by Nick Brown
“You and I have unfinished business, I’ll catch you up later at the party, until then enjoy your little game with the boys.”
Then she headed away towards the garden with the other women and Steve realised that this was to be an all-male ritual. Everything he hated. They filed into the incense laden air of the chapel, each making a little genuflection before standing at a pew. Vassilis gestured for them to sit.
Father John slithered from the shadows behind the altar looking even more creepy than Steve remembered, so much so that he didn’t want to look at him so, instead, he looked at the wall paintings; but they were even worse, so he sat with his eyes closed wondering when he would wake up.
To his relief the blessing, whatever it meant, was short and didn’t involve any contact with the corpselike priest. There followed a bizarre ritual that stopped just short of a being a parody of the Eucharist as a large silver chalice was raised in the air and passed round all the seated men. As he waited for his turn, Steve felt like an unwelcome guest at one of the drinking societies for rich public school boys when they reach university. It also crossed his mind that Vassilis was playing a cruel practical joke on them simply because he had the power. Like Stalin who, after dinner and drink, liked to make his generals and senior politicians dance with each other while he stood changing the records and watching.
There was no more time to reflect on power and humiliation as the chalice reached him. Inside was a reddish liquid which at first he feared might be blood but turned out to chilled sparkling red wine. When everyone had drunk, the chalice was returned to Vassilis who carried it outside and set off towards the cricket pitch followed by his congregation.
A sizeable crowd, gathered under large sunshades, already fringed the boundary and as Vassilis appeared they applauded him as he walked across to the square, where he held the chalice briefly above his head before pouring the dregs onto the wicket. The two captains who followed him stood as he tossed the coin then moved away towards an elaborate marquee set up at the far end of the ground. A large and florid Brit, who had been introduced to Steve, although he had forgotten his name, took him by the arm.
“Come on, you’re with us; your kit will be laid out in the tent, looks like poor old Dougie lost the toss as usual and we’ll have to field in this heat.”
Steve, already sweating with discomfort and feeling like a walk on part in someone else’s nightmare, asked him,
“Have you done this before?”
“Too bloody right I have: no one with any sense would consider saying no to one of Vassilis’s invitations: the Greeks because they’re scared shitless by him, and us because we have to live on this island. Things might be a bit uncomfortable for us if we had to go back home. Still, the party afterwards is always good particularly if you fancy a turn with Brandi.”
“Brandy?”
“Dougie’s wife, someone is normally prepared to take her off his hands for a bit.”
He said this with an expression that was half smirk, half leer, but lacked the charm of either. They reached the marquee which had a changing area for each team at opposite ends. There was a locker for each player with their names on, and inside Steve’s a complete brand new kit was laid out. He changed in a daze. It was all so strange that he was almost enjoying it; the care that was being taken of him was very flattering, and of course there was Alekka. While he was lacing his boots Dougie asked him,
“What do you do, Steve? You’re in for Antonis who, naturally, did anything he bloody well wanted to.”
The rest of the team laughed at this, but not too loudly; and Steve told them he didn’t mind as he hadn’t played for a bit and was rusty.
“Well, you’re bloody well going to have to do something; Vassilis expects it.”
“Bowl then, I guess.”
“What? Seam up medium I’ll bet. Better be good, we’re expected to win so I’ll bring you on once we’re through their openers; they’re the only decent bats they’ve got, the rest just slog so you shouldn’t do too much damage. Till then, double up between long off and fine leg.”
Steve had seldom been made to feel so unwanted and was impressed Dougie accomplished it with so few words. Somewhere outside, a loud bell rang and they left the shade of the marquee for the glare of the field. He saw Vassilis sitting on a large chair under an awning surrounded by courtiers like Xerxes above Salamis.
Suddenly he was nervous: he hadn’t played for years and there was now a large crowd. Alekka waved to him as he followed the rest of his team onto the field and he jogged off to his position on the boundary, now geographically as well as culturally peripheral to the rest of his teammates.
He stood in the heat as the opening bowlers, both of whom looked pretty quick, got carted all over the field. To his relief no catch came his way, and all he had to do was retrieve the ball from beyond the boundary rope on half a dozen occasions. This suited him, he didn’t want to be humiliated in front of Alekka. He was looking into the crowd trying to see where she’d moved to when he heard his name shouted by a red faced Dougie.
“Steve, replace Toggers at point, then take the next over at the marquee end.”
Steve now felt very nervous. He’d watched while Toggers’s bowling had been smeared all over the field and Toggers, or The Togster as he referred to himself, looked like a candidate for both a coronary and sunstroke. Fielding close at point made the game seem too immediate, and he fumbled the only ball that came to him. At the end of the over he made his way to the wicket where, after asking him what field he wanted, Dougie took the decision himself by taking out the slip and pushing the field deep to such an extent that it felt like the umpire, the non-striking batsmen and Steve were contagious.
