Matala

by Craig Holden

  I put a kettle on the propane stove, and as I sat at the counter waiting for it to boil, I looked around the place. It was just a small cottage, really, with stuccoed walls, bare wood floors, and fixtures that had obviously been here when Maurice bought it. When the water was hot, I made myself a mug of tea and went into the main room, where Maurice was still sitting on the couch, awake and looking at me. One of the couples was there, too, asleep on a love seat.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Christ,” Maurice said. “They brought a couple of grams of the marching powder. Can’t sleep on that.”

  He offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. We smoked without speaking for a few minutes, then I made Maurice a cup and we moved out onto the plant-choked veranda. The cottage was at the edge of the town and above most of it. It clung to the lower slope of the hills, which formed the southern wall of the natural amphitheater that embraced the town and the beach and a small blue cove that was so perfectly formed, so perfectly charming, it almost made me laugh. Across from us, forming the northern wall, were the sandstone faces into which the famous caves had been cut millennia before. We smoked and sipped and looked out. Beyond the confines of the cove, out in the open bay, fishing boats and a few larger craft dotted the surface. The air was so clear that I could make out Galini, far up and around the westward curve in the coast.

  “So where are they?” I said. “I thought they were coming here.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  I dragged on the cigarette and stubbed it out. “Well, are they?”

  “Justine should be around in a bit.”

  “And Darcy?”

  “I don’t know, lad.”

  “What do you mean? What happened last night?”

  “I don’t know. I was here, wasn’t I?”

  “But you knew.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Maurice, quit fucking around.”

  Maurice looked at me. I saw a chill come into him and then fade. I felt that chill myself. Maurice was an old, strung-out, hopheaded waste of breath, and the man who’d been with him in the bar didn’t seem to be around.

  “I want to know where she is.”

  “Lad—” Maurice said.

  “Just fucking tell me.”

  “You’ll regret it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He looked at his wristwatch and then out across the rooftops at the beach. “She’s probably still down there somewhere—for a few more minutes at least.” Maurice dragged on the cigarette and looked into the sky. “A place like this don’t come easy,” he said. “You know? Even when I bought this years ago, it came dear. Foreign taxes, palms to grease, licenses, fees, permits. And then the cost of the place itself. I bought it from a recording engineer, another Brit. He’d had some success. He’s the one who built it.”

  “The point?”

  “Takes a lot of money.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I found a business some time ago that made a lot for me. Still does, now and then. Not the most savory business.”

  “Which is what? Drugs?”

  Maurice laughed. “That shit’s for wankers. I only handle the stuff so I can own people. It works wonders in that regard. They get so caught up in it, some of them, that they can’t leave it. Can’t leave you. And you have them then. That’s one way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There are people in the world who are property, Will. That’s what it means. And there are other people who own them.” Maurice made a face, finished his cigarette, and flipped it over the railing.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maurice.”

  “People own other people. Sometimes it’s just an emotional thing. Sometimes it’s a need they can’t ever leave. And sometimes, Will, people buy other people—for a whole variety of reasons.”

  “Are you talking about slavery?”

  “You could call it that, but it don’t tell you much. I mean there are all kinds of slaves, aren’t there? Slaves for work, sex, transportation, companionship. And beyond that, there are other sorts of people that people want to buy. Children, for example. People want children and sometimes can’t get them, so they buy. But whatever their reason, whatever sort of person they want to own, they need a broker, a finder. Someone to do the dirty work and the moving about and the covering up and the handling of funds and all the thousand shitty little details that go along with it.”

  “And that’s what you do?”

  “That’s what I do. And it’s what Justine did for many years, and she was very good at it.”

  “And me?”

  “You were her first, Will. You were different. You belonged to her in a way none of the others ever did. You were family.”

  As I looked at him, I felt the drafts rising up the face of the cliff as they’d warmed on the sand, and I could hear them moving in the scrubby trees.

  “Your mum was her mum’s cousin or something like that. It was fairly distant. But your mum and Justine were about the same age and had come up together. And she was, your mum, something of a fuckup. Knocked up, smacked up, strung out. The whole family wasn’t much better. Her people, your people, were grovelers. Shit bags all. Scum of the earth. Justine’s mum was gone more’n she was about, and her dad was dead. And then your mum squeezed you out and left as well, and somehow Justine, at the tender age of seventeen or so, had this wee one to deal with. What was she going to do with a naffin’ baby? She had no money. But she couldn’t see turning it over to the authorities. They’d likely shove you someplace as bad or worse as what you come from, and she’d be left with fuck-all. Anyway, she wasn’t your mum, so she had no real authority. So she kept on with it, with you, for some time.

  “It happened that I’d had a bit of a hand in this sort of thing, so when she started asking about, someone steered her to me. I, in turn, knew a man in London who knew other people, and so on, who knew a family of Americans who were desperate for a child. It further happened that they were living near London at the time. He was with the foreign service. Deputy attaché or some such. High up. And the long and short of it, Will, is that I put together a deal, laid it out for Justine, and she sold you. And for some flippin’ nice coin, I might say.”

