Angel of Death

by Charlotte Lamb

  Miranda looked out, too, but could only see some children running ahead of an elegant woman in a black bikini over which she wore a black and poppy-red pareo, floating and filmy, falling to her mid-thigh.

  ‘That woman? I’ve no idea. She must be a guest.’

  ‘Yes – beautiful, isn’t she? I’m sure she’s an actress, I think I’ve seen her in Greek films.’

  ‘Does Greece have a big film industry?’ asked Miranda, rather surprised.

  ‘Not really, but nobody else makes films in Greek so we have to make some ourselves. We have American films, with subtitles, or dubbed into Greek, of course. And a lot of Greeks can speak pretty good English.’

  Pandora pulled a sheet of paper down from the table next to her bed. ‘This is a list of what you’ll have to do in the office. Read it and then ask me about anything you’re worried about.’

  Miranda ran her eye down the list. ‘No, it all seems pretty straightforward.’

  Pandora leaned back, yawning. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still sleepy, despite having slept so much since we arrived.’

  ‘That’s probably a good idea. Travelling is exhausting.’

  ‘Yes, I was beginning to get worried about feeling so weak.’ A brightness showed in her eyes, the brilliance of unshed tears. ‘I’m terrified of losing this baby, the way I did the others, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miranda, watching her with sympathy. It must be a nightmare to be in that position.

  ‘Charles and I want children so badly. It’s unfair that I can’t have them as easily as other women do. Every time I lose one I feel so useless. No, it’s more than that – I feel cursed.’

  Miranda didn’t know what to say. How did you comfort someone you barely knew? Huskily, she muttered, ‘Well, if you stay in bed this time, with any luck everything will be fine.’

  Giving herself a little shake, Pandora said, ‘Oh, yes, sure. Take no notice of my moaning. What are you going to do today? Would you like Milo to arrange a tour of the island for you after lunch?’

  Lighting up, Miranda said, ‘I’d love it, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. But maybe I could sit with you and keep you company?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I have to sleep a lot of the time. The doctor gave me tranquillisers to keep me sleepy. You go and find Milo. You’ll find him in the dining room, supervising the layout of the buffet lunch. We have a buffet lunch every day, it saves on staff and is cheaper and easier than serving at the tables.’

  On her way to the door, Miranda tentatively said, ‘I promised to ring my mother, to reassure her that I’m safe – I’ll pay for the call. Do I ask the operator to give me a bill?’

  ‘No need to do that. If you make private calls they will be deducted from your salary at the end of each month. Make your call after eight o’clock, it will be cheaper.’

  It was only as she walked towards the dining room that Miranda wondered what Pandora had been about to say when she suddenly stopped and changed the subject. She had mentioned her father, who had been Milo’s best friend, then added something about Milo now being the best friend of someone else. ‘My . . .’ she had begun then halted.

  Had she been going to say Milo was her husband’s best friend? No, Miranda was sure Milo was no friend to Charles. She had noticed a coldness in his face, in his voice, whenever he spoke to Pandora’s husband.

  Who had Pandora been thinking about? Herself? How close was her relationship with Milo? Was he jealous of her husband because he was deeply attached to her? But that was ridiculous. Milo was twice her age, old enough to be her father.

  Reaching the dining room, she sat down to wait to have a word with Milo, who was watching the staff clearing the breakfast things away before beginning to lay the buffet table for lunch. He amiably promised to arrange a tour at three o’clock that afternoon.

  ‘Would you like to see your office now? I have half an hour free.’

  It was a large room, spacious and light-filled, but with grey louvre blinds fitted at the windows. ‘If you lower them it makes the room cooler in the afternoons,’ Milo explained.

  There were two Greek girls working in the room. Milo introduced them to her and they smiled and shook hands, but obviously did not speak much English.

  ‘Letha has just got engaged to Melanie’s brother, Philo,’ Milo told Miranda. ‘I told you, this is very much a family firm!’ He turned to the other girls and spoke in Greek.

