Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (16 page)

She cries for the ugliness of life she has been forced to see and the unfairness of the shallow lives enjoyed by the people who have not seen that life she has led, the life that runs parallel to all civilisation. She cries until she is exhausted and her head once more touches the door. The towel is soaking up the bilge water and next to it is an antiseptic cream that belongs in the first aid box.

‘
Artemis
, are you there? Over.’

Irini has no idea how long they have been calling.

It is strange how, in a mist of excruciating emotional pain, part of her brain continues to function as normal. What does it matter that the antiseptic cream is on the floor? There is a man dead and bullet holes in the boat. But the antiseptic cream should not be on the floor. Her hand mechanically reaches for the tube, the first aid box digging deeper into her ribs. The tube scoots from the ends of her fingers and requires a second, more purposeful lurch to secure it.

‘Got you,’ Irini says out loud and she grimly marvels all over again that words can still be formed and tasks can still be carried out even when unspeakable things have happened that are so momentous they reduce the mundane to irrelevant.

The tube has been used and around the top, dried cream creates a crusty rim around the lid. She peels off the top of the first aid box to put it away.

Bandages do not spring for freedom, medicinal smells do not fill the small room. The box has been filled with something that has been neatly stored with a plastic bag around it, and on top is a notebook.

Sam’s notebook.

The one he was writing in while in the saloon.

Before he died.

The tears burst their temporary dam again and the box trembles on her knee as she clutches the book to her chest. This time, she cries for the obscene and purposeless waste of his life. He would have surrendered. He could have started a new life.

‘You all right, Miss?’ The words accompany a knock on the door.

‘Fine.’ She responds quicker than she would have expected she was able. Reflexes take over. Holding her breath to stop the tears, she listens.

‘Crying. Best leave her be,’ the tapper says.

‘Not far from port now,’ another answers.

And then a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh and footsteps retreat and rap quickly up on deck and there is silence.

Holding her breath has stopped the tears and she strokes the outside cover of the notebook before opening it to the first page.

There is a drawing of a mouse, delicate and sensitive, a smaller study of one of its feet below it and several attempts at its tail.

She turns the page.

Another mouse and a study of an open tin can with a very jagged edge, as if it has been opened with a knife, or torn open, perhaps.

The next page. A shelter, sticks leaning against a fallen tree, leaves and branches over the top, inside of which is another can and a pair of boots.

She turns each page over, slowly taking in the loneliness of his life, the hardship he has endured. One study covers two pages. It is a room without curtains at the window. There is a single bed and a chair, the same pair of boots, another can, and a big knife. It is like the shelter but inside. There is no adornment, no pictures on the wall, no television, nowhere to sit, bare. But the shocking factor is that through the window is what looks to be a panorama of a city, with flat-topped houses, palm trees, modern skyscrapers, and minarets piercing the skyline. Casablanca? It could be, but she is not sure. It is some place of civilisation anyway, but the room is far from any of civilisation’s comforts.

At the bottom of this page in curly writing is a single word: Home.

The heaviness in her chest swells, rises, sticks in her throat and the tears roll again, but this time in quiet sobs.

She turns the page.

‘
Dear Rini,’

Her tears are instantly dried. His voice is in her head and she is still. It takes a moment to blink the saline away so she can see, a moment to gather her courage to read on.

You are sitting on deck as I am writing this. The sun outside, bouncing off the water, is creating wavy shadows and light on the ceiling down here and it would be lovely to continue to make believe that we are on some watery holiday.’

Irini rubs the back of her hand across her eyes to clear her vision.

Unfortunately, that is not true and if you are reading this then, as my friend once said, ‘Job Done.’ I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but I do now.

The moment I boarded this yacht, I knew that there was only one of two ways it could go. Either I would sail without incident to Casablanca, ignored by all, or, as the sitting duck I am, it will be my coffin.

