The Emperor Awakes (44 page)

As he made his way to his car, he felt that he was being watched, as if eyes were boring holes in his skull. He turned, but could not see anything suspicious. People were going about their business, buying and selling. Some men were seated at the coffee shop across the road playing backgammon and drinking coffee, strong and thick enough to make the spoon stand at attention. The blacksmith who had been there for decades was putting the finishing touches on his display of wares on the pavement outside his shop.

As Giorgos was enjoying life’s normal rhythms he heard a muffled scream, but was not sure which direction it came from. Then his eyes fell on Katia’s car. What could she possibly still be doing there? Why hadn’t she left already? She seemed to be in a great hurry to leave. He approached the car ready to make fun of her.

He was not prepared for what he saw and he stopped dead in his tracks. He almost had a heart attack. She was sitting behind the wheel, but not moving. Her head was at a strange angle, lolled to one side, as if she had nodded off or was searching for something in the glove compartment or tuning the radio. He moved closer, full of dread and apprehension. He called through the open window, but knew he should not expect a reply.

He then opened the driver’s door and shook her. He began to panic. The blood drained from his face. They were together only a few minutes ago. He stared at her in disbelief seeing nothing. His subconscious programming went into action and like an automaton tried to revive her, hoping against hope that she was still alive.

Katia was not responding and there was a look of shock plastered on her face, as if she had seen a ghost. He kept shaking her, becoming more violent and desperate with every movement, but his attempts at teasing a reaction out of her proved futile. He started to believe that she might be dead.

He took her pulse, expecting his worst fears to be confirmed. He couldn’t believe it. There was a faint pulse and he heard the slightest stir of breathing. Relief washed over him like a catharsis. He thought about calling for an ambulance from a phone booth, instead of his mobile, to hide his identity and give himself time to investigate before he had to deal with the police, but decided against it.

He had nothing to fear, even though there didn’t appear to have been a witness to the incident. It was only the hassle of giving statements and dealing with the police that he dreaded. But he would have to deal with it anyway. He was, after all, the last person to see her before she was attacked.

He would have to stay and wait for the ambulance and ensure that Katia was in safe hands before he walked off. And there was also the possibility that whoever did this to her might come back to finish the job and silence the only witness.

Giorgos took out his mobile and dialled the emergency services conveying the urgency of the incident and demanding for an ambulance to be sent immediately. Once he had hung up he remembered the bust and he furiously searched for it in the car, careful not to disturb the scene.

However, he found nothing. The bust was gone. It was then that he remembered his instinctive gesture of putting the scroll in his pocket and thanked his lucky stars for that involuntary foresight.

He knew the police would get involved and there would be lots of questions, but he could not desert her and run away and besides, he reminded himself, they might think that he was responsible for whatever had happened to her. So he stayed put.

When the ambulance arrived and whisked her away, he did not join her inside, and, after talking to the policemen and giving a brief statement, was told the usual stuff, to remain in the city for further questioning, if necessary. Only then was he allowed to leave the scene and go home.

Home? Would he be safe there? What the hell was going on?

He got that dreaded sensation of being watched again. Whoever was following him, most probably already knew where he lived, so maybe he could not go back there. And more importantly he had to shake that someone off.

He wondered whether he should warn his parents or his grandmother, but decided against it. He might worry them unnecessarily. Besides, his first priority was to get out of there fast.

He stopped at his favourite bakery where he bought a loaf of bread and a couple of croissants. Next stop was the grocer. As he was coming out, he checked up and down the street. When his stare surveyed the opposite side, his eyes fell on a shadow next to a large plane tree. He stared harder.

As the sun broke through the clouds, light flooded in, and he could just about make the outline of the side of a face with an ugly scar, looking as if it had been crashed. Giorgos’ glance was locked into a battle of wills with the steely eyes piercing back at him, but they were eyes that were empty, as if seeing right through him.

The expression on that face was blank and dark all at the same time with increasingly reddish fiery blotches. That was not a veiled threat lurking in those eyes. He heeded the warning, but did not move. He needed to think quickly.

His opponent looked as if he was about to combust, blowing smithereens of body parts and blood splattering and smudging the fading but visible beauty of the surrounding buildings that had withstood the ravages of time, a life thrown on a pavement and laid bare and left for dead, for foot after foot to tread on, a soul squashed like an annoying insect, as if it had never existed.

Giorgos squeezed his fists. He was angry and fed up with these people tracking his every move. An idea struck him. He knew how to outwit the intruder to his comfortable existence. His fingers had furiously typed three letters, SOS, to his friend Jonas who lived nearby.

He knew he didn’t have to give Jonas his location. As Jonas spent most of his time in front of his computers, he would be able to act immediately and come to Giorgos’ rescue. Jonas’ sophisticated equipment would, within seconds, pick up Giorgos’ location through his mobile phone via satellite.

Since Jonas lived close by, he would be on his motorbike and on his way within a minute and with Giorgos within probably just over two minutes after setting off.

Giorgos was right. Within a couple of minutes he heard a motorbike approaching and he recognised his friend, Jonas. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he had to get out of there and Jonas was his only ticket out.

He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Giorgos shouted at Jonas above the noise of the bike and the hive of activity in the street, and, gesturing wildly, jumped into the road blocking the motorbike’s path. The screeching of brakes stopped the street’s activity and drew the curious and irritated glances of passersby.

They didn’t usually have such excitement in spite of the din’s annoyance. For a brief moment it was as if time had stopped. But the spell was broken as quickly as it was cast and normal life resumed.

