Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Need a wee,’ she called to Frank and the kids, the words echoing embarrassingly around her. ‘Don’t wait, I’ll catch you up!’

  She scrambled towards the wall of the canyon and noticed a cave almost entirely covered by a pink-flowering oleander bush. What a blessed relief to hide behind the shrub and relieve herself in relative privacy. With her shorts around her ankles, she glanced into the grotto, and was suddenly startled to see a pair of amber eyes staring back.

  My God! Someone’s watching me!

  ‘Do you mind looking the other way?’

  The culprit was probably an illegal camper who had stayed overnight in the gorge.

  The eyes continued to stare. Zoë felt her stomach turn. She had an intense feeling of danger – no, not exactly danger, more like powerful evil.

  ‘Frank!’ she yelled. ‘Megan! Josh!’

  The eyes jerked back into the dark interior. Zoë dragged her shorts up and felt around the ground for her rucksack, never taking her stare from the murky depths of the cave.

  This was a mistake.

  She snatched hold of a vicious thistle. The thorns drove deep into her palm.

  ‘Ouch!’

  The moment she took her eyes away from the cave he rushed out, straight at her.

  Zoë fell onto her back and lay there, stunned, like a dead bird in the road. In an instant his thickset body was over her, eyes fierce, breath snorting from his flared nostrils. The largest pair of ribbed horns she had ever seen turned back from his enormous head. They were curled almost into a circle, a metre across. She stared into his blazing old-gold eyes; the rectangular pupils were satanic, and at the same time hypnotic. Hardly breathing, she kept perfectly still. He took another step, his cloven hoofs clacking on the rock. He sniffed the air between them, then made a deliberate nod, as if giving her permission to leave.

  Slowly, Zoë reached for her bag, got to her feet and backed away. Once the oleander was between them, she turned and ran along the path like Persephone from Hades. On reaching Frank, she fell, gasping, into his arms.

  ‘Hey, calm down,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Did you see a snake, Mum?’ asked Megan.

  ‘How big was it?’ Josh’s eyes widened as he stared back down the track.

  Zoë shook her head. ‘No, oh my God, no! It was a, I don’t know . . . a thing. I don’t know what. I’ve never been so terrified.’ She dropped onto a boulder and drank water from a small bottle in her pack.

  ‘Take your time,’ Frank said gently. He dished out energy bars and told Megan and Josh to stay close.

  A guide, checking the route in preparation for the season’s tourists, stopped to ask if Zoë was all right. When she told him what had happened, he stared in the direction of the cave.

  ‘That was a kri-kri,’ he said. ‘You’re very lucky to have seen one. They’re almost extinct. Did you get a picture?’

  Zoë wanted to hit him. Trembling, she covered her face with her hands, remembering those hypnotic eyes. A shiver ran through her.

  Megan produced a pack of face wipes from her tote. ‘Here, Mum, use one of these to freshen up. It’ll make you feel better.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Good thinking, Nurse Megan.’

  For a moment they were all taken back to Megan’s early years, her little nurse’s outfit, and how she loved to stick plasters onto everyone’s imagined wounds.

  ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ Josh dramatised lifting a halting hand. ‘I remember Nurse Megan sticking one of her plasters over my mouth! Probably my earliest memory.’ His eyes slid around to glance at his mother, checking his comic performance was having the desired effect. ‘You realise my chances of growing a moustache were seriously damaged when that Band-Aid was ripped off? I could sue you for deformation, Nurse Megan. I know a very good lawyer.’ He nodded sideways, towards his mother.

  Zoë glanced into Frank’s face, sharing the memory, instantly calmed. Everyone laughed as they set off again, eventually reaching the village of Samaria, where they stopped for refreshments. After the village, the path levelled and became easier. The high cliff walls closed in, and they were forced to cross the river several times using slippery stepping stones. The kids went on ahead and Zoë and Frank caught them up at the highlight of the trek. The narrowest part of the gorge, where the high walls came so close together they could almost touch both sides.

  The view was breathtaking. Cliffs rose straight up to a dizzying height. A wooden walkway kept their boots dry above the gushing river. Despite the astonishing surroundings, every time Zoë closed her eyes, she saw those terrifying black and gold eyes and couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder again.

