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

by Sara Alexi

  It is Commander Demosthenes and Petta. Yorgos mounts the stairs, pressing his legs to move more quickly. Everyone in the room is gathered around the radio.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Yorgos asks the nearest white-shirted youth as he spies Marina sitting by the radio operator, sobbing. It is pitiful sight, and he wonders if his earlier judgement was a bit harsh. His little legs gain momentum as he crosses the room to put a consoling arm around her, leaving the boy before he has had a chance to answer.

  ‘What is going on?’ he repeats, addressing anyone who will listen. No one does.

  ‘That is the same thing,’ Petta is shouting at Commandeer Demosthenes, his gentle eyes afire, spittle on his bottom lip. It is scary sight to see such a big man so angry.

  ‘They are orders. What do you want me to do, risk my men? This pirate has a weapon of his own. You think he will not use it if he feels under threat?’

  ‘That is my point. You tell your men to be armed and ready and he will feel threatened. Who wouldn’t? Do you not understand? My wife is on board!’

  Stroking across Marina’s shoulders is very comforting; she is soft and the material of her dress is satin or silk, something smooth. Every second stroke, he lets his hand steer off course, touching the bare skin of her fleshy neck.

  ‘I know, Petta. I know.’ Demosthenes is doing his best to calm the man. ‘Look, if, and God forbid that this should happen, but if he uses her, then we want to be ready.’

  ‘Uses her?’ Tears are running out of the corners of Petta’s eyes but he pays them no heed. They course down the sides of his face and drip onto his shirt.

  ‘It’s possible,’ the commander says.

  ‘You mean, like as a shield or a hostage or something?’ The colour has drained from Petta’s face and Marina starts sobbing again. All attempts to either be quiet or ladylike seem to be forgotten. Yorgos takes a serviette from between the cup and saucer of an abandoned coffee. He offers it to Marina, who takes it without a thank you and blows her nose loudly.

  Then a thought occurs to him and his hand drops from Marina’s shoulder.

  ‘Are you saying the port police might shoot at my boat?’

  Petta’s glare is hard and cold. Marina stops sniffing.

  ‘It’s possible.’ The commander looks at the floor as he speaks.

  ‘That is my home, my livelihood.’ He can feel a pulse in his temple. Petta starts to speak again; Marina begins to say something. The radio crackles.

  ‘Everyone calm down,’ Commander Demosthenes says and picks up the microphone and listens.

  ‘This is Port Police 1579, come in. Over.’

  ‘1579, what is your position? Over.’ The commander speaks clearly.

  ‘We are closing in on him, both in position and armed. Over.’

  ‘The orders from Athens are to take the opportunity when it arises, 1579. No need to wait for dusk. Over.’

  ‘Understood. What about the girl? Over.’

  ‘The girl is the opportunity. As soon as we contact her, that is your cue. Over.’

  ‘Understood. Over and out.’

  The line crackles again and goes quiet. Petta’s mouth opens and closes like a drowning fish. Marina snivels into her hanky, and no one seems to have given one thought to his boat.

  ‘So no one moves until you get in touch with Rini?’ Petta asks, his voice quiet now.

  ‘That’s how it has to be,’ the commander says.

  Marina’s head lifts, her face blotchy from crying, but even so, there is something he just cannot help but like about the woman. Petta has stopped bristling and the tension in the room seems to have reduced. It gives a lull in the conversation.

  ‘So if you hit my boat with bullet, I presume you will take responsibility for that and pay for the repair?’ It is a reasonable question, and he is not shouting. That will help to calm everyone.

  It seems as if the whole room turns to stare at him at once. Maybe they are looking at Marina? No, it is definitely him. His hand goes to his trouser zip, only to find it is done up. The commander is looking at him with disbelief.

  And then, as if they are of one mind, they turn away from him. The pulse in his temple becomes visible. His face becomes ashen and his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Oh, I am not saying that the boat is as important as…’ But he is too late. No one is listening. Surely they cannot think that he was putting his boat before the girl? What must Marina think of him? He puts his hand back on her shoulder to stroke her again but she shrugs him off.