  They laughed, nodding. Letha was tall and willowy, with long black hair, a beautiful, golden-skinned girl with a wide, full mouth. Melanie was short and slightly plumper, with brown hair and big, bright hazel eyes. It was obvious they were very good friends.

  ‘They will help you with your Greek, too,’ promised Milo. ‘And you will help them with English,’ he added, again translating his comment into Greek, and both girls nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes, yes, please. We do English at school but . . .’ They shrugged their meaning. ‘Not good.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ promised Miranda.

  A telephone rang, Letha answered it and began to chatter away in Greek.

  Milo pointed to the third desk in the room. ‘This will be yours. You do know how to use a word processor, don’t you?’

  Faintly surprised, she recognised the machine on the desk. ‘Yes. In fact, this model is the one I used in London. My firm made them.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Milo steered her out of the room. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy working here. I’ll arrange that tour at once. What are you going to be doing for the rest of the morning?’

  ‘I thought I might walk down to the sea.’

  ‘Take care on the beach. There are rocks and pebbles as well as sand. We don’t want you to fall and break your other leg, do we?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ she fervently agreed.

  She set off ten minutes later, moving slowly, enjoying the morning sunshine. It was not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. It took longer to reach the sea than she had expected. The gardens tailed off, then she was in that rough, wild territory she had found last night when she followed Milo. This time she did not glimpse the house. She was following a well-marked track through the long, sun-bleached grass and gorse. Hotel guests often went down to the beach, Milo had told her. Especially those with children.

  She heard the sea before she saw it, tumbling up on to the sand, then falling back with a hoarse whisper, and smelt the cool, salty breeze as it blew her hair back.

  Suddenly she wanted to walk in the water, paddle like a child, remembering other times when she had, when she had been three, six, nine, young enough to find the sea enchanting, to love playing in it.

  She sat down and took off her sandals, then began a slow descent over pebbles and sand, leaning on her crutch. She hadn’t reached the curling waves when she heard somebody else walking on the beach. Between her and the clear, blue horizon she saw a tall, dark shape.

  Her heart seemed to stop.

  It was him. The Angel of Death. Walking along the edge of the sea, through the shallows, towards her. He was naked, to the waist; wore just brief black swimming shorts.

  Her eyes widened painfully; she stared at his shimmering golden body, the broad shoulders, deep muscled chest, the powerful arms, the slim waist, the long, bare legs, the feet moving gracefully through opaque blue water.

  My God, he was beautiful.

  Her heart was beating now, so fast it was frightening. She knew this feeling, the hot, sweet surge rushing through her. Desire so strong it made her light-headed. She had not felt like this since Tom died.

  She had never felt like this about Tom.

  Guilt overwhelmed her. She swayed, staggered, missed her footing on shifting pebbles and began to fall to her knees. Somehow she clung on to her crutch and stopped herself from falling.

  When she was standing upright again she looked towards where he had been, but he was gone.

  She blinked incredulously, looked in every direction, along the beach, across th
e rough grassland, into the trees, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

  He couldn’t have vanished so fast. There was no cover in which he could hide which was not some distance from the sea; the rustling forest of bamboo, the long, sun-bleached grass.

  What was going on here? Had she imagined seeing him? What strange, perverse instinct had made her conjure up his almost naked body, had sent that wave of passion running through her?

  When she had recovered she walked down and stood in the sea, kicking the cool water with her unhurt foot, swinging the other one above the waves while she stared into the brilliant blue distance, eyes dazzled by sunlight. She had dreamt about him for years. But now she was beginning to see him when she was awake and she was forced to recognise that her feelings about him were not what she had thought they were.

  She had been afraid of him, she had feared him, she had hated him.

  None of those reactions had been what she felt, seeing him, just now.

  Her mouth had gone dry, she had been on fire. Those dreams of him had not been of death – she had not been having a premonition, a warning, that she was going to die.

