Signs of a Struggle

by Tony Kaplan

  “I want this sorted out too,” he says, moving slowly to the desk, his hands held out where I can see them. He reaches for the phone.

  I watch his expression as he gets Kosta on the phone and speaks to him in a serious tone. He keeps his eyes on me. His voice is what I would expect it to be – urgent, commanding and persuasive. He keeps it brief. He puts the phone down. “He’s coming,” he says.

  I exhale. I am relieved. Christos is looking at the weapon in my hand. “That was very expensive bottle of Scotch,” he says wistfully.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “I think we both need a drink,” he says and walks past me to the row of bottles, examines them, chooses a squat bottle and pours us each two fingers. I take the glass he offers me, but I don’t let go of my weapon. Just in case he changes his mind. He goes behind his desk and sits in his usual chair and looks at Lucy’s screen. “So, do you how to get past the encryption?” he asks with a faint smile.

  “I don’t even know her password,” I tell him.

  “There weren’t even any photos of her,” he says sadly. “She was amazing.”

  I sit down and sip my whiskey. It is full and smoky with peat, a dark earthy taste that burns and then explodes into an effulgent warmth. A hint of vanilla in the afterglow. I nod my appreciation and lift my glass. “To Lucy,” I pronounce.

  “To Lucy,” Christos intones.

  After that, we drink in contemplative silence. We wait.

  50

  About twenty minutes later, I hear the growl of a motorbike coming down into the valley. Christos hears it too, and abruptly there is a change in him - a quickening of his movements, a gleam that suddenly appears in his eye that catapults me out of my torpor into a state of hyper-alertness. Fuck, this is a trap! “What?” Christos asks, opening a smile which is meant to be reassuring. But it is too pat. I see it for what it is – the smile is sardonic.

  I jump up. “You fuck! You’ve set me up!” I shout. And I suddenly see it all. Kosta will have a gun. They’ll kill me and say Christos heard an intruder and called Kosta.

  Christos puts on a look of surprise, a hurt look. “No,” he says, “You’ve got it wrong.”

  No, I haven’t. Why was I so stupid? I make for the door. “Wait!” Christos shouts after me. But I don’t wait. I stumble down the corridor and left again, then I’m out the door and running across the lawn and into the shadows of the dark trees beyond. I must get back to my car, but I will have to go the long way around. I am going in the opposite direction.

  I climb a bank, slipping on the pine needles under my feet and then collapse behind a ridge and look back at the hotel. I see Kosta pull up, dismount and put his bike on its stand. He takes off his helmet and loops it around the handlebars. Christos rushes out to meet him. I can just make out their frantic exchange. Christos points across the lawn to the forest, where I am hidden. They walk towards me, with determination. Kosta unfastens the holster on his waist and takes out his handgun. The light is behind them – they are in silhouette as they advance towards me, their shadows spreading across the lawn ahead of them.

  I suddenly realise that with the light behind them, they will see me better than I can see them. I scurry off to my left, scrambling down a bank, trying to be as quiet as I can. But twigs crack as I rush from shadow to shadow. Trees suddenly loom right in my face. I swerve, keeping my head down, swearing under my breath. Fuck, which way now? I have to keep left, keep going down. But then I find myself in a hollow and I am disorientated. Do I go straight up the other side and risk being seen? Or left again? No, that feels like I would be looping back on myself. I hear their voices approaching and hide behind a big boulder, my shoulder pressed up against the cold stone. I see their forms appear over the ridge, stop, look around and then they come down into the hollow. They are feet away from me.

  They are arguing. I hear Lucy’s name mentioned. Christos’ voice sounds accusatory. Kosta is defending himself, his voice weaselling and high-pitched. Christos is shouting at him, furious now. Kosta’s response is stammering, whimpering almost.

  Keeping my head low to the ground, I sneak a look. I see Christos push Kosta in the chest, hissing at him. Kosta backs off and then protests, and as Christos shoves him again, Kosta roars and hits Christos over the head with his gun, with the full force of his impotent rage. Christos topples forward, collapses onto his knees and then falls face down at Kosta’s feet.

