The Black Monastery

by Stav Sherez

  ‘Try and sell her some weed. Nothing physical. Nothing too threatening, please. I don’t want to scare her … what are you laughing at?’

  ‘You don’t want to scare her?’ Wynn seemed inordinately amused. Jason wondered whether it was the drink or something else.

  ‘No. I mean it. Just hassle her for long enough that she’s pissed off.’

  ‘Then you come along and save her? Fucking knight and all that shit?’ Wynn grinned. Understanding flashed through his face.

  ‘Something like that,’ Jason admitted.

  ‘Something like that. OK. Shouldn’t be too hard. She something special, this woman?’

  He didn’t want to tell him the truth. He could hardly voice it to himself. It sounded pitiful but he couldn’t think of any other way.

  Wynn lit a cigarette, pulled hard. The smell of his cigarettes made Jason want to gag. Wynn stared at him in silence. There was something mischievous about his face. ‘Buy me drinks for the rest of the night and you’re on.’

  The music changed. The lights spun and swirled and tried to outdo the stars. Jason pulled on a fresh ouzo. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘But please, just you, Wynn. No one else. I don’t want her freaked out.’

  Wynn lifted his glass. The thick murky liquid looked like phosphorescent milk. He swallowed. ‘No problem,’ he said, his eyes unaffected by the alcohol, focused and alert.

  Later, Jason stumbled back dazed to his hotel taking the long way around. The streets seemed to close in around him, and he got lost several times but didn’t care because the night air was so soft and a pleasant breeze was blowing for the first time since he’d reached the island. He felt giddy and alive, his days bristling with possibilities; so different from only a couple of nights ago. It was a strange sensation, not quite unfamiliar, more like something you find in an attic, a long forgotten part of your life. He sat and stared at the sea, the black roiling silkiness, the distance, the invisible horizon.

  But something was bugging him.

  As the alcohol wore off, he realised what a thoughtless and stupid plan it was. This was no way to start. No way at all.

  He walked back to the club. Found Wynn. Told him he’d changed his mind. He’d just approach her on the beach. Wynn shrugged. He didn’t seem disappointed or relieved. No problem, he replied. They laughed at how stupid the idea had been and drank another ouzo together.

  The next day he sat and sipped his frappé as the heat swirled around him like a cloud of locusts, bringing the dark with it, the horizon sealing in the sun. From where he sat in the taverna, he could see the docks; people standing, herding their suitcases, waiting for the night boat to Athens. There were men holding up name cards, and he was tempted to sneak a look, see which one was hers and pay him to take over. But something failed him. He didn’t want to face her yet. He had other plans.

  The night came down slow and easy, and from far off Jason could hear the distinctive sound of the hydrofoil cutting through the water. He wondered whether he’d have time to order another drink before the boat docked. He’d already learned that sounds were deceptive out here on the island.

  She looked both radiant and hassled as she stepped up to the gangplank. Something in his body shook. She looked like starlight and magazines. The captain put his hand around her waist, and it was so sleazy, so practised, but she brushed past it defiant.

  He almost felt bad for what he was going to do.

  It was strange no one had picked her up. Surely she was staying at a good hotel? But maybe she’d wanted to walk, not realising how dark it got, how treacherous the streets became as they disappeared into pools of blackness once out of the harbour.

  He paid for his coffee and followed her. Just to find out where she was staying, nothing more, he told himself. He stayed behind a group of tourists and watched the wheels of her suitcase and turned when they turned, onwards, upwards, towards the grand hotels in the mountains.

  He’d stopped to light a cigarette, drop back a bit now the streets were emptier. He walked slowly up the cobbled steps. He couldn’t hear the drag and scrape of her suitcase anymore. Had he lost her?

  He rounded the corner.

  She was standing with her back up against the wall. Her face was white and drawn and full of fear. Her eyes wide and angry. Two men held her up against the wall.

  Neither one of them was Wynn.

  Jason heard the blood pounding in his head. He saw the men, their expressions grim and bitter. He wanted to turn and run but instead he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  SIX

  They had her up against the wall. The taller man ripped her shirt open. Buttons crackled on the cobblestones. Her bra blazed blue. She shivered at the touch of his hand. The sea wind on her skin. He looked up at her and smiled. His breath stunk of fish. She wanted to cry but knew it would be the worst thing she could do and even though the impulse was strong, she held back, made her stomach rigid and waited for what was to come.

  But the man was only after her money belt.

  He ripped it from her body. The rough straps burned her skin.

  Then she saw the other man. Walking towards them, anxious eyes, hands deep in pockets. She wondered whether he was their leader, whether they were finished or had plans to take her somewhere else.

  ‘Hey!’ The man shouted as he walked up to her assailants. She couldn’t quite make out the look on their faces. They didn’t seem surprised, only perhaps pissed off that their evening’s entertainment was being curtailed. She couldn’t move. The tall man was still holding her up against the wall. Breathing into her face. Dark and swampy, he leered and grunted, tongue flicking out of his mouth, his jaw wide and solid as a piece of ancient rock.