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

  They wait. Nothing but crackle.

  ‘Artemis, are you there? Over?’

  Chapter 19

  The coffee lifts Irini and she feels a sense of happiness knowing that Sam will be starting his new life soon. She would like to know how he does. Maybe, when all this has died down, she can even be of some assistance to him. She looks over the stern of the boat.

  Sam is lying on the cockpit seat, his legs up on the deck under the boom, his eyes closed – but he is not sleeping. She can tell somehow.

  ‘Irini, would you do something for me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Anything to help.

  ‘Sit here, next to me.’

  Irini hesitates. He is indicating with a lazy finger the floor of the cockpit next to his seat. There is no reason why not; one bit of decking is much like another. She slips off her seat onto the floor and shuffles over, and turning her back on him, she puts her legs up onto where she has just been sitting. To her knowledge, he does not open his eyes.

  The boat rocks and bobs its way along and the sun plays on her face as the boom swings in a small arc back and forth, blocking the sun, revealing the sun, blocking the sun. Her eyes reflex, opening and shutting in time with it. The blue sky, the red of her eyelids, the blue sky. Dark, light.

  His touch is so gentle, she hardly feels it. By the time she is aware, it almost seems rude to stop him. His fingers gently stroke her hair, unobtrusive, respectful. It reminds her of Angelos stroking one of the many stray cats they feed, his touch so frightened of hurting, overcompensating by hardly touching at all. Her eyes close. Bright pink, deep red. The boom swings, the light changes.

  The minutes stretch out. Time passes in a sun-soaked dream, neither sleeping nor wakeful. His hand grows more sure, but also more tender. The deck is hard and Irini leans her weight onto one hip and turns, her legs dropping from the seat, swivelling round, parallel with his, her head leaning against her arm, the elbow of which is on the seat next to him. Time seems to have stood still; there is nothing but the rocking and the pink on her eyelids. Her arm slips from its rest, her head rolls onto the seat, resting against his thigh, his hand stroking her hair that falls into the curve of her neck. The waves are never even, side to side, front to back, side to back, front to side, the yacht’s movement never steady, never a constant; it lulls but it also jars.

  An expected side roll becomes a lurch. Irini’s drift into sleep is broken. She squirms to find a more comfortable position. Sam does the same. One of his legs drops to the floor and he slides with it, behind Irini, her upper body and head against his chest, his arms around her. The hardness of the floor, the half sleep, the uncertainty of the future time travels her back and she is trying to sleep the night she saw the little boy die.

  She has walked for so long, trying to convince herself that life is worth living, that some day it will all make sense, that she has a future. She met up with another street child; she didn’t even know his name. He was older than her but just as lost, and they walked together silently, neither asking each other what was the cause of their plight until cold and exhaustion took them to the back of a shop, a doorway, a place out of sight and they held each other with no words.

  Just hugging, the warmth of the other reassuring until they fell asleep and then the dawn came and they rose and they walked away from each other, still with no names, still with no reason, still with no future but in that night, just the beat of each othe
r’s hearts had been enough to keep them going.

  As she lays against his chest, she can hear the beat of his heart, so strong, such life, such power and with each beat a breath, his powerful lungs serving oxygen through his veins, bringing power to his muscles so he can hold her.

  She has no idea if a minute has passed or several hours. The arch of the sun tells her it must be hours. The coffee from earlier brings the need for the toilet. She has no desire to get up but her bladder urges her. She shifts, and his grip tightens. She lifts his arm to break free and he kisses the top of her head and lets her go. She walks in a dream, the heat and the movement of the boat, the dreams and reality merging into one and, half-awake, she stumbles down into the cabin.

  ‘Artemis, come in please. Over.’ The radio sounds urgent, as if it has been calling for hours. She is still too soporific to care; the bathroom is more urgent. Sam has not put the first aid box back properly, but that too can wait. One of its corners is wedged in the sink; it is not going anywhere. She uses the toilet and comes to. The radio is still calling. Reality returns and she hears the urgency of the voice and responds to it.

  ‘Artemis, are you there? Over.’

