by J. D. Weston
“Give them to me and I’ll let you go. We can both be free.”
Cocking his head with curiosity and intrigue, Darius narrowed his eyes, as if he was considering her proposition. A tear swelled in the corner of his eye until, under its own weight, it rolled down Darius’ face. Either he felt nothing at all or was accustomed to the sensation. He continued to gaze at Emma with curiosity, disregarding her words as if the words of someone so young counted for nothing at all.
“I am free.”
“No. I’ve seen it. Your room. It’s no better than the room you’re locked inside now. Maybe you have a mattress and a television, and maybe you have a toilet, but you still live in squalor. You’re still a prisoner here. Just as I am.”
“This is freedom, Emma.”
“How can you say that? When was the last time you saw the sun? When was the last time you felt its warmth on your face?”
“You would never understand. In here, I’m free to walk the corridor. I’m free to earn my way. I’m free to be who I am.”
The statement defied the surroundings. Emma looked around at the bleak tiled floor, the painted brick walls, and the sagging ceiling, yellowed from years of dust and cigarette smoke.
“And who are you?”
“I’m Darius. That is all I am. But it is enough. The world up there is no place for me. I'm an outcast, Emma, and I count myself lucky. If life had taken a different turn, I may well be dead by now. Dead or holed up in a prison with nothing but four walls to stare at. No, Emma. Down here is my world. It’s mine. You can’t buy me out with a taste of freedom because down here is as free as I’ll ever be. There isn’t anything that will change that.”
“I don’t understand. How does this place offer you so much freedom when the world outside has fresh air, the blue sea, and people? If you long to talk to somebody, you should venture outside. If you long to have somebody to love, you’ll never find it in here.”
“What do you know of freedom? What do you know of love? You are nothing but a child.”
“I have memories.” An image of her mother and father curled up on the couch together entered Emma’s thoughts. Puzzled by the memory, which she hadn’t recalled since the time of the memory itself, she pulled the image apart. Dissecting the scene into fragments, she wondered how much of the memory was fact, and how much of it conjured the romantic hopes of the child she had been. “I know love. I know what it is to enjoy a silent connection, where no words are necessary and desires are satiated by touch alone.”
“Yes.” Darius moved closer to the hole, one eye prominent as he held his face close to the steel.
“I know what it is to feel the warmth of somebody’s heart, a mutual fascination, a total surrender of every last thing you hold dear, just to be close to that one true love.” She stepped closer to the observation slot, matching his advance. “I saw it once. And though the love was not my own, I still felt its power. I saw the satisfaction it brings.”
“Yes.” Darius’ voice had reduced to a whisper as he savoured the thought.
“I know love, Darius. I am not the child you take me for. I know love. I know how sacred it is. I have seen it break, bringing worlds down in its wake.”
A sharp intake of air from behind the door indicated that the comment had broken Darius’ dream. He moved away to a point where the shine of his eyes were the only two things Emma could discern in the surrounding black.
“The warmth that fills a house,” she continued. “The smiles that brighten the day. The tenderness that lifts the heart. But it all comes crashing down.” A new memory found its way into Emma’s mind, a memory far more recent than the first, but still one she never thought to recollect. “Nothing is colder than a love that it lost, Darius. A love that never was clings to hope, but a love that has been and is lost thrives on bitterness and hate. It breeds it like a germ, a disease, destroying everything in its path.”
She stopped, hearing her own words and realising how much she knew, how much she had learned from the struggle of her parents. The struggle that had killed them.
“Until the world crashes down around it all and nothing remains but pain and misery.”
“You speak from experience?” asked Darius.
“I do.”
There was no denying it. There was no shifting of blame to her mother’s cruel treatment of her father and her father’s selfish ways.
“I’ve seen love,” said Emma. “And I stood by and watched it die. If I ever get out of here, Darius, if I ever have the chance to stop it happening again, if I can see the signs, then I will stop it. Maybe some good will come of this. Maybe I can help somebody. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
A keen eye returned to the slot. It studied Emma, not with the previous lust-filled gaze that had riled the hairs on Emma’s nape, but as if it was inviting her to speak. As if her words had somehow caught hold of some far flung strand of hope in the bowels of Darius’ broken conscience.
“You’re different. I knew it. I knew it when I saw you. That’s why you’re here.”
“Why am I here?” Speaking before giving her own voice any consideration, Emma flinched at the question, fearing that Darius might withdraw into the shadows and leave her alone in the corridor to wait for an uncertain punishment.
Darius began to withdraw.
“I’ve said too much.”
“No. Please tell me. Tell me why I’m here. Do you know what happened to my parents?”
Darius didn’t respond.
“You do. I know you do. Tell me, Darius. Look at us both. We’re prisoners, Darius. You and me, we’re both prisoners. We have to stick together. Tell me why I’m here. Tell me what happened to my parents.”
“Why should I?” The question was spat from the hole in the door. “You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry. I was scared.”
“All I asked for was some company, to feel the warmth of somebody, and you used that to hurt me. And now you expect me to trust you?”
“I asked you not to touch me but you did. I was scared.”
