Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (5 page)

‘I do not want to tell you.’ Cold, emotionless.

‘Oh.’ She hadn’t expected that and could never imagine saying something so blunt to anyone. Her sights rest on one of the ropes she coiled earlier and the realisation comes that she will not be there to see Stathoula today. She cannot stop her bottom lip quivering; her vision blurs. In fact, with this man wielding a weapon, she might not be seeing anyone else on any other day, either.

The thought that she may never see loved ones again sucks her dry. Her head drops and her arms become limp and for a minute, she is boneless and motionless. The sun continues to shine and her body responds. The sweat drips from her forehead, making dark circles on her jeans which dry as quickly as they are formed. Something twists in her chest, and for a panicked moment, she wonders if she is having a heart attack, but then her fists clench, her mouth sets hard, and one side of her upper lip curls and twitches. The rawness of her emotion frightens her. The shadow of life before Stathoula and after her parents died passes over her. A memory igniting long-buried responses. She survived that; she will survive this.

She sighs a long out breath and her stomach settles and her fists unclench. The layers in between that time and this fall away. Her life with Petta, although the most important thing that has ever happened to her, recedes. Angelos, and the love she never believed she would feel, is neatly packed away, a velvet curtain drawn over him. Stathoula’s successful attempt to build up her trust and belief in the world evaporates, and her eyes widen with the ease at which it all drops away and she is emotionally transported back in time. Nothing she has learnt since seems useful here, today.

She is the child again, the person she was from fifteen to eighteen – blasé but with adrenaline coursing, living by stealing, one eye always open, sleeping in hallways. Fighting with police and other street children. Avoiding Omonia Square where Indians and Pakistanis squatted in misery to sell mechanical toy rabbits with red glaring eyes. Whoever was forcing them to do their bidding was the enemy, to be watched for. There too were the Eastern-block men, quick to pull displaced people into their windscreen washing ‘services’ that were inflicted on drivers at red lights, a rap on the window and a hand out for spare change. But Omonia also felt like the centre for all homeless people and she found herself drawn to it again and again in search of company, to stop being lonely. A sharp eye and quick feet kept her safe from the pimps, the drug addicts and the police.

She can almost feel the stiffness of the grime returning to her hair, which she has never allowed to grow long since. Easily remembered are the raw cracks in the soles of her shoeless feet, the crust of filth around her mouth from hasty eating and no washing. Fights with knives and pieces of glass were commonplace. She has watched as friends chose to die of overdoses. Others died of injuries. Mothers as young as thirteen dying in childbirth with no one caring about their screams. She has lived in that heartless, dark place that the ordinary Athenians deny the existence of, and she has survived.

If this man with his tattered, limp pinky and his scowl and his gun thinks he can bulldoze his way into her life and take anything from her, he has got another think coming. She uncrosses her legs and sprawls out in the heat of the sun whilst taking a good long look over the stern of the boat. In the distance, she can see two boats leaving Saros port. Just dots. But these will grow as they draw nearer. She hopes they will be flying the port police flag.

‘What’s your name?’ Irini asks. Her voice sounds strong. There is no trace of fear, no tremor. The man stops gazing out to sea and looks at her.

‘I don’t wish to tell you.’

‘I am Irini and I need to call you something, as all the way to Casablanca is a long trip, so choose.’

‘Call me what you like.’ He looks back out to sea. To the east, the sea looks darker, ruffled. The clouds on the horizon are growing puffy and white but the day is getting hotter as the sun climbs to its zenith.

The bakery will be all but empty of bread in the village now. The kafeneio at the top of the square will be open and Theo will be setting out his tables and chairs. The farmers, in baggy trousers and white shirts, sleeves rolled up, waiting at tables set around the dried fountain for him to open, will begin to gather, anticipating his return behind the counter to take his time in brewing their nectar.

Vasso in the kiosk will be watching her portable television, and the doors to Stella’s taverna will be thrown open, Mitsos lighting the grill. The small sandwich shop will already have sold out of
bougatsa
after the wave of children passing on their way to wait for the school bus, which is half way in to Saros by now.

She hasn’t lived there long, but from working in the shop, she has got to know everyone in the village. During the mornings and the evenings, there is always someone sitting in the shop with her, keeping her company, telling her their tales of woe or sharing their secrets. She has found that she is good at keeping peoples’ confidences, and there are plenty to keep. It has given her a sense of belonging. Maybe that is something that she has learnt that could be useful now. Listening, talking, keeping secrets.

