Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Do you love him?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then perhaps, if it’s something from his past, you might be better off not knowing, Sofia. People change, especially when they’re in love. Or, why don’t you wait and ask Markos when he returns?’

  ‘Because if he really was involved, if . . . if Spyridon meant what I thought he meant, I can never forgive him. But I love him with all my heart!’

  Mr Zacharia looked solemnly across at me.

  ‘It’s four o’clock in the morning, Sofia. Go home and get some sleep. You’ll see things more clearly at sunrise.’

  *

  At midday, Spyridon came knocking on my apartment door. I opened it but blocked his way.

  ‘I meant what I said! I’m not working for you anymore. I’m going back to sing for Madam Magdalena unless you tell me what you meant, Spyridon.’

  ‘You’ve got a contract! You can’t just walk away.’

  ‘Watch me! You can sue me, but I’ve got nothing, so I’ll just end up in prison and you still won’t have a singer.’

  ‘Look, Sofia, let me in and I’ll explain.’ He glanced left and right. ‘I can’t talk here in the corridor. You never know who’s listening.’

  Perhaps Mr Zacharia was right; I should speak to Markos first. But I couldn’t go on wondering, and I had no idea when I’d next see him. I let Spyridon in.

  ‘Put your hand on your heart and swear you’ll go on working for me if I tell you, Sofia. I’ve invested everything I have on your career, hiring concert halls, booking flights, paying for advertisements, and so on. You’ve no idea of the costs involved.’

  ‘I swear. Now, explain.’

  He pulled a chair from the dining table and sat.

  ‘Look, years ago, things had happened here in Athens. Tragic events that made everyone crazy. Markos’s whole world was destroyed and his mind was full with the need for revenge. He was fourteen and went completely crazy. I had no control.’ Spyridon hid his face in his hands. ‘I had a breakdown, lost my senses to worry and grief and fell into a bottle. I yelled at him and, I’m ashamed to say, I beat him too.’ He touched his tiepin and stared at the floor. ‘So he ran away and joined the communists.’ Spyridon paused; when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. ‘He couldn’t talk to me. I didn’t care how he felt, I was too wrapped up in my own misery. Perhaps if I’d listened . . . but as a father, I failed him.’

  We were silent for a moment, then I had to ask.

  ‘What did you mean when you said he destroyed my family?’

  ‘Do you have any alcohol?’

  I shook my head, suddenly realising I’d never seen Spyridon drink so much as a glass of wine.

  ‘Oh God! Why did I have to say that to you of all people – about your family? I’m mindless with worry, he’s been gone longer than any time before. Bloody rebels! He risks his life, you know? The thing is, he doesn’t do it for himself – it’s always for other people!’

  He was stalling.

  ‘So, go on, what did you mean?’

  Spyridon glanced into my eyes, then stared at the window.

  ‘That night, when the theatre blew up . . . It was the communists who set the bomb. It was Markos who crawled down the sewers from an alley behind the theatre. He set the detonators in the dynamite under the stage. His leader, Sotiris, was killed by the explosion. “A martyr for the greater good”. Markos told me once. Eventually, he stepped into Sotiris’s shoes.’

  My body went cold. I stared at him, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think. My world was breaking up, crumbling apart around me. Mama, Papa, my brothers . . . all those people that lay on top of me. The bodies that shielded me from the blast and saved my life. Big Yiannis’s wife. The line of corpses in the street. All dead because of Markos? The memory of that night returned with all its terrible sounds and smells, noise and pain.

  Mama, Papa, Ignatius, Pavlos . . .

  I had a sudden memory: standing in the alley, my skirt hem caught in the stage door. Feeling foolish, I glanced around, hoping nobody saw my silly situation. Then, I’d hammered on the door for help, conscious that a group of boys not far away were watching me. I had forgotten that ragged group until now. Was Spyridon telling me one of those youths was Markos? They must have seen Mama come out and laugh, seen how alive she was, how perfect. I touched my cheek, felt her kiss, and remembered running to the theatre front.

