by Sara Alexi
It’s difficult to tell if he is crying or not, but his body judders slightly now and again. Irini’s face is wet with tears, for the hurt to this boy, for the hurt to her, for all they have endured at the hands of those who were meant to love and protect them.
Irini watches the movement of the sea, the expanse of blues and greens. Thoughts of Petta flit through her mind but what she is doing now, for herself, is more important. Breaking away these unspoken walls is not just for her but for them, their marriage, her son, their closeness. Something in the kiss was a sign, a confirmation that she is safe now and still loveable. It holds no guilt for her; it came from the purest of motives.
The streaks of bright, reflected sun appearing and breaking up on the crest of wavelets are being replaced by slices of dark water, undulating, shifting, changing. Far away, nearer the coast, a seagull soars high in the sky, and higher again, beyond where birds can fly is the trail of a plane long gone.
His voice is muffled as he speaks into her neck.
‘After that, I knew how to be sure of his love, and the result is I am not a good man.’ He pulls away to look in her eyes.
It would be easy to say she knows he is a mercenary but that would reveal her radio contact with the port police, so she says nothing.
‘I tried very hard and I became an excellent bully. I did to the younger boys at boarding school twice what had been done to me. I did things that would scar them for life. I left one boy with a stutter, and the more people I hurt, the more the school wrote to or rang my father about my behaviour, and the prouder he seemed to be until the day I was eighteen and the door was opened and I was asked to leave, first by the school and then by my father.’
‘Where did you go?’ Irini asks, her voice small. Maybe he came to Athens. Maybe he was one of the people she knew on the street. Stranger things have happened.
‘That was the question. Where could I go? If I had ever put my needs before his, he had called me selfish, so I had no idea what my needs were or even what I liked or wanted. To gain love, I had learned to be selfless in my portrayal of the son he wanted, the son that pleased him, but it was not who I was. I have no idea who I am. I was trapped in the person I had created to gain his love. It was the only thing I could do well. So I went where I knew I could be selfless, where every decision would be made for me and the person I had created would have a use. I replaced my father with the army.’
Irini nods. Their hands are still intertwined and they grow sweaty in the sun but neither of them let go; it is their safety line.
‘My life with him, my father, was like living in a room where all the walls kept changing shape and the only window onto the outside world had distorted glass. Even though this was my reality, nothing seemed real. When I was at school, the whole military structure kept the pressure on, but he continued to add his distortions through letters and phone calls. So when I joined the army and both letters and phone calls suddenly stopped, and the walls became straight and the window clear, it was a shock and a liberty. I had found my perfect world, you understand?’ He stops. His eyebrows have raised in the middle.
‘That is how the streets felt for me. It was harsh and unforgiving and cruel, but at least it was constant and the rules were unchanging. I was not at the mercy of one other person and there was no pretence of love,’ Irini agrees, frowning as she remembers.
‘And I was good at it. I was good at taking orders, I took pride in being good at doing things others shied away from. I excelled. So when we were sent to do war games and the boys around me were shocked by the carnage, I just carried on in my own bubble, untouched by anything. It was man against man, army against army. I was promoted.’
‘I can see how that could happen,’ Irini says.
‘It was real but it was not real. And I made a friend, the first and probably last, in my life. We did not speak much but somehow we knew each other. We were sent into a war zone together.’ He begins to tell of their first deployment, a time when it was not man against man, a time when it was them against whoever – or whatever – they came across, and on that very first occasion, it was a small group of civilian houses.
In Irini’s mind, it could be Greece that he is describing, with the barren soil, the dust, the heat, but he is careful not to say where it was. The pictures he draws are very real.
They were dropped outside a cluster of houses, crudely made, wooden-framed. The sound of shells was not so far away. Their job was to clear the area and return as quickly as possible to their platoon. They were advised that if there was anybody in the houses, they would probably give the appearance of being just farmers and their families, but they must clear the houses anyway. Who knows who is who in war? Children can carry bombs and women can hold guns, so clear them all. The shelling became more distant as they reached the edge of the cluster of houses. They were a group of four, so they split into twos, Sam with his friend, and they circled the outside of the houses. The dwellings were two storeys and appeared empty, windows broken, doors swinging open, chickens pecking outside the porches.
Sam heard the shouts of ‘Clear!’ as the other pair emerged from the first building. Gun in hand, he ran into the dwelling nearest to him, through the rooms downstairs, up the stairs, and down and out again. ‘Clear,’ he called. His friend had taken the next house so Sam skipped that one and moved to the one after it. The chickens continued to peck, a skinny dog stood still in the middle of the hamlet, and other than that, nothing stirred. Sam ran in through the broken door, a sweep of the downstairs rooms, furniture still there, even plates on the table as if a family had been about to eat, now sat all but empty, only serving dust. Up the stairs, a toy on the landing, plastic with wheels and a string to pull it by, a room with a blue-striped mattress on a bed and a pile of rags.