  I am stunned. Kosta looks around furtively and then his eyes lock on me. I am surprised to find that I am on my feet. Kosta’s eyes pinion me. We are trapped by each other’s gaze. Then his expression changes. Something dawns on him. Without taking his eyes off me, he points the gun at his erstwhile employer and pulls the trigger. The gunshot is deafening. In a patch of moon-light, Christos’s body twitches. I see it straight away – Kosta killed Lucy. He will shoot me and say I wrestled the gun off him, shot Christos, then he bravely got the gun back off me and he had to shoot me to subdue me – I was out of control. With Christos out of the way, I am the only one who can pin Lucy’s killing on Kosta. If he kills me, Kosta will get away with all three murders. I turn and run.

  The gun goes off again and I hear the bullet thud into the tree just next to my head. I get over the ridge and scramble through the dense undergrowth. I brush branches out of my way. I can feel my face is being scratched. The moonlight makes harsh shadows. Bushes look like figures crouching. I run blind, bumping into trees, readjusting, stumbling. I run into a clearing. Which way now?

  Then Kosta strides out of the shadows into the clearing, his gun pointing straight at me. He must have come around my flank. He aims, his eyes narrow, he sneers.

  Then there is a rustling in the undergrowth and a huge wild boar, not in the least extinct, clatters out the thicket, jack-knifing its body awkwardly and at speed, then, head down, with guttural trumpeting, runs straight at Kosta. Kosta squeals like a girl and then shouts his surprise as the pig smashes into him and sends him tumbling backwards. The gun spins out of this hand. I rush forward to grab it, but Kosta has me by the ankle and suddenly I’m tumbling and down on the forest floor, the pine needles rough on my face, my hand inches from the gun. The boar stops, its face inches from mine, its eyes glinting, frightened, vicious. I scream and the animal jumps back in alarm, rapidly jack-knifes again and scurries into the bushes.

  Kosta’s gun is just out of my grasp. Kosta’s grip on my ankle tightens. He pulls me towards him. I kick out with my other foot. I miss. I kick again in blind panic. I hit something this time. I hear Kosta yell. I kick again, harder and hear him grunt. His grip loosens momentarily. I free my leg from his grip and scramble to my feet. But now he is closer to the gun than me. He realises this. We both go for the gun at the same time. He gets his hand to it before me, but I am on top of him, one arm around his neck, my other hand on his wrist. He wriggles violently to get me off him. I lock on. His ear is near my mouth. I take his fleshy ear in my teeth and bite as hard as I can. I fell my teeth go into the cartilage. Kosta screams and struggles. He is bigger and stronger than me. He rolls over onto his back and suddenly I am underneath him. His full weight is on top of me. I struggle to catch my breath. I twist my arm around his neck and squeeze with all my might. But he is too strong for me. He shakes my grip free. I clutch at his face. I feel along his cheek to his eye socket. I feel the soft roundness of his eyeball and dig my fingers in. Kosta yells, grunts, then screams as I feel something tear, something give. I’ve torn into his eye. I wriggle out from under him. Scramble into the shadows. The gun goes off and a bullet whistles into the trees above my head. He is firing blind.

  I slide down another bank of pine-needles into a gully. I crawl on my knees down the gully and then slip into the blackness of a crevice between two boulders. Kosta is screaming insults. He is in pain. How much can he see? His muttering is getting closer. He is on the move. I hear him pass by me, a little above me and then off to my left. I see his shadow cross the gully, then stop. He is scanning for me. He must be
able to see something still. I hear him swearing to himself in a low whisper. Then he moves off up the gully and over the ridge. I move tentatively, keeping low, creeping from shadow to shadow. My best bet is to keep him in sight at a distance until I can work out which is the way to Bobby’s car.

  We are at the bottom of the incline. I see his silhouette at the edge of the treeline. The white pebbles on the beach are illuminated in the moonlight. The sea shimmers beyond. He turns to look back into the forest. Then he trips on something, stumbles and falls, before picking himself up quickly, his gun hand raking the shadows, his eyes frightened. From the vantage of my dark hiding place under a shark-shaped rock, I watch him, his gun pointed into the forest, his face, anguished, looking at the obstacle which made him trip. I think I can make out handlebars. A bike of some sort. Then he is frantically kicking leaves and broken branches over it. I realise what it must be - Lucy’s scooter.