  She had nothing to worry about. She was on holiday with her faultless family – her wonderful husband, her clever, caring daughter, her funny, kind son. She had a great job waiting for her back home, a house she loved and a perfect life.

  So why did she keep thinking of that creature with its devilish eyes? Why did her mind keep telling her that you could never really tell what was lurking in the dark beyond?

  *

  In the kitchen of their Victorian semi-detached house, Zoë stared at her reflection in the polished steel as water thundered into the kettle. Had they really been the perfect happy family, just twelve months ago?

  Josh lumbered into the room – crumpled T-shirt, heavy lids, clutching a bottle of window cleaner.

  ‘Morning, Mum.’ He yawned, raked through his curly dark hair and headed for the Nescafé.

  ‘Josh, you haven’t been using window cleaner on your spots again? That stuff’ll play havoc with your skin.’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Seriously! What if it gets into your system, leads to God knows what – cancer of the testicles?’

  ‘Mum!’ He threw a don’t embarrass me squint before turning away to mutter, ‘No point in having nuts if I’ve got a face like a pizza.’ He poked his forehead. ‘It actually works. I had a zit coming last night and now it’s almost gone.’

  ‘Come here. Give your mother a hug.’ She pulled him to her and, ignoring his adolescent awkwardness, squeezed hard before letting him go.

  Next door’s dog yapped in their front garden. Was someone walking up the path? The stab of hope from those early weeks returned fresh and sharp. It could be Megan. It was her birthday. If she was going to come home, then surely today, of all days . . . But she hadn’t taken her key. Zoë rushed down the hall, swung the front door open, imagining her daughter in her arms at last.

  The postman stared. Zoë guessed her expression was wild. God knows what he thought, her dressing gown open, her cotton nightshirt blown against her body. He took the last two steps forward and offered the post, his arm out, keeping maximum distance.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, with practised cheerfulness.

  Zoë half smiled, knotted the belt of her robe and took the mail.

  ‘One to sign for,’ he said.

  The tickets.

  She slipped the manila envelope into her pocket before Josh saw it and signed the receipt.

  Of course it wasn’t Megan. It was never Megan.

  With a sigh, she closed the heavy oak door and flicked through the mail. Phone bill, what appeared to be a birthday card addressed to Megan, and an official letter from her mother’s solicitor in Crete. She stared at the envelope from Greece, addressed using her full name: Zoë Eleftheria Johnson. Probably taxes, death duties or the solicitor’s bill, she thought. She didn’t want to deal with it, not today. She sat on the bottom stair and opened the birthday card.

  It came from Frank’s sister, tactless Judy. The card featured a woman in a frilly apron and a Brylcreemed man in a suit kissing her ear. Don’t whisper sweet nothings, just give me chocolates, said the woman with a speech bubble.

  She’s seventeen, Judy, not seventy.

  Sadness ached in Zoë’s chest like a dark bruise. She hugged her knees and muttered, ‘Oh, Megan.’

  Josh plodded down the stairs, dressed this time.


  ‘Mum, what’s the matter? Come on, don’t get upset.’

  Zoë kept her forehead against her knees and held out the card.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I forgot. Hell, is it today?’

  ‘Yes. Your sister’s seventeen.’

  ‘Right, seventeen . . . Old enough to take care of herself, Mum. Believe me, she’ll be all right. Don’t fret so much.’ Their eyes met, and he glanced away. ‘Honestly, she’ll come home when she’s ready.’ He twitched, lifting one shoulder, the way he always did in an uncomfortable moment. ‘When I’m seventeen, I’m going to get a motorbike.’

  A motorbike?

  Zoë stared into her son’s face and saw life through his eyes. He knew everything and confidently put her right, but there was always that hint of rebellion. Josh had given up fretting about Megan because he’d convinced himself she was fine. She touched his soft, stubbly cheek and considered her own stupidity, sidestepping what she had to concentrate on what was missing.

  ‘The trouble is, you still think of us as kids. Look at me, I’m an adult already.’

  Zoë turned away to hide her smile.

  ‘Okay, so you’re upset,’ he said. ‘Let’s do something about it instead of moping. Take the day off today and start a fresh search.’

