Footprints in the Sand (Back-2-Back, Book 1)

by Chloe Rayban

I waited for this to register. He didn’t flick an eyelid. In fact, he moved his face closer to mine.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah – but it went missing.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning – I’d like to know where you got yours.’

  He exchanged glances with his mates and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘My auntie gave it to me, for passing GCSE maths – that make you happy?’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, because so did mine.’ (Not true but I thought it sounded like a cool response.)

  ‘Oh yeah – so how many watches d’you think they made like this?’ He moved closer. And his mates took a step closer, too.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Have a guess. A thousand – coupla thousand?’

  His leering face was really getting to me. With a totally misjudged flash of anger, I burst out: ‘I think you nicked it – along with all my other stuff.’

  I didn’t see it coming. One of his mates wrenched me by the shoulder, and before I knew it, I was down on the ground. Suddenly, there were feet all round me. I was staring helplessly up into a forest of legs bearing in on me. In a reflex action, I put my arms up over my head to stop being trampled on. With a hard thud a trainer kicked into my shoulder – pain shot down my back – another landed on my cheek, glancing off my eye.

  Oh my God – they were going to kill me. I tried to get my body into a kind of ball with the smallest possible surface area. I lay there waiting for the thuds to multiply…

  But they didn’t.

  Gingerly, I opened my eyes.

  Standing above me, outlined against the disco lights, was the great bull head of Stavros.

  ‘Wha’s goin’ on?’ he demanded.

  I looked around. The thugs had somehow dematerialised. Suddenly, arms were reaching down, helping me to my feet. A girl was dabbing my eye. Someone else was suggesting I should’ve stayed where I was and another guy kept saying we ought to call an ambulance.

  ‘No – I’m all right. It’s OK.’ The club reeled for a moment and I felt as if I was going to puke. I’d just like to sit down, that’s all.’

  Stavros shoved me down on a chair and someone handed me a glass of water. I took a long draught and felt better. As everything came back into focus, I found Stavros had an arm round my shoulders. His big baby face was a picture of concern.

  ‘You tell me who done this,’ he said. ‘I kill them!’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ I said, stretching myself and finding to my relief that all my limbs still seemed to be in working order. ‘It’s just bruises, I think. And they’ve gone, anyway.’

  Stavros insisted that I went back to the taverna in a taxi. He even paid the guy to deliver me to the door.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ I asked as he handed the notes over.

  ‘Me? No. Maybe come later,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The key to Lucy’s room had gone from the hook in the kitchen and the light was off in their room, so I presumed they were back and asleep.

  I lay down on my own bed feeling all in. The bruise on my shoulder was throbbing and I could tell from the tight feeling around my eye that I was going to have a nice ripe shiner in the morning.

  I couldn’t get to sleep at first, it was almost impossible to find a comfortable position – the bruise was on the side I generally lie on. I realised now what an idiot I’d been. That guy was right, there must be thousands of watches like mine in circulation. I’d made a total prat of myself.

  I woke late next day. The little square of sunlight must’ve passed right across my face without waking me. It was there on the wall, slanted into a golden trapezoid, way over to the right. I wondered how late it could be. And then I remembered my watch, and the total berk I’d made of myself the night before.

  My shoulder was stiff and when I put a tentative hand up to my face, I could feel the skin was tight and swollen. If Stavros hadn’t stepped in, it could have been a lot worse.

  I climbed out of bed and dragged on my clothes. And then emerged half-blinded by the bright sunlight. There was no-one around. I wondered what time Stavros had got back. Surely he couldn’t still be asleep? I went down the couple of steps between his room and the kitchen and peered in through the gap between his makeshift curtains. His room was empty and the bed didn’t look as if it had been slept in. Odd.

  I went back to the kitchen and helped myself to a big glass of orange juice – without Stavros around, I could enjoy the luxury of a peaceful start to the day. Lucy and her mother must be sleeping in. Their swimwear, now stiff and dry in the morning sun, was still hanging on the balcony rail.

  I wondered whether I should go for the bread right now or whether I ought to stick around in case they got up. On balance, the idea of waiting conscientiously and peacefully, sitting in the sun with my orange juice, was a lot more attractive than pounding through the olive grove. My eye throbbed. And there was still some of yesterday’s bread left in the kitchen.

  As I was weighing up the alternatives, I heard footsteps crunching up the path to the taverna – heavy footsteps, unmistakably Stavros.

  ‘Yassos,’ he said as he rounded the corner.

  He beamed at me. I’d never seen him looking so pleased with himself. He wasn’t in his normal grouchy morning mood at all. He positively exuded well-being. For God’s sake – he even smelt good for once – he had this wonderful wholesome… what was it? Something vaguely familiar. Yeah – this fresh bread smell about him.

  He produced two round loaves from under his arm and placed them between us on the table.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked, sitting down opposite me.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Only bruises, I’ll live.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t know what those guys would have done to me if you hadn’t been there. I really can’t thank you enough, Stavros.’

  ‘They see me, they run – eh?’ he said, flexing an arm.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your eye bad?’

  ‘Not too bad. Thanks for getting the bread.’

