OxCrimes

  She was just about the age Flora would be now.

  Nikolas led his donkey through the high town, going slowly to match the donkey’s pace. In full sun, the heat was searing, and he kept to the stripes of cooler shade along the house walls. At the ouzeri where he used to drink (an Italian gelateria now, the blue upright chairs replaced with wicker sofas, the wooden tables thrown out for glass and chrome) a family of foreigners was sitting in his old place under the vine. A boy and girl were dipping long spoons into glasses of melting ice-cream, the boy eating without relish, kicking his heels against his chair whilst his father keyed messages into a mobile phone. The girl watched the donkey as it went by, and smiled.

  Nikolas lived high above the port, in a two-roomed house that had been his mother’s dowry, a place with rotten woodwork and fatal cracks in the stone walls yet rescued by its glorious situation. From its rear windows and from the meadow below, the view was of the sandy beaches which gilded the coast, of the blue Aegean and, in the evenings, the western sky’s flamboyant sunsets. When Nikolas was a boy, the view was all their own, but inevitably it had drawn those keen to sell it.

  Permission was granted for an apartment complex, and from the day they broke the first rocks to lay the foundations, his mother fretted. She complained about the building work whilst it went on; she fretted about the activity there when it was complete, at the comings and goings of taxis and tour-buses, at the shouts and screams of children in the pool, at the laughter and singing when the foreigners came home drunk in the small hours.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mama,’ Nikolas had said. ‘It’s an opportunity for us, you’ll see.’

  But she never saw; she died worried and troubled, despite the things he bought for her, the new shoes and dresses, the chicken for lunch on Sundays, the electric cooker and the repairs to the outhouse roof.

  ‘What do I need with new dresses, at my age?’ she used to say.

  A short distance beyond the house, at a bend in the road leading to the popular beach at Vrysi, was an olive tree, ancient and twisted with a hollow in its trunk a small child could crawl inside. The tree produced few olives but its branches spread wide, and Nikolas conducted his business under their shade.

  His lay-out was simple: a plastic patio table bartered from gypsies, three plastic chairs which were part of the same deal, a pine dresser which had been his mother’s and his grandmother’s. Each spring, Nikolas repainted the dresser, in every colour left over from painting his boat, so all the shelves were different colours – this year, red, green and yellow – and the frame and doors were orange and blue. The sign tacked on its side was hard to miss, in clumsy letters and three languages: Mελί, Hönig, Honey.

  The dresser was brash and gaudy; tourists found it irresistible, stopping their rented mopeds and cars to take photos. They’d want Nikolas in the picture, the old man and his donkey, quaint and quintessentially Greek. The donkey would stand patiently as the children stroked him, and the smaller ones were lifted onto his back. And then Nikolas would offer the foreigners a taste of honey from a spoon, and more often than not, they would buy a jar or two. The set-up was perfect, and profitable. Nikolas called it his honey-trap.

  Today, as the house came into view, he could see beyond it someone sitting under the olive tree. That wasn’t unusual; the road was a long climb, and often those walking to the beach would rest at the honey-trap. But something about this man was different. Most of those who stopped turned the chairs to face the view. He was facing down the road, towards the apartments.

  As Nikolas passed the complex, there were shouts and screams from the pool. On a first-floor balcony, a toddler gripped the bars of a railing draped with swimsuits, grizzling and gazing miserably over the road towards the mountains. Nikolas led the donkey past his house to its place in the shade of the olive tree, and tethered it to a branch.

  ‘Yassou, my friend,’ he said to the stranger.

  Cicadas were singing the rhythm of the islands, marking slow time, languor and heat. The stranger pushed his sunglasses back onto his head, and raised his beer-can to Nikolas. His eyes were striking blue, but bloodshot from too little sleep, or too much alcohol. He was middle-aged and fit, but making nothing of his good looks; his blond hair was a little too long, a young man’s style he was a little too old for, and he was in need of a shave. He wore an unironed yellow t-shirt which had been washed too many times, so its rock-band logo was faded to grey; his shorts were baggy and unfashionable, the hem of one leg unstitched and drooping. He’d kicked off his salt-water-stained loafers, and sat with his bare feet outstretched, a supermarket bag of beer-cans under his chair.

