by Sara Craven
The garden was quite small, but it was well-tended and bright with flowers. The house itself was a good size, the living quarters built over what Gemma assumed had once been a byre and would now be a garage, with a flight of steep steps leading up the side of the building to the terraced entrance. The steps were worn, but in good order, and the whole house looked as if it had just been freshly painted white. Gemma, looking up, saw solar heating panels in the roof. Loussenas might be a backwater, but one of its residents knew about modern technology, it seemed.
There were some Greek letters carved into the stonework at the bottom of the steps, and she peered at them, wishing she’d taken the trouble to learn the alphabet before she came. They looked as if they might spell ‘Ione’ she decided, and started up the steps.
The little terrace was tiled in a warm terracotta shade, and tubs and urns of geraniums and cyclamen had been arranged round its edge. Splashes on the tiles indicated that someone had been busy with a watering can not long before, and her spirits rose.
She went to the open door, and called a tentative, ‘Hello.’
Nothing. No voice, no step, just silence.
Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma caught a faint movement. She swung round, and saw a cat peering at her round one of the urns. It was a typically scrawny specimen, grey and white, and striped like a zebra, with eyes that looked almost twice the size of its pointed face.
Gemma crouched down, and snapped her fingers gently. ‘Are you the welcoming committee?’
The cat arched its back as if offended by the suggestion, and vanished in one sinuous movement.
Gemma shrugged and rose to her feet. ‘That figures,’ she muttered aloud.
She stepped over the threshold, and looked around. She seemed to be in the main room of the house. It was large and airy, and windows, which she suspected were a recent addition, filled the far wall, giving a spectacular view of the valley beneath. The furniture was wooden, and simply designed, and the cushions, rugs and hangings were all hand-woven. One rug, a sunburst in shades of crimson and gold, had been used dramatically as a wall hanging. An archway led through into a small dining room, and beyond this was the kitchen.
It was clean, but very simple with few concessions to modernity apart from the small sink unit, and a tiny refrigerator and cooker, both run off bottled gas she noticed.
There were lamps in all the rooms, suggesting that the Villa Ione had no electricity, and there was no sign of a telephone.
There was a scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, and in its centre, a folded sheet of paper anchored by a pottery candleholder.
She picked it up and opened it out. Five typed words. ‘Make yourself at home, Gemma.’
‘Oh, thank you, I will,’ she said ironically. ‘I will also have to stop talking to myself, or it could become a nasty habit.’
She opened the fridge. It might be small, but the interior was crammed with food, while the bottom shelf, she was relieved to see, was devoted to cans of beer and soft drinks. She opened a Coke and drank it gratefully, straight from the can.
She kicked off her sandals and wandered back to the living room, enjoying the cool feel of the tiles under her burning feet.
In a way, she could understand why Mike preferred to remain holed up here, rather than submit to the noise and bustle of Heraklion. She perched on the wooden arm of the sofa and stared through the window, wondering which of the stark-looking crags her brother was scrambling about on, looking for specimens, and wishing that just for once he’d given up the hunt to be there to meet her.
Still clutching her can of Coke, she climbed the flight of wooden stairs leading out of the living room to the next floor. Straight ahead of her, a narrow passage led to glazed doors opening on to another terrace, equipped with sun loungers. Two large bedrooms, each with its own small bathroom, flanked the passage, again very simply furnished. Each room contained little more than a double bed, built on to a stone platform in a corner of the room, a large chest of drawers, and an alcove with a hanging rail behind a woven curtain, which presumably acted as the wardrobe. In addition, each room had its own small balcony.
One room was clearly in use already, and in the other the bed had been freshly made up with an attractive blue-and-white bedcover in a Cretan design.
Gemma fetched up her case, and extracted her toilet bag. There were towels, thick and soft and smelling of herbs, folded on a chair, inviting her to make use of them. Well, she thought, with a mental shrug, she’d been told to make herself at home, and she could think of nothing more homely than a shower. She felt hot, tired and sticky, and a little depressed, and showering would refresh her as well as helping to pass the time.
If there was no electricity, perhaps there was no piped water either, and the expensive bathroom fittings were just for show, she thought with a little grimace as she fiddled with the controls of the shower.
But water there was in abundance, and at just the right temperature, she realised with satisfaction, revelling in the sensation as it cascaded through her hair and down her body. It was wonderful to feel the tension seeping out of her, she thought, turning off the water and languidly wringing the excess moisture out of her thick rope of blonde hair. She took one of the towels and wrapped it round herself, sarong-style, anchoring the free end securely. She couldn’t use her hand-drier, but she could dry her hair just as well in the sun, and the little terrace at the end of the passage was sufficiently secluded to preclude her needing to get dressed again just yet. If there was nothing else to do, she could always work on her suntan.
She collected one of the paperback novels from her case that she hadn’t even started on so far, and padded along to the terrace.
The view from here was fantastic too, the rocky peaks around and above her gleaming white and silver in the sun, but shimmering into a blue and violet haze in the distance. Away down to the right in the valley, she could see the muted sheen of olive groves, interspersed with terraced areas of cultivation, and the harsher green of cypress and scrub. It was a bleak landscape in many ways, but dazzling too.