  ‘Bread? Oh bread, yes…’

  It occurred to me then that he might have had better things to do last night than scrape employees off the floor…

  ‘I hope I didn’t spoil your night out,’ I added.

  He looked down at the two round loaves on the table with an unreadable expression on his face.

  ‘Night? My friend. No. No worries,’ he said with a contented smile.

  I stared down at the bread. It smelt so good. It reminded me of Maria, plump and smiling, and I thought of those little feet of hers which she was so proud of…

  Stavros’ eyes met mine. Hang on a minute… Where had he been all night? No way! Maria? The old devil!

  Stavros and Maria! Of course – they were custom-made for each other. The thought of them was kind of touching and ridiculous at the same time – like trying to imagine giant turtles getting off together… I mean you think of all that love stuff being between people who are young and beautiful – like you see in the movies – but Stavros and Maria – Stavros and Maria. I had to work hard to keep a straight face.

  ‘Hm-hm,’ I cleared my voice. ‘I think I’d better make a start on breakfast.’

  ‘No!’ he said holding up a hand. Today – I make brekfuss. You go check windsurfers, shower, put cold towel on eye. OK?’

  ‘Thanks Stavros, you’re a mate.’

  He got up and slapped me on the shoulder – my bad shoulder as it happened, but I forced a smile anyway.

  Later, as I emerged from a long shower, I found Lucy and her mother had already finished their breakfast and gone back to their room.

  ‘Good now?’ asked Stavros.

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘You sit, eat, then I have job for you.’

  ‘Fine. What?’

  ‘Windsurfing lesson.’

  ‘Hey, now look. I’m not qualified or anything. I can’t give lessons.’

  ‘Only beginner.
Show her how to get up sail, balance. Keep windsurfer on a rope. Easy.’

  ‘Her?’ I asked.

  Stavros cast a glance over his shoulder towards Lucy’s room. ‘Yes, her. And remember my friend,’ he pulled down an eye. ‘I’m watching, OK?’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult teaching her to windsurf if I can’t speak to her,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You speak to her. Only about windsurfing, OK? Nothing else.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said with a grin.

  I caught up with Lucy on the terrace.

  ‘I hear you want a lesson,’ I called to her.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll probably be hopeless.’

  She was twisting her hair up into a knot at the back. I’d never seen her with her hair up. She looked really cute – I could see the shape of the back of her neck – it was lightly flecked with baby hair.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘When it suits you.’

  ‘How about in half an hour? That’ll give me time to get a board set up.’

  She moved a step or two closer. ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘Had a bit of a disagreement over the ownership of a certain possession.’

  ‘That’s awful. Who with? What happened?’

  Stavros came out of the kitchen drying a cup on a tea-towel and frowned at me.

  ‘It’s a long story, see you on the beach – OK?’

  I’d never taught anyone to windsurf before. I tried to remember how I’d started. I selected the smallest rig and the most stable board, but I didn’t assemble them. Instead, I built a mound of sand to act as a kind of makeshift simulator, so that Lucy could get the feel of balancing on the board without all the business of falling off into the water.

  About half an hour later she came down on to the beach. She was wearing a one-piece swimsuit this time. Bit of a pity, but obviously more practical for windsurfing.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Right here,’ I said, indicating the board.

  ‘What? Not even in the water?’

  ‘It’s better this way. Step on and get the feel of it.’

  She made quite a fuss about the lesson on the sand, kept jumping off with little shrieks every time I tipped the board too steeply. I had the feeling that teaching Lucy to windsurf could turn out to be an uphill struggle.

  Hearing her, Stavros came over to the edge of the terrace a few times and looked down, but I nodded to him and he nodded back.

  ‘I’m sure I’d be much better on the water,’ she said at last.

  ‘No, it’s better to master the basics on dry land.’

  She fell off a few more times and then lost patience entirely.

  ‘Oh, this is crazy. I’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘Let me try in the water.’

  ‘Well, if you really think you’re ready.’

  She wasn’t. Nowhere near. She insisted that I inserted the rig. She kept saying that once she had something to hold on to, she’d be able to balance. I tried to point out that it didn’t work like that. If you hang on to the wishbone for support you’re more likely to end up on your backside in the water. But she wouldn’t listen. We had a bit of an argument about it. She got quite cross in the end so I gave in. Why not let the girl learn the hard way if she wouldn’t take my advice?

  I tethered the board securely and stood in the shallows watching her and calling out advice. She couldn’t get the hang of judging the wind direction, which is essential if you’re ever going to get the rig up.

  I kept on shouting: ‘Get the rig to the lee of the board.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re about five degrees off.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘By the way the board’s acting. And you should be able to tell by the feel of it.’

  ‘OK, I’ve only just started – give me a chance.’

  ‘I am. Why don’t you come back on the shore like I suggested in the first place, and learn to keep your balance?’

  ‘Why don’t you just let me be? I can’t concentrate with you criticising the whole time.’

  ‘I’m not criticising, I’m trying to teach you.’

  ‘If you’ll just leave me alone, I know I’ll be able to do it.’ Her face had set into a determined expression. Once again she let the board slew round so that the rig was out of alignment.

