The Dead Travel Fast

by Nick Brown

  Steve looked and saw a landing area sufficient for a number to land and park up. She took his hand; he relished the cold firm grasp.

  “Now, we turn round and walk towards the sea and look at what is old here. This I think will be of more interest to you oh Kirios, archaeologist.”

  They walked out of the cricket field back through the lawn, passed across the rear of the house to stand on a small plateau overlooking the sea. Below them were the terraces he’d seen earlier, on the nearest some ancient stone foundations of buildings.

  “That, where you now look, Doctor Watkins, is all that is left of a very old village.”

  Aware of the island’s history, Steve asked her if the village had been deserted during the last evacuation two hundred years ago.

  “No, it was abandoned long before and for worse reasons. On this island these superstitious people believe that this village was cursed; they will not come here or even talk about it.”

  “But it doesn’t bother your family?”

  “No: in fact most of the good stone from that village you will find in the walls of our house. Now look further down to that flat space just above the sea. They say that somewhere under that scrub and bushes something very ancient is hidden, buried, and it is that which so frightened those villagers.”

  “And that doesn’t bother your family either, I suppose?”

  “No, of course not, why should it bother us? But no one goes there these days.”

  Steve gazed down to the sea gently shimmering under the sun and drank in the beauty of the place. He was close enough to Alekka to catch the scent of her perfume and hear her soft breathing. He was possessed by an urge to kiss her and say that, in some way, this place had always been waiting here for him. Instead he asked,

  “How long have your family lived here?”

  She smiled at the question but answered seriously.

  “For ever I think, our clan, our family I mean, is very old, older than anything else that you will find on this island.”

  While she was speaking Steve, like any good field archaeologist, was looking at the ground under his feet and scraping at it with his boots. He knelt down and picked up a couple of small sharp objects, which he spat on and then rubbed vigorously before showing her.

  “What is the significance of this, please?”

  “These are bits of obsidian: they’ve been worked to make tools, this one here is an offcut of some small tool like a knife and if you look around carefully you can see other bits scattered all around. They’re Neolithic at the latest, so there are things here even older than your family.”

  She looked at the flints for a few seconds then threw them down the slope towards the sea.

  “You see, Steve, like I told you, we are here a very long time.”

  Feeling she didn’t get the significance of the flints he elaborated.

  “The really interesting thing is that these flints wouldn’t occur here naturally, so this place must have been important enough for them to be brought here.”

  She laughed and he realised that she found him amusing.

  “Yes, just like cricket pitch, but I am no longer interested in your little rocks, and we have something else to see before we rejoin my father.”

  She must have seen by his expression that she’d disappointed him; she took his hand with a smile and began to pull him back onto the path that led to the house.

  “Today is a beautiful day, Steve; a special day. There will be other chance to come and meet with your silly little rocks.”

  Before they reached the house, she turned to the right, where beyond a grove of trees in a natural glade stood a church which Steve attributed to the middle ages. It was small but beautiful; made of dressed stone probably robbed from the Island’s classical buildings.

  “You see, Steve, I told you we would see something better than your old stones; this is beautiful and very old: come on inside.”

  She pulled him to the door. Inside the church was lit by large candelabra and perfumed by incense. The walls were painted with exquisite murals, brightly coloured, depicting what he thought must be scenes from the Bible, but none of which he could place. As he looked more closely he noticed that the artist had arranged the scenes with great skill. The eye of the observer was drawn, after the first glance, away from the centre of the mural towards the fringes. At the margins of the pictures unexpected things were happening. He was going to look closer when he heard the sound of something moving behind the altar and, on turning round, saw a black shadow move through a doorway out of the room. Alekka took his hand again and pulled him towards the door and the light.

  “That is Father John, our priest. You will meet him later when we eat. Now I am fed up of looking at old dead things; I want life and what it offers, come, we go back to the house.”

  When they got back to the room with the terrace it was empty but, as if she had been waiting, the ancient maid appeared. Alekka turned to go.

  “I will leave you now, Steve, but see you for a drink before dinner; this place is very lovely at night. Electra will show you to your room where you can rest and shower then change into the clothes you will find laid out for you. You will join us please on the terrace at seven, the sunset here is special I think.”

  He followed the maid Electra down a long flight of stairs leading into the heart of the mountain, then along a cool carpeted corridor ending in a whitewood door. Inside was a large chamber with a window cut through the rock looking out over sheer cliffs falling away to the sea. Beneath the window stood a chaise longue on which a white linen suit and silk shirt had been laid out with a pair of soft leather, ankle high boots. Steve had not expected to be staying, but the realisation that he was delighted him. He threw himself onto the large bed and lay on his back, thinking of Alekka.

  He woke suddenly, taking a while to get his bearings. Through the window he could see it was still bright but that the angle of the sun had shifted, he checked his watch, and it was past six. At the stroke of seven, freshly showered and feeling good in the perfectly fitting clothes, he walked onto the terrace to join the strange group gathered with drinks to watch the sunset. Later, when he tried to recall that night it was without any ordered sequence; just a series of brightly lit, intense images. The blood-red sun sinking behind the mountains at one end of the bay as the shadows crawled up the mountain at the other was a spectacular backdrop. As the darkness was rising they moved from the terrace to an elegantly laid table set below in the cool of gardens. On the terrace he’d been introduced to the other guests by Alekka, who acted as his personal hostess: they were an odd mix.