Everywhere on Crete you were aware of the mountains. The God Zeus had been born in them, although there was some dispute about the actual location. Each peak, each cave had its own myth, its own mystery, and closer to her own times, Gemma recalled, the mountains had provided shelter not only for newborn gods from murderous fathers, but for ordinary mortals—Cretan partisans and their British comrades-in-arms in the last war.
Gemma had hoped to climb up to the cave on Dicte where Zeus was said to have been suckled by the goat Capricorn. She’d thought Mike might take her there. He wouldn’t be interested in the myths, but he could look for dittany and other herbs while she looked at the cave, or so she’d reasoned, but she hadn’t bargained for the fact that he was living in such a remote place.
She would come back, she knew suddenly, probably next year, and explore all the places she hadn’t yet seen. Crete was in her blood already, as she’d somehow always expected it could be. Given a few days, she supposed she might even get to love this uncharacteristic, unfriendly little village. Perhaps its very remoteness had made the inhabitants suspicious of outsiders—and yet, and yet all the stories she’d heard other tourists tell suggested just the opposite. One couple at the hotel in Heraklion had got lost on a moped trip, ending up in a village that seemed at the back of beyond and further. The villagers had feasted them royally, and driven them ceremoniously, moped and all in someone’s truck, back to the nearest main road, refusing all offers of payment with smiling dignity.
She sighed. It made the attitude of the inhabitants at Loussenas all the more difficult to understand. But perhaps her imagination was playing tricks again. Maybe those houses had been empty after all, and all the villagers had gone off to market or somewhere, on the one bus a week Mike had mentioned. He would explain when he arrived, she told herself drowsily.
Even in the shade, the terrace was blissfully hot, and the lounger she was
occupying the most comfortable place in the world. Every time she looked at the printed page of her book, the words seemed to dance oddly, and it was much easier to let it drop to the floor beside her, and think of nothing except how warm she felt, how relaxed ...
Too warm, and too relaxed to be struggling up this rocky path which got steeper and more difficult with every step she took, but at the top was the cave she was searching for, the pinnacle of all her dreams in some mysterious way, so she had to keep going.
The cave entrance reared up in front of her, as high and wide as a palace gate, and for a moment she hesitated, peering through the darkness. She wanted to turn and run, but instead, she found her feet carrying her forward. And the cave wasn’t as dark as she’d thought at first. There were wall torches flaring every few yards, just as there would have been at Knossos, and she thought ‘I must tell Hilary.’
She was excited and frightened at one and the same moment, and the light was almost glaring now, it was so bright, and the only darkness was the man’s tall figure, waiting for her, commanding her, drawing her to him. She was close to him now, close enough to feel his hands closing on her, his breath warm on her face, and she looked up and felt the scream rising in her throat as she saw for the first time the great golden bull’s mask which hid his face ...
Gemma sat up with a strangled gasp, staring round her, trying to orientate herself. She must have been asleep for some time, because the sun had moved round, and her struggles had been real because the towel had become unfastened and slid down to her hips. She made a face and stood up, securing it again. It was just as well there was no one around to see her, she thought, and time she got dressed again anyway.
It was then that she heard it—the unmistakable slam of a car door near at hand, and footsteps somewhere below. She almost sagged with relief. Mike, she thought. At last.
The terrace door was closed and she thought, ‘That’s odd because I left it open ...’ but it wasn’t really important. She flew along the passage and down the stairs, almost jumping the last few in her eagerness.
She began teasingly, ‘And about time too...’ then stopped dead, words and movement halting in the same astonished second.
She knew him at once. It was the stranger from Knossos, but looking very different from the sophisticated Western guise of the previous day. No expensive knitted casual shirt, or elegantly tailored cream pants today, but what looked like full Cretan dress from the soft leather knee boots to the dark red embroidered jacket, and the sash enfolding his waist. Only the black headscarf was missing. He’d left the thick dark hair which clustered, curling, close to his head, uncovered.
For a dazed moment, Gemma thought she was still in the middle of that strange dream, then she felt the solid curve of the newel post under her hand, and knew that it was all only too real.
She said, ‘What are you doing here?’ And what would she do, she asked herself, if he didn’t speak English?
Only it seemed that he did.
‘Waiting for you,’ he said, adding with soft deliberation. ‘To awaken.’
Helpless, humiliated colour flooded her face as she assimilated what he had said. He’d seen her on the terrace, asleep and half-naked, and he was letting her know it.
‘Why do you blush?’ came the cynical question, cutting across her embarrassed silence. ‘Your compatriots show as much of their bodies on our beaches every day.’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t,’ Gemma said tightly. ‘And what gives you the right to walk in here and spy on me?’
‘The right of ownership,’ he drawled. ‘This house belongs to me.’
Gemma’s lips parted but no sound emerged. She stared at him, utterly appalled. ‘My God—then—there’s been the most terrible mistake. You see, I thought this was the Villa Ione ...’ She stopped abruptly, her forehead creasing. ‘But it must be—or how would there have been that note?’
‘It is the Villa Ione.’