  ‘Yassou,’ he said. ‘Am I in your place?’ He thought for a moment. ‘You speak English?’

  His own English was stilted, with a Scandinavian accent.

  ‘I speak English,’ said Nikolas. He moved the donkey’s water bucket within its reach, and scooped his hand across the surface to remove the creatures that had drowned there: flies, a dirt-brown cricket, and a honey-bee, which he picked from the palm of his hand by its wing, and held up regretfully. He shook the dead insects to the ground. ‘I spent ten years in New York City. I speak English like a Yank.’

  The donkey snuffled in the water and began to drink. A rusty Toyota motored by, the elderly man at the wheel calling through the open window as he passed.

  ‘Yassou Niko!’

  Nikolas raised his hand, then unfastened the girth on the donkey’s saddle. Horse-flies crawled on the animal’s hide and around its eyes. When it had finished drinking, the bucket was all but empty, and the donkey turned its head to Nikolas as if asking for more.

  Nikolas pulled the saddle from its back and dropped it pommel-up by the tree’s roots.

  ‘It’s hot today, my friend,’ he said. ‘They say on the radio, 40 degrees this afternoon.’

  ‘Too hot to walk,’ said the stranger. ‘I wanted to walk to the beach, but not in this heat. I told myself only a crazy man would walk so far. So I take a seat here, have myself a cold drink, and wait to see if I can find me a taxi.’

  ‘You’ll get one, if you wait long enough,’ said Nikolas, taking a seat across the table. ‘They all come by here, if you wait.’

  ‘You want a beer?’ asked the stranger.

  ‘Sure.’

  The stranger reached down to the bag under his chair, and fumbled for a can, which he offered to Nikolas. His fingernails were black with engine-oil.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nikolas. He popped the cap, and held up the can. ‘Yammas.’

  ‘Skol,’ said the stranger.

  They drank. The beer was cool, refreshing.

  ‘I should introduce myself,’ said the stranger. ‘My name is Didrik.’

  ‘They call me Nikolas.’

  ‘So, I am pleased to meet you, Nikolas.’

  ‘You Swedish?’

  ‘Danish.’

  ‘Your first time here?’

  Didrik shook his head.

  ‘No, I was here once before. I did not expect to come back, but I have a boat, and it’s giving me trouble. Now I have to wait until they send a part from Athens. I hope not too long. The harbour fees are expensive. I want the engine fixed, and go. This place has changed too much since I was here. I remember it as quiet, very peaceful. Now there are cars everywhere, and motorbikes.’

  Nikolas nodded.

  ‘Every day it changes,’ he said.

  ‘You from here?’

  ‘I was born in the house just here.’

  The stranger looked in that direction, but his eyes went past the house to the apartment building, where the small boy on the balcony now stood in sullen silence.

  ‘You find it very different then, for sure,’ said Didrik. ‘Do you like the tourists?’

  ‘I like them fine,’ said Nikolas. ‘We Greeks, we always welcome new friends.’

  Over the rim of his beer-can, Didrik studied him.

  ‘You know, I think I know you,’ he said. ‘Your face, I have seen it before some
where.’

  He seemed to think.

  ‘TV,’ he said, after a moment’s pause. He lowered his can, and pointed it at Nikolas. ‘I saw you on TV, on the news. They interviewed you about Flora.’

  Nikolas shook his head. ‘That’s old news,’ he said. ‘Very old news.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Didrik. ‘I saw you recently. In the past day or so.’

  ‘The press are here again this week,’ said Nikolas, ‘digging up the past. They’ve come for the anniversary, looking for a new angle in the story. I wish them luck. That trail is stone-cold.’

  The stranger drank.

  ‘Ten years,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Ten years, and not a sign. That’s not easy to do on an island like this, to disappear a child. Someone was very clever.’

