A Handful of Pebbles

by Sara Alexi

  The gates to the house are open and a car passes her as it pulls up the drive, forcing her to step to one side. As she nears the bend, Sarah puts her shoes back on. Neville’s car is there already, in front of one of the garages. A Jeep has hemmed it in, making it look small. This pleases her.

  In between the garage and the house, a bonfire has been lit. In the floodlit garden on the other side of the front door, two barbeques provide gathering points, and lines of linen-covered tables fill the lawn, being lifted to the heavens by clusters of white and silver helium-filled balloons. Men stand around, some smoking, one with tongs in his hand, two with white tea towels tucked into waistbands. Jim is there, laughing, as the man who holds the tongs points them to the sky; a story is in progress. The orator briefly breaks away to turn whatever is cooking on the grill.

  ‘Dogs hate it.’ The teenager, Jenny, comes from behind the garage. The same girl who opened the door for Sarah when she came to see Frona. ‘It’s the noise, but no one thinks about the dogs.’

  ‘Grab them a sausage each and they will forgive you everything,’ Sarah suggests.

  ‘I’m going to get them a steak each.’ And off she goes, winding her way between the people who are thronging in front of the house. Beyond the dressed tables and the barbeques, at the far end of the lawn, a stage has been erected and, in front of that, a wooden dance floor. A man plays the bouzouki, and he is accompanied by a guitar. The speakers whistle and crackle to the sound check.

  ‘Ena, dyo, ena, dyo, ena, ena, ena.’ The man strums his long-necked instrument and the guitar picks up the tune. The group by the barbeque raise their glass to the men on the stage, who begin to perform in relaxed earnest. The guitarist wedges his cigarette in the strings above the neck and sings a guttural warble into his microphone. The music speaks of ages past, a culture that has remained steadfast for centuries despite invasions of the Turks and, more recently, the E.U. Sarah knows that if she was Greek, she would be proud.

  ‘You know, you should be inside with the women.’ The teenage girl is back, a big raw steak in each hand.

  ‘Really, why?’

  ‘They are doing the rice and child thing in a bit. They are all clucking like hens inside.’ Her accent is American, but her olive skin and dark hair are all Greek. She throws a slab of meat to each of the dogs and they sniff without much interest. ‘I’m gonna watch a video. Beats all this.’ One side of her upper lip lifts into a sneer but her words and this action are awkward, a brave attempt to look composed when really she has no idea how to act or what is expected of her. Joss was morose at this girl’s age, Finn painfully shy.

  ‘Good idea,’ Sarah agrees, and the girl gives a self-conscious wave as she leaves.

  Spitting grit from its wheels, an opened-backed truck comes to a halt and a man shouts as he leaps from the cab. One of the men by the barbeque goes in the house and returns with two rifles. Sarah drops back into the shadows by the dog cages, keeps in the shadows as she follows the wall and finds herself around the back of the house where she enters by a door that opens at the far end of the swimming pool. Silk water lilies are clustering around the filter. Slowly, they are sucked into the stream of returning water from which they are suddenly jettisoned, bobbing and spinning back to the centre of the pool. A dragonfly, fooled by the colours, hovers over them. The window that dissects the pool at the front of the house has been raised and the hall is open, neither inside nor out.

  A group of women comes from the direction of the kitchen with stacks of circular basketwork trays in their hands. Seeing Sarah, they smile and beckon, bustling up the stairs. Sarah is given several baskets and a bag of rice. The women gabble at her in Greek. The baskets are filled with red silk petals.

  Giggling and talking over each other, the women lift skirts and hold tight to the hand rail as they ascend to the first floor. The lady at the rear waits for Sarah, who has stopped to look up through the skylight as a rocket explodes. Noise seems to be coming from every direction. Music and talk from the front of the house, fireworks above, the echo of laughter and shrieks from inside the house. The whole place is filled with excitement but emphasises Sarah’s loneliness.