He decided that instead of bowling the off-spin he had at school and university it might be safer to try and send down a couple of seam-up overs as accurately as he could and then retire to the safety of the boundary. He paced out a run then turned to bowl: the first ball went straight back over his head for six. He pitched the second a couple of yards shorter and it went over square leg for another six. He could feel his face reddening with embarrassment and heard Dougie and the others shouting at him; either abuse or encouragement, he couldn’t tell which.
Maybe the off-spin was a better bet. He measured a shorter run as the two batsmen and umpire laughed at him. The first ball didn’t even land but flew straight off the bat and over the boundary. He wanted the earth to swallow him up; his hands were sweating so much he couldn’t grip the ball so rubbed his right hand in the dirt by the crease.
He noticed as he ran in to bowl that the batsman wasn’t even bothering to take his guard; just looking at where he’d hit the next six. He aimed down his left arm and let the ball go with a flick of the fingers. This time it pitched and the seam gripped on the wicket, the ball straightened and hit the top of off stump. He threw his hands in the air and bellowed an unnecessary euphoric appeal. The crowd cheered, his teammates ran to congratulate him and he remembered why he used to love this game.
Dougie was right; after the openers they weren’t up to much and quickly folded. Steve bowled another three respectable overs, took a second wicket and walked off at the break feeling pretty good, waving modestly at Alekka who he saw applauding him. He was even disappointed that he wasn’t needed to bat as his team easily knocked off the runs for the loss of only three wickets.
When the final wicket fell, both teams and the crowd moved to the small rostrum where Vassilis presented Dougie, the winning captain, with the winner’s trophy, a heavy and expensive looking crystal vase decorated with a representation of the islands ancient temple. It was only as he was heading back to the house, having shaken hands with all the players, that he looked around him and saw how beautiful the setting of the ground was. Set high above the sea and fringed with olives and citrus trees it resembled a film set, even the parked-up helicopters conspired to give the place an aspect of exotic excitement and he felt impatient for the night to come on.
Later, showered and changed, Steve joined the party in the garden as below them the burnished red sun sunk into the waters of the Aegean. The gardens were lit by candle lanterns and two sheep were turning on spits. He took a glass of champagne offered by one of the servants and set off to find Alekka. Before he could, he was called over to join a group that included Dougie, Toggers and others from the team whose nicknames he couldn’t remember and got stuck in a bantering conversation which revolved around money, cars and golf: none of which Steve either had or could play. Then a gong sounded loudly and he followed them through a gap between two trees into the far garden where a long table, able to seat the sixty-odd of them, was laid.
Above, on a natural rock projecting out of the mountain, a young woman dressed in an ancient Greek Peplos with an olive circlet holding her hair, played a great harp. This time he was not seated near Vassilis and it occurred to him that this was because Antonis seemed to resent him, so he sat amongst the cricketers eating, drinking and feeling the enjoyable post match lassitude he remembered from his cricketing past. He was not anxious about Alekka. He just knew that at the right time she would come for him; and she did, dancing out of nowhere as fruit and liqueurs were being passed around.
By this time several of the party had drifted off to wander in the gardens and along the paths above the sea. Alekka looked at him, held out her hand; he got up and took it, and they walked away from the candlelit table into the darkness of the trees and the sound of the harp faded behind them.
“Come walk with me, Steveymou, and I will show you my favourite place on this island where no one will disturb us. But you must promise not to talk about how well you played that stupid game.”
Shortly, after the lights faded behind them, they heard a disturbance and the sound of a woman moaning in either pain or pleasure in the grove to their left. Alekka tugged at his hand pulling him towards a path leading in the direction of the sea.
“That woman, the wife of Dougie, shames him and all you English; if she was one of us things would be done.”
Steve said nothing as she led him further into the darkness. After a while he realised they’d begun to climb a steep gradient. There was a change in the feel of the air as they walked out from the cover of the trees and the sea lay moonlit hundreds of feet below. They’d emerged into a natural arbour in the cliff; a small gently sloping patch of grass perched high up flanked by sheer slabs of rock.
“I have loved this place all through time, this place is for me only, yet tonight I share it with you.”
Under normal circumstances he might have wondered about the phrase ‘all through time’ but tonight he felt that, having been tested on the cricket field, this was his reward. The place was magical, away from the world and for a while they stood together in the perfect stillness looking out across the glimmering Aegean. He could smell her perfume, hear the rustle of the thin material of her dress when she moved, and feel the place where their hips touched and her sweet breath kissed his face.
He waited for her and after a time that could have been seconds or hours she turned to him, as he had expected, and put her arms round his neck pulling his face towards hers. The kiss, soft at first, then urgent, sucked him in. Her tongue and gently biting teeth teased and excited him and his hand slipped down to her buttocks feeling the firm flesh beneath the thin material. She began to move her hips and press against him and he knew what would follow.
But it didn’t. Suddenly she stiffened and pulled away.
“Steve, we must go to my father now, he needs to see you.”
