by C. J. Cooke
George tried to pull me along the path towards the farmhouse. His grip on my arm was like an iron vice, and he’s so strong that he managed to drag me along behind him for a few feet without breaking pace. I shouted at him to let me go, then resorted to kicking the back of his legs, which felt very unnatural for me – I must be a fairly placid person in real life. Even so, it seemed to have little effect. It was only when I blurted out about the notebook, how Joe had written my name inside it, that he stopped and turned around, his eyes wild.
‘Show me,’ he shouted. ‘Show me what Joe wrote.’
I dug the notebook out of my pocket and opened it at the first page. He snatched it from me and stared down at the writing, then looked up at me one last time before stalking off, flinging the notebook to the ground. His reaction to it was so furious that I was worried for Joe. But why would he be angry? What would be wrong about telling me my name?
All night I fought sleep, questions rolling around my head. Along the horizon were the lights of cruise ships and the distant shadow of an island. I tried to allay my fears that I might have missed Nikodemos by recalling Sariah’s words: Nikodemos was bringing them food, and then he was taking me back to Crete. George had to have called Nikodemos about the missing boat, didn’t he? Nikodemos would want to check that out. The others would need food as they had no transportation to Chania. Nikodemos wouldn’t simply turn back if we weren’t on the pier. He would wait, surely. And I would be there.
But no one came.
When I wake up, my backside is soaked from water surging through the slats beneath me, the sky is bright and the sun hot against my face. I stand up and stretch, revived by the wind and the scenery. When we arrived at the pier last night it was too dark to make out much of the landscape but now, in this gold, mellow light of morning, the vision before me is postcard-worthy. The water licks at my feet, perfectly clear. Behind me, the hills are a rich, lustrous green. I’m amazed by how many cacti are nearby. Towering green sculptures edged with sharp prickles. A good job I didn’t stumble into those last night. What a difference light makes. The only sign of the commercial past of the island is the delapidated hotel to my left, even more ugly and sad in daylight. Litter blows across the pale sand and the broken windows and torn signage is hard on the eye.
I try to work out what to do. There’s no sign of anyone for miles around and I can’t make out the farmhouse from here, though I can probably find my way back easily enough. I’m hungry and thirsty. And I need to get one of the others to contact Nikodemos on the satellite phone.
I begin to head back, keeping my pace slow to conserve energy. I find some trees and fill up on fat, overripe peaches until I feel slightly ill. Then I keep as far away from the hills as I can, recalling George’s warning about the wild goats, but my detour leads me to a path along the cliffs, and before long I find myself on a course that I recognise: I’m heading towards Bone Beach.
Finding the path that Joe had taken, I make my way to the first outcrop below, then the second. Looking down, I can see it’s quite a drop to the third, with virtually no footholds in the rock.
The birds are crying above, swooping and diving from the nests along the upper ledge. My breasts burn again but I stay focused on my breath and on finding a way down to the beach until the pain dissipates. Gingerly I press my left foot into the rock, then find a small ledge and grip it tight with my fingers. From there I’m able to lean against the rock and reach lower, scaling down to the lower outcrop, then it’s a leap of about six feet on to the clean white sand of Bone Beach.
The boat looks much bigger from this vantage point, about thirteen feet long. An old wooden sailing dinghy. It is lying on its side in the water against a cluster of rocks, pale blue paint flaking from the sides. A name – Janus – is painted in black cursive on the right flank. Inside, I can see a cupboard door flung open, a series of handles and ropes. The oars are gone.
An idea strays into my head: maybe I could sail back to Crete. If I managed to sail here, surely I could sail back? I walk slowly around the boat, inspecting it for damage. And then I see it: both the rudder and centreboard – the bit that hangs down from the base of the boat like a dorsal fin – have been ripped off, fragments of them lying across the stones. The stern is pretty damaged but looks fixable. Without the rudder and centreboard, though, somehow I know the boat isn’t fit for purpose.