  ‘Leave her alone.’ The stranger said, and she felt a wave of relief pass through her when she heard his accent, knew that he was English too.

  The two Greeks looked at the Englishman.

  ‘I think you should let her go!’

  She was surprised and encouraged by the command in his voice, the calm clamour of his threat.

  The taller of the two assailants glared at the Englishman. He put his hand in his pocket. She was expecting the half-moon glint of a knife, but nothing came. They eyeballed each other in the dry, stuck air. The man was still holding her money belt. She thought about what had nearly happened. And how stupid she’d been trying to get to the hotel by herself.

  The taller youth spat on the ground in front of the Englishman, bunched up the money belt and shoved it down the front of his trousers. The man with the jaw stuck his hand out and grabbed her jeans. She jerked back but he held tight. He winked and then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the men were gone, rounding the corner and disappearing into the black night.

  ‘Are you OK?’ The Englishman asked her. He looked relieved, but there was also something nervous and hesitant about him as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

  ‘You saved my life,’ she replied, only realising how stupid it sounded after it was too late.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that.’ Smiling now. ‘You lost your belt.’

  ‘It’s only money.’ She stared at him as he lit a cigarette. His hands shook.

  ‘Where were you going?’ His voice was soft and comforting.

  ‘I was heading to my hotel. Couldn’t find a taxi.’

  He reached down and picked up her suitcase. ‘I’ll help you get there if you want.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. Thank you for getting involved, for not walking past.’

  ‘I thought they were going to …’

  ‘I thought so too.’ She began to cry. It was totally unexpected, like going down a lazy river only to find yourself suddenly careening down a waterfall.

  He passed her a tissue. She wiped her eyes, feeling embarrassed and pathetic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  He took her to the hotel at the top of the hill. They didn’t speak on the way up. There seemed nothing to sa
y in the aftermath of such an event. They climbed past the silent houses and sloped roofs. The blue doors and white walls like something from a fable. They took paths that led nowhere and backtracked, passing cafés hidden in the shadows of buildings, men sitting in the street playing backgammon, skinny cats and all-night butcher shops. There seemed no way to navigate these streets but at random as if they had been built just for the purpose of confounding outsiders. She watched the strange man who walked by her side and let the effort of climbing burn off the adrenaline which was buzzing behind her eyes.

  He stood by the lobby while she checked in and got her key. He fidgeted and tried to get his nerve up.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he finally stammered.

  ‘No. I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied, a little too fast.

  He couldn’t catch her eye. He turned away.

  ‘I just need to be alone after that,’ she added, feeling his embarrassment. ‘It’s a small island. Let’s bump into each other. We’ll have that drink then.’ She extended her hand. The fingers were long and perfect. ‘Kitty,’ she said.

  He shook her hand, felt his heart shudder when flesh pressed into flesh, felt everything that was slipping away from him. ‘Jason,’ he replied, then turned and walked out of the hotel.

  She sat on the bed shaking. A hard, soul-shuddering shake. She’d been so scared and only now did it manifest itself, twitching muscles and making her tremble. She walked over to the minibar and took out a couple of miniature bottles of Glenfiddich. She poured them into a small plastic glass and swallowed. The whiskey was harsh, like liquid fire burning down her throat, but she welcomed it and tried not to clench her muscles when the spasms came.

  After she was sick in the toilet, she brushed her teeth and poured herself another tiny bottle. She was glad to be alone. She wouldn’t have wanted Jason to see that.

  She opened the glass doors which led to her balcony and sat there for a while watching the lights of town twinkle and burn beneath her, the sea a great dark splurge that seemed to lap at the beach. It calmed her and reminded her what she’d come here for.

  She knew she should call the police. Report the whole business and claim her insurance. She looked out to sea. A string of lights quietly crawled on the black velvet ripples. A ship heading somewhere in the night. It filled her with something she couldn’t describe. She would do it tomorrow. Go to the station and report the mugging.

  She felt better having made the decision not to go tonight, not realising until now how much it had weighed on her.

  She had another few miniatures and felt pleasantly drunk, the evening a fast receding blur. It was so strange to be alone in a hotel room. Something about it. The bare essentials of life. The empty walls. Space enough to be yourself. Something she liked.

  She stumbled back into the room when the cicadas started dive-bombing her light, and she reached for the phone and began punching in her home number.

  Don would understand. She could tell him all about it, receive his commiserations and forget the whole damn incident, but, before she punched in the last number, she placed the phone back on the hook.

  Don would try and convince her to come back. He would use the incident as proof she shouldn’t have gone alone.

  He would be sorry, yes, but he would also be secretly pleased, pleased things hadn’t gone smoothly, safe in the knowledge that if he’d been there, none of it would have happened.

  She realised that for once this was something she didn’t want to share, and it was a new feeling, one which felt instantly right.

  She’d always told Don everything that happened to her. It had become as natural as breathing. She supposed it was one of the reasons they were still together. They knew the worst about each other. They’d shared so many years that to have split up would have somehow erased those years from her life. Without him she would feel historyless, a book left unread halfway through.