  ‘You think so? She was so tiny.’ On the balcony, the boy was no longer there. ‘Only so high.’ He held his hand waist-high above the ground.

  ‘You were the last person to see her,’ said Didrik. ‘Apart from whoever …’ He left the sentence without an ending. Tormented by the biting flies, the donkey stamped its foot.

  Nikolas placed his beer on the table and got up from his chair.

  ‘I must go,’ he said.

  Didrik raised his hand.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Please. I’m sure you’re sick of people asking you questions about that all the time. Please, sit. No more on that subject. Please, finish your beer. Keep me company whilst I admire your view.’ He moved his chair, at last, to face the sea. ‘You’re a lucky man to wake up every day to this.’ Didrik drained his beer, and reached into the bag for another, bringing up two, holding one out to Nikolas. ‘Here, have a fresh one. They’re still cold.’

  Nikolas considered, then accepted.

  ‘Maybe one more,’ he said, returning to his seat. ‘But then I have to work.’

  ‘What business are you in?’

  Nikolas pointed to the meadow below the house. At one end there was a stable; in the field’s farthest corner was a circle of bee-hives with one at their centre, all painted in the same bright colours as the dresser.

  ‘You see those hives down there?’ he asked. ‘All mine.’

  ‘You’re the honey man?’ Didrik looked behind him at the empty dresser shelves. ‘So where’s the honey?’

  ‘Down there in the stable. Every day I carry it up here. And I must fetch it soon. No point in sitting here with nothing to sell.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Didrik. ‘We drink our beer, then I’ll help you set up shop. Because of course I want to buy some of your honey. How can I sit and drink with the bee-keeper and not buy honey? And I’m very pleased to be sitting with someone who knows about bees. From being a little kid I always wanted to keep bees, but I’m afraid of them. Don’t they sting you?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Nikolas. ‘It takes many years to get to know about bees. When you understand them, they respect you.’

  A silence fell between them. The donkey sniffed its empty bucket, and flicked its ears against the flies.

  ‘Here,’ said Didrik, ‘I want to show you something.’

  He dug in his shorts for a coin, flipped it, caught it, rubbed his hands together with a flourish and showed Nikolas his empty hands.

  Nikolas smiled.

  ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘You are very clever, my friend.’

  ‘I could teach you,’ said Didrik. ‘Kids love that trick. I bet every day you meet lots of children. That little trick, they will love it. I tell you what, I trade you. You teach me about your bees, I teach you this trick.’

  ‘I don’t need tricks,’ said Nikolas. ‘I have the donkey.’

  Didrik nodded.

  ‘The donkey’s a good idea,’ he said.

  Nikolas had finished his second beer, and was feeling mellow. The clock at St Sotiris struck one; the road was quiet, the afternoon slipping into the sultriness of siesta.

  Didrik’s second can was untouched on the table. He rubbed his temples.

  ‘Too much alcohol in this heat,’ he said. ‘I have a headache.’

  Somehow he had moved again, facing away from the sea towards the apartments. A young woman appeared on the balcony where the boy had been crying. She wore brief shorts and a bikini top; her slender legs and stomach were oiled and tanned.

  Didrik put his sunglasses back on his nose, hiding his eyes.

  ‘You have a great view in two directions,’ he said. ‘Here, have another beer.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Nikolas. ‘It’s time for work.’

  But Didrik had already popped a can, and Nikolas took it.

  ‘I suppose you don’t want your wife to catch you looking at the girls,’ said Didrik. ‘Too much of this then, I think.’ He moved his fingers against his thumb to denote chattering, or nagging. ‘Women are like that. They think a man shouldn’t appreciate another woman.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  Didrik grinned, and offered his hand across the table.

  ‘Shake,’ he said. ‘To good sense and a smart brain. I also am not married.’ Nikolas shook Didrik’s hand, finding it hot against his own beer-cooled palm. ‘But no marriage, no children. That is sad.’

  The young woman finished spreading towels over the balcony rail and went inside. Somewhere, a child was crying.