I climb back up the steep cliff, nauseous with fatigue. A tree nearby has fat green fruit hanging from its branches. I reach up and pull one down. A fat, ripe pear, the skin a smooth jade with bronze blotches. When I bite into it, the juice runs down from the corners of my mouth. I stop and look down at the beach, remarking again on how George had virtually risked his life to save mine. Why, then, was he so insistent on keeping me here? And what did he mean when he said he had always looked out for me?
I’m apprehensive about going back to the farmhouse, but I have no choice: I have to get in touch with Nikodemos. Perhaps he ran into difficulty and tried to call the satellite phone. Or perhaps George was lying to me.
At the farmhouse, Joe and Hazel are sitting at the kitchen table, silently writing in notebooks. I notice that Joe has a black eye. I take a seat beside them, exhausted from my trek back to the farmhouse. Joe takes one look at me before rising to get me a glass of water. I tell them about George, how he told me Nikodemos wasn’t coming and that I wasn’t going anywhere until I got my memory back. I don’t mention that I know my name, now, nor that Joe was the one who told me it.
‘Wait, so Nikodemos didn’t show up at all?’ Hazel says, rising sharply from her chair. I nod, and she begins to pace, agitated. ‘But … this doesn’t make any sense. Nikodemos said he was bringing food.’
‘I think we’re got enough for another week,’ Joe says, but Hazel begins to argue. I watch her carefully, trying to work out whether she’s pretending.
‘We can phone Nikodemos and ask him to come tonight, or even tomorrow. OK?’ Joe says. ‘He’s retired.’
‘George has the satellite phone,’ Hazel says, swivelling her eyes to me.
A set of footstep noises from the stairwell. For a moment I think it’s George, and I break out in a cold sweat. But it’s only Sariah, singing to herself and covered in pastel smudges, blue and pink streaks on her arms and all over her white dress. She spots me and crosses the room, a worried expression on her face.
‘What’s happened?’
‘There was a problem with Nikodemos,’ Hazel says.
‘What do you mean?’ Sariah says, and I tell her about last night. About George telling me I couldn’t leave, though when I try to repeat exactly what he said, I can’t remember. Did he say he called Nikodemos, or that he didn’t? Either way, he has the only means of contact with the outside world. Then I remember what he said about me having to stay on the island ‘for my own good’, and Sariah’s expression changes. She flicks her eyes at Joe.
‘Where is George?’
Joe lowers his eyes.
Hazel says, ‘He’s off writing somewhere, I’m guessing.’
‘Well, when he comes back we’ll tell him that he must call Nikodemos immediately,’ Sariah says, glancing at me. ‘We’ll get you home soon enough,’ she says. ‘Whoever you’ve left behind must be frantic by now.’
‘We’ll talk about it over dinner tonight,’ Hazel says, clapping her hands together. ‘We’ll make George’s favourite meal and give him plenty of raki. Trust me, raki turns George into a pussycat. Then we’ll ask him very nicely to call Nikodemos and tell him it’s an emergency.’ She glances nervously at me. ‘That sound all right?’
I nod, but I’m now watching Joe, trying to work out why he seems so afraid of George, and how on earth he could possibly know my name. For a sinking moment, I wonder if he made it up, if it isn’t my real name at all. Maybe I wanted it to be my real name because I’m so desperate. After all, how would he know my name if none of them has ever met me before?
I wait until Hazel and Sariah are out of earshot,
making plans for this evening, before approaching Joe at the table.
‘The notebook you gave me,’ I say in a low voice. ‘You said you wrote a message in the front page. It was my name. Eloïse. Is that my real name?’
He continues writing in his notebook – a poem, it looks like – pointedly ignoring me.
‘Joe?’
He won’t look up. I notice sweat gathering at his temples and his writing becomes faster, more agitated.
‘Joe, did George give you that black eye?’
Now he stops and raises his head, but he won’t meet my gaze. The notebook slides off my knee to the ground, still open. Hazel stoops and picks it up before I can get to it.
‘“Your name is Eloïse Beatrice Shelley”,’ she reads, before glancing at me with wide eyes. ‘Is that your name?’
I nod.
‘That’s not my handwriting,’ Joe snaps, gathering up his notebook and rising from his seat.
