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

by Sara Alexi

  Maybe talking today will help loosen some of the armour she has put up. Let people in a little closer?

  But just a couple of hours at lunch is not even enough time to give all the thanks she needs to give Stathoula, let alone talk. Still, if she only stays for a couple of hours, an hour even, or just five minutes, enough time to see her face, feel her embrace, it will be a moment of completeness, an acceptance, an absolute joy.

  Besides, now that she is settled, maybe they can find ways to see more of each other. Kalamata’s not so far to see Glykeria. Even Germany these days is only a few hours on a plane. She could get a passport.

  The toilet is flushed by using a hand pump, and Irini pumps vigorously, drawing sea water into the bowl and back out again into the sea. It gushes and rushes through unseen pipes. As she is pumping away, the first aid box shifts from its place on the shelf by her head and she struggles to push it back. The lid has come off and something inside jams it open. The water in the toilet gurgles and for a moment, Irini doesn’t hear the new noise. But as she stops pumping, she can hear a definite throbbing and the duckboard beneath her feet seems to be juddering. It is as if someone has switched on the engine. Things from the first aid box rattle out and a tube bounces off the toilet seat and onto the floor. Maybe Captain Yorgos has forgotten she is on board. Could he be back already, with day trippers? It’s a little early. If he casts off now, he may be reluctant to put her back ashore.

  As she backs out of the toilet, the first aid box falls onto its side by the sink and she bangs her hip against the door handle. Wincing and bending with a hand covering the pain, she rushes to the steps that lead up to the deck.

  ‘Captain Yorgos. Hey Yorgos, have you forgotten I am on board? Don’t cast off.’

  Chapter 3

  With the light behind the figure streaming in from above deck, Irini has no idea who or what she is looking at. Initially she thinks it is Captain Yorgos, his arm outstretched, handing her something, and her hand twitches in response to accept the offered item. But there is something in the way the person moves and the steadiness of the hand that holds the object outstretched towards her that makes her hesitate and take a step back.

  The figure fills the space at the top of the steps. Irini takes another step back as the glare lessens, and the figure descends one step. The object is still held out, the shape becoming real. The round black hole at the end of a shaft lined up with her forehead. His grip unswaying around the handle. His cheek level with its sights, suggesting images from films. Irini gasps, sweat breaking into beads on her forehead.

  ‘Who are you?’ the gruff voice asks in a clear English.

  ‘Kanenas,’ Irini’s voice croaks in Greek, generating a flick of incomprehension on the man’s face. She repeats herself in English ‘No one, a cleaner.’ She vaguely lifts the cloth in her hand as proof. The saloon blurs but she dare not move even to wipe her eyes. Coloured spots dart in her vision and she feels slightly sick.

  He looks about himself, quickly, animal-like. In the aft of the boat are two cabins and a toilet, accessed by doors on either side of the steps that lead down from the cockpit. He pauses on the next step, reaches to open the door to the cabin on his left, releasing a stench of stale smoke and heat, male sweat and dirty clothes. A quick glance, his eyes only leaving her for a fraction of a second. Transferring his weapon, he opens the door to the other cabin. The bed lays smooth, made up with clean white sheets. Irini notices a corner that has not been tucked in, and at the same moment registers a fly that has landed on the frying pan soaking in the sink in her peripheral vision. Still on the stairs, he opens the door to the toilet next to the cabin and closes it again. Between these brief glances, his unblinking eyes stay fixed on her. The muscles in her legs seem to be weakening. Her mouth is dry. Her tongue has stuck to her palate.

  Transferring his weapon back to the hand that it sits more comfortably in, he takes the final steps down and plants his feet firmly on the wooden floor. The saloon suddenly feels very small. Raising his free hand, he points with one finger. Irini’s limbs respond of their own accord; a tremble runs through her. The finger is alongside the barrel, lined up with her head. All his focus is on her. He is so still. He seems to neither breathe nor blink. His eyes are all black. Like a shark’s.