  And then she thought about the fair-haired Englishman, Jason, who’d saved her earlier that night. There was something incredibly romantic about it, she couldn’t deny. Saving her from those men who would have done God knows what, stolen more than just her belongings. Of course, she understood how on holiday everyone seemed dark and mysterious, a possibility to explore, a new life to take, but there was also something so sad about him, like a dog lost after the rains, something in the way he moved and spoke and in the way his eyes had held hers for just a moment too long.

  SEVEN

  Nikos watches the mirror ball spin. Reflected in it are the faces of the dancers. Muscles rigid, they gyrate with a seriousness and determination which belies their activity. This is supposed to be fun. Or at least that’s how it’s sold. Watching them, nursing a whiskey and a deck of cigarettes, he’s not so sure. Their faces are flabby and detached, their clothes shapeless, their eyes misty and far away. He’s glad he’s not a teenager in this new century. Times are harder, and fun comes at a price. Yet, they seem oblivious of all around them. The sun-smacked sea and sand, the local beauty spots, the murder of one of their own.

  This is the third bar he’s been to tonight. It could be the first. There’s no difference between them, just the colour of the neon and the name. There are shelves stocked with cheap alcohol. A dance floor big enough to get lost in, a sound system loud and distorted, a man with pills standing in the corner.

  They have it down well. He notices how one person takes the money and another handles the drugs. The chain is broken, making it harder to make a case. But he’s not here to make a case. Not here to take one drug dealer off the island just so another can take his place a few hours later. The men behind the drugs are always far away. Sipping good wine in cliff-top villas or scudding through the waves on their yachts. This is the bottom of the food chain. The handshakes and loose powders, sudden smiles and frequent trips to the bathroom.

  This is what he came back to the island for. This is everything he hasn’t achieved.

  He’s been back for a little over six months. He’s been watching and making notes. He remembers standing on a hill last year, overlooking Athens, Spiros, his boss, laying it out. ‘You know the island. They know you. It’ll be much easier than bringing in a mainlander.’

  ‘I’m retiring in five years,’ he’d replied, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘How about two?’ Spiros had shot back. ‘Full pension. Two years and you’re out. I need you there, Nikos.’

  ‘Why Palassos?’ He’d said, thinking back to the green hills, the blue harbour, the place he swore he’d never return to.

  ‘We have information that Palassos is a major supply drop for neighbouring islands. Whether the stuff is being made there or it’s being used as a clearing house, we don’t know. The current Chief of Police is under house arrest. Too many white envelopes. He was caught taking a bribe over some land deal. I need someone I can trust and someone the islanders won’t be suspicious of.’

  He’d sucked on a cigarette, watched the lights of the city explode as darkness fell, and agreed. Two years on Palassos. Chief of Police. A promotion and a mission. Find out where the drugs come from. Find the source and report back.

  But he’d got nowhere near the source. He’d followed mules and dealers, sweated them in the cells, but they didn’t know who they were working for. The chain always seemed to dead-end. He fudged his reports to Spiros. And then, two months ago, the boy’s murder – the second summer in a row now – and Nikos began to understand what it was he’d really come back to Palassos for.

  * * *

  He spots them just as he’s about to leave and try another club. He checks the photos he’s laid out on the table – there’s no doubt.

  He watches them dance, hold hands, swoop into kisses, and there’s something that makes him want to leave them alone. Maybe they’re happy. Maybe this is only the way old men see things.

  But he has a job to do. Questions to ask. A killer to catch.

  He orders another drink though he’s already lost count. They’ll
be more responsive later on, he knows. Just wait for the night to drag, for the pills to crest that peak and nosedive down into the valley. He remembers reading that the KGB would always knock on doors at four in the morning, the hour of least resistance, and he suspects it applies to these clubbers just as well.

  As he waits for them, he scrolls through the past few days since his meeting with the coroner, looking for something he’s missed.

  They identified the girl easily enough. They sent out a memo to hotel and hostel managers. Two days later they got confirmation.

  They were in her room three days after the discovery of the body. They found her passport hidden under the sheets. The naivety of it broke his heart. They come here so guileless, thinking only about sun and sand, and end up on a slab under halogen lights.

  Caroline McGowan. Twenty years old. There was a student card from Manchester University and an open plane ticket. They went through her things. There wasn’t much to go through. There were three paperbacks. Lurid romances with pastel-shaded covers, thumbed, spines cracked, recent printings. A CD Walkman which felt like an ancient relic in his hand compared to the slim iPods most of the young people carried. There was a letter from home. A short handwritten note from her father, hoping she was having fun, telling her to forget everything that had happened and enjoy herself. Some changes of clothes, toiletries and a small bag containing five wraps of crystal meth.

  He spent the next week flashing photographs. Not the faceless mortuary ones but copies of her smiling passport face, pigtails and rosy cheeks. The passport had been issued in January. The photograph was probably only a few months old.

  He got headshakes and bemused expressions. He got brush-offs and denials. She’d been on the island for two months but the population changed so frequently no one remembered her.

  Then he’d got lucky. Two Italian boys, about to leave the island, said they recognised her. The boys giggled to each other, and it was obvious to Nikos they’d slept with the girl.