  ‘I always wanted a daughter,’ said Didrik. ‘A special little girl all of my own. I think sometimes of what I could do with her, the things I would buy for her. I would make her my princess. Flora, you know, I think she was such a child.’ He watched a fly crawling on the table. ‘What do you think happened to her? I am sorry to bring the matter to your attention again, but I am curious. I would like your opinion.’

  Nikolas sipped his beer. On the road, a car went by too fast, there and gone.

  ‘You ask me the same question as the police,’ he said. ‘They asked me that for days. Where did she go? I told them, ask the mother, ask the father. It’s their job to know, not mine.’

  ‘The parents had been drunk, I think.’

  ‘They were drunk, and sleeping late, and the child was bored. She came walking up here, all by herself. She came to see the donkey. I asked if she liked honey, and when she said yes, I took her to the stable to get her some. I keep some little pots just for the children. Gifts, you know. They like that. So I took her with me to the store, and gave her a little jar, and told her to take it straight back to her Mama. It isn’t far. You can see the distance, from here to there. Somewhere between here and there, she disappeared.’

  ‘Like my coin trick.’

  Nikolas looked at him, but couldn’t see his eyes.

  ‘Like your coin trick, yes.’

  ‘They asked you a lot of questions, I’m sure.’

  Nikolas sighed.

  ‘For weeks, they kept coming back. What could I tell them? They said they had evidence she had been in the stable, but I told them that myself.’

  ‘They had no other suspects.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe they should have waited around. They say, don’t they, a killer always returns to the place of his crime.’ He scanned the apartments. ‘Which one was it? I never knew that.’

  ‘This one here, close by us.’ The clock at St Sotiris struck the half hour. Nikolas slapped his thighs, and stood. ‘Time for work.’

  Didrik stretched his arms above his head, and stood up too.

  ‘I will help you,’ he said.

  Nikolas led Didrik down the path behind the house and into the meadow. The cicadas’ song became muted, replaced by the humming of bees. A snake slithered rustling through the dry stalks of thistles. Nikolas was a little unsteady on his feet, and caught his foot on a stone.

  ‘Careful there,’ said Didrik.

  Nikolas had built the stable himself, hammering wooden slats onto a knocked-together frame, laying scaffolding poles from ground to apex and covering them with terra-cotta tiles. He beckoned Didrik inside. The place was cramped, dark and hot and sweet with the perfume of the honey
stacked in crates and boxes.

  ‘No room for the donkey,’ said Didrik. ‘But boy, that stuff smells good. Hey, what’s this?’

  Hanging on a hook was a bee-keeper’s helmet; on a shelf, a smoke-gun and gauntlets.

  ‘These are the real thing, yes?’ Didrik picked up the smoke-gun. ‘Can you show me how to use this?’

  Nikolas was looking amongst the boxes, picking out which ones to haul up to the road.

  ‘Maybe later,’ he said. ‘This is my golden time, when they start coming back from the beach. No-one buys honey going, but coming back, they’re relaxed, maybe they’ve had a glass of wine. That’s when they’re ripe and ready for me.’

  Didrik smiled.

  ‘You’re a man of business,’ he said. ‘But please, show me. A few minutes of your time only. I won’t be here tomorrow, and I want to see it done in real life. How do you make the bees not sting you? Show me, and then I’ll help you with the boxes. You’ll be twice as quick as normal.’

  ‘OK,’ said Nikolas. ‘But I have to be quick.’

  He carried his equipment outside. When he lit the gun, the smoke wafted dense and white from its spout, bringing the dangerous smell of burning into the still air.

  ‘We have to be very careful,’ he said. ‘This time of year, just a spark can start a fire. That would be a problem. A big problem.’

  He put on the helmet and arranged the netting over his face, pulled on the gauntlets and picked up the gun.

  ‘The bees are working,’ he said. ‘If they’re disturbed too much, they don’t like it, and the queen calls them all together, and off they go. Then I have an empty hive, and no honey.’

  ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘Sometimes. Then I leave the hive empty for a while, to see if she comes back. If she doesn’t, I have to find another queen. So to keep them quiet, I think it would be better if you waited here.’