  ‘Open it.’ He enunciates crisply. His finger still points. With sudden awareness, Irini realises he means the door behind her. She opens it, grasping at the handle twice in her haste. Another bed, freshly made up, ready for clients. Maybe with a wrinkle or two, perhaps where the child slept yesterday.

  Angelos! If anything happens to her, what will become of Angelos? With this thought, her mouth creates too much saliva. She swallows once and then again. The cabin blurs all the more and this time, she cannot resist swiping a hand across her eyes, clearing her vision.

  ‘Close it.’ The voice is not unkind. Irini closes both the cabin door and her mouth. ‘Both,’ he adds. His finger now points to the door of the bathroom that she was about to clean before he appeared and the cabin opposite with twin bunks that is always open, used as it is as a general dumping place, and a store for bed linen, mop and bucket. She pushes every door shut.

  The man seems to relax, inasmuch as he takes a breath and blinks. His eyes flick around the saloon, from the cleared table to the full sink, taking in the chart table where navigational charts are stored and the panel above that controls the lights, the VHF radio, and the other electronics on the boat.

  ‘Stay below,’ he says and then turns his back on her and skips up on deck. The engine’s throbbing grows and Irini can feel the movement of the boat. The engine revs, causing her to grab the edge of the saloon table to keep her balance. There is no doubt that they are underway, but Irini cannot make sense of what is happening.

  After what feels like forever hanging onto the saloon table, the revving is decreased and her legs can hold her no more. Is he alone? Are there others? Three rocking steps take her to the rear of the saloon. From here, looking up to the patch of light at the top, she can see him behind the wheel.

  ‘I said stay below.’ His words are shouted and she listens for the footfall of others overhead. Through the thin windows in the superstructure, she can see no feet. He is alone.

  She will not do anything stupid. Images of Petta and Angelos bring her hand to her heart. If this man’s intention is to shoot her, he would probably not do it below deck as a bullet through the hull would be a problem, wouldn’t it? If she goes up on deck and he shoots her there, then he can throw her overboard and that’s that. It is best to stay below deck.

  The radio crackles - Captain Yorgos leaves it permanently on, mostly for company, she suspects. Right now, it is more than company: it could be her lifeline. It is only just audible over the throb of the engine, even where she is standing next to it. Irini’s breath comes in short gasps. She glances nervously up at the hatch and her chest heaves. From where she is standing, all she can see is blue sky and the end of the boom swinging. She waits. Will he come down? The engine has found a steady rhythm, the boat rocks this way and that, never the same twice. Another glance through the hatch. He is standing and holding onto the helm, eyes far out to sea. She walks backwards to the radio and cautiously surveys the switches and knobs, one eye on the hatch. She turns the one marked volume way down low and then takes her time to think.

  Captain Yorgos will sometimes run the engine to recharge the batteries and even when he has shouted to her down below, she has heard nothing. Likewise, she has shouted up to him on deck and he has not been able to hear her, and that was with the engine just idling.

  She turns the volume up click by click till she can hear some crackling.

  Irini’s chest heaves like it will explode, but the hatch remains a square of blue. Lifting the microphone slyly to her mouth, she presses the button to talk.

  ‘Port police, port police, this is Artemis. Come in please?’

  Even though the man will not be able to hear, she dare not raise her voice ab
ove a whisper. She releases the button and waits. Silence.

  ‘Port police, port police, this is Artemis. Are you there?’ Releasing the button, she wills a voice out of the speakers.

  ‘Artemis, is that you, Yorgo?’

  ‘Er no,’ Irini begins and then remembers she has not pressed the ‘speak’ button. ‘No, this is Rini, I clean the boat for him.’ The quiver in her voice must tell them everything.

  ‘What can I do for you, Rini? Need some more bleach? Where’s the captain?’ There is a general chortle of voices over the airwaves.

  ‘There is a man on board with a gun. Over.’ She doesn’t breathe, her heart stops beating. She tries not to blink. The situation becomes real in the telling.

  ‘Artemis, did I hear you right? A man with a gun?’