‘What’s this?’ Sariah says, wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Her name’s Eloïse,’ Hazel says, watching Joe with narrowed eyes. ‘Did you write this, Joe?’
Sariah says, ‘“Eloïse” – pretty name. Does it ring a bell?’
I nod, and she smiles. ‘That’s progress.’
‘I think she suits “Hazel” better,’ Hazel says.
‘It sure does look like your handwriting, Joe,’ Sariah says, craning her head to see it better.
‘Well, it isn’t,’ he snaps from the other side of the room. ‘I don’t know who wrote that.’
Sariah steps up as the voice of reason, her hands up to bring the debate to an end. ‘Let’s stay focused. You – Eloïse – need to get off this island, we need to get food. Or a mode of transport, at least. It seems you have more than a first name now to take to the British Embassy, yes?’
I nod in agreement and she glances at Hazel. ‘Well, then. Let’s get that phone and call Nikodemos. Or somebody. The police should be able to run a few checks and narrow it down.’
The back door clangs shut. A set of heavy boots on stone. A throaty cough. We all turn to find George in the doorway, a long and heavy object in his hand. Brass gleams in the light.
‘George,’ Sariah says firmly. ‘Please can you call Nikodemos?’
He ignores her, removing his boots and admiring the object he is carrying.
‘Is that a … gun?’ Hazel asks nervously.
‘A rifle,’ George replies, holding it up to look at it. He glances ahead of him, catching Joe’s eye as he stands, rigid, on the threshold. He seems too scared to make a run for it.
‘Why have you got a rifle, George?’ Hazel asks.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t she?’ George hefts it upright to inspect the wooden stock. ‘A real looker. Found her in one of the barns the other day. From the Venetian invasions, I think. Maybe Turkish. An old box of bullets there, too.’
The weapon in George’s hands makes my blood run cold. I glance at Sariah, but she is unmoved. ‘Could you try Nikodemos’ number, please?’ she says casually.
George lowers the rifle and squints through the sight, waving the barrel in our direction.
‘George, please,’ Sariah says, bringing her fist down on the table.
He looks up. ‘What?’
‘Call Nikodemos. We need to get food, and Eloïse has to go to Crete.’
He lifts an eyebrow, the gun still casually raised. ‘Eloïse, eh?’
I nod.
He sniffs. ‘Eloïse needs to stay here.’
Sariah gives a sigh of frustration. ‘OK. OK, everyone. Let’s … reset, shall we? Let’s have dinner, relax, and talk this through. And – George?’
‘Yes?’
She gives him a hard look.
‘Please put the gun outside.’
Mercifully, he does, and we eat around the large kitchen table, a heavy shower of rain clapping at the windows. But there is still atmosphere so charged that I can hardly think straight. Sariah speaks in clipped tones and serves the dinner with barely suppressed irritation. Joe won’t look at me and my mind races with possible reasons for his secrecy. Nobody answered my questions about Hazel’s secret, and George seems determined, for whatever reason, to keep me here. Is it sexually motivated? I don’t know. If it wasn’t raining so hard I’d try to escape, maybe take shelter in the hotel. But then, there’s no food or water there, and the satellite phone is here.
I glance every now and then at Joe, whose black eye serves as a reminder of last night. What happened when George came back? Did he punish Joe for writing in the notebook? Whatever took place is not aired, and I sense deeper layers to the group’s dynamic. A hierarchy, where George is the chief, a tyrant. They are not friends at all.
I have no choice but to pretend. I sit at the table and make small talk about the weather, about their writing, and neither George nor I mention Nikodemos. Sariah cooks her most fragrant meal yet – griddled halloumi, fat green olives, artichokes drizzled in olive oil, and a creamy sauce topped with sprigs of rosemary. Still, it doesn’t so much as tempt me, nor does it remove the stench of chaos in the air.
‘Raki, Eloïse?’ Hazel asks me, holding a bottle over my glass. She winks, and I nod. She pours for everyone and we toast.
‘To remembrance,’ Sariah says, taking her seat. George gives her a weighted look, and I sense something shift between them, a new colour entering their friendship.