  I stood up and went to the railing at the edge of the veranda and looked down at the rooftops. I suddenly felt ill and was afraid I would be sick, except that some part of me had known this before Maurice said it. Not this, of course, but something. How similar we were, how we looked, how attached we were from the moment she sat next to me in a bar in Roanoke and offered to buy me a beer. It was something between us, some unmistakable bond. I had taken it for love, and as it turned out, I had not been wrong.

  “So why did she find me?”

  “She missed you, boy. She’d missed you since the day she handed you over. She regretted it. It took her twenty years to come around, but she did. She had left the business by then, and I think that was part of it. It was some small redress for all the souls she bartered, to get back the one she never should have.”

  “So why…” I began but trailed off. I knew now. I knew what it was all about. I felt a wave of nausea again, much worse than the first, but still I did not succumb to it.

  “This is all about Darcy, isn’t it? She’s the package.”

  “Well, it’s not some piece of junk wrapped up in brown paper, is it?”

  “Where’s she going?”

  “Don’t know exactly, but it’ll be mad hot there.”

  “You don’t even know who bought her?”

  “I often don’t. In this case, I understand it was one of the wives of some dune coon who actually placed the order. The girl’s to be a Christmas present. New toy for the old man and whoever else he wants to invite over to play with it. I mean, what d’you buy for someone that stinkin’? It just worked out, you know. It does that sometimes. Girl shows up with you. Justi
ne feels a connection. That was always her great strength, what made her different. She connected. ’Course it’s also what made it impossible for her to stay in. Couldn’t take no more.

  “Anyway, she called me. I knew of some open orders. They float around. This one was particularly rich, and they were in a bit of a jam because it was fairly specific and time was getting short. So you brought her to Venice where I could see her, and so could they.”

  “What?”

  “You shocked? Anyway, she was perfect. A healthy, bright-eyed, big bapped American girl. It had to be an American. Some of them like it that way. Then, when they’re fucking ’em, they feel like they’re fucking the whole place, you know?”

  “But why did Justine?”

  “Sixty thousand quid, split three ways. Less your debts, of course. I didn’t like that bit at first. It’s always been fifty-fifty. But she insisted. So you’re wadded up now, mate.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You will,” Maurice said. “You’ll want to go off on some quixotic quest to find her. And you’ll need lots of folding for that, son. It’s how the world works.” He pointed to a ship that had anchored just beyond the opening of the cove. “That’s her ride. Nice, in’it?”

  “Shit,” I said and broke for the door, but Maurice was up just as quickly and had me by the arm and the throat.

  “Don’t think you’re gonna cock this up, lad.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Greedy, perhaps. Not sick. Now sit down.”

  “I’m going down there.”

  “To do what? Karl’s there. He’s armed. The men coming in are surely armed. And you’re going to show up with what, your limp noodle?” He laughed. “It’s over. It’s done. Now sit down.”

  He shoved me so that I stumbled back and fell into one of the deck chairs.

  “You’re a worthless shit, Maurice. She doesn’t deserve this. No one does.”

  “Deserve? What does that mean?”

  The mug sat on the small table where I’d set it when it was empty. It was a heavy mug; it felt like clay. I threw it. I didn’t think, and that is what’s required at certain times. No aiming. No contemplation. Just a reaction. Let the old eye-hand have its way.

  The mug hit Maurice square in the face, and I saw blood. Maurice put his hands up, fell to his knees, and gagged. It sounded like gagging anyway. I didn’t stay around to hear much of it. I leaped over the wooden railing into the mass of greenery and found myself suspended in the mesh of branches and vines that had not been pruned for forever. As I thrashed, the dry, stiff foliage cut me, especially on the arms. But I was angry and pumped up enough that I hardly cared, and after a few helpless moments, I felt myself dropping and then sliding down the steep rocky slope into the town.

  Fifteen

  J USTINE WATCHED TWO MEN CLIMB down the ladder of the yacht into a low fast-looking boat moored at its side. The throaty engine coughed and started, and the boat came toward the beach.

  The girl was watching, too. “You asked the question,” she said. “Are you going to answer it?” She gripped Justine’s shirt. Then she let go, knelt on the sand, and leaned her head against Justine’s thighs. “We could be so good,” the girl said. “So perfect. You and me. I would obey you.”

  “What about Will?”

  “Will’s tired. He needs to go home, get on with things. Don’t you think? He needs to get away from you—and me.”

  Justine looked down at the girl. She couldn’t know half the truth, but she was right. It had been good with Will. Good for him and for her. She’d needed to find him. She hadn’t realized how much, and she hadn’t known what to expect. She never planned on things going nearly as far as they had, on its becoming so involved, but it was so sweet in the beginning. Her baby boy.