  ‘Yes.’ Irini keeps looking at the speaker. ‘He has taken the boat by force.’

  She waits. The fly eats yesterday’s bolognese sauce from the edge of the frying pan.

  ‘Artemis, this is the port police. Over.’

  It sounds so loud. She hastens to turn it down.

  ‘Yes hello,’ she whispers hoarsely.

  ‘Rini is that you? Over.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen his hands? Over?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed his hands. What about his hands? Wait.’ She puts the microphone on the chart table and moves toward the hatch, staying out of the line of sight. At the steps, she ducks down and then raises her head in stages to see over the top. He’s looking behind, back to Saros, his hands on the helm. Smothering a gasp, she ducks down and creeps back to the radio.

  ‘The end of his little finger is missing, ragged skin.’

  There is silence. The wait seems to be forever. Raising the microphone to her mouth, she is about to press the button to talk when she hears,

  ‘Artemis, he is a known mercenary. He is wanted for travelling with illegal documents. Dangerous. We will come. Try and keep in contact but do nothing to upset him. Do you hear? No heroics.’

  The saloon is swimming. Irini wipes across her eyes with the back of her forearm.

  ‘Leave the radio on. We will come.’ The radio crackles and goes quiet. Irini slowly hangs up the microphone.

  ‘Come up where I can see you.’ He shouts the command from the top of the hatch. Did he see her, did he hear her? Will he just shoot her when she goes on deck?

  Chapter 4

  The steps up to the deck have rounded handrails made of teak. The treads are of thick plywood, the ends of which have been steamed to curl up at an angle. Irini has wiped over the non-slip rubber treads on their tops many times but, staring at them now, she realises why they are shaped so. If the boat heels over in the waves, in either direction, the sections at the end would be horizontal enough for someone to mount them easily. She notes the detail of the design as she puts her foot on the bottom step.

  She has not wiped them over today. The day she had planned will not be and her bottom lip quivers. Petta will be awake and clearing up the mess she made in the shop by now. She wishes she had taken the time to make him coffee, tell him that she loves him, and cleared the mess herself. If she had, it would be Captain Yorgos at sea with this … this … this pirate! A little whimper escapes her.

  The sun seems blindingly bright after being below for so long.

  The pirate is standing, legs wide at the helm, a small Karrimor rucksack on the floor beside him, eyes focused on the horizon. Both his hands are on the wheel; the skin hanging where his little finger should be is even more gruesome close up. There is no sign of his weapon, and this gives her some relief.

  As she stands on deck, Irini quickly checks the land on either side and realises they have made little progress. They are heading out to sea but only now are they passing the village on the coastline. Angelos will be sitting on Marina’s knee in the courtyard, being fed his breakfast by now. The sun is overhead, everything dappled in the shade of the lemon tree, his little chortles pushing half-chewed food down his chin between mouthfuls. The cats will be rubbing around Marina’s ankles, anticipating spillage. Looking back, she can still see Saros port, but there is no sign of the port police.

  The man shows no interest in her. Her breathing becomes more steady. She is not going to die, at least not right now.

  Hopefully this man, this pirate, just wants to go down the coast a little. If not, where is he heading? In time, they will come to the end of the deeply inset bay and the land will fall away on either side. If they turn left, they will go to Orino Island or past it to the Cyclades, Turkey, Israel? If they continue on their course, they will head for Crete or beyond to Libya; turn right and they will eventually hit Sicily or bypass it and head out into the Mediterranean, toward the straits of Gibraltar and through to the Atlantic. All these places are ridiculous distances. How far are they going? How long does he plan to be at sea?

  Her stomach turns and a slight reflux burns acid in her throat. She must stay calm. She moves slowly and quietly to avoid his attention and sits on one of the cockpit seats. With her head down, she picks at a black mark on her jeans. It is probably oil. If she can pretend to be casual and friendly, maybe he will relax with her. There’s oil on her hands, too. It will be from the engine, which nestles under a cover behind the steps to the saloon. Captain Yorgos is always tinkering with it, leaving oil stains all over the boat for her to mop up.

