The Dead Travel Fast

by Nick Brown

  They drove through the charred wasteland left by the fire onto the grounds of the Vassilis estate which seemed unaffected, and turned down a rough and dusty track leading to the sea. The minibus pulled up on the broad flat terrace that Alekka had shown him on his first visit. The covering of coarse grass, thorn and scrub had been burnt off, but otherwise there was little damage. At the far end of the terrace Steve could see the ruins of the deserted village; he spread out the map on the bonnet of the bus so that they could orientate themselves. He was trying to pinpoint the area, where, according to Alekka, lay the buried site of great antiquity, when Thomas, a bearded post grad in his thirties, tapped Steve on his shoulder.

  “Look, they’ve found it for us.”

  Steve turned to follow the direction Thomas indicated and saw a flock of great black birds circling low above the ground. He was reminded, against his will, of what Father John told him about crows, reminded again when Maria said,

  “That’s so creepy, like out of a horror movie or something; are birds like that meant to live here, Tom?”

  Steve answered for him.

  “Well, if they are or not, that’s more or less where the site’s meant to be so we may as well start over there, come on.”

  They grabbed their gear from the bus and trudged across the uneven surface of the burnt ground towards the black carrion. The birds continued to circle low without touching the ground until they were within about twenty five metres, then with an accelerated beating of wings they climbed rapidly and flew off towards the sea with a racket of carking and cawing. The oldest and largest bird circled back onto the charred black stump of a scrub oak some twenty metres distant, from where it watched them.

  The fire had burnt off most of the vegetation, down to the thin stony earth that filled in between the rocky protrusions, and Steve noticed a scatter of flints and potsherds. The area the crows circled was different.

  However ancient the site, it was apparent was that it had been tampered with very recently. In one sense this was fortunate, as otherwise locating the feature would have been time-consuming and difficult. Yet this thought made Steve uneasy: who would have known where to dig other than an archaeologist with detailed local knowledge? If this was the case, who was it and why? He remembered Andraki describing the desecration of the pre-Geometric burial site in Pythagoreio.

  The interference here was crude, looked like it had been done in a hurry and perpetrators wanted to get away as quick as possible. There’d not been any archaeological technique applied, but maybe an archaeologist had sold the information to grave robbers. But that made little sense as virtually nothing with saleable value would be turned up at a site like this. He could tell the others were thinking the same and it was spooking them.

  They were standing on a slightly raised, circular area about five metres in diameter, covered in the charred remains of thorn and gorse. Before the fire it would have been hidden, now it seemed almost obscenely exposed and hacked about. Someone had dug a series of experimental holes searching for something, and then apparently having found it, a much larger hole.

  This hole was too small for four people to work on so Steve asked Tom and Maria to take an area about the size of a football pitch with the feature at its centre, divide it into a grid and methodically walk each square collecting, recording and bagging every artefact they found. A process similar to that undertaken by police on the murder investigations which were being carried out all over the island.

  He and Anna then made a photographic record of the site as they found it. It was hot, too hot really for such work which normally was not done in high summer, but, as Andraki had told him, these were exceptional circumstances. After recording the site and the damage inflicted on it they carefully collected some of the objects that had been turned up in the dug earth, mainly worked obsidian blades of surprisingly good quality.

  By the time these were bagged, the sun was directly overhead and causing heat shimmer to distort perspective. The heat thrown back from the recently burnt earth was intolerable so Steve called a halt and they carried their finds back to the mini bus. Thomas raised the sun awning on a series of poles and they slumped into the shade.

  After passing round the water they lay still for a while too hot and dried out to talk, then, after the effect of the water enabled sweat to form small streaks in the film of dust that coated their bodies, they began to eat, then lay down to doze away the next couple of hours.

  They weren’t easy hours for Steve; there was something horribly familiar, not so much déjà vu as about to be seen. The site was all wrong: for a start why was it there? The land was poor with no other Neolithic stuff anywhere near. It wasn’t like any Neolithic site he’d worked on: not here, not Cyprus, not the Middle East. There was only one site it reminded him of. Skendleby: a site no one had been meant to find, and it would have been better if no one ever had.