  The group collides with more women, and one or two men who are trying to keep their dignity in the throng. Everyone is jamming into one room. The squash of people propels Sarah along and she finds herself next to a large double bed strewn with rose petals. A child of about six reaches up to try and grab some petals from the baskets Sarah has forgotten she is holding. Handing the girl the whole basket, more hands reach and Sarah hands out all she has but is offered one back. Taking a handful, she follows suit and throws the petals on the bed. The packet of rice she brought is split open and that, too, is spread on the bed. The older woman, with sun-browned and work-worn fingers, stirs the mix, coating the bed evenly. The men, who had taken a step back from the central point, now reach over the throng and throw bank notes onto the counterpane. Some flitter though the stirred air, people snatching at them before they become lost amongst the feet, and they are thrown again to lodge between rice and petals.

  The rice and petals seem to be finished now, but the money keeps coming. Everyone is laughing, talking and excited, their traditional magic a heady brew. Men keep pushing into the room, throwing notes, outdoing their friends. As they leave, new faces arrive. The twenty and fifty euro notes that began the ritual are now replaced by hundreds and then five hundreds. One man in a shiny suit drops a note that says it is one thousand euros. Sarah is not even sure if such a note exists. The man lights a cigar as he ambles from the room. A group of children come in, screeching and shouting. The smallest girl, in a lace dress with a large ribbon at the back, is roughly grabbed by one of the old ladies in black. With effort, she is picked up and thrown on the bed, but the child squirms and runs away. Another willingly offers her services and climbs by herself into the central position. With all the attention on her, she awaits instruction. She is to roll, roll amongst the money and the petals. Many hands assist her.

  ‘May they be blessed with many children,’ someone calls in English and is answered in Greek. Liz puts her head around the door. Sarah lifts her hand to attract her attention, but she is gone. Neville’s head appears. He studies the room, watches the other men. Someone pushes past him, slapping him on the back as he throws his own note. Someone else pulls Neville into the room, encouraging him to join in. The child has had enough of rolling and wriggles from the bed and runs away. Neville pulls out a twenty and tries to be casual as he lets go and it floats down onto the bed. Laurence is behind him now. His eyes dart around the room, trying to make sense of what is going on. Sarah bends her knees, glad that the woman in front of her is tall. Between shoulders, she watches as someone gesticulates, trying to explain what is going on to Laurence. He is offered rice; someone else takes out his own wallet and shows Laurence what is expected.

  Sarah could tell them that Laurence will not join in. He will see the encouragement as bullying, expecting him to conform to something that is not in his culture. Gritting her teeth, she waits to see how he will handle it. She hopes he will not make a fuss. The man who is trying to be helpful taps him on the shoulder and points to the bed, his eyes alight at the game they are playing. Laurence shrugs the man’s hand off and takes a step back. Two men are facing Laurence now, their smiles gone. Liz reappears and talks in Laurence’s ear. He turns and is gone. Well, at least there was no fuss, but how mean can you get? It is his own son who would benefit.

  More baskets of petals arrive, the floor underfoot now crunchy with grains of rice. Gently pushing past people, Sarah heads for the door. As she passes the bed, she takes a fifty euro note from her handbag and pushes her hand through the mass of people and lets it drop. For a second, she is part of it all.

  Back in the hall, the fireworks ring above. She has seen neither Joss and Pru or Finn and Helena, nor has she yet met Helena’s mother. It would also be polite to say hello to Jim, and where in all these rooms and in all this crowd is Fron
a? Maybe in the kitchen.

  Spotting Laurence in the hall, she leaves through the back door she came in by. For a second, there is calm, quiet, but as she turns the corner back towards the bonfire, the noise is heightened by some of the men pointing rifles in the air and shooting at the sky. In the shock of the sudden sound, Sarah runs and finds herself in the shadows on the dog pen again. The dogs’ heads rest on crossed paws; she is more alarmed by the gunfire than they are. After each round of shots, there is laughter, and more men come to join in the celebration. Jim is at the centre of it all, loading and handing out rifles. The men cheer with the cracks, and occasionally, the trees that line the other side of the wall rustle as they are hit.

