Twenty-three
Even though she had both windows open in the tiny Chevrolet Matiz, Kate could feel the sweat pooling in the small of her back as she drove. She should have packed something lighter to wear, but it was still cold back home and, sick with worry, she hadn’t been thinking straight, so she still had her jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirt on. Finally, she had the presence of mind to unwind her black pashmina from her neck and, for a brief moment, felt the relief of rushing air where before there had been the blanketing of 100 per cent cashmere.
It was the end of the afternoon in the middle of April, but it was hotter than an August midday during an English heatwave.
Away from the airport, heading west, Kate thought that, apart from the incomplete buildings that blighted the roadside, the island looked a lot prettier than the picture she had in her mind from the past. But then, of course, the last time she had been there, it was arid, after a long hot summer. Now it was in full bloom: poppies, gorse-flower, mallow and large, nodding daisies smothered the verges.
The smell was what brought it all back to her, though: that herbal, Greek scent of salt and pine and oregano and something faintly cat-pissy, like chamomile. Objectively, it was lovely, but it was something she had hoped never to experience again; to her it was a sweet shell underneath which lurked the sour reek of death and guilt, like one of those lilies that stink of rotting corpses. And yet, here she was, right in the middle of it again, terrified.
The road seemed better than she remembered – a lot of it was brand new, although puzzling occasional stretches of dirt track recalled the pickup-truck ride the three of them had taken, and how afraid Jake had been, and how she had sought to reassure him. If only the truck
had
gone over the side back then and killed them all. Wouldn’t that have been easier for everyone?
She passed a big blue sign that seemed to suggest that the new road had been funded by the EU. Symbolically, perhaps, it hadn’t been well done – the cliff had eroded so much that in parts only one carriageway remained of the formerly pristine highway, the outer edge having crumbled down to the rocks below.
But the difficulties of the route were nothing compared to what lay at the end of her journey. She held the steering wheel tightly and prayed to Tilly.
Tell me where you are, Tills.
After ninety minutes driving along the winding coast, she found the point where the old van driver had marked the map. Below the road was the beach they had stayed on all those years ago. She edged along the decaying cliff top and peered over. Down below she could clearly see what remained of the slipway stones across the beach, and the ancient, rusty winch which had almost crumbled to nothing. The cave where they had slept was invisible from the top, but she knew exactly where it was, tucked down to the left. She briefly closed her eyes and recalled the way the light of the sea refracted inside the white of the cave, the sound of the waves as they echoed around her when she lay there in her fever. It would all still be there, and part of her ached to be down there, to crawl back inside to a point of innocence.
What was different though was that a whole chunk of the cliff edge had crumbled away, taking the path down with it. Chunks of black and red and white rock that had once been up near where she stood, now littered the sand below.
She took a step back – there could be an overhang, and she could be standing on it. She had to keep herself safe so that she could save Tilly. Using her brain, as Jake had urged her to, Kate had reckoned that this was where she’d find her. But there was no way anyone could get onto that beach now, not unless they had a boat, and although she knew her daughter was resourceful, she didn’t think she’d stretch to that.
Unless someone else was with her.
Whimpering at the thought, Kate dashed back to her car and drove faster than she should up the steeply winding track – now a metalled road – that led to the village where they had eaten and bought their supplies.
She roared the little vehicle up into the village square, revving the puny engine to make the gradient. Then she jumped out onto the pavement, alert, ready for action. But her clamour and nerves were met by complete silence and stillness. Somewhere up the mountain, a cockerel crowed.
Despite the newly tarmacked road, the village looked less inhabited than it had in 1980. Shutters were drawn on most of the houses, and although there were now three shops on the square, only the supermarket where they had bought their supplies for the beach was open. The taverna where she had eaten with Beattie and Jake seemed to be doing business too – one elderly, dusty-jacketed man, the only sign of life in the place, sat smoking in the lengthening shade of an olive tree, two glasses – one containing water, the other she knew would have ouzo in it – at his side.