  ‘Artemis here. Over.’

  ‘Everything calm? Over.’

  ‘Yes, everything calm. Over.’ She looks up through the hatch but all she can see is one of Sam’s feet.

  ‘Rini, we need you to do something for us. Over.’

  ‘What is it? Over.’ Maybe if she can help, if they mean to arrest him, she could plead his case, help them understand. Maybe if they intend to do anything before dusk, she can put them off.

  ‘Irini. Stay below deck. Over.’

  ‘What?’ She does not understand the message and she forgets to say ‘over’ before releasing the button.

  ‘Stay below deck. Copy, do you hear? Over.’

  ‘I hear but…’ Irini looks back to the hatch where Sam’s foot is no longer visible. She puts down the microphone and immediately there is a buzz and then the strangest cracking, splintering sound by her head and a hole appears in the woodwork by the radio.

  Another buzz, more of a whizz and with a thwack, another hole appears. Her instincts spiral her on the floor.

  ‘Sam, Sam! They are shooting.’ There is the sound of his feet on deck, running.

  ‘Sam, come below.’

  His head appears in the hatch. His eyes are wide and dark, his colour flushed. For a fleeting second, he looks into her eyes and a smile begins to form, but there is no time.

  ‘Stay below,’ he mutters and is gone.

  Crawling across the floor, Irini hears more pings and twangs of bullets hitting metal and wood. She pulls herself under the chart table and wraps herself around its single wooden leg. The port police never warned her. They didn’t wait till dusk. He is so exposed up there. He must surrender.

  ‘Sam, surrender!’ she shouts at the top of her voice and then she hears a splash through the hull wall. He has dived in, he will have to swim fast, or under the water. He could stay hidden by the hull. If she goes on deck, she could distract the port police, wave her arms, or make out she is hurt. Anything to give him time to get away. The twanging and splintering has stopped as quickly as it started and Irini quickly uncurls and extracts herself and makes for the steps.

  The light outside is so bright. Without seeing anything, she waves her hands over her head.

  ‘Here,’ she shouts. ‘Here.’ How long will he need to swim to shore? Much longer than she can distract them. What else could she do?

  Her eyes adjust and she sees that the police boats are all but alongside, one either side of the yacht. Men in bulletproof vests hold their rifles with the barrels pointing to the floor, their arms relaxed. No sign of tension.

  He must be out of range. Five policemen line the deck of one boat and there are six on the other, all staring in the same direction, the same direction the splash came from. Irini steps up from the cockpit, onto the deck to follow their line of vision, to wish a secret good luck, but as she comes to the bows of Artemis, she stops.

  Ballooned in the water is a grey t-shirt. How could he have taken it off whilst swimming to get away? The waves surge and on one side of the t-shirt, something brown surfaces. But his rucksack was green.

  One of the port police has a boat hook. He leans over the pulpit of his boat and reaches for the balloon. With a poke and a pull, he moves it through the water. A wave takes it from his grasp. It turns. Sam’s face beneath the waves. Green eyes staring. Mouth open.

  She can hear radio talk from the police boat. ‘Crackle. Over. Copy. Crackle.’ Two of the port police put their free arms in the air and cheer. One slaps the other on the back and they turn away. Irini’s ears ring.

  ‘Irini, Irini?’ Someone is shaking her by the shoulder. She doesn’t hold back her reaction, hitting the hand away. ‘Easy, easy. You are okay now. You are safe.’

  The speaker’s eyes are brown. He is wearing a bulletproof vest, but he has no gun.

  ‘You want to go across to the police boat? Here, I can help you.’ He lifts his leg, straddling the two rails. The boats are alongside. ‘Here, give me your hand.’

  Irini turns away from him, looks back at the balloon of grey t-shirt in the water. It has arms now, laid outwards as if crucified. His head has rolled back in the water so only his Adam’s apple is visible. Some of the bandaging she carefully bound around his wound has come loose and trails from under the t-shirt like tentacles.

  ‘Okay, get him out,’ someone orders. But he is silenced by another who points to her. Some distance away from his body floats his rucksack. A boat hook from the police boat on her other side grabs for it, and it is upended on the deck.