  When did he grow up?

  ‘Love to, but you’ve got school and I’ve got Youth Court.’

  ‘It’s Friday – mostly sports and music – and you don’t do court today, you shop. Friday, Mum.’

  ‘I know.’ Zoë followed him back into the kitchen. ‘But Pritchard has appendicitis. I’m taking his cases today. What about tomorrow, Josh?’

  His eyes clouded. ‘My weekend with Dad. We’re go-karting.’

  Zoë sighed. Josh lived for his weekends with Frank. His father was apparently more fun than his mother.

  ‘Next weekend?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, let’s make a day of it. Check the Sally Army, do a fresh blog, Facebook, Twitter, AMBER Alert.’ He unplugged his phone charger and headed for the front door. ‘Make a list on WhatsApp – divide and conquer,’ he called from halfway down the hall.

  The front door closed.

  The phone rang, she picked up. ‘Zoë Johnson.’

  ‘Hi, Zoë – we still on for lunch?’

  ‘Hi, Trisha. Lunch – I wish! I’m standing in for Pritchard. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure, cool. You all right? You sound sniffly.’

  ‘Megan’s birthday’s today – could’ve done with company.’

  After a beat, ‘Okay. This evening? A few drinks and a natter.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Megan might call. She just might . . .’

  ‘Zoë, come on, daft girl. You’ve got call forwarding, Josh can stay home. I’ll pick you up at seven. No arguments. Be ready.’

  Trisha hung up, blocking any chance of an excuse.

  Zoë allowed herself a smile. It was something, to have friends who cared. Then the sinking feeling came back. She returned to her bedroom and prepared for work, feeling strangely out of kilter in her grey court suit on a Friday.

  *

  Zoë sat in a side office, studying Pritchard’s case files. The room smelled of bleach, polish and old paper. One strip light flickered and even the grubby corners of the sky-blue vinyl floor were polished to a high gloss, reminding her of Crete again. In her darkest hours, memories of those holidays dragged her back from recent bouts of depression.

  She trawled through the files. First up: car theft, vandalism and possession of marijuana. After the break: more of the same. One of the defendants was a seventeen-year-old girl.

  Zoë’s mind spooled towards Megan. The terrible thought she usually managed to block penetrated her sadness. What if she’s dead? What if somebody had hurt her? What if her last words were ‘Mum! Help me!’ and Zoë didn’t, couldn’t, wasn’t there? The first thing the police had asked her and Frank after Megan’s disappearance was if they were surprised she had run away. Why hadn’t she known Megan was unhappy? Why hadn’t she spent more time with her daughter instead of working to help others in need?

  Zoë sighed, and tried to concentrate on the prosecution files.

  Donald Wilkins from the Youth Justice Board stuck his head into the room. Despite Zoë’s melancholy, she smiled. Don, with his short red-brown hair and neat beard on his oval face, always reminded her of a coconut.

  ‘Quick, let’s run away together,’ he said in a stage whisper, his Welsh accent giving the words a lyrical edge. ‘Let me carry you off to my exotic isle and feed you ambrosia.’

  ‘It’s a close call, Don, but court duty just pips rice pudding on the Isle of Dogs.’

  He grinned and came into the room, his voice becoming serious.

  ‘Thanks for standing in today. Poor Pritchard’s been in agony for days. We’ve got the usual cases – apart from case four, who’s refusing to speak. Pritchard set up a meeting between the defendant and the victim last week.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Ah, you know, same old, same old. The kid’s at loggerheads with the world. The old girl has a broken arm, still in plaster. The accused grabbed her handbag on pension day, outside the post office.’ He sat on the desk and folded his arms. ‘The pensioner tried to clobber the girl with her stick and lost her balance.’

  Zoë glanced at the file. ‘Bon Bluebird. Not her real name, I presume?’

  ‘She says so.’ Don shrugged. ‘Been sleeping rough for six months. Needle tracks up her arm, but she says she’s not using now.’

  *

  The magistrates filed into court and dealt with the first three cases before breaktime. Bon Bluebird was next, and Zoë’s mind was all over the place. The young woman was the same age as Megan, had been on the streets for six months. Was it ridiculous to hope?