  The man in the shiny suit with his cigar in his mouth saunters around the pool. Behind him are Laurence and Neville. Liz hangs back, glass in hand, looking at the silk water lilies. Jim greets Laurence loudly as they are absorbed into the throng of men. The man with the shiny suit is handed a gun. He looks at it with disinterest, steps to one side to let others gather around Jim. Holding the shotgun in one hand, he concentrates on his cigar with his other, drawing out the last few puffs.

  Someone from the barbeque area shouts, first something that sounds like ‘Eh Timmy’ and then another voice bellows, ‘Food’s ready.’ No one responds except the man in the shiny suit. He grinds out the last of his cigar, props the gun against the dog cage, and, pulling up his trousers from their waistband, hurries his steps towards the waiting food.

  He does not see Sarah.

  The gun waits.

  Laurence is being shown how to hold a rifle by Jim. Neville has returned to Liz. There are many people shooting, so much noise. Jim leaves Laurence to assist another man. Laurence stands still as he takes his aim.

  In all this chaos, who would know how it happened?

  Sarah picks up the rifle.

  Chapter 28

  The gun is heavier than she expected. The metal is cool to the touch, the wood smooth. Laurence is still standing there, trying to figure out what to do, where to aim. Sarah acknowledges his attempt to join in, but it is a discriminating choice. He did not choose to join in with a gift of money, rice throwing, or petal scattering; he chose the gun. A weapon of destruction. Metal and engineering. Capable of taking a life in the wrong hands. Just like a car can.

  Fireworks scream and explode above the house. Children run. The musicians are singing and playing with gusto and, here and there, men and women, arms across each other’s shoulders, dance with cries of ‘Opa!’

  A lone boy, unheeded, is in amongst the men with the guns. He can be no more than nine or ten years old and firing shot after shot into the air, his little body jerking with each recoil. He laughs at his game.

  Sarah puts the butt of the gun she is holding against her shoulder, to see how it feels. It sits well, if heavily. Looking down the shaft, there’s a V-shaped notch where the wood turns to metal and at the far end of the barrel, a lug of metal. Aligning the lug to fit in the V, Sarah finds she is focused on Laurence’s left knee. The macabre thought crosses Sarah’s mind that with just one little squeeze, or a sudden cough, a jerk of her hand, there would be an accident. Laurence lame for life, his neat little world blow open. No driving, no walking, no strutting. But at least he would still have his life, which is more than he granted Torin.

  Her breathing becomes laboured, her sight bleary.

  Laurence and the people around him seem to be moving in slow motion, their next steps predictable, obvious. The boy with his head back is frozen in mid-laugh as he fires his pistol. The seconds elongate to minutes, the fireworks hang motionless and noiseless in the air, the music is silent, the laughter suspended. There is just the lug of metal in the V and Laurence. She raises the barrel. The action pushes her shoulder against the dog pen, which lends support.

  The sight lines up with Laurence’s stomach. If the Hollywood films are to be believed, that would be a slow and painful death. Internal bleeding, mincemeat of his organs. She could rush to him, pretend she is heartbroken and watch him groan and writhe until, slowly, the light goes out of his eyes, just as she watched the light go out of Torin’s eyes.

  But maybe it would not ensure death. Maybe the films are not to be believed.

  Up a little.

  Chest.

  Through his arm and into his heart. Huh! What heart? Her finger twitches on the trigger.

  Laurence still hasn’t moved.

  Up.

  Head. Right in his temple, and that would be the end of him. Wiped from the planet.

  Sarah shifts the sagging weight of the gun up into her shoulder and lowers her head so her cheek is against the polished wood. Taking aim, she steadies herself.

  ‘Squeeze,’ she whispers. She heard that advice somewhere, or read it. A film or a book maybe. ‘Squeeze the trigger. Do not pull or jerk.’

  It feels as if there is no give in the metal. She tightens her grip and readies herself to squeeze.

  Something appears in her peripheral vision, over her left shoulder. Time speeds up again and Sarah loses control of the moment. The fireworks explode. The gun is pushed forward and up and is lifted from her grip. Laughter and shouting echoes from the buildings. The weight of the wooden stock skims down her dress, the barrel pointing skywards, and the whole gun is taken out of her hands, out of her sight to her left. It happens so fast, she has no control. The arms enclose around her, holding her so she cannot move. Twisting her head, she tries to see who it is, a glimpse of gold reflects around a neck. The grip releases just enough to allow her to turn. A firework lights up his face in green and then orange.