  At the table, Vassilis insisted that he occupy the place of honour at his right and he watched in disappointment as Alekka moved down to the far end. Across the table was the wife of Dougie, an English resident. Dougie looked to Steve like a gangster tax exile; he told him he’d made a packet out of arms exporting before political correctness got in the way of business and ruined the country. Brandi, his wife, who apparently liked a drink, was, he guessed, in her late thirties, younger than her husband. She was a tanned blonde wearing a dress with a low cleavage and, as the wine flowed and the evening progressed, rubbed Steve’s leg with her bare feet under the table. Usually he would have responded to the invitation; tonight it was an embarrassment. Vassilis said to Steve without bothering to lower his voice,

  “Contrary to what you might think we do produce some excellent wine in Greece: this one, for instance, is from my estate near Patras: but for her the vinegar that the local peasants drink would be enough.”

  Brandi giggled then hiccupped; Vassilis tapped his glass with a knife then stood up and proposed a toast.

  “We will drink to the health and happiness of Doctor Steven Watkins to whom I, and therefore all of you, owe a debt of gratitude. He has preserved a very special bloodline, and so here on this island he is protected and what he wants, he gets.”

  He sat down and as Steve listened to the polite applause that followed, he wond
ered at the curious choice of words, seeming to contain elements of some kind of warning. However, with each succeeding course and the accompanying wine his focus blurred; shortly after Brandi had got up from the table and staggered off towards the house, Vassilis had grasped Steve’s elbow.

  “Ah, there is coming someone whom I would like you to meet.”

  Steve followed the direction of his gaze as a figure appeared to detach itself from the dark. As it moved to within the range of the low lights and gentle candles its blackness seemed to deepen rather than diminish.

  “Permit me to introduce Father John. He, amongst the many other demands made upon his particular talents on the island, looks after our spiritual needs and tends to our ancient chapel, which I believe you have seen and which is by far the oldest here. Indeed you were lucky to have seen it; we are very careful about who is granted access. Lucky also to be here at this time to meet him, as owing to a rare and quite complicated condition he prefers to avoid daylight.”

  Steve felt Vassilis found this speech amusing. It was courteous yet masked some hidden joke. He had no further time to brood on it as Father John was now moving into the seat recently vacated by Brandi; Vassilis continued.

  “The hour is late, and as I still have much to complete today I must ask you to excuse me: you have done me great service, I am in your debt and I invite you to stay with us next weekend for the cricket match: perhaps you would like to take part. Antonis will be back with us then, but of course he is still too weak to participate. I now must bid you goodnight and leave you to the estimable Father.”

  He stood to leave and Steve noticed, to his dismay, that Alekka also got up from the table and after blowing him a farewell kiss in which he tried to read a message, she followed her father towards the house. Most of the guests had dispersed leaving just himself and Father John at his end of the table.

  “I have, of course, heard of you, Kirios Watkins, and would like to add my thanks for the way in which you have preserved something rare and very special. I would, of course, have joined you earlier had it not been for the particular nature of my metabolism but I am sure you will forgive me for this, shall we say, weakness.”

  Whatever the meaning of this was, it washed over Steve. All he could focus on was the appearance of the creature sitting opposite him. It was, he knew, the priest he had seen lurking in the shadows of the chapel earlier but up close and at night he was a far more alarming proposition. He was clothed from chin to ankles in a long black cassock with a scarf of some similarly dark material covering his throat and a black broad-brimmed hat pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Steve had drunk plenty of champagne and wine and was feeling quite chilled but one glance at the priest’s face killed any impulse he might have had to laugh at the exaggerated costume.

  The face, where not covered by a straggly deep black beard, was a pallid, almost chalk, white, scarred by some type of virulent red acne and the contrast of the sick red with the dead white was not easy to look upon. Father John studied him carefully through eyes strangely glassy and bloodshot, like those of someone who had stared too long at the sun. Steve felt the eyes scrutinising him and dropped his own gaze.

  Later, he remembered little of the time he sat with the priest in the cool and perfumed night air; except he felt mesmerised as he listened. He knew they’d talked about the history and legends of the island, and how the forces that shaped the past were still at work. He thought the priest had shown him a beautiful prehistoric flint knife he’d found by the church. Large black carrion birds swept across the lawns and settled in the nearby trees, the leathery rustle and creaking of their wings disturbed him. The priest laughed.

  “Ah, see our friends of the night; crows.”

  Steve asked,

  “But birds like that don’t live here, and anyway they are not meant to fly at night, are they?”

  The priest laughed.

  “Do you not recall the writings of your English man of letters Robert Burton: in his fascinating study of melancholy he says, if I recall correctly,”

  then he quoted from memory.

  “God permits the Devil to appear in the form of crows and such like to scare those who live wickedly.”