  He estimated what they had here was a secondary burial inserted into a feature from an earlier period. The burial, probably a cremation pot, had been robbed. Why? There wouldn’t have been anything worth robbing: so why dig it up? The flint blades he couldn’t figure, they were high quality and manufactured someplace else. He felt a sense of dread about the site but it was exciting archaeology.

  So, by the time the sun was falling from its zenith and the temperature was moving towards the tolerable, he was almost impatient to get back to investigating the desecrated feature. He crouched at the edge of the main hole to sift through the loose earth that had slipped back into the void, while Anna sifted the material on the surface. His trowel immediately struck rock and he realised that the hole had been cut into the main feature.

  In the next hour he uncovered enough dressed stone to be sure he was near the foundation of a painstakingly constructed building. For a moment he entertained the possibility that he’d discovered something to rival Lerna or Sesklo. He paused to catch breath and wipe the sweat from above his eyes and was about to shout to the other two to come across to look when Thomas grabbed him by the arm.

  “Steve, I think you should come and see what we’ve turned up.”

  Steve saw his face was pale and thought maybe he’d also found something equally mega, that this was going to help rewrite the Neolithic textbooks. He was so excited he didn’t register when Thomas said,

  “Steve, I have a bad feeling about this, I think we need to call the cops.”

  Steve was already fantasising about the collection from Lerna in the museum at Nafplion and thinking of the Samian equivalent. Then he saw Maria crouched on her hands and knees above a pool of vomit and his fantasy disappeared with a jolt.

  “Steve, look at this: we started finding it in this quadrant as we got close to the feature.”

  He was interrupted by a bout of dry retching from Maria behind him.

  “Look, the closer we get, the more we find.”

  Steve looked and saw bone.

  “So, what’s the big deal, you know there’s always fragments of bone round sites.”

  “Steve, look closely: this is human bone, and once you clean it up a bit and remove smear from the fire it looks recent.”

  “OK, but let the lab nerds analyse what it is when we get it to them.”

  “Look at the piece that Maria just found and think again.”

  Steve followed Thomas to the spot the where the fragment landed after she’d thrown it away in disgust.

  “See that: Steve, it’s a human shin bone and there’s no sign of burn on it, look, it’s blood-stained and there’s sinew, ligament and muscle still attached.”

  Steve looked at it, Thomas was right; it was a human shin bone, fresh, untouched by fire. He felt queasy.

  “OK, I’ll get the lab to take a look at it soon. Remember, the first rule of archaeology; never make a snap judgement, get a second informed opinion.”

  “Steve! There’s no fire damage. You know what that means. It was put here after the fire; the fucking thing’s brand new. The police can’t know abo
ut this yet, think about it.”

  “All right, I’ve got the picture, there’s no need to go on. Listen, we’re finished here for the day; you bag up the bone you moved, leave the rest. I’ll get it looked at.”

  “By the police?”

  “Just leave it to me.”

  “Should we be moving anything? It’s all evidence.”

  “Well, we’re not harming it, are we?”

  “What about the context?”

  “Fuck the context, we know where it was found, mark the spot if you’re so bothered; and listen, no mention of this to anyone, this site could be really big for us. We don’t want it getting messed up. The bones will probably turn out to be animal, or it could be some type of practical joke.”

  “What if these bones are connected to the murders?”

  “Oh, come on, if there’d been some weird stuff about cutting out bones don’t you think it would be all over the papers? Or are you suggesting that the murders were carried out in the anatomy labs of a hospital? Grow up, for Christ’s sake.”

  He realised he was shouting and saw that both the girls were staring at him and Maria was crying. He softened his tone.