After a few minutes, Hazel glances at me and Sariah before saying, ‘George, I think we’ve run out of wine for the rest of the week. There’s not much food, either. Why don’t you give me the satellite phone and I’ll call Nikodemos to make a delivery?’
George is laughing hard with Joe over a joke I can’t quite hear, slapping the back of his head and spitting as he talks. He rolls his eyes to Hazel. ‘What delivery?’
‘Food, George,’ Hazel says flatly. ‘Why did you tell him not to come last night?’
‘I didn’t,’ he slurs. He nods at me. ‘She did.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Sariah says. ‘You’re the only one with the satellite phone. Come on, George. Pass it over. Let one of us call Nikodemos.’
George grins broadly, sets down his glass with a wobble and looks at Sariah unsteadily. ‘What’s Nikodemos’ number?’
Sariah opens her mouth but looks stumped. She glances at Hazel. ‘I knew it before … I’m sure I did. You know it, don’t you, Hazel?’
Hazel looks equally stumped. ‘George always rang Nikodemos, so I never bothered writing it down. Joe?’
Joe is slumped forward, his head on the table, unresponsive.
‘What did I tell you?’ says George triumphantly. ‘She’s not leaving. She’s staying here, safe and sound. It’s not right, letting her go. I won’t have it.’ Suddenly he is off his seat, lumbering towards the back door. He lurches into the pantry and grabs his rifle from the corner.
‘Don’t worry about food,’ he shouts. ‘I can hunt for us all.’
It happens so fast.
One minute George is in the kitchen, the next he has raced out into the night, his footsteps clattering down the steps at the back door.
‘George! Come back!’ Hazel shouts, racing to the back door. We all follow and look out over the darkness. Outside, the moon is a silver disc, and there’s a velvety fog creeping over navy hills, the trees and grass trembling in a forceful wind. A shadow moves near the barns to the left of the farmhouse.
‘We’ll have to go after him,’ Sariah says. ‘He was heading in the direction of the barn, so he must be planning on taking the shortcut through the ravine – not the smartest move when you’ve just drunk half a bottle of raki.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say. Hazel makes to join us, but Sariah waves her away.
‘You and Joe need to stay here in case he comes back.’
Far out to sea are tiny shimmering lights – from boats, or perhaps neighbouring islands – and the full moon flings a long strip of silver across the ocean which looks tantalisingly like a causeway. I
hesitate when I hear the usual shouts and barks that swell when darkness falls. ‘Nocturnal animals,’ Sariah assures me when I hesitate, and she tells me that the creatures won’t bother us. But the noises are utterly chilling.
Even so, we head down the bank towards the barn, grasping at fistfuls of reeds and shrubs to keep from tumbling down. There’s a lip of rock where Sariah is concerned that George might have fallen and injured himself, but we don’t see him. Exhausted from the descent, we head slowly to the barn.
The barn is a long wooden building with a tin roof that lifts and whines in the wind, and inside are old cubicles curtained off by rusting sheets of tin. There’s virtually no light inside, though moonlight trickles across the remains of farm tools: forks, scythes, hooks hanging from the ceiling and the blades of old machines. I’m wary of going any further, but Sariah strides ahead, through the barn door, and is immediately swallowed by the darkness.
‘We need a torch,’ I say loudly. ‘Let’s go back.’
‘Might as well check the barn first, in case he’s passed out somewhere.’
I bite back a refute and start to search the area around the barn, walking slowly and carefully, my feet connecting with cold stone. Moonlight pulls the occasional rock or olive tree into visibility, but mostly it’s so dark that I’m having to rely on my sense of smell and hearing to guide me. I keep my eyes fixed on the small illuminated spots on the ground, hopeful that I’ll find George unconscious nearby, and the phone in his pocket. I don’t care if no one else knows the number for Nikodemos – I’ll dial every number I can think of until one of them connects.
Suddenly there’s a loud bang, followed by a pained cry. I shout out, ‘Sariah!’ and there is another noise, an object connecting against stone, but no reply. I call her name again and hurriedly retrace my steps inside the barn, toeing a tight line of rope so that I don’t trip over and miss her. But as I do I hear a whimper, close to the stalls.