Coming up against this wall of nothingness defeated Kate. She had travelled all this way, and yet she didn’t really know where to start to find Tilly. She sat at a table at the taverna and unfolded the old map. Might she be here, in this village?
She felt like standing up and shouting her daughter’s name. But she couldn’t bring herself to do so, to sully the silence, to shock the old man out of his quiet afternoon drink, to draw attention to herself.
Where to start, though, now that the beach was out of the question?
Twenty-four
She heard a slight gasp at her shoulder and looked up from the map to see a pair of brown eyes, their warmth still showing through an expression of surprise. Above the eyes, a thick shock of greying curly hair fell over a forehead that had not been so lined thirty-three years ago.
‘It is you! The American girl. Emma.’
The boy from the taverna! She recognised him as instantly as he did her.
‘Not so much a girl any more,’ she said, holding out her hand, which he took and shook, warmly. ‘And not at all American.
Anglikaa
. English. But you remember after all these years?’
‘Of course!’
‘And your English is good now.’
‘I spent some time in New York, working for my cousin,’ he said. ‘But I have to come back here when my mother got sick.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, though she was hardly listening, so surreal was the situation. She was sitting in what she now realised was the exact same seat, having a conversation with the same waiter who, as a boy, had served her all those years ago and promised to bring her fish. Then suddenly, looking into those same eyes, his name came back. ‘Giorgios, isn’t it?’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding, breaking into a wide, white smile. ‘You remembered me! You have changed very little. I have been expecting you.’
Kate blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Your daughter was here. She has a hat, all I can see is her face. I’m shocked. I think first she is you. But of course, not. Excuse me, but she’s too young to be you.’
‘My daughter was here?’ Kate jumped to her feet, her heart quickening in her chest, her throat tight. Hope returned. She rummaged in her bag for her wallet, and pulled out a photograph of Tilly. It was recent, taken for her passport, which she had to have renewed before she left for Greece. It was a good likeness.
‘Yes.’ Giorgios nodded. ‘It is her. Is OK. Her uncle has found her.’
‘Her uncle?’
‘The big American. He has found her. Are you all right?’
Overtaken by dizziness, Kate had steadied herself by putting a hand on the table.
‘Sit, sit.’ Giorgios put a hand on her shoulders and eased her back into her chair. ‘He left a note for you. One minute.’
He hurried inside, leaving Kate feeling as if there were a thousand ants crawling over her body. She tried to focus on the distant sea, which, in the late afternoon light, looked like a load of dots, a million tiny living things, moving in the wind, like migrating birds.
‘Here,’ Giorgios said, returning with a tray on which sat a shot of ouzo, a glass of water, a basket of bread and two earthenware dishes containing bread, olives and chunks of some sort of hot sausage. Tucked between the taverna items on the tray was a letter, which he handed to her.
She glanced at the envelope, which was addressed to
Kate and/or Emma
. Her first worry was that Jake had told Tilly about her past. But she instantly realised what a minor concern this now was, given that he had her daughter in his clutches. Or, rather, virtual clutches, because, thinking about her journey, surely there was no way someone with Jake’s disabilities could make it out to this tiny island?
She didn’t know if this was a comfort to her or not.
She ripped open the envelope.
Dear Emma,
the letter inside said. It was typed, printed out from a computer. Planned, then.
I’m glad you came, arriving on the 14.30 flight from Athens on Sunday 14 April. I knew you would. I know you so well, don’t I? If only things had turned out differently, this charming girl I’ve had the pleasure of making my friend could have been our daughter.
So.
I guess you want to meet up?
So when did I ever let you down, Emma? Of course we can all meet up. There is a well-known beauty spot near the village. A high point with remarkable views over the ocean, with steep – some may even say dangerous – drops to the water below. It’s even found its way into some guidebooks. Did you know that? Anyway, I plan to visit it with your daughter on Monday evening at six. It’s a great place to watch the sun going down. Romantic, some say.