She stared at him, still frowning. ‘Then you must know Mike. Do you know where he is— when he’ll be back. He can explain everything ...’
‘That I would doubt.’ His voice was even, but there was an underlying coldness which worried her. ‘I do not know where this—Michalis is, but my information is that he left the island—several weeks ago.’
‘Left?’ Gemma repeated stupidly. ‘But that can’t be true. He’s here. He wrote me that note—two notes. I can show you.’
He shook his head. ‘Do not put yourself to such trouble, kyria Barton. I wrote those notes.’
There was something terribly wrong. Her whole body felt as taut as a bowstring. She said thinly, ‘You did? But why?’
He shrugged. ‘To make sure that you would come here, thespinis, why else?’
‘You knew I was coming?’ Gemma felt her way carefully. ‘Then Mike must have told you ...’
‘He has told me nothing. How could he when I have never met him? But he left the letter you wrote him from England in the room he was using.’
‘And you read it? A personal letter addressed to someone else?’ Her breathing was fierce. ‘This may be your home, kyrie, but that’s utterly despicable.’
He was unmoved. ‘You have a saying I believe—that the end justifies the means.’
‘Well, I don’t happen to believe that,’ Gemma said tautly. ‘I don’t know what the mistake is, but there’s obviously been one. I’ll get my things and leave at once.’
She turned and went swiftly back up the stairs to the room she’d thought was hers. Her case had gone from the floor. For a moment she stared at the space it should have occupied, then she ran across to the bathroom and looked inside. The clothes she had discarded before her shower were missing too, although her toilet bag was still there.
She flew back into the bedroom. He had followed her upstairs, and was standing in the doorway, leaning almost negligently against the jamb.
She said, ‘My case—all my things—they’ve gone. Someone’s stolen them.’
‘They have not been stolen,’ he said. ‘They are quite safe and will eventually be returned to you.’
‘Eventually,’ she repeated almost hysterically. ‘But that’s nonsense. I want to leave right now.’
He shrugged again. ‘I regret that will not be possible.’
There was another silence. Her mind worked feverishly, discovering and rejecting possibilities. She said, ‘If you intend to hold me to ransom, then you’re wasting your time. I work for my living, but I have no spare cash, and neither does my family.’
For the first time, he looked faintly amused. ‘I do not need your money.’
It was hardly likely that he would, she thought bleakly, remembering that car, the designer clothes, the thin gold wristwatch he’d been wearing the previous day. Now, he might look like a peasant, but his voice was educated, and his English superb.
She said slowly, ‘Then what do you want?’
‘The payment of a debt.’ His voice was laconic.
She was utterly bewildered. He’d just said it wasn’t money ...
‘Did Mike go off owing you rent? Is that what you mean by debt? Well, I can understand your annoyance, but I’m sure it’s just an oversight. You said yourself that Mike had left some things behind, so it’s obvious he intends to come back, and settle things for himself.’
‘I hope that he does,’ he said softly. ‘In fact, thespinis, I am counting on it.’
She felt cold. She resisted the impulse to hug her arms round her body in case she betrayed to this man how frightened she was.
She said, ‘You may be prepared to wait around for him, kyrie, but I’m not. You had no right to ask me here under false pretences. I only have a limited time on Crete and I’m anxious to make the most of it. I’d like my things back now, and directions to the nearest telephone please.’
‘And who would you telephone?’ The amusement was deepening, she could feel it.
‘The friends who brought me here,’ she said clearly. ‘They offered to come and fetch
me if anything went wrong.’
‘Then it is unfortunate that you will not be able to make contact with them.’
‘But I know where they’re going to stay,’ she protested. ‘All I need is a telephone, and there must be one in the village, if there isn’t one here.’
‘Yes, there’s a telephone in the village,’ he admitted almost casually. ‘But it is of no consequence, kyria Barton, as you would not be permitted to make use of it.’
She glared at him. ‘And just who would stop me?’
‘I would,’ he said. ‘And so would the people in the village. You see, thespinis, they also wish you to stay. To repay in some small measure the heavy debt your Michalis has incurred among them.’ He paused. ‘How much do you love him?’
She was tempted to reply, ‘When he involves me in situations like this—not at all,’ but she knew instinctively this wasn’t a moment for flippancy.
And how could she describe to this intimidating stranger the kind of exasperated fondness that she normally experienced for Mike? How could she explain that her main reason for seeking him out was to put her mother’s mind at rest? She could only be thankful that her mother was hundreds of miles away, and would never know that Mike seemed to be in real trouble at last.
She said with a calmness she didn’t feel. ‘Enough.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘So lukewarm? And yet you came all this way just to be with him.’
‘I came all this way to have a holiday. Visiting Mike was intended to be a fringe benefit—a minor one,’ she said, adding, ‘Not that it’s any damned business of yours.’
He looked grimly at her. ‘It is my business, thespinis, at this moment to discover the depth of your feeling for this man, and his for you.’
Gemma gasped. ‘We’re brother and sister for God’s sake. How do you expect us to feel about each other?’ she demanded indignantly.
His dark brows snapped together thunderously. ‘What is this story?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘His name is Leslie, and yours is Barton.’