  She had dreamt of him passionately, wanted him, so badly that it had been like dying.

  Her love for Tom could not protect her from such raging, voracious feelings. Tom had been her friend for years before they got married. She had known him most of her life. They had been at school together, played, as children, grown up together.

  Tom was a quiet, gentle boy and had not changed when he became a man. Nor had her feelings for him changed. Or his for her.

  Oh, she had loved him, but without urgency or need, no hot desire, no flow of burning lava rushing through her body. Tom touched her deeply because he needed her. His own mother had died when he was a boy. Miranda had taken her place, protected him, cherished him.

  That was the measure of their love – they were family, as well as friends – and Tom trusted her to take care of him.

  But she had not been able to save him from drowning.

  It made her guilt heavier to know that just before Tom drowned she had met Alex and instantly wanted him with all the violent necessity she had never felt for Tom.

  She could not bear to think about it. She never had been able to.

  She walked out of the sea and went back to put her sandals on, then returned slowly to the hotel.

  Milo met her at the door of the dining room and showed her to her table with all the courtesy, reverence and attention he offered to guests with fortunes at their disposal. You would never have guessed she was only here to work, was a junior employee compared to him.

  She liked him more every time she met him, and wished she dared confide in him, ask him for advice, but she could not talk to anyone about what had just happened.

  ‘Did you walk to the sea?’ he asked her as she sat down.

  ‘Yes. I paddled,’ she confessed, forcing a smile, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Like a child.’

  ‘It is good to be a child sometimes. We all need to go back to our childhood now and then.’ He poured her a glass of chilled water from a bottle.

  She looked past him. ‘What’s the procedure with lunch? Do I just go to the buffet table and make my own selection?’

  ‘You can, if you wish, but why not let me bring you some food? It would be easier than for you to stand in line to select your own food . . .’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything you don’t like?’

  ‘Squid,’ she said, grimacing. ‘And I don’t much care for lobster, either.’

  He bowed and went over to the buffet table, came back a moment later with a tray holding a glass of pink grapefruit juice, a roll with sesame seeds sprinkled on the top and a platter of hors d’oeuvres.

  ‘I chose taramasalata,’ Milo explained. ‘That’s this, pink smoked cod’s roe marinaded in olive oil and lemon, you may have eaten it in London, it is very popular there, I know, but this is the real thing. It isn’t made with mashed potato, which is the easier version, but with breadcrumbs, the texture is much lighter. And I’ve given you some caviar to go with it. This tiny triangle of filo pastry is called tiropitta, it has a cheese and spinach filling. There are some prawns, a little crab and some melidzanosalata, which is a purée of baked aubergines, with onion, tomato, garlic and olive oil.’

  ‘It all sounds very interesting.’

  His long finger flicked at something green. ‘This is dolmadhakia – vine leaves wrapped around minced meat and rice.’

  She had recognised it. ‘I’ve eaten that in London, I liked it. I shall never manage a main course after all this! But it looks delicious. You’re so kind, Milo.’

  ‘Entirely my pleasure,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll come back later to see how you are getting on. Will you take wine with your lunch? Something white and cold? I’ll send some over.’

  She ate slowly, enjoying the new tastes, sipped at her glass of white Greek wine and stared round at the guests laughing and talking as they ate or went back to the buffet for a second helping of lobster or caviar.

  A young waiter came by her table later and took her empty plate away, then Milo brought her another platter which held a skewer of charcoal-grilled lamb, tomatoes, green pepper and onion, with some green salad, boiled rice and sliced, charcoal-grilled pitta bread in slices on the side.

  She managed most of it, but refused a dessert and just had some coffee to finish with.

  ‘I like Greek food, it isn’t too rich. Maybe I’ll lose weight eating like this!’