I trust you will join us.
Jake.
Kate put her hand to her chest and exhaled shakily. So the ‘uncle’
was
Jake.
Jake was here, with Tilly.
But how?
‘Is it OK?’ Giorgios asked her, sitting at the chair by her side. Part of her wanted him to leave her alone, but mostly she wanted him to stay right where he was.
He looked at her expectantly while she tried to frame the words. How could she start to explain to this virtual stranger what was troubling her?
He took the glass of ouzo off the tray and held it out for her. ‘You need this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Shakily, Kate took a sip. The burning aniseed taste was yet another trigger to take her back to the start of the hell that had surrounded her for thirty-three years. Another reminder that all of this was her fault.
For one brief moment – when Beattie had told her Jake was alive – she had felt a reprieve. But it had been so short-lived. The situation she now found herself in was blacker than anything she had ever known. And it seemed to be getting darker and darker.
The kindness in Giorgios’s eyes made her want to crumple into him, but she held back. She could feel him watching her, waiting for her to find the words to respond.
‘Was he in a wheelchair, this uncle?’ she said at last.
Giorgios tilted his head upwards and tutted, which Kate remembered meant no. ‘He was a big man. He was walking,’ he said.
What was this? What was happening?
‘Do you know where he’s staying? Or she?’
Giorgios repeated the gesture. ‘Somewhere perhaps on the coast,’ he said. ‘There are many places. Perhaps back in Agios Kirikos.’
‘Did my daughter look well?’
‘Yes. She was laughing a lot.’
‘Did they look like they were staying together?’ Kate asked, shuddering at the thought.
Giorgios shrugged expansively. ‘I think so. He is her uncle, after all.’
Unable to stop herself, desperate to have an ally, Kate leaned forward and grasped his hand. ‘He is not her uncle, Giorgios. He is not her friend.’
Giorgios frowned. ‘So you are not happy she is with him?’
Kate shook her head. ‘He wants to meet me tomorrow. But if I could find them now . . .’
‘I can make some calls, ask some people, try to find out where they are staying, if you want?’
‘Could you?’ The thought of them staying together in the same place was almost too much for Kate to bear. The thought of that
bulky, blasted body anywhere near Tilly turned the aniseed of the ouzo in her throat into bile.
‘You must eat,’ Giorgios said, motioning to the food he had put at her table. ‘I will be back in ten minutes.’
Dusk closed in, and all at once the street lights snapped on, casting a pale yellow glow over the taverna terrace. Kate broke a piece of bread and slowly ripped it into tiny pieces, wondering what on earth was going on. No wheelchair? So what had Jake been playing at all along? She pulled out her phone to call Beattie, but there was no reception – which was why Giorgios had to go inside to phone, of course, to use the landline.
Giorgios was on her side. She knew this, instinctively. She had to tell him everything. He knew the area, he knew the language. Without him, her task would be far more difficult, if not impossible.
‘Sorry,’ he said, returning to join her. ‘No one knows. They have seen them around all over the island, but no one knows where they are staying. But the word’s out. They will call me when they find out.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He sat down next to her and absent-mindedly took a piece of sausage from the plate he had set down for her. He had strong arms, she couldn’t help noticing. Strong, brown, sailor’s arms.
‘I think I owe you an explanation,’ she said.
‘Yes?’ He looked at her.
‘You remember when I was here last time? With the two Americans, the girl and the tall boy Jake?’
Giorgios nodded.
‘The man who says he is my daughter’s uncle is in fact Jake.’
Giorgios frowned. ‘But that is impossible.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looked at her for a long time. Then he appeared to make a decision.
‘Come with me,’ he said, standing. ‘And I show you.’
