?’

  Eleni’s brow creased as she thought about that. ‘No, not that I saw. There was music playing, people shouting above it. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘How about Rinus?’ Mavros persisted.

  Her eyes flashed in irritation then her face slackened. ‘Yes,’ she said, raising her hand. ‘I remember now. He made a call on his mobile phone, but it was at least ten minutes after you went. And I heard who he was talking to—’

  ‘Who was it?’ Mavros demanded.

  ‘Or rather, who he left a message for,’ Eleni continued. ‘It was Barbara—you know, German Barbara? Obviously her mobile had been off for some time. Rinus was annoyed. He told her to call him as soon as possible.’ She shrugged. ‘He seemed worried.’

  Mavros slumped against the wall, things no clearer to him than they had been. He suddenly felt exhausted, mention of Rinus bringing back what had happened to him on the narrow track from the bar. He was about to ask Eleni if she knew anything about the Dutchman’s drug dealing when he heard sounds from behind the tarpaulin-shrouded boxes.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked, stepping across the cave.

  ‘What was what?’ Eleni asked, one eyebrow raised.

  He listened, his ear to the rough surface of the rock. ‘I don’t know. I thought I heard scratching and then what sounded like a moan.’ He leaned closer. ‘Yes, there it is again.’ He looked over his shoulder to find Eleni close behind him. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked, moving back to let her get to the wall.

  After a few moments she shook her head. ‘No, I can’t hear anything.’

  Mavros listened again, this time picking up only a faint scratching. Then there was nothing.

  Eleni was studying him thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You took some heavy blows to the head, didn’t you? Maybe you’re—’

  ‘Hearing things?’ He gave her a testy look. ‘No, I’m not. I think there’s someone behind there.’

  Eleni stood with the figurine in her arms then looked at her watch. ‘Let’s head back to the dig. Aris will have gone by now. He’s more impatient than a teenage boy in a brothel.’

  Mavros turned away slowly. ‘All right, you lead the way.’

  She gave a twitch of her head. ‘No. I want to concentrate on the piece. You take the torch and go first.’

  He nodded and headed back to the low hole. Bending down, he held the light on the stones piled up in the breach. It was then that he heard Eleni’s voice rise in alarm.

  ‘Alex, watch your—’

  But Mavros had already slipped away, the wind screaming past his outstretched arms and into his eyes, blurring his vision and making him blink in the abyss of darkness. He thought he heard the word ‘head’ the moment before he hit rock bottom.

  ‘What is your name?’

  A long silence.

  ‘My name…my name is…oh God, what is my name? Say it! I need to hear my name. I need to know who I am.’

  The woman panted for breath, the dank air passing over her broken lips. Now she could hardly speak out loud any more, hardly had the strength to moan. She thought she had heard a man’s voice, muffled and distant, and she’d been trying to scrape at the rock around the ring-bolt that had been driven into it. But soon her nails were split again, the grit and splinters jammed into the cuticles, and she’d had to stop.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘let me drop into a sleep that I never wake up from…before they come again…the pair of psychos who stand behind the camera…recording my rotting body…making a film for sick bastards to drool over…’ The rasp of her breath in the gravel pit of her throat seemed louder than the words. ‘Oh God, let me fall into oblivion…let the waters of Lethe wash me away.’

  To her amazement she felt a painful gurgle of laughter well up. She wondered what she was saying. This made her laugh again, though there was very little noise. Just an unlikely lightening of her spirits. Why? What was so funny about Lethe, river of forgetfulness, river of the ancient underworld? Perhaps it was the incongruity of what she’d learned in classical studies coming back to her in this underground pit when she couldn’t even remember her name. Or, more likely, it was her subconscious self showing her that water was the only important thing now—a bottle, a bucket, a river in spate, it didn’t matter. Laugh out loud at this thought, she told herself. There isn’t a drop for you to drink. What consolation is that, to think about water when you have nothing to drink? She swallowed a stabbing laugh. Not funny, not funny at all. But still her spirits were flying. Maybe the drugs she was sure she’d been slipped were still having some effect, even though she’d had nothing to eat or drink for what seemed like days. What was so funny about dying of thirst?

  Wait. Something was coming back to her. Lethe. The river of forgetting. She’d seen the name in the recent past, not just when she was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Lethe. Yes, that was it. In a bar. There was a bottle of ouzo called Lethe. She’d made a joke about it to the barman—what was he called? She’d said that was a good name for an industrial-strength spirit, something like that. Ouzo. Add water and watch it go cloudy. Water. The sea was all around. And now she remembered. She had been on an island. It didn’t have much water, the shower ran dry every evening, the stuff from the tap was brackish, you had to buy bottles or queue up at the well in the square. Water. The island didn’t have enough, you could see it in the people’s faces, lined and wrinkled, sun darkened, long suffering; their characters hard, kindness and generosity rationed not from spite towards outsiders but out of necessity.

  Come on, woman, she said to herself, get a grip. Lethe. What was the barman’s name? Rinus, yes, that was it. A Dutchman who spoke perfect English, a skinny guy, earrings like a gypsy. And the other one, the big, bald man with the green sunshade on even at night? Aris. Yes, Aris. He showed me Lethe, he showed me the underworld. Didn’t he?

  ‘What is all this?’ the woman said aloud, her voice muted. ‘What am I thinking?’ She tried to move her arms, but found that she had no power over them. She wanted to flex her muscles, wanted at least to feel that she could fight the rope even if she couldn’t beat it. But there was nothing. She was stretched out in the darkness like a stunned heifer waiting for the spike to be pounded into her head. That’s how they do it on Trigono, the big man told her when they were driving through the fields. Trigono. Yes, that was the name of the island.

  And suddenly she found herself back in the Jeep with
the man called Aris, the suspension moving easily over the surface of a road that led to a large stone tower surrounded by white buildings and lines of trees, the earth smelling of water. Oh God, water, she thought. Was that a swimming pool there? Then she was in front of a great painting, a mural, parts of it ancient and other parts restored. Yes, there was the river, there was Lethe, a small boat and a figure steering it with an oar across the stream—Charon the ferryman. Other faces flashed up before her—a heavily built middle-aged man with penetrating eyes, another man of the same stock, older, with only one arm. And a woman, golden hair and golden skin, overstated nose and lips, inflated bosom and a voice that was harsh, came from deep in her throat. She had three big dogs in tow. There was another woman, this one smiling beneath dark curls, her expression kind. And someone else behind her, an old man with a stick. Yes, an old man with a white beard and an imperious air. Who was he? And who am I?

  The captive woman felt herself drift away from the people who were gathering around her like mourners around a body that had been laid out. She was floating away on Lethe’s stream, unable now to remember what those people meant to her, or why she was remembering them one moment, forgetting them the next, remembering, forgetting, remembering…

  And then she came back to herself, her mind clear again but her throat drier than ever.

  ‘Water,’ she gasped. ‘Give me water. I’m dying for the need of it. Why have I been brought here to rot? Help me.’

  The words boomed in her ears as she mouthed them, but the woman knew that they had made little sound. She no longer had the energy even to scratch the rock wall.

  At that moment hope was extinguished. Now all she could do was wait for the racking pains to end.

  No, she told herself. There was a man’s voice near by, a different voice. Don’t give up, don’t…

  The faint light faded and darkness closed in on her again.