  ‘You don’t need to lose weight,’ Milo scolded. ‘By the way, I’ve arranged for you to join a small coach of guests going on a tour of the island at three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s wonderful.’ She felt weird, living here in a little enclave, surrounded by an island she had not seen. Once she had orientated herself she would feel easier.

  The driver was also the guide, and spoke very good English. A thin, dark young man he wore glasses and was, he told them, a university student home for the summer vacation. The rest of the year he lived in Athens and studied at the university there.

  The island was beautiful, but a little wild; there were the tavernas she had noticed down at the port where they had docked yesterday, a few detached villas on the outskirts of the port, some others scattered here and there around the rest of the island but no tourist development anywhere else.

  They stopped in the port for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, grown, they were assured, on the island’s own trees, which were grown everywhere, as were lemon trees.

  Afterwards they were given time to go shopping. Miranda bought herself a straw hat with a wide brim with a vivid cotton handkerchief wrapped round it, the ends fluttering on her nape, some rope-soled espadrilles she could wear on the beach, and a little lacquered fan made in Hong Kong which would fit into her handbag and would be very useful in this hot weather.

  Piling back on to the coach, they drove away from the port, turning up into the mountain which dominated the centre of the island, along a dusty, roughly surfaced road full of bumps and ruts. Olive groves ran along the terraced slopes, the fruit showing through those narrow, flickering silvery leaves. Beneath the dimpled, rugged boles were black shadows which Miranda found very inviting; it would be delicious to lie down in that coolness and sleep.

  A lizard lay basking on a low stone wall, in full sun, for all the world like one of the olive-tree leaves whose shape and colour it resembled, until the noise of the coach made it run for cover, diving out of sight into the darkness of the wall’s interior.

  The air was warmly scented with eucalyptus and pine, which grew on the higher slopes of the mountain, but they saw no flowers.

  ‘The island is full of flowers in the spring,’ the guide told them. ‘But by July it is too hot here for flowers to survive.’

  Miranda grew sleepy, her skin hot with the sun although she had put on the hat she bought at the harbour. S
he woke with a start as the coach came to a stop on a stony layby high on the mountain. Everyone got off and stood about, gazing down into the valley far below; terraced fields, marked out by stone walls and the odd cypress tree, a dark green flame against the hot, white glare of villages.

  ‘Behind us stands the ruins of a Byzantine castle and the early Christian church of St John. It is inaccessible to the coach, there is only a rough path which you have to follow on foot and which is too close to the edge of the mountain. If you want to visit it, I will be happy to guide you some other day, by prior arrangement, but I must warn you that it is dangerous and difficult. You need to be very fit and active to get to the top. When you do, the views are spectacular.’

  None of the guests seemed disposed to find out. The guide gave them a quick account of the castle’s history, then they all climbed back on to the coach again to set off down the other side of the mountain.

  They stopped again at a village in the valley; a huddle of the usual white-painted houses, set around a blue-domed church, which they visited, escorted by the black-robed priest, who spoke very little English, and the guide, who interpreted for him.

  Coming out of the sun they were half blind, at first seeing nothing in the darkness of the interior of the church; then their eyes became accustomed to the shadows and they gasped at the dazzle of silver and gold on the walls, on the altar. Icons of favourite Greek saints – St Basil, St John and St Michael the Archangel – hung on all sides, the dark Byzantine faces with their sombre, brooding gaze and olive, high-cheekboned austerity set against the shimmer of a metallic setting.

  The ceilings were painted with visions of heaven; angels with gilded wings, the virgin and child, serious and intent on each other, Christ as a man, floating on white clouds, hand stretched out in blessing.

  They spent fifteen minutes in there and stumbled out into the bright sunshine, blinking.

  The trees were stirring, beginning to bend and sway, and the guide looked up into the sky, frowning.

  ‘I hope that is not the meltemi coming. You know about the wind? The meltemi, a dry, north wind which blows across the islands in summer and blows sand in your face, makes doors and shutters bang, drives people crazy.’