by Nick Brown
“But to tell you the truth, honey, I’m bored too so a walk would be OK. As a matter of fact Steve told me about a place up here where you take your lovers; he said it was pretty spectacular.”
She paused and laughed to herself.
“The view that is; although from what Steve said I’m sure the other couldn’t have been too bad either.”
Alekka felt her cheeks burn with shame and anger but in her heart felt deep hurt, how could she have lost her glacial control so quickly? How could Steve have talked to this woman like that? Then she realised that she was being played and began to think.
“Well, if you think that you can keep yourself off Giles for the time it’ll take to get there, I’ll show you.”
“Oh, miaow: nice try, honey, perhaps today might turn out to be fun after all.”
All the time as they talked Claire had been rotating the grass stalk around her lips; now she spat it out.
“Come on then, let’s go for a girly walk.”
She put out her hand for Alekka to take. It was like ice.
They followed the track towards the cliffs and the birds, at a distance, followed circling in the air behind them. Alekka could feel Father John somewhere close, at least she could feel his mind reaching out to her. And gradually as they walked Alekka realised that his plan was right. If she got Claire to her place high above the sea she could engineer a situation to push her off the edge to her death, assuming she was capable of dying, hundreds of feet below on the jagged rocks where the sea undermined the cliffs. Beside her, Claire was giggling to herself and as they walked on this grew to laughter until her shoulders began to shake and she pulled up.
“Anyone watching us would see two beautiful dark haired women, close friends walking on a summer’s day. It could be part of a tourist advert for Greece, make a change from riots and tear gas.”
She stopped, overcome with convulsive heaves of laughter.
“And what is so funny, please?”
“The irony of course, honey: we’re not friends, we’re not even women and we mean death to each other. Beautiful death, and of course to us that’s only temporary.”
“Why do you feel you can talk like this to me?”
“Because before either of us gets back, there will have been a reckoning and anyway, who would believe you if you told them, apart from that decaying old ruin Vassilis?”
“You would be foolish to underestimate him, particularly here on his ground.”
“Oh, bless: loyalty, that’s so sweet. Every time I think I’ve reached the limit of your stupidity you go one further, push the volume up to eleven. You know I’m getting so much pleasure out of you it will almost be a pity when I finish this. Pity Vassilis doesn’t return your loyalty.”
Claire’s face continued to wear the same sardonic smile whatever she said and Alekka felt the fear begin to return. She wanted to defend Vassilis, let the woman know how powerful he was, but there was no time. Claire carried on.
“Vassilis is nothing compared to me, just a street corner conjuror, he’s no more power than those fools at Skendleby who have enabled me to grow so strong. Stronger by the day; I’m creating feelings and passions that grow too strong for this body. But after so long without pleasure and sensations, I think I can be forgiven for indulging myself. We all deserve a treat, don’t you agree Alekka?”
She directed a look at Alekka, the suggestion of which would have been impossible to misunderstand. She couldn’t live with this, she had to get away: she was athletic and strong, she must be able to outdistance Claire. Claire was watching, her face a mask of amusement and something else, something lasciviously unsettling.
Alekka was about to turn and run when she saw him again, Father John, behind Claire on the path to the cliffs. His form was more fragmented as if the pieces hadn’t knitted together, as if he were a work in progress assembled by someone else. But she felt the thoughts his mind directed towards her.
“Keep going, Alekka, draw her to the cliffs, I will be there and together we will be strong enough for her.”
Claire watched her.
“Still with us are you, honey? For a moment there I thought you were about to leave. That would have spoiled all the fun.”
“No, I’m going nowhere; that would make things too easy for you.”
And she meant it. This was her place, she had to stop her here, and with Father John she could. Her indecision was gone: she would buy Giles time to find the fetish necklace and trust Theodrakis to deliver it to Vassilis. Then the balance of power would be restored. As for her, she would help Father John destroy this succubus in the sea.
If Claire had any idea of this she didn’t show it. She smiled at Alekka and linked her arm. Again there was the shock of the ice cold flesh as Claire’s arm insinuated itself with hers.
“Must be strange for you with your newly warm body to feel the chill of this one.”
“I think it must be more of a shock for Giles.”
“Oh, he doesn’t notice, poor little lamb, he feels and sees what I make him feel and see.”
She broke off to laugh.
“Except, I have to admit, when I get a bit too enthusiastic to try and test how much pleasure this body can give me. It’s still like a new toy and I think at times it’s a bit much for him. But he doesn’t notice the cold; people only see what I intend them to see. You need particular powers of intuition to see beyond the beautiful, caring Englishwoman.”
“Don’t kid yourself. We’re not the only ones to see through you.”
Claire smiled.
“Oh, you must mean that little hermaphrodite policeman. Well, it would appear he doesn’t seem to like me very much. I suppose that I’ll have to get round to him. But not quite yet, I get too much amusement watching him with that beanpole of a girlfriend; I can’t imagine what they get up to. Can you?”
“He has strengths that you don’t see.”
“I hope you don’t mean the beanpole’s ancient grandmother, that smelly old woman. She’s minor league even compared with Vassilis.”