He was about to leave when he heard a whimper. Turning, something moved! He raised his gun. Held steady. Nothing to see. He waited for another movement. Camouflaged amongst the pile of rags and bedding, something stirred. He tensed, finger ready. It was a child, no more than three, maybe four, a girl in tattered clothes, big brown eyes. Such big, brown, soulful eyes. His training kicked in and the girl was cleared. She could have been rigged; you mustn’t take the risk. Back down the stairs, he shouted out ‘Clear!’ to his comrade, and he ran, his friend in front of him, the other two in front again, all running down the street out into open countryside.
The force that hit him lifted him from the ground and pushed him back. He could not tell how far; several of his body lengths. The dust obscured all vision. It was a white-out. Crouching, he put his hand over his mouth, muffling his coughing. Sound was a target, too. With his jacket pulled over his nose, he waited for the debris to settle. From nearby came coughing and groans. A crater cut away the ground where the two soldiers ahead of him had been. Nearby was his friend lying on his back, also blown back by the blast. He was so relieved to see him alive, but the place wasn’t safe and they must move quickly.
All senses alert, he crawled across to his friend.
‘Come on; we are exposed.’ He pulled at lapel of his friend’s jacket and looked into his eyes and he noticed for the first time that they were brown. Brown like the girl’s.
There had only been a second of eye contact with the little girl and it was only now that he recognised what he had seen. It was a look of relief, relief that someone had come to rescue her. As he looked into his friend’s eyes now, there was also relief, but a different relief, and it was then that Sam saw that one of his friend’s legs was gone and the foot missing from the other. The arm of his jacket lay some way away with his hand still in it. His friend smiled.
Clutching at him, Sam told him he was fine and his buddy smiled all the more. His last words were, ‘Job done,’ as if his own death was his aim.
It was as if someone had reached down inside of him and ripped out anything that was left of his heart. His friend lay motionless now. There was nothing he could do for him. It was then that it occurred to him that he
had not checked that the girl was dead. One of the first things they were taught was to always be sure. Running back to the house he had cleared, he felt the shoulder of his jacket grow wet and realised he had been injured but he ran on, into the house and up the stairs. In one movement, he scooped up the little girl and ran with her in his arms, ran and ran, back to the rendezvous with the platoon and as he arrived, he fell onto his knees in front of the field doctor and begged and begged him to do something to help her.
The doctor and sergeant and all the uniformed man froze in their occupations and they looked at him with unbelieving eyes and open mouths and only then did Sam see the girl clearly. Perfect arms and legs, smooth and tanned, one white patent leather shoe still on with a sock that needed pulling up. Her flower-patterned dress, stained but pretty, her arms hanging loosely, and her neck unblemished. The rug of matted hair that hung over his arm was long and impregnated with dust and what was left of her head.
He had done that.
Sam’s tears are silent.
They both stay quiet.
Until there is breath enough for words.
‘I am not a good man,’ he says, but Irini has no answer for him. He is talking about a child the age of her Angelos. She can feel all he is feeling, understand every twisted emotion he has grown up with, his hatred for his father, the distorted view he was left with. Every step of the way, she was in his shoes. But a child? Angelos. She sits back.
‘I was a machine, Rini. Every step of my life, I was refining that machine - a machine that did not think but did as it was ordered, both in deed and emotion. But despite my training by my father, school, and army, my heart still raged against it.’ Rini remains unmoved. ‘I was discharged on medical grounds.’ He is chewing at the side of his thumb and looking at the floor.
Medical grounds. Is that his excuse, his redemption? How insane does a person have to be to kill a child, and is it ever enough?
But then, how sane was she when she was homeless and how close did she come to killing people, other children? She clubbed someone on the back of the head who pushed her out of the way of some food she found. What if she had clubbed him too hard, what if he had fallen against something sharp? There were plenty of sharp things amongst the rubbish they were wading about in. And then there was the youth she stabbed. The youth who didn’t actually do anything. It is not something she wants to talk about with Sam. After his tale, it is nothing, but the images and memories come of their own accord.
The sleep she woke from was deeper than normal. The corner she found herself in was warm by night and discretely hidden behind some shops. She was drawn from the depths of this slumber to find a stranger standing over her, one leg on either side. Alert before her eyes were fully open, she squirmed backwards from under his stance and onto her feet, ready to fight or run.
That was when she saw the second youth behind the first. He was chuckling to himself in the half-light of dawn, his features in high contrast from the cigarette lighter he had cupped in his hands as he lit up.
Irini looked from one to the other. None of their movements were hurried, nor manic, so they were probably not drug addicts. Their shirts were not silk, they did not wear cheap but ornate watches, and they were not out of their teens, so perhaps they were not pimps, either.
The alley that led out from the loading area behind the shops had only one way in and out. Industrial bins lined the walls and stacks of cardboard boxes, folded flat, awaited collection. It was a quiet, reclusive place to sleep, but now she was trapped. The youth nearest her took a step towards her, grinning as if in a game. His friend behind chuckled, equally amused. Skirting around him, her back up against the shop’s back doors and walls, her feet stood on rotting vegetable leaves, packing tape, and broken glass. The skin was so thick on the soles of her feet that the glass did not penetrate except in the crease under the big toe on one foot and in the arch of the other. With her next step, glass dug in the crease under her little toes.