“I don't want to hurt you. I just want to be held. I just want to feel.”
Although all Emma could see were two shining eyes in the shadows, she pictured him holding his hand to his chest, his fingers splayed across his heart.
“In here,” he continued, “I want to feel something. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. For a long time, I searched for it. A long time ago, when I was young, I would meet girls my own age, but they would scorn and laugh at me when I got close. All but one girl.” The cold and bitter tone faded as the man behind the door recalled a memory that Emma presumed he had recalled many times. “Her name was Anthea. Her parents owned a small house in the poor end of Varkiza close to where I lived with my grandmother.”
“Where were your parents? Didn’t you know them?”
“I knew them for a while until life became too hard. I have memories of them in our house in Athens, but they are blurred with misery. I often wonder if the memories are real. I cannot see their faces and I do not know their names. All I remember is the hard sting of my father’s hand and the cold, bitter tongue of a mother who loathed to touch me.”
“And they left you? Your own parents abandoned you?”
“My grandmother took me in. She was as cold as my mother, but I was young and could tend to her small plot of land. That was where I first saw Anthea. I spent my days turning the soil, tending the sparse vegetables, and running errands. But one day, I heard the voice of an angel. The one memory I have that is as clear as I see you now is of Anthea smiling and laughing in her parents’ garden. Rich, colourful flowers, red anemone, pink bougainvillea, with yellows and all shades of green. And somewhere between them, dressed in a pure white dress and with a single flower in her blonde hair, was my Anthea.”
“She sounds pretty.”
“She was. She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. Over time, we got to say hello in the morning. I was shy. I was afraid she would laugh at me like the other girl
s I’d met in Athens. I was happy to just admire her. I would walk ahead or behind, but Anthea would speed up or slow down until I had no option but to talk to her.”
“And did she laugh at you?”
“No. Not my Anthea. Not only was she the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, but her heart was as pure as the day she was born. We laughed together. We grew closer. And we would hold hands for hours walking in the hills behind Varkiza. I dreamed of her by night, and by day she was with me in my heart. We would lie on the hillside under a tree. Her touch was like electricity. Her skin was golden in the sun, and when our bodies connected, it was like magic. That was our place, beneath that tree. That was where we fell in love. That was where I knew that I would feel. I could bury my face in her body. I could wrap my legs around her and I could kiss her soft, silky skin.”
“It sounds like a love story in a movie. You must have been so happy.”
“I was. We were. But then her parents decided it was time for them to move away.”
“She moved?”
“She was taken from me and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to wrap her body in my own so that nobody could tear us apart. How could they do it? We were happy. And until this very day, I have never felt such love and I have never seen such beauty.”
They shared a moment of silence as Emma tried to picture the scene. A young Darius clinging to the girl he’d fallen in love with as her cruel parents tried to drive them apart. But with each image, the face of the girl became clearer. As Darius cried and fought for his love, Emma couldn't help but see her own face, her own blonde hair, and her own tanned, golden skin.
“Until this very day,” whispered Darius. His eyes were softened by the dim light and moistened by memories of a love that was lost. “Hold me, Emma. Please. I will not hurt you. I only want to feel the touch of beauty once more. It is all I ask. Do this for me, this one thing, and I will set you free. To hell with the consequences. I will die with peace in my heart.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The peaceful and tranquil coastal town of Varkiza was lost to the hills as Frankie navigated the meandering roads into the city of Athens. The rental car was perfect for what he needed. It was not too new that it drew attention in the less than affluent areas of Athens, but still new enough not to give an impoverished impression when he entered Kolanaki, where high-end retail chains sat side by side and the wealthy whiled away the day beneath the shade of large umbrellas outside coffee shops. The narrow streets offered little in the way of parking so Frankie found a spot two blocks away from the address Sharon had given him and set off on foot.
Small motorcycles buzzed around like flies in a maze of back streets where cars appeared to be at a disadvantage. One man leaned on his horn, angered by the time it was taking a young girl to reverse into a space far too small even for her little Fiat.
A small apartment block three stories high matched the address Frankie had. He found a small intercom to the right of a pair of double doors with six names and six buttons. One read in scrawled handwriting, Angela Simmons, Apmt 101.
Frankie hit the buzzer, noting that there were only two apartments to each floor. He stepped back. A small orange tree growing from the footpath reached up to one of two first-floor balconies. The spindly branches grew so close that if it were Angela’s balcony, she could simply reach out and pick fresh fruit.
There was no reply on the buzzer so Frankie tried again. This time, he peered through the glass into the lobby. There was no security guard, but the floor and walls were lined with marble and granite and fresh flowers brightened the shaded room.
Again there was no answer on the intercom. But just as Frankie stepped down to the footpath and was about to leave, a man walked up the three steps and opened the front door. He wore a pair of light chinos, tan boating shoes with no socks, and a slim-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Each roll of the sleeves had been performed with utter care and attention to compliment his immaculate appearance. His hair was greying into what Frankie regarded as the type of grey that improved the look of a man, giving him a mature appearance that portrayed confidence and, as Frankie considered the man’s appearance as a whole, wealth.
“Excuse me.”