I knew the moment I saw the two tiny dots leaving Saros after we had made some way from port that it was to be my watery grave. Knowing I have nothing left but a few hours, all I want to do, in this few hours, is to pretend life is normal, that you are my wife or girlfriend or even just my friend or something and that this is a holiday. What else have I left? Nothing? All I have is a few hours on a sailing boat. I have no choice about the length of time I have to live, nor a change of scenery in which to spend that time. All I have is the choice of how I choose to see it. So I choose to see the beauty of the blue sky, the magnificence of the brilliance of the sun, the hypnotic fascination of the sea and the deep beauty of the person I am with.

I am so glad it is you, Irini, that I am spending final hours with. If it had been someone who had led nothing but a ‘normal’ life, how would that person ever be able to relate to me, let alone understand me? The breadth of your experience has given you a compassion that breaks past immediate wrongdoing to see the person and their life as a whole and I could not have been given a greater blessing than to have spent this time with you.

You have given me such warmth, Irini. It is as I imagine love to be. You reached across and touched me with love and showed me how it could be.

Which in a way makes the outcome that is inevitable even sadder, but also, and oddly at the same time, it makes it easier.

I knew the risks when I chose the boat. I really didn’t have much hope of reaching Casablanca either by land or sea, but as I sit here now, I am pretty sure that I don’t, or should I say, didn’t, really want to.

Casablanca is just the start of the same old cycle. Another contract, another war, more dead or injured, more threats and fears. I can honestly say I have had enough of life. My head is too full of things no one should ever see, and once you know a thing, you cannot unknow it. So my guess is a part of me chose the boat to avoid death in some concrete, crumbling corner. If I have to die, then let it be here, under the sun, surrounded by the beauty of the sea and, with a touch of good fortune, with warm and loving company I have had the luck to find in you.

So you see the words ‘Job done’ fit and I now know what my friend meant when he said them. Suicide does not always have to be by your own hand.

If I read what I have written over, I will start to make changes and get hung up on it not being perfect, so I will not read it over, Irini. You get it straight from my heart in its raw state. If I find after my death that somehow we get another chance, I shall ask to wait so next time around I can be deployed with you. With someone like you close by in the early years, my life would have been so different.

So a million thanks, Irini, just for being you. Never wish to lose the things that happened to you because these are the things that make you who you are. A person who can listen without judging, care without stipulations. A compassionate, warm, loving, and wholly decent person. Not many who claim that have the right to do so, but you do, Irini. You really do.

I think what I feel for you is love. I certainly have never felt such a feeling before so I will sign off ‘with love’ and mean it with all my being. Would it be misplaced to ask you to always keep a little piece of me in your heart so I know I live on? A part of me is afraid of this big choice I have made and it gives me comfort to think that even the smallest part of me might stay with you, tucked away in the warmth of your compassion.

That’s it. If I say any more I will be repeating myself.

Thank you a thousand times over.

Do not cry for me, as this was my choice.

With love,

Peter. ( Sam :) )

His name was Peter. The mercenary who had no mother, who was unloved by his father, who was too sensitive to be a soldier. Peter.

Irini compresses all her feeling for him, all the unfairness that was his life, all the understanding he gave her, all the mutual experiences they have had that created their connection together, down into a tiny cushion of beauty which she tucks away in her heart.

She turns the page almost as an automatic reflex.

P.S. The bandages and Iodine and things are on the bed in the rear cabin (Not the Captain’s).

This makes Irini look again at the first aid box. Whatever is wrapped in layers of plastic bags fits the box well.

What is in the bag is yours. Do not tell them about it or they will take it from you, and I can see no good that will do.

P.P.S It is not dirty.

Putting the notebook carefully by the sink, Irini feels the plastic bag item. It has some give but it is not soft. As she slides her hand down the side between plastic and box, she tries to lift it out as a whole, but it begins to fall into pieces inside the bag. The carrier handle is folded underneath and pulling this up, she can open it.

She gasps and stares.

Looking back at the open notebook, she re-reads the P.P.S. before putting her hand in to lift out a bundle of fifty euro notes. Underneath is another bundle with Arabic writing on it, and a stack of British fifty pound notes, a wedge of notes with what looks like Russian or Rumanian writing on them, and a bundle that looks clean and pressed with Scandinavian writing perhaps. She has no idea what all the different currencies are. All she knows is that it is a lot.

‘Miss?’ There is a tap on the door. ‘Miss, we are coming into harbour.’ The footsteps march away waiting for no answer.