The pirate shakes out one leg, pulling his jeans down from the knee.

‘Sam,’ Irini says.

‘What?’

‘Your t-shirt says Sam. Capital S, a.m. Like Uncle Sam. Are you American, Sam?’

‘I don’t want to say.’

With no wind, the day is getting hotter. Sam fidgets in his jeans as if they are sticking to him. He gets up, looks all around the boat at the calm waters, and stares for a while at the two black dots near Saros before dismissing them.

‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ He stands abruptly and with a leap, he is around the helm and descending the steps.

Irini is left alone. She stands. The distance to the shore on either side is too far for her to swim; she is not that good a swimmer. The dots that she hopes are the port police have not grown any bigger but she has no doubt they have powerful binoculars. She has no idea how strong they will be, but it cannot harm to presume they are very strong. With a quick look to the hatch ensuring that Sam is not watching, she waves her arms above her head, but only for a second as a noise from below makes her nervous.

He comes back on deck in a pair of khaki shorts, barefoot and shirtless. He strides over her and back to the helm. Whilst he was down below, the yacht has veered wildly off course and he checks their direction by looking at the land before sitting down again. Irini is staring. There are several dark red, raised scars on his chest, both long and short, and the whole area is pitted with small round welts which she suspects are the result of a shotgun fire, having seen it before after a rabbit hunting accident on Orino Island. Across his stomach, his skin is thin and distorted as if it has melted. In comparison, the smooth brown muscles of his shoulders look unreal. It is only as he lifts his arm to steer that the open wound under his shoulder blade, in that place that is impossible to reach with either hand, is exposed to the air. It is wet with both blood and pus.

‘What happened?’ She cannot hide the horror in her voice and she gags. Not even on the streets has she seen survivors of anything as brutal as this. She witnessed lots of line scarring and the resulting thin skin of continuous self-harm but, her guess is, these are the remains of some grim wounds that she seriously doubts anyone would, or could, inflict upon themselves.

‘Which one?’ The tone of his reply kills any further questions, but she cannot stop staring. He tuts and shakes his head, rolling his eyes as if her response is naïve.

They sit in silence, the motor puttering away, the sound of water bubbling at the bows, churning in their wake. It cannot be much past eight, maybe nine o’clock. It is going to be a long day. The sun is reflecting off the sea so brightly that Irini screws up her eyes to look at the waves. Over by the coast, a small fishing boat moves idly, no doubt trailing a line. A fish for dinner, to be gutted and cooked by his wife, along with
horta
, boiled wild greens the woman has collected herself from the hills behind the cottage that sits by the beach, no doubt.

Just the thought makes Irini’s stomach grumble.

The chocolate in the croissant she left on the dashboard in the car will have melted by now, run out of the pastry and puddled in a corner of the wrapper.

Watching the land pass is hypnotising. The rocking of the boat is soothing and it is not long before Irini finds her mind wandering for a few seconds, forgetting where she is and the man who has put her there. When she notices, she sits up straight and tries to keep alert but after some time, her mind wanders again, this time for longer, dreaming of Marina’s loan being paid off, the oranges commanding a higher price and being able to afford things for Angelos that she never had as a child. She jolts back into the present and looks at Sam, whose gaze has a more lazy quality to it than before. He has settled in his seat but with his arm at an awkward angle as, with a light touch, he steers the yacht.

‘You know that there is an auto-pilot,’ Irini says and then wonders why she is saying anything that will make his life easier.

He doesn’t even acknowledge her, but continues to sit awkwardly. Presently, he shifts in his seat and tries to steer with his other arm. The position is impossible.

‘How does it work?’ His eyes meet hers. The dead look has gone and the green of the irises seems lighter. There is something very sad about them.

‘Those rubber belts hanging over the steering column.’ Irini points. ‘They go over the wheel and then over the motor there on the floor and then you turn it on and press auto-pilot.’ Until now, Irini would have said that she knows nothing about sailing, but it is amazing how much she must have picked up from Captain Yorgos and his endless tales of personal heroics and the things he has had to do on his boat.

Sam studies the motor on the floor and the simple control panel. Standing, he unloops one of the belts and tries to attach it to the wheel. It looks like he is doing it right, but when the belt is looped over the helm and the motor, there is no tension. Irini has no idea why. Sam studies it for a second and pushes a lever on the body of the motor, tensioning the belt. Turning the control panel on with a flick of a switch, the motor zizzes and turns the wheel, via the belt, just a fraction first one way and then the other until it settles.