  “What is he to you really?” the girl asked.

  “I knew him when he was a baby. I took care of him.”

  “Are you related?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, the wise girl, and showed no surprise whatever. “I thought it was something. Does he know?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The boat neared the beach at a fairly high speed so that when the pilot cut the engine, it coasted to the sand and up onto it. The two men on it wore suits. They climbed out and began to walk up the beach toward the women. One of them carried an attaché case.

  The girl remained on her knees, head bowed now, as if she were some queen on the block, waiting for the headsman. The men had come close enough for Justine to see that one had very dark skin, black hair, and a thick mustache and the other was lighter and clean-shaven.

  Someone shouted from the other end of the beach. It was Will, running toward them.

  “Oh, good Christ,” Justine said. In that moment she felt things coalesce in some way—or release. Perhaps that was it. They released. She felt things leave her and other things stay. To Little Bitch she said, “Get up.”

  “For what?” the girl said. “So you can sacrifice me?”

  “Just get the hell up.”

  “Not until you answer the question.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Darcy. I wouldn’t. I can’t. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want to hear.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.”

  She looked up. “You called me Darcy.”

  “Will you just shut your pretty mouth and come the fuck on.”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, I’d like not to be sold.”

  “Beyond that. You up for another game?”

  “I am. Absolutely.”

  “It’s risky.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “I suppose it is. Let me see your purse.”

  The girl stood up. Will had reached them now, panting, and the men were steps away.

  “Darcy,” Will said, “get out of here. They’re kidnapping you.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve been sold to them.”

  “What? Get out of here!”

  Justine nodded as the men approached and reached for the case, but Will ran at the man holding it and shoved him. “Go!” he shouted at the girl. The man dropped the case and punched him in the stomach, doubling him over, and pushed him to the ground. The other man, the lighter-skinned one, the one who had not carried the briefcase, pulled a small revolver from beneath his suit jacket and held it down at his side so that it was not conspicuous but so that they could see it. He placed his other hand on Darcy’s arm. The first man looked at Will a second and then bent and picked up the case. He was about to hand it to Justine when, from the tree line at the head of the beach, another man called out: “Darcy!”

  This one was tall and somewhat heavyset, and wore a blue seersucker suit, a white shirt, and a geranium-red tie. And he, too, held a gun, a large nickel-plated automatic. It was aimed in front of him, at the two Arabs. And he spoke to them now: “Back away, or I’ll shoot you both.”

  They froze, watching him. They did not back away, but the one with the gun removed his hand from the girl.

  “I will shoot you,” the large man said. “I have license and money to do what I want here. I will shoot you both dead and then get on a plane and fly home. I will suffer no consequences. If you don’t believe me, stay where you are.”

  The two men took a tentative half step away from the women.

  “Wait,” Justine said. She went toward the men and grabbed the briefcase, but the man holding it would not let go.

  “No!” he said.

  “Let go of it, you fuck,” Justine said, and with her other hand she brought up the onyx-handled folding knife that the girl had stolen and pulled from her purse in the American Café in Venice. Justine held the tip at the man’s eye. He released the case.

  The large man came toward them. Will had gotten to his hands and knees, and was gagging and spitting in the sand.

  “Go!” the man yelled. The two Arabs stepped
farther away but did not leave.

  Justine looked at Little Bitch. The man in the suit was glancing at her, too, without quite taking his eyes off the two Arabs. “Hello, Darcy,” he said. She smiled at him. He wore round eyeglasses, and his thinning hair was a fine flaxen blond you don’t see in most people by the time they reach adulthood, the hair of a little child. His face was flushed, his cheeks beamed, and the combination of the rosy visage and the hair made him look very young, though Justine guessed that he wasn’t. Early thirties, she thought.

  The two Arabs had stepped farther away but were not leaving, and the one still had his gun out.

  “It’s high time,” Justine said to the girl. “I’d lose the pack if I were you. Will,” she said, “are you all right?”

  “Maurice told me,” he said.

  “I thought he might. Do you hate me?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Darcy—” said Will.

  “Go home,” the girl told him. “It’s time. I’ll be in touch.” She reached into the bottomless purse and took out a rubber-banded stack of bills, drachmas and liras and sterling, and dropped it beside Will. It looked to be the wad she’d stolen from Maurice in Venice, plus some she’d added.

  To the large man in the suit, who was now beside them, Justine said, “Did you see our man back there? He’s armed, too. We’ll get him.”

  “No,” said the man.

  “Can you hold this?” the girl said. She shoved her pack into his chest, which knocked him off balance.

  “Run!” said Justine.

  Sixteen

  W HEN THEY REACHED THE CAR, Karl, who had dozed off, was so startled he didn’t know what to do except get out—especially when Justine yelled at him, “Get out!” From the trees, twenty-five or so yards behind them, came the shouts of the men.

  “There’s a man chasing us!” Justine said. “He’s got a gun!”