Alekka said nothing, just kept going, the cold of Claire’s grip spreading up her arm. She wanted to shut her ears to the voice but the voice wouldn’t stop.
“No, there’s no real competition. I’m the only Prospero on this island now, sugar. Oh look, aren’t those the cliffs you were going to show me? We’ve got here so soon. Doesn’t time go quickly when you’re having fun?”
Alekka looked up, they were almost there; she could see the slight gap in the rock that led to the cliff bower. The birds were circling above it, they were agitated. She hoped Father John was in place. They had to walk through in single file. Claire stepped aside for Alekka to lead. Now there was no turning back, she was trapped. The birds rose up into the distance as she walked out onto the fringe of grass high above the sea churning in the tiny narrow cove below. The spume of foam breaking over the rocks looked miles away. Claire followed behind her and they stood facing each other a few short paces from the drop. Alekka knew she only had one chance and had to grab it.
“Look, come here; I will show you a most beautiful sight.”
She took Claire’s hand and led her to where the grass ended at the cliff edge. She saw Father John behind them, it had to be now. With a hand behind Claire’s back she pointed down into the void and pushed.
Next instant she was hanging over the drop, held round the throat by one of Claire’s hands, her legs kicking in the air. Claire’s face was terrible, turning her bowels to water; she felt for the first time the paralysing, bladder-draining effects of absolute fear. Then she was thrown back onto the grass, the breath knocked out of her; she looked for Father John. Claire laughed.
“Is this what you were looking for?”
She clicked her fingers and pointed to the cliff edge where the priest appeared.
“You little fool, this is merely one of my projections. Every time you began to see sense and think of running I made him appear to you, make you think your patheti
c scheme could work. And of course, you fell for it every time.”
She knew the end had come. She had no cards to play; she had never had any cards to play. Claire read her thoughts.
“Yes, you’re right, I lured you here and all the time you thought you were being so clever. Now, just to let you drain the full cup of despair before the end, know this. Those men will find nothing in that pit. They won’t find it because it’s not there. Everything you hoped for is gone.”
Alekka couldn’t meet her gaze. She lay crumpled on the grass looking at the blood and scratches on her bare legs, waiting for the end Claire had promised.
“Look at me, look at me now or I will take the trouble to hunt down whatever’s left of Stevie and bring him here for some of the same.”
Alekka lifted her eyes.
“Now look at what I really am. What I have become.”
Alekka screamed, prayed for blindness, writhed in agony on the patch of freshly wet grass, and clasped her hands over her face. There was a laugh.
“There, now that you really understand despair you can look up. Don’t worry, I’ve put it away. To tell the truth I’m not that much fonder of it than you are. Now open your eyes, you don’t want to die in darkness do you?”
She managed to look up: it was Claire again.
“Well, we may as well get this over.”
Claire offered her a hand up. Alekka wondered if it was worth begging; a remembered image came to her of Hector begging Achilles to return his body to his father. It hadn’t worked and this wouldn’t work. She took the hand.
“Oh, look you’ve wet yourself and your lovely long legs are all cut and bleeding, what a waste.”
Claire stood close, looking at her, then put her hand round the back of her neck and pulled her face gently towards hers.
“I’ve still not tested all the pleasures this body brings me.”
Alekka could feel Claire’s breath on her face, her lips were open, close to her own. She was smiling, relaxed and expectant.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll try you out and if you’re as good as you look then maybe I’ll let you stick around for a while. Pity to waste the body warmth you’ve just rediscovered, lover; you never know, you may get to like it. No harm done, ‘cos I know after what you’ve seen you’ll be too scared to cause any trouble.”
She nibbled at Alekka’s ear and nipped the side of her neck.
“It might be fun to see how Giles reacts; perhaps he’d want to join in.”
She relaxed her grip and began to run her hands gently round Alekka’s hips, slid them under dress. Alekka felt the cold inching gently towards her groin. They were standing near the edge and Claire began to turn her round and move her lips closer. Alekka pushed against her, slipped free and stepped backwards.
For a split second, her eyes remained on a level with Claire’s while her legs slipped from rock to thin air, and in that second she saw a brief flash of something else in those eyes: shock, maybe regret. Then she was gone, falling, but her mind seized on the image; perhaps the possession had not been complete, perhaps there was a dialectical struggle inside the soul where the real Claire that people still loved fought a rearguard action. She wished she could tell Vassilis: something else she’d got wrong.
Then an impact as she smashed into a projection of the cliff wall, the sound and pain of bones breaking, flesh tearing. The force of the collision bounced her rag doll body off the rock, changing its trajectory: now she was face down bloodied and semiconscious, disoriented and fading. Strangely, no longer frightened, she’d done her best through the lives she’d spent serving Vassilis. As images flashed through her jumbled mind, she caught a glimpse of the village where she’d been born, spinning at a primitive loom with stone weights, next to her mother. Why this image? Then Steve’s face: where was he? Why had he run from her? She forced her eyes open and through the streaming blood saw the rocks and foaming water close up, rushing towards her.