Taking his seat again, he mutters a ‘thank you’ towards her. His right arm lies limply in his lap, his upper arm shadowing his ribs, but the wound beneath his shoulder blade is exposed, open and weeping. The skin around the wetness has jagged edges and in amongst the raw red tissue, there is something yellowish. It is not difficult to guess that without attention, it is not going to close and heal well.

The autopilot motor zizzes again, another tiny correction.

Irini licks her lips. She is thirsty. If there is no water on board, he can hardly be planning to go all the way to Casablanca.

‘Can I go below and use the toilet?’ She stands. He waves his arm towards the hatch without interest. The autopilot buzzes. The engine putters. For floating at sea, it is very noisy.

Below deck, the engine is even louder, housed as it is behind the steps. The radio is crackling. It would be nice to be in contact with someone out there, to be told again that someone is coming.

‘Port police, this is
Artemis
. Come in.’ Irini feels nervous about using the radio now that Sam is not stuck at the helm.

‘
Artemis
, we hear you. Everything okay? Over.’

She looks up through the hatch. Sam is sitting with his eyes shut. She returns to the radio. ‘Yes. Over,’ she replies. A long breath escapes through her nose, her free hand rubbing her temples, her chin sinks to her chest.

‘We have two boats following you. We will not approach with speed, as we wish to keep the situation as calm as we can. Is everything alright at the moment? Over.’

‘Yes. He is calm, but we have no water. Over.’ Irini looks towards the hatch. She knows he cannot hear her but still, it feels that talking out loud is a risk and besides, he could come down at any moment. She should never have mentioned the autopilot.

‘Rini, Captain Yorgos is here with us. He says there is drinking water under the bunk in the rear guest cabin. Being thirsty may drive him into port, so keep it to yourself if you can.’

‘How long does Captain Yorgos think it will be before we run out of fuel? Over.’

Captain Yorgos was happily sitting in the shade of the plane tree, sipping a Greek coffee from a tiny cup when the young port police man in a neatly pressed white shirt ran up to him.

‘Captain Yorgos?’ the man, really just a boy, addressed him. ‘You must come quickly. Your yacht has been taken by a pirate.’ After a second’s hesitation, Yorgos’ laugh roared across the square. Everyone in the café turned to see the source of such a noise but Yorgos did not care. He wanted to share it with everyone, it was such a fine joke. Wondering which one of the port police came up with it, he bet himself that it was Demosthenes, the old rogue. As a commander in the port police, he was all but retired and, as a last request, asked to be stationed in Saros to be at home. Demosthenes was born and brought up here, and his sisters still lived in the old town, not far from the large crumbling family home. Yes, he was the sort of man to have such a sense of humour and the authority to call others into action to carry it out.

‘Good one, son. Tell Demosthenes that if he wants me to come over for coffee, all he has to do is ask. But for now, I have a coffee here, so he must come to me.’ And he laughed again but the man stood there, looking worried.

‘No, sir, really. We have checked him out. He is a known English mercenary. Wanted in three countries. He was detained in Athens yesterday but got away. We suspect he is heading to Libya or Morocco.’

After studying the earnest young man’s face, Yorgos stood reluctantly.

‘It is an extravagant joke, my friend,’ he said. ‘But Demosthenes is a good friend, so I will come. Maybe he has a punch line, eh?’ His eyes glinting at the young officer as he threw coins on the table to leave.

The walk hurt. They had to stop several times with the lad urging him on, and he began to believe there really was some emergency. The commotion and noise in the port police office extinguished all thoughts to the contrary.

The petty officer addressed the general hubbub in the room.

‘Is Captain Yorgos here yet?’ he shouted.

‘Here. I’m here.’ Captain Yorgos took off his black felt peaked cap. Beads of sweat lined the creases in his brow; blackheads accentuated the depth.

‘How much fuel did the
Artemis
have?’

‘She was full. Just filled her up last night,’ he stammered, mopping his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt.

‘Bad news there, I’m afraid. There is a full tank. But we are tailing you, closing in. We are waiting for orders. Over.’

Irini stops rubbing her temples and, with her hand on her hip, looks up and through the narrow window. All there is to see through the window is sky, but the window itself is thick plastic that has been broken down by years of ultra-violet light until it has crazed into a thousand pieces. Sunlight hits the different angles, shimmering into a thousand viewpoints.

‘What do you mean waiting for orders? Over.’

‘Just that. We might need to make this incident an example. Over.’

‘What on earth does that mean?’ Irini forgets to let go of the button so there is no reply. Remembering, she releases it.