  “Sorry; sorry, we’re obviously wound up. Look, you can trust me to do the responsible thing about the bones, I promise. But you need to be responsible too; if there’s been some sort of crime here or even just a practical joke, then we all have to keep quiet about it, that’s what the police would say.”

  He looked at each of their faces and saw they weren’t convinced.

  “Obviously we’ll have to close the site down for a bit, so I’ll text you over the next couple of days, keep you in the picture, yeah?”

  Thomas gave him the bag with the bloodied bones and as he passed them across, Steve could see from his eyes that although he didn’t trust him, he was glad to have handed over the responsibility. They packed up and walked back towards the bus, but before they reached it a silver sports car pulled up alongside. Alekka got out and came towards them; Steve could see she was agitated.

  “Steve, have you seen my brother Antonis here?”

  Steve stopped to talk but the others walked on with their eyes averted; he saw Anna spit on the ground and Thomas cross himself. If Alekka noticed this, she chose not to react.

  “No, no one’s been here but us. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem but I have not time to talk. I will ring you soon.”

  She walked quickly back to her car and screeched off. They took down the awning and packed up the bus. On the drive back to the university no one spoke. When he dropped them off he just said,

  “I’ll deal with the authorities and when it’s OK to start again I’ll text you. Remember, not a word to anyone.”

  They shuffled off together in silence. Steve knew they didn’t trust him and he didn’t blame them, he didn’t trust himself. But he was spooked; this was frighteningly familiar.

  That night he sat in the bar by the harbour drinking ouzo; he needed time to think. Needed someone to talk to. After half a bottle he decided to wait until Giles arrived on the afternoon plane. He’d been at Skendleby, if anyone would understand he would.

  Telling the others to keep quiet hadn’t been about protecting the integrity of the site. He was afraid of what an investigation would dig up, and he wasn’t going to make the Skendleby mistake a second time. The thin sliver of moon disappeared behind a wisp of cloud and he decided to go back to his apartment. As he walked by his car he remembered the bones locked in the trunk and shivered.

  Chapter 13:

  Flint Knife

  Theodrakis woke early, and by the time Hippolyta arrived to collect him he had sourced a pair of swimming shorts from the village general store. Normally a tourist picnic boat trip was something he would have found distasteful, however in his present circumstances it presented several attractions; not the least of which were a day with Hippolyta and a temporary state of anonymity as part of a group.

  Out on a boat no one could find him or expect anything from him. So he took time considering how he should dress for the occasion. His wardrobe didn’t extend to sports casual and he had to settle for the trousers of a cream linen suit worn with a yellow polo shirt and some expensive Italian loafers: just the type of outfit de rigueur at a Glyfada soiree. In his opinion, Hippolyta hadn’t taken similar time over her wardrobe and wore what appeared to be a man’s shirt, several sizes too large, and a pair of flip flops. These latter he appreciated as without heels she wasn’t so much taller than he was.

  She drove them through the nearby resort of Kampos, which like all the vacation strips on the island seemed depressingly empty, to a small wooden jetty at the far end. There they found a collection of about thirty holiday makers waiting to board an old pleasure boat moored at the pier end.

  Hippolyta pushed through the tourists to the boat where she was greeted by a bulky unshaven man wearing a grubby T shirt bearing the legend ‘Captain Zorba No Problems’. She greeted him with a kiss, introduced him to Theodrakis and let him help her across the gangplank onto the boat. Captain Zorba escorted them to the best seats and only when they were comfortably established did he admit the other passengers. Most of these were middle aged and heavily built, but friendly and determined on a good time.

  Theodrakis was the only passenger not wearing shorts or a bulging swimming suit. A group of Northern Europeans squeezed themselves into the remaining seats in the prow. Theodrakis’s new neighbour, a man with a large bare belly and chest covered with scars, grunted amiably and offered him a swig out of a hip flask. Theodrakis refused politely so the man took a large gulp himself, belched, and passed the flask to his companions, who all accepted.