  ‘Just clothes in bags,’ someone calls.

  ‘Irini, you are safe now. Come.’ The man closest to her is still urging and reaches out, one leg on the police boat and one on the yacht. Lashing out at his arm, she pads to the hatch and steps down into the relative dark.

  Above her are the sounds of many feet now. Words drift to her. ‘Shock’ is one of them. Someone suggests, ‘Give her time.’ Another, ‘Give her space.’ Someone uses the word ordeal. Another says, ‘Keep an eye on her.’ She slumps onto one of the padded saloon seats. His coffee cup is still there, half-drunk but completely cold. She puts her hands where his have been, holds the mug, squeezing it tightly until with a sudden spring, she leaps to her feet and throws it with all her force into the pile of washing up in the sink. From the back of her throat comes a primordial growl as the kettle rocks and falls to the floor. A head dips through the hatch but with one glare from Irini, they retreat.

  ‘Right, there’s enough fuel. You two sail her back. We’re staying close. Any change in the girl and we stop, put her on the radio to her man as soon as she has calmed down. Get her connected back to her own life. But give her time if that is what she needs. I have a wife the same: all emotion and highly strung. Best just give her time.’ Voices are very easy to hear on deck when no motor is running. The motor starts up and Irini is glad she can no longer hear their inane talk.

  She lays down on the saloon bench and as the boat begins to move, it is not long before she is overcome by sleep.

  A light shake awakes her.

  ‘You want coffee?’ The policeman is about the same age as Sam.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Shall we radio in so you can talk to your husband?’

  His tone is kind; he means well.

  She shakes her head again.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He is genuinely surprised.

  Irini squirms and turns away, putting her face into the back of the saloon seat.

  She can hear him breathing over her and then he is gone. Sleep is the best refuge.

  ‘Artemis here. Over.’

  ‘How is Irini? Her husband is here. He wants to speak to her. Over.’

  ‘I think she is asleep. Over.’

  ‘He says leave her to sleep. Over.’

  When she wakes, there is
a cup of orange juice on the table next to her. She drinks it with greed and drifts back to sleep.

  The sound of liquid being poured brings her out of a dreamless sleep. The light outside is not so bright. The port policeman puts the cup of orange juice by her without a word. He looks at her but she looks away.

  Her face feels crumpled and sticky. The confined space in the toilet is also a pull. There is so little room that she rarely pulls the door to when using the bathroom, but on this occasion, she does. Pulls it closed and locks it. Reducing her world. Shutting everything out. Closing herself in.

  Putting the seat down, she sits. The enclosed space brings some relief. The door is a hand span from her face so sitting down, she can lean her forehead on it. The towel has fallen from its hook and a corner of it is below the duckboard and in the water that swims around under it. She will swill her face.

  The first aid box is half in the sink. The lid is not properly closed again and she recalls it being on the saloon table with Sam. She lifts it with care and puts it on the toilet seat, swills her face, and sits again, the water dripping into her lap where she holds the first aid box.

  When she took the bandage from the box, he was alive. When he had it with him on the saloon table, he was alive, too. The edges dig in where she hugs it to her chest but the pain feels appropriate. The tears begin to fall. Her chest heaves and her whole body convulses. With her nose running, she struggles to breathe and her breath comes in big gasps as she pulls handfuls of tissues and tries to blow her nose before another wave of tears consumes her. The depth of her loss hollows out her chest and leaves a gaping, empty space. With her tears for him come tears for herself, tears for the hardships she endured as a homeless teenager and the horrors she has seen, the empty black nights of no sleep, the fights over scraps of food and pieces of bedding, her lungs tearing for air after running from store holders she has stolen from and pimps who wanted to use her.

  She cries for the ugliness of life she has been forced to see and the unfairness of the shallow lives enjoyed by the people who have not seen that life she has led, the life that runs parallel to all civilisation. She cries until she is exhausted and her head once more touches the door. The towel is soaking up the bilge water and next to it is an antiseptic cream that belongs in the first aid box.