  ‘These shotguns have a kick like a donkey.’ He does not smile. Behind him, the side gate is still open.

  Anger brings a tremor to her limbs. How dare he interfere? Her mouth tightens into a line and she turns and twists. His grip remains firm.

  ‘And a kick like that can wipe away your future.’ Fear flickers in his eyes and there is no releasing his grip, no choice but to stay still. He smells of soap and the sun, with just a trace of goat. Hairs poke over the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. She doesn’t like hairy men. The only movement that is possible is the turn of her head. Lowering her chin and twisting it sideways, she avoids the hairs and rests against his shirt. In one ear, she can hear all the rumpus of the party, the music and the guns, the laughter and shouting. In the other ear, faint at first but as she concentrates, it becomes clearer. A reassuring rhythm, a meter of strength, the steady beat of life, his heart. Taken for granted, the muscle that is a miracle maker. When it stops, everything is lost. But this heart, so close, sounds strong, assured, determined. Something that could be trusted to throb on and on until time, naturally, takes its toll.

  What on earth possessed her? To even think about stopping another person’s heart, what right had she to do that? Laurence being dead would not have solved anything. In fact, it ... She blanks her mind. She cannot bear to think about it: the boys’ father dead, their mother in jail.

  ‘It would be nice to think that you have a future here.’ As he speaks, Sarah can feel the brush of his chin, or is it his lips, against the top of her head. She turns her face upwards. His chin is tucked in to look down at her. A trace of sweat on his brow belies his calm. His lips are parted and she can feel his breath on her skin.

  ‘Explain?’ The voice comes like a roar; even the fireworks cannot drown it out. The arms around her fall away and they turn in unison. Jim stands, legs apart, a gun, broken, over his arm.

  ‘You’d better take this, or fire it, or something. It’s loaded.’ Nicolaos calmly picks up the gun he rescued from Sarah’s grip. Jim accepts it without comment but still waits for an answer to his question.

  ‘I have come to wish your daughter a happy marriage, to spread petals on her marriage bed, and to wish her everything in her marriage that I never had.’

  Jim looks at Sarah, his eyebrows lowering, his mouth twisting, perplexed, before looking back at Nicolaos.

  ‘If you do not wa
nt me to do it in person, then perhaps,’ Nicolaos fumbles in his back pocket and draws out a wallet.

  Over Jim’s shoulder, coming out of the house, Sarah spots Frona shuffling towards the bonfire, towards the men still firing guns.

  ‘I think your mother is looking for you.’ Sarah points over Jim’s shoulder. He turns. It is apparent that Frona has not seen them and there is no haste in her steps. She is looking for no one. Jim turns back, ignoring Sarah, his steady gaze on Nicolaos. Maybe she should have kept quiet.

  ‘Jim, is that you?’ Now Frona has seen at least Jim, who is not in the shadows.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Mama,’ Jim shouts over his shoulder. A rocket whizzes into the heavens and explodes. The musicians finish their song and the people applaud. Looking first at Nicolaos and then at the open gate behind him, it is clear what Jim wants, but then he looks at Sarah. It must have appeared to him as if they were in each other’s arms, which they were, only not for the reason he must be thinking. But she cannot explain it without explaining about the gun.

  ‘Jim?’ Frona is still moving towards them. Sarah steps out of the shadows. ‘Ah Sarah,’ Frona exclaims as she spots her, too, ‘I was wondering where you were.’

  Nicolaos leans half into the light. A shower of cascading sparkles fills the sky and a hissing noise accompanies the display, lighting all three of them up. Frona does not miss a step but her eyes widen at the sight of Nicolaos. She scans across to Jim. ‘Ah how lovely,’ she begins, but she pushes her sleeves up to her elbows as if preparing herself for hard work—or a fight.

  ‘Mama, go back to the house. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Jim does not take his eyes from Nicolaos.