  Markos knew she was in there. He knew all those people were in there. Yet he still set the detonators.

  ‘Leave,’ I said quietly.

  Spyridon paled. ‘You promised. Look, I’m sorry, it wasn’t personal, he was just . . .’

  ‘Not personal!’ My distress turned to rage. I slapped his face. ‘Go! Get out of here! Get out! Get out!’ I screamed.

  I didn’t realise how hard I was crying until after I’d closed the door.

  *

  Broken-hearted for all those I’d loved and lost, I hid myself away and refused to answer the door. My head was full of Markos. Everything he had ever said floated around me like dandelion seeds, spiralling away when I tried to grasp hold and make sense of things. I hardly ate or slept. On the third day, light-headed, my breath stale, I bathed, dressed and went to see Madam Magdalena.

  ‘Will you take me back to work for you, Madam?’ I asked.

  She primped her dyed raven hair and sniffed. ‘I don’t know that I can afford you now that you’re rich and famous.’

  I almost laughed aloud that she thought I was rich.

  ‘Make me an offer,’ I said boldly.

  ‘I can’t give you more than fifty drachmas a night.’

  ‘Make it fifty-five and I’ll start tonight.’

  *

  Later, I lay in bed, rubbing the cramps in my calves, reliving that night in the theatre. I imagined Markos crawling through detritus to set that ton of dynamite. He knew innocent people would die. And he had lied to me, too. I’d told him the very first day we met, under Lord Byron’s statue in the park, how my parents had died, and he’d said nothing. All these years we’d known each other, and still he’d said nothing. How could I forgive him for what he had done? My heart was breaking. I could no longer stand to lay eyes on the man I loved.

  Later that morning, Spyridon came to my apartment with a box of chocolates.

  ‘It’s a peace offering,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Sofia, but it’s been difficult hiding the truth. In the end, it’s better that you know now, rather than find out after you’re married. It happened ten years ago, in wartime. He was young and hot-headed. Things were different then.’

  I turned away from him. ‘Do you think chocolates will compensate for the death of my family? Or all the lies Markos has told me? Go away. I never want to see you or your son again. Nothing you say will make me change my mind. It’s over between us, Spyridon. I’ve got my old job back with Madam Magdalena, and you know what? I’m earning a lot more than you ever gave me!’

  CHAPTER 21

  MEGAN

  Manchester, present day.

  ‘I’M GOING TO FIND MY MOTHER,’ Megan explained to one of the volunteers at the Salvation Army. ‘I’ll probably go back home to London, so I won’t be back.’

  ‘We hope to hear that every day,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘Stay safe.’

  Megan found the Cherry Tree Hotel and stood on the street corner for a few minutes, watching the entrance, struggling with her emotions. She didn’t have to go back to London with Mum. She could still go to Crete. But at the same time, she knew she should make contact. The note her mum left on the window had shaken her – if her mum had really missed her that much, was really that desperate to find her, that surely meant something.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Johnson,’ she said nervously when she reached the front desk.

  The receptionist tapped her computer keyboard.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Johnson checked out this morning.’ She frowned for a moment. ‘Oh yes, I remember. It’s her son’s birthday tomorrow. She’s gone
back to London today.’

  Megan sighed. She glanced at the computer and then the receptionist.

  ‘I’m her daughter,’ she mumbled, and turned for the door. Her daughter, but not as important as her son.

  ‘Wait!’ the woman called after her. ‘She’s coming back. She’s booked in for Monday night. She’s looking for you – she told me so. She’s really desperate to find you.’

  Megan grinned and, without turning around, called, ‘Thanks!’

  So, her mum really was looking for her, really did care. A weight had been taken from her. Somehow things would work out.

  If it was Josh’s birthday tomorrow, she should phone him. Another thought hit her – her own birthday was a week before Josh’s. She had missed it. Sadly, she realised that would have been a big thing for her mum. She had always made such a fuss: a ridiculous cake that Megan loved, surprise presents, blowing out candles and making the birthday wish.