Strangely, despite his frustration and the lack of logic, he knew she was genuine and as sorry as he was they’d had to stop. She took his hand and they walked back through the woods to the house. Vassilis was in his study sitting within the narrow cone of light from an antique lamp; the rest of the room was shrouded in dark but Steve felt the presence of other people in the room he couldn’t see. Vassilis called him over and gestured for him to sit.
“I am sorry, Doctor Watkins, but your stay must be cut short, there are things on the island which demand my urgent attention.”
Steve could not stop himself blurting out,
“What things?”
Vassilis was not used to being questioned as Steve knew, but he answered him patiently in the manner of one explaining something to a child.
“This might surprise you but as yet we do not know; fire is near, it is circling as if dancing with these killings. Something is changing, changing irreversibly.”
While he said this, Steve sensed a movement in the darkness and the creak of wooden floorboards told him that someone was leaving the room. He turned to look and saw a shadowy figure move towards the door; he was certain it was Antonis. The figure joined hands with Alekka and together they left the study.
“Don’t worry, you will see her again soon; all I can tell you is that this in your best interest, it is better that you do not stay here tonight, think of it as being a precaution that we are taking, as caring hosts, for your safety.”
Steve started to speak but Vassilis raised a pudgy hand to silence him.
“Believe me, there are things you have no wish to see, you are a stranger and do not understand what transpires. Perhaps you have a part to play; but not yet I think. I will explain no more. Change, you see, can only be understood in retrospect. Are you familiar with the 17th century Japanese master Basho? No, I thought not, this quote is as close as I can get to your purpose.
“‘Breaking the silence
Of an ancient pond
A frog jumped into water
A deep resonance.’
“Now Dieter will drive you home.”
Steve turned and saw the shaven-headed driver standing behind him, though he’d heard no sound. Dieter motioned him to follow and as Vassilis turned back to his desk he saw the sepulchral figure of Father John emerge from the gloom and move to join him. Not a word was exchanged on the journey, which passed like a dream. In his apartment he saw his phone had a voice message waiting for him. He hoped it was Alekka and retrieved it.
“Hi, Steve, it’s Giles. I can’t explain on the phone but Claire and I have to see you, we’ll be on the first available flight either Monday or Thursday. There’s something else, I don’t suppose you get much news over there. Tim Thompson is dead; killed in Nice, the circumstances are unclear. Listen, Steve, I think you need to be careful OK? See you soon.”
Steve slumped onto the sofa and sat in the silence, and then he rummaged in his workbag and took out the unread letter from Tim Thompson.
Chapter 7:
The Keeper of the Dead
At least it was cool in the police morgue. Lucca drew the sheet back over the body to give it some sense of decency, he felt sick, knew he shouldn’t, knew it was meant to be part of the job. But what he’d had to examine, eviscerate and reconfigure these last few months wasn’t what he had signed up and left Italy for.
This one was the worst: one of their own; it made it too personal, too close to home. The thought of home made him grimace; this stuff, these mutilated unresting dead came home with him and filled his dreams. Made him not want to touch his wife or small children with his slender-fingered hands, no matter how hard he scrubbed them in the lab sink at the end of each day.
This one was extra pressure; every cop on the island needed him to find some evidence that would let them nail the bastard who was doing it. Before, they had wanted to nail him of course, but now they all felt threatened. To kill the others was bad enough but they’d been strangers, in fact some of them had been foreigners, tourists, and the way some of them walked about the place it was almost like they had been asking for it.
But this was a cop: it could have been any one of them lying on that table, under that sheet with an identification tag on their big toe, while back in darkened houses their wives, mothers and children wailed and mourned. It didn’t matter that it was a cop none of them had liked: now he was dead he was their brother, and this bastard who had
done these terrible things to his body might now have them in his sights. Whatever the political bosses might say the old women had got it right; he had risen and now he moved among them spreading his contagion.
This one wasn’t the same in another respect too, it had been butchered differently; just as horrible but the pattern of killing and harvesting was horridly dissimilar. Perhaps it was meant to send an alternative message, or worse, perhaps it was a different thing doing the killing. The word ‘thing’ came to his mind more easily than man or person, as Lucca couldn’t envisage how a human being could do such things. How could a human being take so much care, expend such patience and time over these works of horror?
He heard the door of the morgue lab open and a pale man in an elegant suit came in.
“Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’ve no doubt of that, you probably expected that I was still in for questioning. However even the police authority on this island is not stupid enough to think for a moment that I was involved in this; there’s no evidence and whatever else they think of me, they credit me with some intelligence.”
“So, it’s still your case then?”
“Unfortunately yes. I can’t put it off any longer, you’d better show him to me.”
Lucca pulled back the sheet and waited as Theodrakis looked over the body. He pulled a scented handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and signalled to Lucca to replace the sheet.
“He looks more frightening dead than he did alive, how could such a bull of a man allow this to happen to him? Lucca, would you mind if we discussed this somewhere else? I don’t think I can do it in here with him lying there like that.”
Lucca replaced the sheet and they walked to the door and as he reached to turn off the light Theodrakis said,