  A teenage boy, also wearing a ‘Captain Zorba No Problems’ shirt, untied the ropes and they pulled away from shore. Hippolyta tied her hair back, put on a sun hat and told him that they would sail for about forty minutes to where the captain had laid his nets last night and then stop to gather them in. He would describe different fish they caught, which would later be grilled for lunch.

  He didn’t know what to say and she seemed similarly nervous so they sat in companionable silence and watched the coastline as it passed. The day was warm, but the breeze generated by the ship’s motion was refreshing and the drone of the engine comforting. They were squeezed together so he enjoyed the feel of the naked skin of her arm against his.

  He felt good, relaxed by the boat but stimulated by Hippolyta and wanted the day to go on forever. Even when a party of Germans attempted to start everyone singing drinking songs he stayed in his blissed-out zone, and in any case the singing didn’t catch on. A pod of dolphins followed the boat for a while and as everyone scrambled for their cameras Theodrakis watched a sleek dolphin arch up out of the water, with sunlight glistening on its svelte skin, before splashing back under the waves.

  It seemed so natural and clean that he felt tears starting at the back of his eyes. Hippolyta noticed, asked if he was all right and slipped her arm through his. Sometime later she pointed forwards and said,

  “Look, there it is.”

  He looked and saw in the distance a white rectangular plastic container bobbing on the water.

  “Yes, there, that’s the float, that’s where the nets are, that’s where we catch our fish.”

  She was beaming with childish anticipation and he thought that maybe she was as happy as he was.

  “When we get to the float, he will haul in the nets and then gut and clean the catch; he’s not as good as Captain Michales but it is quite interesting and sometimes funny.”

  Captain Zorba came round with a collection of plastic cups which his son filled from a large and much-used styrofoam container of ouzo and water. When all the cups were filled, the Captain started the winding gear and the nets began their journey up from the sea bed. Only two people on the boat were British, but the talk was delivered in a form of English that everyone seemed to understand and as Hippolyta predicted, it was a good act.

  T
he captain drew up a bucket of sea water, took out a sharp gutting knife and stopped the net as each fish appeared. Anyone who looked nervous about the growing pile of fish gasping and wriggling their last on the deck had a fish thrown to them by the captain, to the amusement of everyone else. Soon Zorba was well into his act.

  “This fish here is Scorpios fish, is bad if the spikes stick in you. For us is no good, but if you are careful you can make soup with this fish. This one is small so I throw it back.”

  He paused for effect.

  “I throw back because I feel very big fish coming up next, very big fish, perhaps shark or dolphin.”

  Theodrakis neighbour shouted out at this.

  “Gut, then ve eat dolphin, plenty for all.”

  Everyone laughed and Hippolyta whispered,

  “This is always the joke he ends with, the heavy fish is really the rock that weights the nets.”

  Theodrakis sat back getting ready to laugh as Zorba moved to the climax.

  “Here it comes, get ready to shout hoopah.”

  But he didn’t shout hoopah and Theodrakis didn’t laugh. All eyes were on the net as first a white human arm appeared over the side of the boat followed by the hair, matted with seawrack, then the head and the rest of the naked body. Theodrakis pulled Hippolyta’s head into his chest so she couldn’t see what he did. The body hadn’t been in the water long, no more than a day; the fish had hardly got to work on it.

  But the hallmark of the killer was plainly stamped, and hanging naked in the nets above the deck made the imprimatur of mutilations somehow look worse. For an instant there was deep silence on the boat, broken only by the whooshing sounds of a squid slowly asphyxiating in the pile of dying fish on the deck. Then the screaming started.

  Hours later, after the police at the dockside had taken the body away, Theodrakis walked through the demonstrators in Lion Square, Vathia, to report to Adamidis. The protest had attracted a large crowd, more than even the organisers had expected and it seemed that all strands of island life were represented. The banners ranged from the official protest rejecting the Euro-zone bail out terms and calling for pensions to be protected to the anarchist demands for bankers to be hanged; the mood was angry but Theodrakis hardly noticed.