She has to choose and choose quickly. He says it is not dirty. What does that mean? Is it his pay? If it is, does she feel that it is dirty? But he said that as a mercenary, he did not clear houses, that they only defended. How had he put it? ‘Defend person or post.’ Mercenaries are legal, right? So this is legal pay. Besides, what would the port police do with it? Would it get sunk in their coffers or go to the government, where it would slip into back pockets? She certainly doubts it would be used to do any good.

Folding the bag over the notes again, she returns the whole to the box, puts the notebook on top, strokes the cover, the words within, and snaps the lid back on.

The engine revs slow to idle. They no longer seem to be moving.

She unlocks the door.

Irini will not be helped up the steps onto the deck. Outside is no longer bright; rather, there is a softening to all the lighter colours, the whitewashed buildings, the cream tops of tables outside the cafés all touched pinkish in the twilight that turns the deepest greys to blues and the blacks to purples.

Standing on the quay side at the other end of the homemade gangplank, lined up, are Petta and Marina, Angelos holding their hands between them, Captain Yorgos, and Commander Demosthenes, whom she only just recognises. The mayor is there, along with several of his sidekicks, and two lawyers. The younger one she recognises as Babis, who lives in her village, and held back by the port police are teams of television cameras and reporters. They surge forward as they see her, shouting her name.

Her throat feels a little sore when she swallows and her ears are ringing.

‘Irini, over here. Rini.’

‘Look here, Irini.’

A hundred flashes fire with a quick succession of clicks.

Irini’s grip on the rail and the box against her chest tightens. One of the port police offers her his hand but she ignores it.

Angelos is trying to pull free of Petta and Marina’s grip, but they both hold on. All thoughts leave Irini as she runs across the gangplank and, thrusting the first aid box at Petta, she picks up her little boy. Her nose sinks into his neck and she takes a deep breath before tucking his head under her own chin. A big arm comes around her and she is about to duck from under it when she realises it is Petta. He pulls her to him firmly, his arms around both of them. Over the top of his shoulder, she can see that Marina is now holding the box. She swallows. It hurts.

Marina gives the impression that she is reading the words on the box top: ‘
Artemis
, First Aid’ in faded felt pen on the lid. Marina turns to Captain Yorgos, who is standing open-mouthed, gaping at his yacht. She offers the box to him and he takes it, but his eyes do not leave his
Artemis
. Irini breaks free of Petta but cannot grab the box, as she has Angelos in her arms. She hands him to Petta.

‘What have you done to my boat!’ Captain Yorgos exclaims. He thrusts the first aid container into the hands of the nearest port police so he can hold on as he goes aboard. Irini pushes through the mayor’s group of people to get to the box.

‘What have you done?’ the yacht captain repeats. The teams of photographers turn their attention from Irini to the boat. Petta is trying to pull Irini back, keep her safe, but she is watching the progress of the box, her hand on her throat, controlling her breathing.

‘Is that a bullet hole?’ Someone points. This creates a buzz. A little scuffle breaks out. The camera crews try again to push past the port police. They begin to surge and Commander Demosthenes beckons the officers around the gangplank and on the police boat to come and help with the crowds.

The port policeman with the first aid box hands it to one of the policemen getting off the boat. He is one of the snipers and wears a bulletproof vest. He in turn looks for somewhere to leave the box and, in passing, puts it in an orange crate that has been tied onto the back of one of a line of mopeds to serve as a basket. Irini watches, relieved that no one seems to take any notice of it.

‘Come on. I will take you home.’ Petta’s arms do not release her and he carries Angelos. Marina is grinning and crying into a handkerchief with black butterflies embroidered on it as she follows them. Irini struggles to get to the box and, thankfully, Petta seems to be steering her in the same direction. Her throat is getting sorer by the minute. It seems unlikely that she is getting a summer cold, as she has never had one before, but it is possible. Behind them, the crowds are becoming uncontrollable and Captain Yorgos can be heard shouting.

‘Get off my boat. You cannot board without my permission! I am the captain. Get off!’