‘Giorgos, you rascal, you’ve never valued your life much, have you? What deep shit are you into this time? You cannot keep away from excitement, can you?’

‘I need a ride. Can you drop me off at Maria’s?’

‘Sure. Hop on.’

Jonas threw him the spare helmet and they were off. They made their way deeper into the former Turkish Quarter and Jonas stopped in front of an unassuming door stuck on a building that had seen better days. Giorgos hopped off, handed the helmet back to Jonas and thanked him.

‘Anytime, mate. Give us a call sometime.’ With that Jonas pulled down the face shield of his helmet and sped off.

Giorgos made his way to the door and knocked. While waiting for the door to be answered he looked up and down the street checking for his perceived pursuer and registering the absurdity and sadness of his surroundings.

The drooping house was next to a mosque that the muezzin had not bothered to grace with his presence for years, since 1974 to be exact, when he was deprived of a flock; a flock that deserted him and fled to the Northern Turkish-occupied parts, soon to be followed by the muezzin himself, who belatedly realised the folly of staying behind in a seemingly hostile environment, made so by the political event of the military invasion and occupation and the disruption of a relatively peaceful co-existence between Cypriots of Greek and those of Turkish origin.

It was also believed that many of those Cypriots of Turkish origin had once been Christian Greeks who changed their faith during the Ottoman occupation between 1571 and 1878, the year the British arrived after the defeat of the Ottoman Empire at the hands of Russia and Great Britain in the Crimean War. Officially Cyprus remained part of the Ottoman Empire with the British paying nominal rent to the Sublime Porte, the Sultan.

This charade ended in 1914 when, at the start of the First World War, the Ottomans sided with the Germans and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and Britain found its excuse and took the opportunity to annex the island as a result. It had been a relatively peaceful co-existence, but like every good marriage it had its explosive moments when the two partners came to blows.

However, at least that indicated that there were strong feelings there from each side for the other of both love and hate.

The mosque had been standing a lonely sentinel to what had been and what could have been. Close by, the covered second central market, the smaller of the two old central markets of the city, was almost running out of life and breath as it was near closing time, with the knowledge that it would soon be left bereft of worshippers.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door was opened and Maria was standing there in all her five-foot-four-inch bohemian-dressed glory. She said nothing, but stepped to one side and let him in.

Passing the threshold, he stooped low to avoid colliding with the doorframe. He followed Maria into a cool central courtyard surrounded by balconies and lots of pots with aromatic plants covering every corner of the arches surrounding the courtyard on the ground floor.

The sounds of the city were now only a hushed and distant murmur. Maria needed to ask no questions from this unexpected visitor. She could read the worried lines on his face and … was it that fear that she saw in his eyes?

‘Maria, I think I’m in trouble.’

‘You? In trouble? No kidding. You’ve never been in trouble in your life. Even at school you would always get me out of trouble and fight anyone who dared to threaten me, but I think it was your excuse to get yourself into trouble. Trouble sticks to you like mud and you enjoy it. Admit it.’

Though he was in a desperate bind, he played along and smiled weakly, at the same time raising his arms in mock surrender. ‘Guilty as charged.’

Maria did like a good rant and enjoyed putting up the reprimanding act. It was a role she fell into with ease. It definitely was her maternal instinct that never seemed to sleep but loved overtime, rearing its obsessive head and going into overdrive.

He decided it was time to stop playing games. He looked at Maria who began to understand the gravity of the situation, but he could see she still had her doubts.

‘Maria, I really need your help. Someone is following me. I need to use the tunnel and I may need you to create a diversion.’

‘The tunnel? But, Giorgos, that has not been used for years. I don’t even know whether it is safe. Are you sure you are not imagining the whole thing? It’s not a movie you know. I know your chosen profession has not exactly been an “Indiana-Jones-like” adventure, but it’s had its moments. It’s time to stop daydreaming.’

As she said it, she knew his face told the truth and it dawned on her that he was not making it up. She went into action, her usual efficient self, a friend you could always rely on at a time of need.

She opened a non-descript enamelled box sitting in a corner of the kitchen, and, after briefly rummaging inside, retrieved two identical beautifully-crafted keys, of an art and craftsmanship of a time now long lost, obviously very old. On her way out of the kitchen she grabbed a couple of torches and checked that they worked. With a slight movement of the head she told Giorgos to follow her.

As they were making their way to the back of the house, there was a loud knock on the door. They were spat out into the real world, their task momentarily suspended. They stopped dead in their tracks and listened.

With a heavy heart that weighed him down so much that he almost left footprints deep in the stone floor, Giorgos could almost catch the smell of his ruthless pursuer and Katia’s most likely instrument of grievous harm and near murderer.

Maria hesitated and almost turned to walk back to answer the front door. She was expecting her friend, Chryso, any moment now. But something held her back.

The knock sounded urgent, and that was unlike Chryso. Besides Chryso would have called out to her, as well. It couldn’t be Chryso. At that moment her by now edgy mind told her that whoever was calling at her house was not a friend.

Giorgos could almost see Maria’s mental debate and almost intervened to take the final decision for her, but her face, when she turned back to look at him, told him that the front would not be answered any time soon. Still he felt he had to rush her, but not terrify her.

He gently grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. ‘Ignore it. Let’s go.’ They reached the end of a corridor that took them left and right and left again and through a series of rooms to the deepest reaches of the house. It didn’t look it from the street, but like many houses of the same period it was a big barrow of a house, a labyrinth to get lost in which could be, to put it mildly, inconvenient on a good day but a godsend when being chased.