The pain tore through her, screaming for her to stop, pull out the slivers, take care of the wounds. But the youth was relentless, his steps steady towards her. With her back against the doors, she walked on her heels. The second man blocked her escape, a casual movement barring her exit, no intimidation attached. It was almost as if he just wanted the game to continue.
Then, with a sudden dash, she lunged past him. The first youth took a leap towards her, his friend stepped backwards, quickly, out of his way, and Irini fell into a doorway.
The first youth loomed over her, his face black against the dawn sky. A bird began to sing, and it seemed so out of place. With her hands behind her on the ground, she scuttled away from him out of the doorway, the back of her head sliding against the aluminium of an industrial bin. A cockroach crawled over her hand, broken glass dug in her palms, and then something metal, long, the right size to fit into her palm, came into her grasp. Her fingers curled around it. The youth leaned forwards over her, his thin, feathery attempt at a moustache curled over his top lip, making up in length what it lacked in density. His breath came quickly, his eyes shining. His friend stopped chuckling. This was the moment - was it a game or was it for real? His smile faded, his eyes grew dark, his decision apparent.
There was no thought involved; her legs worked without her say-so. She leaped to her feet and lunged at him, her metal weapon in her hand. She drove it forwards, into the softness of his stomach. He bent over her arm, his breath expelling. His friend dropped his cigarette, open-mouthed and stunned momentarily into rigidity until he rocked first forwards and then back, not sure whether to intervene or stay safe. Irini ran. Ran and ran. It was only when she stopped several streets away in the bushes of a small park that she looked down at her weapon, expecting to see blood, signs of the horror she had just committed.
It was a strange entanglement of relief, disbelief, and fear to see that there was no blood. She had stabbed him with a spoon, the head of which was now bent over.
Half an hour later, she saw the pair again, from a safe distance. This time, they were getting on a trolley-bus to the other side of Athens. Neither looked the worse for the encounter.
Thank goodness it had been a spoon! If it had been a knife under that bin, a knife in her hand instead, she too could have been a killer. As it was, he doubled over in pain and the result shocked her even though she did not puncture his skin. But she knows from experience that if you hit on someone’s biggest fear, and you hit it hard enough, people will do anything.
Was what she did so far away from what he had done? It would be easy to say that her actions were in the moment, defensive moves to keep herself alive. But surely entering an enemy building with his head primed to obey or die and drilled with propaganda about bomb-rigged children must have put him into a place where everything he saw was a legitimate target and the threat of death.
Did he even have a choice? Wasn’t the luxury of making decisions taken away from him the moment he was born to such a father?
She does not have that excuse. She was once loved and the children she fought with were not actually a direct risk to her life.
The clouds over the land behind him have grown and darkened in colour. A storm might take some of the heavy heat from the air but, please, not whilst they are at sea. Irini makes a little prayer to a God she long ago lost her belief in. Observing the shifts in the clouds and focusing on something other than death and blame is such a relief, she continues to stare beyond Sam’s shoulders until finally he turns to look at what she is seeing.
‘There is a storm coming,’ he states.
Chapter 11
‘Why don’t you just go alongside and arrest him?’ Petta’s voice is not calm and he mops his brow with a handkerchief embroidered with two black butterflies.
Captain Yorgos wants to leave, but Marina keeps asking him questions. Is his boat seaworthy? How far will they have got in the time they have been gone? With each answer, he grows with importance until he is sitting upright and pulling his t-s
hirt to cover his stomach and picking the dirt from under his nails to make him look more respectable. Marina is fanning herself with a newspaper.
‘People in Athens have taken an interest, and the decisions are not in our hands. We have to be patient,’ Captain Demosthenes replies. He is calm, but he too is sweating in the heat. Picking up the remote, he presses the button to turn up the air conditioning but no matter how hard he presses, it is as high as it will go. He throws the remote back on his desk with disdain.
‘This is not about who makes the decisions. This is about my wife.’ Petta is a bigger man than Demosthenes. He could use his height to intimidate the port police captain, but he doesn’t. His t-shirt is slowly darkening with sweat between his pectoral muscles.
‘I understand, Petta, but we have to follow orders.’ Demosthenes’ voice sounds sincere.
‘What would you do if you were giving the orders?’ Petta ruffles the hair of his child, who clings to his leg.
‘I would probably put a vessel either side of the yacht and demand his surrender. With such a tactic, he would be unwise to refuse.’
‘And if he did?’ Petta is doing his best not to shout.
‘Well, there is the problem. If there was no one else on board, we would open fire, shoot stern to bow on the diagonal. So you see the problem.’ Demosthenes accepts an offer of coffee by a petty officer. Petta refuses.
When the coffee arrives, the port police commander takes his down the stairs and outside. Petta watches him through the window, drinking and looking out to sea and holding his elbows up so any breeze there is cools him.