‘It means he will not get away with this. Over.’

‘I am more interested in my safety. Over.’

‘It would not look good if any harm came to you, Rini. Your safety is paramount. Over.’

Irini is frowning. She mutters to herself, ‘It would not look good, not look good?’

She presses the button. ‘Who the hell cares how it will look?’ Irini finds she is nearly shouting and quickly looks to the blue square of the hatch.

‘Stay calm, Rini. Everything that can be done will be done to keep you safe. Over.’

Somehow, the conversation has not surprised her. She hangs up the microphone. The corners of her mouth turn down. ‘Not look good!’ she mutters to herself as she goes into the toilet. Not much has changed since she lived on the street. The reaction of the police to incidents back then was all about how it looked both to the public and in their records. People were let go who should have been held in custody; others held who should have been released. None of it made any sense and no one seemed to care about the individuals. That’s what she had loved so much about the village when she moved there. It was all about people. Each person mattered.

She steadies herself as the boat hits a wave and lurches slightly. With the movement of the boat, things have moved about again in the bathroom. More tubes and bottles from the first aid box are rolling on the duckboard floor. Larger items remain behind the rail fronting the shelf. The first aid box itself is on its side. Rolls of bandages have been pitched into the sink. She grabs the various bottles and tubes and packets of gauze from the floor and the shelf and shoves them into the box.

The disarrayed items do not fit in easily and the lid will not close. Half-open, it will not fit back onto the shelf, and there is nowhere else to put it down flat. Irini uses the toilet with the box on her knee, rinses each hand in turn, holding the box in the other, and goes back out to the salon, where she dumps the box on the table and wipes her hands dry on her jeans.

With a glance to the hatch, she opens the rear cabin door and discovers a six pack of large bottles of water stored under the bunk. She pulls one out and drinks deeply. The water is not cold but to her parched mouth, it is the most wonderful sensation and for a moment, she is lost to everything around her. When she is satiated, she mutters again, ‘It will not look good!’ and shakes her head at the thought that she is supposed to trust her safety to these people.

On putting the unopened bottles back, she discovers two cartons of orange juice. Her stomach gives her no choice and, tearing one open with her teeth, she drinks again. This time, the sensations of satisfaction are even deeper, resulting in a sigh when she stops to breathe. She will drink the rest later, if the port police have not taken her off before hunger strikes again. The cartons get stuffed back with the water bottles.

The half-drunk water bottle she puts behind the cabin door for easy access.

Back in the saloon, the first aid box, sitting open on the table, seems out of place. Time is one thing she has a lot of at the moment, and she could use it to put everything back in neatly and replace it on the shelf on the bathroom. After giving it a second’s thought, the action seems trivial and unimportant. In this present situation, she cares neither for tidiness, or her work, or the port police, or anything belonging to the so-called civilised world.

‘It will not look good,’ Irini mutters one more time and then mounts the stairs to go on deck, shaking her head at the port police’s attitude.

Sam is contorted, trying to see to the wound under his shoulder blade. As he reaches what he can, he winces and sucks air through his teeth. He looks up sharply as she steps out onto the deck and Irini can see his eyes shining, watering. Now ignoring the weeping wound, he looks out at the sea and rests against the chair back as if he has no concerns in the world.

Irini stares at him, finding traces of the man behind the hardened face, but as she looks, his eyes glaze over, the cheek muscle twitches, and he is gone again.

Without premeditative thought, Irini turns around, goes back down into the saloon and comes back up with the bottle of water and the first aid box.

‘Here.’ She offers him the water. His hand is quick but his mind is in control and he waits for Irini to take it back and drink first. She spins off the cap and takes a sip, and this appears to satisfy him, and he grabs it back greedily and the contents are emptied quickly. When it is gone, he becomes still again.

‘Where and why?’ he asks.

‘Where and why what?’ Irini puts the first aid box on the deck and begins to go through the contents.

‘Where did you find the water and why did you share it with me? You could have hidden it for yourself.’

Irini shrugs and pulls out two packets of gauze, a bottle of iodine, and a bandage. He watches her, his lips pursed, a slight frown crossing between his eyebrows, his cheek muscle forever twitching.

‘Lift your arm.’ She squats beside him.

‘No. There is no need.’ He faces her, the frown growing more intense, looking her in her eyes, searching for her motivation.

‘There is a need.’ She meets his look, tries again to see the person inside the hard shell. He does not relent and so she sits back opposite him, leaving the gauze and bandages on the teak floor.