The Dead Travel Fast (6 page)

Later, sitting on the balcony of his hotel room overlooking the sea, he considered his options. He’d been dropped off at the hotel by the taxi driver who told him he’d have no trouble getting a room. Normally during the tourist season the place was packed, but not this last couple of years. In fact, the hotel was more than half empty and the man watching football in the empty bar who welcomed him gave him a choice of rooms. He chose the best they had: a sea view with balcony and air conditioning. He lay down on the bed and slipped easily into a deep and mercifully dream free sleep.

When he awoke, the sun was setting behind the mountain diffusing the room with soft light; he was hungry so after throwing some water over his face he grabbed his jacket and went out. He felt free, no one knew he was here, his problems could wait. The harbour was lined with a scattering of tavernas and bars, all of them half empty except for a scruffy one that was obviously the haunt of the local fishermen. This bar had a large group of men talking loudly clustered round a backgammon table.

He recognised, to his surprise, the Englishman he’d seen with Andraki that morning amongst this group, and he envied him. He followed the waterfront to the last taverna by the harbour mouth; only one table was taken and the waitress was sitting by the entrance reading. He’d intended, out of some strange instinct of loyalty, to eat at the hotel, but this place appealed to him and he sat at the table nearest to the water and gazed out beyond the harbour to the mountains fringing the bay.

A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the water and he watched the refracted reflection of the sun on the sea fade as night came in. The waitress looked up from her book and came over to the table.
She was slim with short black hair and unusually tall. When she took his order a smile lit up her face, rendering her beautiful. He ordered a beer, followed by another, then feeling hungry asked for the menu. She laughed.

“There is no menu tonight: we have some octopus stifado or we could make an omelette if you prefer.”

He opted for the stifado and a jug of white wine. The food was surprisingly good, the wine thin and harsh. But the night air was cool and the stars hung over the bay. He asked the waitress to sit down and help with the wine. She agreed to sit, as he was by now the only customer, but declined his offer of the wine, preferring a coke.

Her name was Hippolyta. She’d not managed to find a suitable job after university so had borrowed money to open a shop for tourists; after a year the economic crash scuppered tourism and the shop went bust. Now she was in debt and a waitress. They talked until the place closed and when he asked if she worked here every night, she said no but told him she’d be there tomorrow.

Later, as he sat on his balcony looking at the stars, he tried to imagine somewhere else out there in the multiverse where one of the infinite versions of himself had had the courage to ask her out.

Steve heard her before he saw her: the siren blasts from the car horn not only startled him but everyone else in the village. He looked out of the window to see the silver sports car, roof down, with Alekka at the wheel.

“Kirios Steve, you must be quick, Saturday morning is almost gone and you have a match of cricket to play.”

He was both alarmed and pleased; no formal arrangement had been made for this weekend and he hadn’t been sure if anyone would collect him. He was not sure about the cricket though.

“I don’t have anything to play in.”

“Do not worry, we have all the cricket costumes and protectors that you could need.”

He quickly swilled and spat out a shot of mouthwash and ran downstairs. As he closed the door behind him he remembered he’d left his phone on charge in the flat, but the proximity of Alekka drove the thought from his mind. He climbed into the passenger seat and she leant across and lightly kissed him on the mouth.

“Why I let you kiss me, Steve, I do not know after you make no attempt to call me since you leave my father’s house last Sunday.”

He recognised this as a tease but was pleased by its implications so he said nothing, just sat back in his seat and stared at her bare brown legs as the car accelerated away from the curb and sped through the narrow twisting back lanes of the village towards the main road. Had he bothered to look, he would have seen two old village women swathed in traditional black make a
gesture with their first and fourth fingers then spit into the road. The car shot straight over the cross roads without pausing and up the hill, screaming round each bend. Exhilarated by speed, danger and the beautiful driver, Steve luxuriated in the rush of hot air and sunlight. When they came to the roundabout where a right turn bypassed the small hilltop town, Alekka, instead of turning, carried straight on, and noticing that Steve was going to ask her why, she braked abruptly.

“If you want to see why we are taking the slow way, look over there.”

He turned his head towards the bypass and saw about fifty metres from the exit there was a police barrier.

“Death has been discovered there, Steve, and they are very frightened because it’s one of their own. They only knew about it early this morning - a shepherd found the body.”

“What? You mean a cop’s been killed?”

“Yes, either that or suicide, they are not sure, they say the body is one of those who are investigating the demonic killings.”

To most people, the word demonic would have seemed either quaint or just the mistranslation of a more ordinary word; but not to him after Skendleby. He privately hoped it was suicide brought on by personal problems but asked,

“How can you say that if they’ve only just found the body?”

“Because we know everything, Steve. My family knows everything that happens on this island, sometimes before it happens; I thought you already understood that.”

She laughed and gently put her hand on the back of his neck just below the hairline and spoke while looking tenderly into his eyes.

“Oh, Steveymou, you look as if you are afraid of me now, it was a little joke, I thought you English loved to make a joke of all things in life. I know these things because the entire island knows. There was an argument, perhaps even a fight, depending which version you believe, between the two senior police who investigate the murders. The pale Athenian and Samarakis: The entire world saw it. It was on the steps of the big new police building in Karlovasi.

“So I have a good idea whose body they examine over there:
that fat pig Samarakis is a very bad man to cross and he has many wicked connections. But we will not talk more of it, as I see it has begun to spoil your day, Steve; and it is a day that was going so well, was it not?”

She didn’t wait for a reply, just gunned the engine and sent the car screaming through the narrow silent streets of Marathakampos. It had disturbed his day and to an extent, he figured, that even she couldn’t guess. It took the whole of the nerve jangling car journey before he regained his earlier sense of anticipation.

The car tore into the courtyard and screeched to a stop. He saw several expensive black windowed cars parked up and members of staff carrying baggage from them into the house, and he hadn’t even remembered a toothbrush.

“You get out here, Steve, and go to my father’s terrace; there you will find a surprise, then you play cricket. You will find the uniform laid in the changing tent. Today will be busy, but tonight after the party you might like to walk with me in the garden.”

She reversed at speed out of the courtyard and the car screeched noisily away. He entered the house and followed the sound of laughter and voices, emerging shortly after onto the crowded terrace. Vassilis saw him and motioned for silence which instantaneously followed his gesture. He moved towards Steve took him by the arm and led him to the centre of the crowd which reshaped itself into an audience around them.

“This is Doctor Steve Watkins, the man who saved the life of my son, who would now like to thank him in front of you all for the gift of his life.”

In the shadows under the awning at the far side of the terrace Steve recognised the young driver threading his way through the throng of guests. He was pale but apart from a dressing round his neck looked in much better shape than Steve had expected. He crossed to Steve, mumbled thanks in English and then kissed Steve on both cheeks, looking unhappy at having to perform such an act in public. In fact, Steve felt he resented being brought face to face with his obligation. Vassilis led a round of applause as the kiss was delivered and himself embraced and kissed Steve on both cheeks. Then raised his arms above his head in an archaic gesture and pronounced,

“It is fitting that Doctor Watkins is able to take the place of Antonis in our island team, and now we will process to the chapel for the blessing. Afterwards we will take a stirrup cup and pour a libation before we go to meet our opponents on the cricket field.”

He led the way down the steps towards the chapel; Steve found it hard not to laugh, but didn’t have time to think further as a soft hand gripped him by the arm and looking round he saw Brandi next to him, this time sober. She squeezed his arm and whispered in his ear,

“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.