  ‘Look, Lucy…’ I said. My patience was running a bit thin as she fell off backwards for about the twentieth time.

  She stood up in the water, looking wet and cross.

  ‘Don’t you “Look Lucy” me!’

  ‘Look, the thing is, I don’t think you’re really trying to do what I…’

  ‘Trying! I don’t think you really know how to teach windsurfing.’ (She had a point there.)

  ‘How can I teach you when you won’t listen?’

  ‘How can I learn when you’re telling me three different things at once?’

  ‘OK – have it your own way. I won’t say another word.’ I crossed my arms and waited.

  She scrambled on to the board again. Thrusting the wet hair out of her eyes, she managed to balance with an enormous effort. How she did it beat me. I could see she wasn’t bending her knees enough – she’d be off into the water again any minute.

  Carefully, she eased the board round until it was at right angles to the wind.

  ‘Right – cast the rope off. I’m ready,’ she said between gritted teeth.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Let go!’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh Lucy, be realistic…’

  ‘Who’s paying for this lesson?’

  ‘Who’s giving this lesson? Look, you haven’t got the faintest idea…’

  ‘Stop being so bloody superior,’ she snapped.

  ‘Superior? Right! OK. Have it your own way – here goes.’

  I untethered the rope and let out some slack. Of course I had no intention of letting her go out to sea on her own.

  By some sort of magic, the rig actually lifted out of the water. As the sail caught the breeze and bellied out, the board started to move forward. Lucy cast a triumphant smile over her shoulder at me. And sure enough, within seconds, her over-confidence was rewarded by the most dramatic over-the-top catapult fall I’ve ever witnessed.

  I cracked up. I couldn’t help it. She went in headfirst, bottom-up, right into the middle of a great big sludgy clump of weed.

  When she surfaced, she had weed tangled in her hair and running down her body – she looked like some grotesque kind of sea-creature. She rubbed the water out of her eyes and caught me laughing.

  ‘You did that on purpose,’ she said.

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘You pulled on the rope. You must’ve done.’

  ‘No I did not!’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Look Lucy…’

  ‘You enjoyed every minute of that, didn’t you…?’ She was wading out of the water now, sounded near to tears.

  ‘Honestly, Lucy. You did just about everything in the book totally wrong…’

  She stood in front of me, dripping weed.

  ‘If you weren’t so bloody arrogant, you might be able to teach…’ she stormed.

  I felt angry at this. I’d really been trying to help her. I just blew my top.

  ‘If you weren’t so bloomin’ pig-headed you might be able to learn…’ I called over my shoulder as I went to retrieve the board.

  ‘Pig-headed!’ she retorted. ‘Who’s talking?’

  ‘Oh, Jeesus – women!’

  I waded through the water. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You can at least learn how to get the board out on to the shore.’

  With as much dignity as anyone covered in weed can muster, she stretched to her full height.

  ‘You can get the damn thing out of the water yourself,’ she said. And she stomped off up the beach.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I didn’t see Lucy for the rest of the day. I think she must’ve gone off to anot
her beach or something.

  It was a pretty lousy afternoon – my head ached and I didn’t want to risk windsurfing with my shoulder feeling so rough. So I just continued painting the white lines down the steps. I was making headway. I’d only got another hundred or so to go.

  It was hypnotic work, dipping the brush in the can, brushing it along the step, dipping and brushing, brushing and dipping. As I worked my way down the steps, the sun gradually rose higher and higher in the sky, burning the back of my neck. My head throbbed and the dredger marked time with an intermittent deafening cascade of stones.

  Jeez. I felt like someone in a penal colony doing hard labour. Everything had gone bloody wrong. I’d had my gear nicked. I’d been beaten up. I had a lousy, ill-paid job. And I’d messed up any chance of a relationship with the only decent female around. Yeah well – it was her fault, too. She didn’t have to be so pig-headed.

  My mind kept going over everything that had been said. Had it been my fault? No way! She was behaving like a right little prima donna. Who did she think she was? ‘Who’s paying for this lesson?’ Huh!

  That was when I accidentally kicked the paint pot. I looked on in horror as a long slow slick of white paint formed a sort of waterfall down the steps. Oh bloody hell. Help! Disaster.

  I dragged off my T-shirt and staunched the flow. It came to a halt in an oozing pool of white. Slowly and painfully I mopped up. Two steps were ruined and so was my T-shirt. My T-shirt? My one and only T-shirt. Oh smegging hell! This had to be the worst afternoon of my entire life.

  I went to clean up in the shower. Stavros emerged from his siesta and caught me at it. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Had a bit of an accident with the paint. But it’s OK.’

  He looked on as I wrung white paint out of my T-shirt. It was useless, it was totally trashed.

  Stavros took one look at it then ambled off through the vines. He reappeared holding a plastic bag with a T-shirt inside.

  ‘Take this – on the house,’ he said.

  I opened it. It was one of those gross give-away T-shirts I’d seen the Albanian boy wearing. It had a garish picture of blue sea and geraniums on the front and bore that killer of an advertising slogan: You’ll learn to love Lexos.