The man turned and caught the door as it was closing. He leaned out and raised an eyebrow at Frankie.
“I’m looking for Angela Simmons. Apartment 101. I wondered-”
“If I could help you?”
The man’s interjection signalled he had little time to offer Frankie.
“Yes, I was-”
“Did she answer the buzzer?”
The man spoke without a hint of a Greek accent. Frankie took in his appearance, his posture, and confidence, combined them with his flawless middle-class English accent, and placed him as being an Oxford schoolboy. It was a game Frankie often played. He would use a person’s voice to guess where they were from. He was often wrong, or close but not close enough. But on the occasions he was correct, he enjoyed the mild satisfaction.
“No. I pushed it twice. Do you know her?”
“No. Not really.” The man glanced at his watch then up the road as if he was expecting someone to arrive at any minute.
“Have you seen her today? It’s important,” said Frankie, eying the heavy watch on the man’s wrist.
“We live in the same building. That is all. My man fetches her groceries sometimes and we shared a lift from the airport once. But other than that, no. We don’t know each other. Is that all? I am rather busy.”
“Do you mind if I knock on her door? Or if I come inside and wait?”
“Actually, I do. This is a private residence and I don't think the other tenants would be too happy if I let a stranger inside.”
“What if the stranger was investigating a missing person?”
The question caught the attention of the man. His eyes narrowed, sizing Frankie up in a single glance.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Emma Fletcher. I’m sure you’ve heard about it on the news.”
“I have. But I don't see what that has to do with Angela? Is she involved somehow?”
“She’s a friend of Emma’s mother, Sharon Fletcher. Sharon was here on the night it happened, so-”
“So you thought you’d come and ask her some questions? To make sure her alibi is watertight, I imagine.”
“Did you happen to see Sharon Fletcher that night? Middle-aged, light brown hair, almost blonde. She stayed until the early hours of the morning. I imagine they had a few drinks. So maybe you heard them laughing or listening to music.”
“The building is old. The walls are thick. I rarely hear any of my neighbours, I’m afraid.”
From his pocket, Frankie retrieved a card. It was plain in design with no titles, names, or email addresses, and it had a distinct lack of logo or any other motif. On one side of the card was Frankie’s phone number along with the British international dial code in brackets. He offered it to the man, climbing the three steps to get closer.
Out of obligation more than a willingness to assist, the man reached out and took the card, keeping his feet inside the lobby and the door tight against him.
“If you do happen to remember anything-”
“I’ll be sure to call.” The man seemed perplexed at the plain card and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“And sorry, I didn’t get your name,” said Frankie, as he stepped onto the steps and into the sun. He shielded his eyes as he looked up the street waiting for the man to respond.
“My name is Adrian Lockwood.” The man gestured at the intercom and the list of names. “I’m in 202.”
“Thank you, Adrian. Anything at all, just call.”
Heading back down the hill, Frankie crossed a side street and stopped in the middle of the quiet road and gazed out across Athens. In the centre of the city, the Acropolis stood tall and proud. Around it, the city sprawled to the foot of the mountains. And beyond, lining the earth with its tantalising sparkles,
the Mediterranean glistened in the late afternoon sun.
Just one block away from the apartment, and one block closer to his car, Frankie continued his stroll. The terracotta roofs and whitewashed walls against the green trees and blue sky induced a sense of calm. The relaxed Mediterranean culture had an appeal. Frankie could see why people like Angela and Adrian made it their home.
But then a thought hit him. It was as if, while his brain had been preoccupied with the wonder of the city and the complexities of the investigation, his subconscious had been working behind the scenes.
He considered Angela’s home. Sharon had been there. And if Sharon had been there, maybe Emma had too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A single key removed from the bunch was offered to Emma. Darius extended his arm through the hole, palm up with the key flat against his skin.
“Take it. Unlock the door, Emma. In a while, you’ll be free.”
She reached out to take the key, noticing how cold the skin of his hand felt. Stepping back to buy herself time, Emma waited for Darius to show his face in the hole.
“I’m not Anthea. You’re clinging to the past, Darius.”
“No. No, you’re not Anthea.” The eye appeared at the hole. It had lost the wandering, lustful gaze that seemed to lick every inch of Emma’s body. In its place was a singular, unwavering focus on Emma’s face. “Anthea is gone. In the twenty years since she left, I have searched for somebody as beautiful, as angelic, and as pure as Anthea was. I know she will never return. I know I will never again hear her voice. But with you, Emma, it is as if Anthea herself has returned and stands outside my door. Your hair, your eyes, your face.”
“I can never replace her, Darius.”
“But you can be her. For just a few moments, you can be her. If I close my eyes, oh, Emma, if I close my eyes right now, I can see her. I can smell her hair and hear her voice. But each memory ends with pain. It is as if a hand crushes my heart when I reach out and find nothing. Where Anthea stands in my mind, only the stagnant air and shadows appear. But with you, I can feel her. I can hold her close and feel her warmth. Would you do it? Would you be Anthea for me? Maybe then I can leave this place. Maybe one last touch of Anthea’s soft and golden skin will be enough to set me free.”