  A sudden thought lifted her melancholy. Her mother’s birthday was the first day of November. Megan would turn the tables and prepare a surprise celebration for her. A cake with candles and everything. The thought made her smile. Mum deserved it.

  Megan decided to celebrate her own birthday with a chocolate bar and a Coke. Why not? She was seventeen. She could sit on the canal bank and not worry about anything for half an hour. She thought back to the dingy room, the fire and Pissed George. She needed to clear her mind. As she passed the station, she saw a massive queue at the taxi rank. Another rail strike, she guessed. Never miss an opportunity. She delved into the deep pocket of her camo pants and pulled out the juggling balls.

  Two hours later, Megan had an amazing fifty pounds in change: the most she’d ever made in one go. It brought her up to her target amount for Crete. Now all she had to do was get her passport back and buy a ticket.

  She’d had this plan for so long, but now she felt hesitant. Should she contact her mum first, or go to Granny Anna? She closed her eyes and thought of the day they had sailed to Balos Bay: the iridescent turquoise water, white sand, islets that she and Josh had walked out to. She remembered the clean air, the warm sun on her face.

  She was happy there. It had been the summer holidays, free from the worries and pressures of school and her parents’ plans for her future. It was before that awful party, before seeing her dad with that woman. And she could be happy again in Crete with her grandmother. After all, it was only a few hours away. It would be easier to get her life on track if she had her own base and wasn’t reliant on others.

  If she could get a job, have a proper place to live, then her parents would realise she was a responsible person, not a child. They couldn’t tell her what to do with her life; they’d accept that she could make up her mind for herself. They’d be free to get on with their own busy lives. Also, with Granny Anna on her side, Megan could work out what to do about Dad, could talk to her parents about her mistakes and set the record straight. She could start afresh as an independent adult.

  Yes, she should stick to the original plan, make her parents proud, hug Granny Anna. She closed her eyes. She missed her grandmother so much.

  A hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her back to reality with a start.

  ‘Megan Johnson?’ the policeman said. ‘We’d like you to accompany us to the station.’

  ‘Hey, leave her alone, she ain’t done nothing but entertain us!’ someone shouted from the slow-moving taxi queue.

  *

  At the police station, Megan was afraid, although she could not figure out what she had done wrong. Then she had the horrible thought that someone had told the police about that party, the drugs people were taking. Did anyone know her father was there? She feared that would be the end of his career. Or perhaps her name had been given by one of the others. She was hoping and praying it was something else entirely. Something to do with Emily, perhaps.

  She asked if her mother was there and was told Mrs Johnson had returned to London, just as the receptionist in the Cherry Tree had said. Megan’s prints were taken, and she was told to empty her pockets. She placed her juggling balls in the grey metal tray, along with the Ziploc bag containing her savings. They counted it in front of her, wrote the amount down, and she signed the bottom along with two policemen who had acted as witnesses. A policewoman asked her a sheet of questions. Then a man came into the interview room.

  He glanced at the form. ‘Megan Johnson?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m DI Fenwick. Do you know your mother’s trying to find you?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Good. Do us all a favour and go home when you’ve helped us with our enquiries, will you? Your mother’s frantic.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘How did you get all this money?’

  ‘Busking. I juggle. Am I in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know – are you?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘We need to clear up a few points. Where did you get your juggling balls?’

  ‘The pound shop.’

  ‘And your friend, Emily – did she juggle too?’

  ‘How do you know about Emily?’

  DI Fenwick ignored her. ‘Just answer the question.’

  Megan struggled. ‘She had some balls, but she couldn’t do it. I was trying to teach her.’

  ‘Did Emily get her balls from the pound shop, too?’

  ‘No, she said she got them from a boyfriend.’

  ‘Tell me about her boyfriend.’