  This must be the beach where Lucy was killed. This is where her bike has been hidden. Kosta is crying now, frustrated. The tide has washed the bike into view. With a furtive look into the dark shadowed trees, he stops to listen for any sound from me, his quarry. Nothing. He puts the gun in his belt and starts digging energetically with his hands around the bike. He must bury it deeper. I can hear his heavy breathing from where I am.

  I leopard crawl around to his right where I see it is more sandy. I see a fallen branch, about a hand-grip wide and two-foot long – a cudgel. I take it carefully, in case it is still attached to something that will rustle or snap and give me away. It is loose. I grip it tightly. Crawl again. When Kosta looks over his shoulder to check if he can see me anywhere, he is looking away from me now. Now I am near the beach and to his right. I must take care to keep out of the moonlight. Kosta has dug his hole. Grunting and wheezing, he lifts up the scooter – he has to put all his effort into it – and drops it into the hole he has just enlarged. He stands upright gasping and puts one hand to his eye – the eye I have damaged. He moans. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wraps it around his eye. Then gets down onto all fours and he starts to bury the bike.

  I creep slowly towards his hunched figure, praying I don’t stand on any twigs or dry leaves. Kosta is piling whatever he can find on top of the bike. His noise covers any sounds I am making as I approach him, my stick in hand. I get within three feet of him, before he sees my moonlight shadow approaching. He spins around, but not fast enough. I lunge at him and with the roar of a wild animal, I bring the stick down on the side of his head with all my strength. He falls onto his side, his arm raised protectively, his other hand going for his gun. I hit him again. And again. He exhales through his nose and his good eye roll into his head. His hand with the gun comes up and points straight at me. I duck to one side as it goes off. I swipe at his hand with my cudgel. The gun goes off again, this time into the undergrowth. I hit him again. His hand goes down. I stamp on it and feel his arm spasm. I stamp again and his fingers splay… and then relax. His face is squashed to the ground. He is drooling. I stamp on his face. When he groans, I hit him again with the stick. I don’t want him getting up. I grab the gun and step back.

  Silence. Kosta lies still. I am breathing heavily. My teeth are clenched tight. I have to use all my effort to open my jaws. And breathe. I train the gun on Kosta’s prostrate figure.

  Kosta starts to groan and pushes himself up onto his extended arms, his good eye unfocused. “Stay still!” I shout. “Don’t move! Don’t try to get up!” I point the gun at him. I don’t know if there are any more bullets. Kosta holds a hand protectively across his face. He thinks there are more bullets. That’s good. Carefully holding my aim, I reach for my phone in my jeans pocket. Who should I call? If I call the police, will they not protect their own? Cautiously, with one eye still on Kosta, I scroll through my contacts, until I find Antonis’s number.

  51

  Antonis arrives with Panagiotis, two of his officers and two paramedics. I tell them about Christos and one of the policemen goes off with the two paramedics to try to locate him. The other officer bandages Kosta’s head. Fuck you, Kosta, you cunt! I think, I hope you have serious pain and that your bruises swell your head to twice its size! His eye, where I clawed him, is a mess. I may have blinded him. I feel no remorse. I feel high. Vindicated. Righteous. He shot Christos. He tried to kill me. He killed Lucy - he must be the one.

  Kosta is sobbing and saying something through his tears and snot. His father, Panagiotis, is shouting at him. I tell Antonis what I know. Antonis goes over to Kosta, holds Panagiotis off and tries to calm Kosta down. When Kosta’s sobs become a whimper, Antonis questions him. Kosta could claim I shot Christos and then overpowered him, but he keeps his head down and no-one looks at me, so I guess he hasn’t done that.

  What he has done, I find out a short time later, is confess that he killed Lucy.

  Perhaps he thought I knew more than I did know. Perhaps he thought Christos had something on him and we’d find it sooner or later. Perhaps he just gave up – couldn’t live anymore with the terrible truth.