They are nearly next to the bike. Another few steps and Irini will have the box safely back in her arms again. Petta hands Angelos back to her and her attention is taken by him. She is also having trouble fully closing her mouth. If her teeth are together, it puts pressure on the glands under her ears. Angelos smells sweet, his eyelashes are even longer than she remembers them, his cherub mouth so perfect. She kisses him all over his face, glad to be reunited, and he rewards her with a big smile, reaching out to touch her face in return.

‘Do you feel up to driving, Mama?’ Petta asks Marina. Irini is all absorbed with the love she is feeling, the joy of being together with her life’s blood, the relief at not being dead. ‘Irini, you and Angelos go in the car with Mama.’ He looks into her eyes as he speaks. ‘Let’s get away from this madness.’

Irini looks around. She has moved a few steps whilst thinking of nothing but her son, and they have passed the bike. She looks back. She has a headache coming on. The photographers and television teams surround the bike, trying to get to the boat. It gets pushed over. Irini makes a move toward it but Petta is firm in keeping her moving toward the car. Someone who is watching the spectacle by the boat, who has no microphone or camera, rights the bike. A man with a hairy microphone picks up the box, presses the lid down firmly, and puts it back in the orange crate before continuing his jostling to get on the boat.

One of the anchormen, suited and smart, sits sidesaddle on the bike, his crew filming him as he gives what must be a progress report to the camera that is focused on him.

‘Petta, will you go and get that box that’s in the back of that bike there?’ Irini asks, each word rasping on her throat. Her forehead feels hot.

‘Let’s just get you away. It’ll be fine there.’ Petta puts his hand on her forehead. He is crying. ‘You feel a bit hot. You alright?’

A van pulls up and a new group of reporters descends onto the scene. As some of the original reporters turn to see who the new crew is by the logo on the side of their van, they spot Irini and Petta trying to leave.

Irini sees their intention and hurries to the car.

‘Irini, did he hurt you?’

‘Irini, did he threaten you?’

‘Did he use you as a human shield?’

‘Irini, are you glad to be alive?’

‘Back off,’ Petta growls and he ushers Irini and Angelos into the car. Another group of photographers breaks off from the group by the boat and they come running in hopes that they will get better results from Irini than they are getting from the port police, Yorgos, and the boat.

Petta is now pushing a cameraman away. ‘Irini, stay in the car.’

‘But there is something I need to get.’ She can hardly talk. She swallows and it causes her pain. The last thing she needs is to be sick, but she is definitely coming down with something.

‘What?’ Petta almost shouts. He is distracted by putting his hand over a camera lens that has been thrust in through the car window.

‘It’s a box,’ Irini begins but she does not want the reporter to hear.

‘Marina, just drive. Go. Irini, we can get whatever it is later,’ Petta says. The cameramen jump to one side as Marina drives at them.

‘Wait.’ Irini finds her voice. It sounds croaky and unreal. ‘Marina, there is something I need you to go back and get.’

It is as if she has not spoken.

‘Oh my love, I am so glad you are unharmed. Petta has not eaten a thing all day; he was beside himself with worry. Oh my dear child, it is such a relief you are back with us. Is Angelos all right there? Is he sleeping?’

‘Marina, stop the car.’

Marina loses her smile and stops.

‘I will wait here. I want you to go back and get the box out of the back of the bike that was standing by the boat.’ The car seems to be moving even though they have stopped. She puts her hand on her forehead and can feel the heat.

‘Box, bike? Irini, what bike? Do you mean boat? What are you saying? You have just escaped. We thought you might be dead. You are alive! Everything else can wait. Relax!’ Marina stops to look at Irini and takes a breath. She puts her own hand on Irini’s forehead and a frown replaces her smile but she says, ‘Everything is fine now. You are back. Your son has a mother. My son, your husband, has a wife. Everything is as it should be. Nothing is more important than that, is it?’

Irini hears her words and they sink in. She does not have the energy to argue. Besides, Marina is right. Thirteen or fourteen hours ago, she wondered if she was going to ever see her son or husband again. Thirteen or fourteen hours ago, a gun was thrust in her face and everything changed. The most important thing was her freedom. But six or seven hours ago, a man was shot and everything changed again. The most important thing is that she is alive.