  ‘Madam!’

  ‘Sorry, miles away.’

  The clerk had called for their return and Zoë’s coffee cup was still full, but almost cold, in her hand. She left the drink, and tried to control her breathing as they filed into court.

  *

  In the bar that evening, Zoë was still thinking about Bon Bluebird, wondering how she would cope with three months in the remand centre, when Trisha broke her thoughts.

  ‘It’s no good going over it, Zoë. So this Bon Bluebird wasn’t Megan . . . but you didn’t really think it would be, did you?’ Her voice was gentle, her eyes sympathetic. ‘I mean, come on, what’re the odds?’

  ‘I know. Stupid me, clutching at straws like that.’

  The barman slid their drinks forward: for Trisha, a small glass of tequila set on a little plate with a salt cellar and a lemon wedge; for Zoë, half a Guinness, robust and comforting.

  ‘She might be on the other side of the world . . .’ Trisha said, before her eyes widened. ‘Sorry, thoughtless thing to say.’

  Zoë pressed her fingertips on the bar top. ‘It’s just a gut feeling she’s somewhere close, Trisha.’ Angry at nothing and eager for the alcohol, she lifted her drink. ‘Anyway, happy seventeenth, Megan. Come home soon, darling.’

  They chinked glasses.

  After making an impression on the malty, liquorice-y stout, Zoë locked onto Trisha’s eyes, hunting for the truth when she asked, ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Trisha frowned and glanced away. A tightly coiled sprig of hair escaped her fat ponytail, and she tucked it behind her ear, her perfect skin smooth and rich as polished chocolate. Five years younger than Zoë, Trisha had an unbelievable IQ and the kindest heart – yet when it came to love, she always fell for the bastards. ‘He’s buggered off back to his wife. End of story.’

  She dashed salt onto the back of her thumb, licked it, knocked back the tequila and sucked the lemon wedge.

  Zoë blew her cheeks out. ‘Miserable pair, aren’t we?’

  ‘How’s it with you?’ Trisha asked, her smile still in place but sadness hanging onto the corners.

  Zoë hesitated. They’d gone through this a hundred times
. ‘Was it my fault, Trisha? Can I do anything else to find Megan?’

  ‘Oh, sweetie . . . Come on, let’s have another drink.’

  She nodded at the barman, her scarlet fingernail drawing a line above the two glasses.

  ‘I hate myself for wallowing in this self-pity. I mean, it’s my job to keep the family together and I failed. I feel as if Megan’s taken my life away with her.’

  ‘And you resent it, and then you feel guilty?’

  Zoë nodded, then downed the last of her Guinness.

  ‘What we need is a holiday!’ Trisha grinned. ‘Come on, let’s make a plan. You used to drive me crazy going on about Crete. Let’s go and find the terrifying old goat you told me about. Give him what for.’

  Zoë closed her eyes and the memory of that last Cretan holiday came rushing back, Frank’s comforting arms around her shoulders after she’d seen the kri-kri.

  Two weeks had passed since she’d received the divorce petition from Frank. Somehow, she never believed it would happen – but who could blame him? Not her, not after everything she had put him through these last seven months.

  Frank was wedded to his career, and sometimes it was a relief not to have him around, even after their twenty years together. He was an MP with ambition, and his social life was exhausting. Frank needed a Stepford Wife: a sexy, undemanding robot, great cook and entertainer, athletic in bed and full make-up 24/7. Zoë had done her best, but never quite fitted the bill.

  There were times when she loved him with an intensity that defied description. Even now, any small thing could light that spark. She recalled moments when they were so happy, always in each other’s arms. Frank was clever, driven, funny, fun – and they made a great team. Ironically, it was this very support for each other, as they ascended their respective career ladders, that had led to the collapse of their marriage. With Zoë at his side, Frank became a respected MP, a fighter for the return of family values. The last thing he needed was a marriage breakdown after the next election. Better to get it over with now and enter the race in a stable relationship.

  As far as Zoë’s ambition was concerned, she had risen through the ranks in the law firm that she had joined after university, much to her mother’s delight. The offer of a senior partnership, the very week before Megan’s disappearance, had been the highlight of her career.