Chapter 24:
Realm of Decline
Theodrakis sat on the ground watching the taxi bump its way over the stony track towards the road; he couldn’t go with them, he had to see Vassilis. The birds were back, spread out on stumps and rocks; they were watching him, expecting something. Whatever it was, they weren’t going to get it. He’d nothing left to give. Something desperate had happened; they’d found nothing, the fetish had gone and whatever Alekka was trying to do, failed. There was, though, still enough of the detective in him to make him think about Claire’s performance before she got in the taxi.
She’d been triumphant and taunting as earlier, but there’d been something else. Something that kept cutting across her thought pattern, interfering with her wavelength. She was laughing and gloating. Then mid-stream she’d falter like a dementia sufferer suddenly gone blank as if something she couldn’t control was pulling her back.
He sat mulling it over and staring at the supermarket bag with the bones that lay by his feet. His phone was ringing but he ignored it; Alekka didn’t come back. He was thirsty and looked for the water bottle, it was empty. He noticed the shadows were lengthening, the day was fading; soon the sun would dip behind Mount Kerkis. He climbed stiffly to his feet and picked up the bones. He stared for a moment at Alekka’s car; knew she wouldn’t be coming back.
The path up to Vassilis house was steeper and longer than he’d imagined and by the time he’d sweated and stumbled up it, twilight had softened the landscape. As the archaic housekeeper showed him through to the terrace he entertained a brief hope that Alekka might be here, but the first glance at Vassilis banished any hope.
“Welcome, Theodrakis, no need to say anything, your face tells the story. I’ve been reflecting that although Aeschylus was the greatest ancient poet, Sophocles was perhaps the closest to truth when he said the best a man could ever wish for was never to have been born.”
Theodrakis said nothing; he’d no heart for poetry. Vassilis didn’t expect a reply anyway.
“I know you failed; you and Alekka. I felt her departure some hours ago and for her, as Aeschylus put it, ‘life’s sentry watch is over’.”
He walked across to Theodrakis, took the bag of bones out of his hands and threw it over the terrace, down the rock face.
“The one we needed is gone. If Watkins had brought these to me when he found them, then things could have been different. Thank you for what you have done, even though it has come to nothing all we can hope is that the necklace is lost and she has not possession of it.”
Theodrakis noticed there was someone sitting on a chair in the shadows by the wall. He was wearing worn black robes and broad brimmed hat like a priest in an ancient sepia photograph.
“So, now you can see Father John. I fear this indicates that you too are changing.”
Before Theodrakis could think of anything to say, Vassilis indicated a tray with a flask of wine and one glass, which had appeared on the table even though no one had brought it in. The glass was half full of white wine. He picked it up, drained it in one go and refilled; the wine was chilled, aromatically scented and honeyed; he could feel it restoring life to him as it icily slid down his throat. He was tired and his head began to spin; he sat down.
Vassilis sat watching him with a look akin to sympathy.
“Take one more glass, Syntagmatarchis, then listen to what you must do.”
Theodrakis refilled his glass; everything was a dream now, he was so far out of his comfort zone. Somewhere in his jacket he heard his phone break into its ringtone then die. The battery must have finally given up the ghost. How would he contact Hippolyta and what could he tell her if he did? He drank the wine, emptied the glass. The priest was now sitting next to him; he’d not noticed him move. Outside it was dark; three ancient and battered-looking crows perched on the terrace railings blending into the night.
“Theodrakis, may I call you Alexis? My time here is ended; the curse has come upon us. The ‘Throat of Ages’ is lost, or worse. I have failed. However it is not the en
d, the game moves on but the odds have worsened. What happens next will take place somewhere else, England perhaps.”
Vassilis paused, stood up and walked across to the edge of the terrace; the oldest, most battered of the crows hopped onto his shoulder. Theodrakis couldn’t resist a shudder of revulsion. There was a touch on his own shoulder, he flinched and turning round saw himself looking into the face of the priest. His eyes were struggling to focus; under the shadows of the wide-brimmed hat he thought he was looking at a black, beak-dominated face, similar to a crow. He shut his eyes and when he opened them, saw the features had reassembled themselves into the corpse face of Father John.
“You must find Watkins then bring him to the monastery of St Spiridon on the mountain. You must be there at five o’clock by your time. Do not be late, the journey will cost me greatly.”
Theodrakis was disturbed by a flapping of wings as the crows rose into the air and flew off; when he turned back the priest too had gone. Vassilis beckoned him over to the terrace edge.
“See down there in the darkness is the cricket pitch, such a strange game, a pity you never got to see it. Well, there will be no more games here.”
Theodrakis had no idea how to respond to this; he needn’t have bothered. Vassilis hadn’t finished.
“My responsibilities were never to the island; still, I have grown fond of it over the millennia. So I want you to finish your work here. You have closed your case: there will be no more murders, well, not related to these anyway. The purpose of the murders has been achieved. Father John too, after tomorrow’s appointment with you, is finished on the island; he has changed greatly since he arrived here in the fifteenth century. Back in those days he was called Davenport and was not a good man. Take one more small glass of the wine.”