No box, no matter what it contains, is as important as being back with Angelos and Petta. Where is Petta? Why did he not come in the car with them? She suddenly feels very tired and even answering her own question takes more effort than she has left. Every swallow emphasises how unwell she feels and she wonders if she will ever be well and energetic again.

‘You must be hungry. Have you eaten anything at all today? I’ve nothing ready; been at the port police office all day. Not a moment to cook. I’ll stop and get a chicken from Stella’s,’ Marina says. Irini loves the small eatery in the village that fills farmers’ stomachs with grilled sausages and chicken with lemon sauce, chips, and ouzo, but right now, she is not sure if she could eat a thing.

As they enter the village, the eatery is lit up. The fairy lights wrapped round the tree in the middle of the tables on the pavement are inviting, and a group of farmers sit at one of the tables, a large plate of chicken, sausages, and chips in the middle. There is also a bottle of ouzo on the table, and they are picking hungrily at their meal. In one way, Irini is surprised that Stella is still there, carrying on, doing something as ordinary as cooking chicken and chips when in other places in the world people are being shot, their lives snuffed out. But of course it is still there; why would anything have changed since she left the village? It is she who has had her life changed.

She wipes sweat from her eyes. The night is warm but she is sweating as though she has a fever.

The car bumps to a stop. Stella comes out and runs toward them and, leaning through the open window, she kisses Irini firmly on each cheek.

‘Oh how wonderful you are back. You feel a little hot; are you alright? I would not be surprised if you had a little fever after such an ordeal. But now you are home and we are all glad you are.’ She has more to say but the ringing in Irini’s ears drowns her out and it does not seem very important to listen to her. Stella’s talking quickly exhausts her. Stella’s husband Mitsos wanders out from the eatery at a leisurely pace, grins at Irini, and offers Marina two large silver foil boxes. Dinner is on him, he says, and he is glad Irini is back.

Leaning back against the car seat, Angelos curls up on her lap but it is only a couple of car lengths before Marina pulls the car to a stand in the square. The men in the kafenio must recognise the car as they begin to trickle out of their smoked-filled domain towards them. The lady from the kiosk, Vasso, comes out of her hut and the people in the pharmacy leave their tinctures and bandages behind and join them as they all crowd around the car, delighted to see Irini, hoping she is well, offering her coffee and chats when she is ready, pressing in on her, enclosing her, stifling her. With brisk but quiet thanks for their goodwill, she pushes though them, cradling Angelos, to the corner shop, through to the courtyard and up to her son’s room, where she joins him on the floor with his favourite wooden train, making it go back and forth and round and round and she tries to ignore her pulsing forehead and her raw sore throat, tries to forget everything as she focuses on nothing but the sound of Angelos’ giggles.

‘Irini, wake up,
agapi mou
.’ The heaviness that is Angelos is lifted off her.

‘Irini, it might be best if you come and have a little to eat before bed.’ His voice is coming from by the crib. He must be laying the sleeping boy down for the night. ‘Rini?’ His arms are around her, lifting her up. ‘My love,’ he says and pulls her head into his chest, wipes her fringe off her forehead, and kisses the top of her head, whispering, ‘As if you have not been through enough in your life,’ almost as if he is talking to himself.

He is so big and powerful compared to her slight frame that he could lift her and carry her as easily as she lifts and carries Angelos, but she would not like to be treated like a child and he knows it. He has a respect for her toughness, her independence.

She struggles to get to her feet. She has no energy left and her head is pounding. Petta’s arms are still around her and he looks her in the eyes, his liquid brown eyes saying more than his words ever could, all his love openly displayed in them, all his care. His hand slides down to the back of her legs and he scoops her up without breaking contact and carries her from the room. He doesn’t make her feel like a child. Instead, she feels loved, cherished, protected. He carries her down the stairs and out into the courtyard where Marina has put out plates on the table under the lemon tree. The sky is black now, smeared with the Milky Way, the moon haloed by its own glow. The wisteria scrapes gently against the wall as a cat rubs its cheeks against the stem. The jasmine perfumes the night. The warmth is a perfect temperature.