  Try to be friendly, that is the best idea, calm and casual.

  ‘Where are we going?’ It seems harmless enough to ask, and just asking the question makes her feel like she is doing something. Sitting passively is not her nature.

  He does not answer immediately, but frowns slightly as if deciding whether to reply. The question has obviously unsettled him and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Irini wonders if she should have not said anything, forced herself to be silent.

  When she and Petta moved in with Marina, Petta took over tending the olive groves and fruit trees. When Angelos was born, Marina spent more time in the house and less in the shop, to take care of the cooking and looking after Angelos. Because of her youthful energy, Marina said, Irini would be better than her at running the shop. So Irini sat, day after day, serving the odd customer, with little to do, certainly during the afternoon’s mesimeri, when most people were asleep, and so she began to keep accounts. It didn’t take long to work out that what was brought in by the shop, and what little was earned by the orchards with the price of oranges so low, was not enough to keep a whole family going. It wasn’t that the shop was doing badly - it was ticking over well and would have provided for Marina and would even have slowly paid off the loan she took out to rebuild it after the storm.

  But on being reunited with Petta, Marina’s heart had been, perhaps, more generous than her circumstances allowed, which Irini could understand now she had a son of her own. However, with more mouths to feed and Angelos growing out of his clothes every month, there was just not enough coming in.

  Accounts were not something Petta would have ever thought of doing. The chances are that none of them would have noticed the shortfall until it was too late. But Irini had learnt the hard way to survive and trusted herself and only herself, so even when she found out about the shortfall, she did not tell Petta or Marina immediately but instead considered the problem for some time.

  ‘Marina?’ Irini had slipped out of the shop, through the courtyard, and into the house. Marina was in the kitchen making bread with Angelos. He was standing on a chair and had an apron on that hung all the way to the floor. Marina stood behind him, guiding his hands in the dough.

  ‘Hi Irini,’ Marina grinned, the skin around her eyes creasing into a thousand soft wrinkles. ‘Angelos is a master baker today.’

  Irini leaned over and kissed one of his floury cheeks. His eyes were shining with the fun he was having.

  ‘Clever boy,’ Irini addressed him, and his floury hands left the dough and came up around her neck for a hug. ‘You’ll put flour all over me!’ She fei
gned horror, which made him laugh and wiggle his fingers at her.

  ‘Well, it needs to be left to rise now so it’s time to wash our hands, Angelos,’ Marina encouraged. Washing hands proved to be an equal adventure, and bubbles took over from the flour, the flagstone floor slippery with flour and water. Irini briefly popped back to the shop when she heard the doorbell jangle and, after selling a packet of cigarettes, she asked Marina to take over for an hour. Angelos knew the shop as the source of sweeties and he was running across the courtyard before his hands had been dried, and before Marina had a chance to reply.

  ‘Just an errand I have to run,’ Irini explained.

  Finding a job in Saros was not the easiest task. The cafés and tavernas needed no one, and nor did any of the tourist shops. Wandering the streets, the sun was relentless and despite the relative lack of greenery, the cicadas were noisy. Every request for work that was met with a rejection pushed at her patience, but most irritatingly of all, the tourists in front of her all walked very slowly. She was almost at snapping point when she stopped at the kiosk on the front to buy a bottle of water.

  ‘Hot again,’ the woman serving said, looking up at the cloudless blue sky as if this were unusual for Greece in September. They do say that after August it’s winter, apo Augousto xeimonas, but the rain in September is always warm and this year, the summer seemed to be continuing forever.

  ‘Yes,’ Irini agreed, unscrewing the top of the cold bottle and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I don’t suppose you know of any jobs going, do you?’

  ‘Funny you should say that. Captain Yorgos,’ she pointed across to a rather grubby-looking yacht moored by the harbour wall with a sign on a pole saying Come Sailing, Day Trips, ‘was looking for someone for regular work, but only part-time, I think. But watch him, as he will try anything to keep his money in his pocket.’