  He made a noise that might have been a chuckle.

  “But do not worry, my friend, for here it is not you they will worry, and I hope that you and I in the weeks to come will enjoy many hours together.”

  Steve couldn’t remember how he got back to his room, but that night he dreamt again the awful dream where crows swooped from the Skendleby trees to dismember the Reverend Ed Joyce.

  He woke in bright sunlight, sprawled across his bed fully dressed, to the sound of knocking at his door. He opened it to find the shaven headed driver.

  “Kirios, you have slept too long. Now it is late, I will drive you direct to where you work.”

  Chapter 5:

  Something Snaps

  Theodrakis’s head ached as he walked through dazzling sunlight in Central Square towards the dilapidated university building standing in the shade of some straggly trees. These, like the building’s neoclassical facade, had been allowed to go to seed.

  As usual he’d slept badly; wasn’t sure if he’d really slept at all, just lain awake in a delusional dreamlike state. But he figured he must have slept because at one point in the night he heard birds scratching their claws and beating their wings on the closed shutters. He hated birds and was repelled by the thought of their feathers or bodies touching him. He reassured himself it must have been a nightmare.

  He crossed the short walkway leading from the square to the double doors, one of which stood half open. They’d seen better days and needed a coat of paint and new handles. The door scraped on the floor as he pushed it open: inside was a dark and deserted vestibule with a broken drink dispensing machine standing in the centre of a floor paved with black tiles decorated with white zigzags. The tiles were cracked and the floor dirty; the space exuded an atmosphere of deep melancholy. There was no reception and no one answered his call, so he followed the only corridor which had any lights on and by good fortune, at the end of it, was a door bearing the name of Professor Andraki. He knocked and went in.

  Inside, sitting either side of a desk, were Andraki and a man with close cropped white hair. He was good looking with a youngish face marred by a damaged right ear and deep worry lines. Andraki introduced him as Doctor Steve Watkins, an English archaeologist working at the university. He was clearly anxious that Watkins should leave the room before the police business commenced so after shaking hands he ushered him to the door. Theodrakis sensed Professor Andraki was uneasy; his hands shook and his breath carried the distinct aroma of aniseed, which indicated he’d already hit the raki.

  “You must forgive me, Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, but I do not feel well and I don’t think that I can be of any more help in this business. You must understand I am an academic, which is why I was first consulted, I have given all the help I can, I have a family you understand.”

  Theodrakis didn’t understand, but knew if he remained silent Andraki would continue to talk and give him time to consider how to best steer the conversation. As he expected, after a pause, Andraki rattled on.

  “Now things are becoming too much: there is Vassilis telling me I must give more interesting work to that Englishman as well as being made to be a part of these murders, and all because I supplied some helpful information.”

  He came to a stop and sat in his high backed chair looking like a frightened child. Theodrakis found himself pitying the man as he continued to struggle his way through the broken narrative which obviously caused him so much anxiety.

  “Listen, please, Syntagmatarchis, you must believe me, I must have been a little crazy when I told the police what I had observed at those sites. I think I am a little crazy, unwell, I cannot sleep, please, you are obviously an educated man, get them to leave me alone.”

  Theodrakis used this plea as his cue.

  “Professor, believe m
e, I am no happier to be here doing this than you are; by the way do I detect from your accent that you too are Athenian?”

  “Yes, and I wish that I was still there, but you understand the way the Greek education bureaucracy works, we get moved around just like you.”

  “Well, we Athenians must stick together. Listen, you tell me what you can to help me and I’ll do what I can to keep you out of this mess.”

  “Including from that animal, Samarakis?”

  “Especially from him.”

  “Do I have any other choice?”

  “No you don’t really have any other choice, Professor; but I think that I could persuade them that all further contact comes through me. I am sure they would agree to that, but I would need a clear understanding of what your observations actually mean and you are the only person who can give me that.”

  So in this way, Theodrakis came to hear how Professor Andraki got himself tangled up in the investigation.

  “When they discovered the first body, I was looking at some Neolithic burials near the Geometric period burial site in Pythagoreio. One morning I saw that one of the larger grave sites had been disturbed: well, more than disturbed, it had been vandalised, not just robbed, an attempt had been made to damage it, to desecrate it, you understand? Why do that after all these thousands of years?

  “I was angry of course, and a little confused, but there wasn’t much I could do so I just filed a report and put it out of my mind. Then a few weeks later, and I am sure you can see where this is going Syntagmatarchis, one of our post graduate survey teams contacted me. Another site from the same period had been similarly desecrated. A site that is unique on the island or anywhere else for that matter. We’d kept this site a close secret to avoid unwelcome attention until we could record and analyse it in detail prior to publication.”

  While he was talking Andraki grew paler, and by the time he stumbled to a halt he was dead white. Theodrakis was himself beginning to feel uncomfortable in the close, airless room and worried that the Professor might become too unwell to continue. He suggested they go outside and perhaps get a coffee; Andraki agreed with alacrity, obviously keen to leave his office. They walked across the main square to a smaller one and sat under the shade of a cafe umbrella.