He crossed the terrace to have a word with the old man under the olive tree, then ducked inside his taverna and came out twirling a set of car keys around his forefinger. Kate noticed that attached to his keys was a
mataki
– an evil eye like the one she threw overboard when she left the island all those years ago. It reminded her of her holey stone, and she prayed that Tilly had held on to it, despite thinking it a loony gift from her superstitious mother.
‘Follow me, Emma,’ Giorgios said.
‘My name’s Kate now.’
He shrugged, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. ‘Follow me, Kate.’
He opened the passenger door to a big Mercedes taxi and Kate slipped inside.
‘What’s this about, Giorgios?’
‘I show you. You need to see before I tell you.’
‘Is the taxi driver OK with you taking his car?’
Giorgios smiled as he started the engine. ‘I am the taxi driver.’
‘Is my luggage safe in my car?’ She was worried about the portfolio, which was locked in the boot of the Matiz.
Giorgios laughed. ‘Yes. It is safe.’
They raced down to the coast and he turned right, onto a road Kate had never taken before – once she, Beattie and Jake had arrived on the beach, they had not really had the time to explore any further.
The sun had gone down behind the mountain now, and a full, fat moon was rising up above the sea in front of them.
They turned a corner and there, caught by moonlight, was a grassy plateau above the sea, surrounded by olive trees and enclosed by a rusting metal fence. Giorgios drew up on a roughly gravelled parking area and Kate caught sight of a cross, silhouetted against the shifting, silver sea.
‘What a beautiful spot,’ she said, and Giorgios nodded.
‘Come.’ He led her along a scrubby path to a gate that opened onto a graveyard. The tombs were a mixture of old and new – some boasted fresh flowers, others had decayed into gaping holes in the ground. Kate was glad of the darkness that prevented her from seeing what lay inside. Giorgios took her to the other side of the compound. In the far corner, overlooking the sea, a hand-made wooden cross stood sentinel over a mound of scrubby turf. In front of it, a bundle of bay leaves sat in a vase.
Giorgios stood at the grave and looked down, crossing himself. ‘This is your friend. Jake.’
‘No.’ Kate almost stumbled with the blow of his words.
‘I’m sorry, but yes.’
‘But how can you be sure it’s him?’
‘I found him. I was fishing out there.’ He gestured to the sea. ‘I was looking for your beach, to bring you some
barbounia
. I saw him fall, I tried to get to him in time, but there was no hope for him. I pulled his body from the water.’ He pointed to Kate’s Triskelion. ‘I knew it was him. I saw this on you all when you were at my place that night.’
‘Did you see how he fell?’ Kate asked in a small voice.
Giorgios briefly closed his eyes and, almost imperceptibly, nodded.
So the nightmare had come back, but a million times worse.
She
had
killed Jake.
Then who the hell had her daughter? Who had picked her life apart at the seams? And
why
?
Giorgios caught her by the elbow.
‘Sit, Kate. Sit.’ He guided her to the plinth of a more elaborate grave, lit a cigarette and passed it to her. Without hesitation she took it and drew the smoke deep into her lungs.
‘I’m sorry for this news,’ he said, lighting another for himself. ‘I saw a fight. I saw an accident. He was an angry boy. I saw that. I know nothing else.’ He shrugged. ‘You did what you had to do. You were young. It is past.’
‘But the police?’
Giorgios smiled. ‘We did things our own way in Ikaria back then. There were no police here. Many times we find bodies washed up on our shore. The sea brings them from Turkey, from Africa. Who knows? We don’t know who they are. And I didn’t know who he was, your boy. Now there would be official this and official that, EU
malakies
and all that. But back then we just used to make sure they were buried, that’s all. It’s the honourable thing. So here he is. I buried him here, and I bring him laurel – Daphne – for Apollo, for Icarus, for the boy who fell.’
‘Thank you, Giorgios. Thank you.’
They sat and finished their cigarettes in silence, as if they were holding a short vigil for dead Jake. Then Giorgios stood and turned to Kate.