The Dead Travel Fast (5 page)

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 wondered 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.”

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 me, 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.

On the walk Theodrakis noticed the number of workless men begging on the streets seemed to be increasing and their behaviour
becoming more aggressive. Many of these weren’t Islanders which caused further friction; some were Albanians who in better times worked as waiters in the tourist season. One of these, a shabby man with a vivid birthmark across the left side of his face, noticed Theodrakis staring, made a gesture with his fingers at him and then spat in the gutter. Theodrakis ignored him, reflecting that Island society was disintegrating but the situation was worse in Athens.

He ordered a mineral water for himself and a coffee for Andraki, then added a raki which the professor said he needed to settle a nervous stomach. This medicine disappeared in two swallows and settled the stomach sufficiently to allow Andraki to continue his narrative.

“The damage done to this site might have destroyed unique evidence, so of course I went back to the Police and this time they were interested. Not because of the archaeology of course, they couldn’t care less about that, but because it coincided with the discovery of the second body. It was also the day that the island news agency received the murderer’s curse.”

Theodrakis interrupted him,

“But that was shown to be a fake.”

“Well, that was the official line, but when you consider the message alongside the clay tablets it’s not so easy to dismiss.”

“Just stop there a moment: what do you mean by the clay tablets?”

“It was decided to keep it quiet but I thought that you would have known about that.”

This rattled Theodrakis; why didn’t he know about it and what else was being kept from him?

“Well, tell me about it anyway, I’ll order you another raki for your digestion.”

Andraki ignored the sarcasm; but he wanted another drink, the nightmare was getting too close.

“When the curse was delivered to the news, it was in a sealed envelope which also contained an old baked clay tablet with some form of ancient script on it and the police wanted me to tell them what it meant. It was unlike any I’d seen but had similarities to early Uruk period script from Mesopotamia. It was a curse like
the ones we know from the later Fara scripts, but too old to translate with any certainty. But we assumed it was similar in content to the modern paper one.”

This Theodrakis did know about, the paper had foolishly printed it so that almost every islander could now quote it from memory:

“Something more ancient than anything on your polluted island now walks amongst you.”

He snapped back at Andraki,

“You know there isn’t an actual clear link between that ambiguous gibberish and the murders. Any deranged oddball could have written it.”

“Yes, and that’s what the police thought until the paper received the second message. By this time the editor had learned to apply a level of discretion so it wasn’t published, but the tablet that accompanied this one was slightly later in date. No don’t stop me now or I may not start again and I want to get all this out of my system. The written message as you know said only ‘Look for me in that place of terror’. But the tablet was in a type of script in use at Ur about four and a half thousand years ago, at least fifteen hundred years later than the first one. Both tablets were genuine, Syntagmatarchis, I know that, it’s my specialism; I have excavated at both Eridu and Shuruppak.”

“Well, then you will know that the tablets are not related to Samos.”

“That’s what I would like to believe, yes; but ask yourself, is it not curious that the tablets and modern curses claim to be from the murderer and that every time we find a body another Neolithic site on the island is vandalised?”

“So there have been more than two?”

“Yes, and I am convinced that now we have your body from the river we will find another; only this time I will have nothing to do with it, this has damaged me enough already.”

Theodrakis could see he believed what he said but had one more question.

“You said that the script of the second tablet was later; were you able to understand it?”

“Oh yes, I could transcribe it and read it all right: there are
thousands of tablets written in the same script. It’s a form of Sumerian but the odd thing is that it was made at a time when Sumerian was no longer used. I think that both tablets refer back to something much older to a time before metal, in fact to the Neolithic. The very context of the sites disturbed here on Samos; odd, so much coincidence, don’t you think?”

“So what does it say?”

“I am not sure it will help you much but it reads ‘E-temen-ni-gur-ru’. This roughly translates as ‘house whose foundation platform is clad in terror’. And I don’t think that gets you much further. The precise meaning is impossible to construe but it indicates something has been built over some pre-existing feature associated with dread. I find it hard not to connect that with the fact that Neolithic burials are being disrupted on this island. Any link with the gruesome murders I don’t want to know.”

He sat back and downed the second raki. Theodrakis sat confused. Andraki got up to leave; as he turned to go he asked a question almost as an afterthought.

“Oh, one thing, Syntagmatarchis, here is a question you probably should be asking yourself. Why did your colleagues not tell you any of this? What are they trying to hide?”

Theodrakis watched him walk away across the square and then ordered a raki for himself, not caring how out of character this was. His mind was spinning dangerously and he needed something to arrest it. What Andraki said made weird sense of what Lucca had told him about at least one of the murder weapons being some type of flint blade.

But what really shook him was closer to home: his colleagues not only disliked him, they were deliberately withholding evidence from him. He couldn’t believe that any level of dislike would persuade cops or their civil service bosses to do that. After all, this was their island and their women were also at risk, they were as scared of this as everyone else. He shouted to the waiter for another drink and as he waited he remembered a cult film he’d watched with a group of friends as a student.

Something about a cop who had been lured to a remote island to solve a kidnapping case but ended up being ritually sacrificed himself. He thought it might have been an English film and
remembered they had laughed about it at the time. It didn’t seem funny now, on a different island in similar circumstances. He sat nursing the drink and brooding.

Sometime later he got up, left some money and set off for the police station. He would have it out with them; either they were straight with him or he would inform Athens about the state of policing on the island.

He knew influential people and his father was a man to be reckoned with. Walking to the police station through the stifling hot streets, his anger grew as he concocted how he’d confront them. He knew what he was planning was imprudent but his frustration and the raki drove him on.

As he reached the flight of steps leading up to the station entrance, the automatic doors slid open and the slovenly figure of Samarakis shambled out. He knew that of all the people he might have confronted about this, Samarakis was the least appropriate but before he had time to reconsider they were face to face.

“Been for any more paddles in rivers have we, Mr big shot Athenian?”

Samarakis laughed at his own joke and as Theodrakis opened his mouth to reply he said,

“And you’ve been drinking I see, nice that some of our local customs are rubbing off on you.”

Before he could say more Theodrakis had him by the throat.

“Listen you fat ignorant pig, I know you’ve been withholding information from me; so what does that make you? Not laughing now, you fat fuck, are you?”

He could see the surprise in Samarakis eyes as clearly as he could see his spittle flecking the podgy cheeks. Samarakis tried to shake him off and gasped out.

“Look, people are watching; stop this, it’s doing neither of us any good.”

And now shocked himself, he dropped his hands letting Samarakis breathe and talk more easily.

“Listen maybe we’ve not been fair to you, you know, overdone it a bit, but you’ve not helped yourself. We’ll talk later; I’ll fill you in properly but not here, like this, better tomorrow.”

Theodrakis said nothing but watched as Samarakis shuffled
off noticing that around his neck he wore a charm to ward off the evil eye. The small crowd that had gathered to watch dispersed, and Theodrakis stood for a moment on the steps alone and shamed. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the building, nor could he face going back to his apartment in Vathia. It was at that moment, feeling at his lowest ebb, he remembered someone on his first day recommending a small fishing village on the other side as somewhere to chill. He walked back into town, brought a new shirt and toothbrush, and flagged down a taxi.