  ‘I don’t know him. I’ve only known Emily a week. I don’t know anything about her, really, just that we got on well until she nicked my bag.’

  She decided not to mention what had happened outside the chip shop: how she’d pulled Emily’s hair, been pushed over, twisted her ankle. What difference did it make to anything?

  ‘We’d like to run some tests on your things – will you sign a consent form?’

  ‘What will happen if I don’t?’

  ‘We’ll arrest you.’

  Megan swallowed. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘I told you. Juggling. I’ve been saving to go to Crete. My grandmother lives there.’

  ‘How did you get so much?’

  ‘I’ve been saving hard for months. Juggling in the mall, the station, the taxi rank, you know, around.’

  Another policewoman came in and put Megan’s rucksack on the table.

  ‘This yours?’ Fenwick asked.

  Megan’s eyes widened. Would they give it back? She nodded.

  ‘Emily nicked it.’

  ‘I’m going to place the contents on the table and I want you to tell me which of the things are yours.’

  Megan felt her heart racing when he placed her passport on the table, followed by the photo of her family. Besides her things, there were several packets of McDonald’s sugar and salt, a plastic fork and spoon, two juggling balls in a Ziploc bag, a dog-eared copy of Eighteen, and half a tube of wine gums.

  ‘Just the photo, birth certificate and passport,’ she said. ‘The rest is Emily’s. Is she here, Emily?’

  Fenwick and the policewoman exchanged a glance before he said, ‘Never mind about that for the moment. Just answer the questions.’

  The policewoman picked up Megan’s juggling balls with a plastic bag, turned it inside out and zipped it shut.

  ‘Can we take these to test for prints?’ Fenwick asked.

  ‘Sure, but you’ve already got my prints.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Now, can you tell me your movements over the last forty-eight hours?’

  Megan told him about her night at the building, about fearing she was being watched, someone hammering on the door, and about the fire. She showed him her mother’s note, and said she left to try and find the Salvation Army shelter so she could clean up before going to her mother’s hotel. When she got to the Cherry Tree, her mother had already left.

  Fenwick seemed satisfied. He was about to leave the
interview room when he turned and said, ‘I’m sorry to inform you, but your friend Emily was the victim of a fatal attack. PC Davis here’ – he nodded at the woman – ‘will answer any questions and make an appointment for you to talk to a counsellor, if you wish. However, in my opinion, you should go back to your family, young lady.’

  ‘What? Emily . . . dead?’ Megan whispered. ‘But why? How?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Fenwick said, leaving the room.

  Stunned by what had happened to Emily, Megan said nothing. PC Davis filled her in on the details of her friend’s death, and Megan realised the car backfiring that she’d heard was actually a shot. However, she kept the incident to herself; she had seen nothing that could possibly help the police. Still, the news made her feel so heavy inside she could not even cry. Crazy, thieving Emily – gone, just like that.

  Two hours later, Megan was given her possessions and told she could leave. She delved inside her rucksack and pulled out her precious passport. Finally! She could go to Crete. She could stay with Granny Anna and get a proper job; the sooner she was sorted, the sooner she could call her parents and put an end to the mess she’d caused.

  *

  Megan entered the travel agency and took the nearest vacant chair.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the assistant asked, appearing startled.

  ‘I need to get to Crete as soon and as cheaply as possible.’

  ‘Passport?’

  Megan handed it over with a sad smile, thinking how much Emily had wanted it. The woman flicked through it, introduced herself and started working on her keyboard. Thirty minutes later, thanks to a last-minute cancellation, Megan left the shop with a boarding pass for a flight to Crete in six hours’ time. The ticket included transfers to Chania, which was where she wanted to be, and accommodation at Rent Rooms Maria. She’d managed to get an amazing deal, which her savings just covered. She’d have a week at the Rent Rooms while she found her Granny Anna. Hopefully, she would earn a little more juggling at the airport. She headed for Centrepoint, a hot shower and some charity clothes.