  When the cop who’d gone off to look for Christos returns, without the paramedics and with a sombre look and a shaking of his head, Kosta admits, gulping back his tears, to killing Christos too. He wails, head in hands, rocking himself back and forward, crossing himself, moaning.

  What Antonis recounts to me later is that Kosta, having seduced Lucy in the line of duty so to speak, had fallen for her and had become intensely jealous of Christos Papademos, the rich kid, the American, who had taken Kosta’s object of desire into his bed. When Lucy had been away for four days and Kosta had worked out she was with Christos, he had come to the Poseidon to have it out with her. He’d found her on the beach, in a manic state, tearing around like a mad person, excitedly shouting in his face her grandiose paranoid delusions, which were unfair, according to Kosta and she had humiliated his manhood, taunting him with all the sex games she and her new rich and handsome suitor had been getting up to. He’d slapped her, she attacked him, enraged, he’d first punched her in the face, then when she was on her knees at the water’s edge, he had dragged her into the sea, at first just to get her to come to her senses, but as she’d struggled, he held her under, held her until she gave up and he found he’d drowned her.

  The workers had all left by then, but he couldn’t take any chances. He’d hidden her body further up the beach and covered her with branches and rocks. He waited until Christos had driven off to town later, before searching for Lucy’s scooter – he knew it must be there somewhere. He’d found it round the back and had decided to hide it at the edge of the forest where no one would find it, so if anyone investigated, there’d be no clue that Lucy had been at the Poseidon, it would look like she’d driven off of her own volition. He’d meant to get rid of it properly later when the heat was off. But he’d forgotten it there, or had been too frightened or ashamed by what he had done, it had remained there undetected in its shallow grave near the sea.

  Later he’d come back in a van he borrowed from a friend, uncovered Lucy’s body and had taken it, under the cover of darkness, to the old disused harbour, tied the concrete block to her and thrown her in. Only later did he think of writing a fake suicide note. When I’d started snooping around, he’d thought to take her laptop in case there was anything on it that linked him to her. Then he got spooked and tried to sell the laptop to Christo for the files on the Poseidon - to be sure she hadn’t double-crossed them. But even the rich American couldn’t break the encryption, and reluctantly, it seemed to Kosta, complaining bitterly, he had parted with one thousand euros, merely for possession of the computer. One thousand euros! - that undid him - that was all Lucy's life had been worth. Then he’d been there when they’d brought Lucy’s body out of the sea and he’d seen her disfigured face, he hadn’t slept for days, exhausted and haunted, he couldn’t go on. He’d loved her, the fool.

  Her murder was nothing to do with her job, nothing to do with saving the planet. She was killed for love
, the oldest story in the book.

  52

  The ambulance eventually arrives and the paramedics take Christos’s body away under a red rubber sheet. What an ignominious end. All his scheming and manipulation, all his charm and deceit, all for nothing. He will not see The Poseidon open.

  We travel back to Agia Sofia, Antonis and I in Bobby’s car, the Chief, his two officers and his son, now their prisoner, in the police car. Antonis insists on driving – just as well – the adrenaline has left my body and my hands are shaking and cannot be still. Antonis has agreed, at Panagiotis’s request, to be seconded, for the time being, to the Mythos force so he can take statements from Kosta and from me regarding the killing of Christos, the wounding of a police officer (Kosta – my doing) and, before that, the killing of Lucy Discombe. The Chief will let his superiors on the big island know of the events here and will request they send a team to take over in the morning. He cannot interview his own son. But he will take the news of Christos’s death to his father, the venerable, Hektor Papademos. That is his duty and he will not evade it. He, the father of the killer, will ask the old man for his forgiveness on behalf of his son. It is a Modern Greek tragedy.

  “What a terrible thing for Panagiotis,” I say to Antonis as we get into the car. “Not only does have to tell Hektor Papademos of his son’s death, but he will also have to break the news to Kosta’s mother, his wife. Poor guy.”

  “Kosta’s mother is dead. She died when Kosta was a small boy. Panagiotis brought Kosta up by himself,” Antonis tells me. That makes it even more poignant. I feel for the Chief, I even have a twinge of sympathy for the son who grew up without his mother.