by Nick Brown
On the walk Theodrakis noticed the number of workless men begging on the streets seemed to be increasing and their behaviour becoming more aggressive. Many of these weren’t Islanders which caused further friction; some were Albanians who in better times worked as waiters in the tourist season. One of these, a shabby man with a vivid birthmark across the left side of his face, noticed Theodrakis staring, made a gesture with his fingers at him and then spat in the gutter. Theodrakis ignored him, reflecting that Island society was disintegrating but the situation was worse in Athens.
He ordered a mineral water for himself and a coffee for Andraki, then added a raki which the professor said he needed to settle a nervous stomach. This medicine disappeared in two swallows and settled the stomach sufficiently to allow Andraki to continue his narrative.
“The damage done to this site might have destroyed unique evidence, so of course I went back to the Police and this time they were interested. Not because of the archaeology of course, they couldn’t care less about that, but because it coincided with the discovery of the second body. It was also the day that the island news agency received the murderer’s curse.”
Theodrakis interrupted him,
“But that was shown to be a fake.”
“Well, that was the official line, but when you consider the message alongside the clay tablets it’s not so easy to dismiss.”
“Just stop there a moment: what do you mean by the clay tablets?”
“It was decided to keep it quiet but I thought that you would have known about that.”
This rattled Theodrakis; why didn’t he know about it and what else was being kept from him?
“Well, tell me about it anyway, I’ll order you another raki for your digestion.”
Andraki ignored the sarcasm; but he wanted another drink, the nightmare was getting too close.
“When the curse was delivered to the news, it was in a sealed envelope which also contained an old baked clay tablet with some form of ancient script on it and the police wanted me to tell them what it meant. It was unlike any I’d seen but had similarities to early Uruk period script from Mesopotamia. It was a curse like the ones we know from the later Fara scripts, but too old to translate with any certainty. But we assumed it was similar in content to the modern paper one.”
This Theodrakis did know about, the paper had foolishly printed it so that almost every islander could now quote it from memory:
“Something more ancient than anything on your polluted island now walks amongst you.”
He snapped back at Andraki,
“You know there isn’t an actual clear link between that ambiguous gibberish and the murders. Any deranged oddball could have written it.”
“Yes, and that’s what the police thought until the paper received the second message. By this time the editor had learned to apply a level of discretion so it wasn’t published, but the tablet that accompanied this one was slightly later in date. No don’t stop me now or I may not start again and I want to get all this out of my system. The written message as you know said only ‘Look for me in that place of terror’. But the tablet was in a type of script in use at Ur about four and a half thousand years ago, at least fifteen hundred years later than the first one. Both tablets were genuine, Syntagmatarchis, I know that, it’s my specialism; I have excavated at both Eridu and Shuruppak.”
“Well, then you will know that the tablets are not related to Samos.”
“That’s what I would like to believe, yes; but ask yourself, is it not curious that the tablets and modern curses claim to be from the murderer and that every time we find a body another Neolithic site on the island is vandalised?”
“So there have been more than two?”
“Yes, and I am convinced that now we have your body from the river we will find another; only this time I will have nothing to do with it, this has damaged me enough already.”
Theodrakis could see he believed what he said but had one more question.
“You said that the script of the second tablet was later; were you able to understand it?”
“Oh yes, I could transcribe it and read it all right: there are thousands of tablets written in the same script. It’s a form of Sumerian but the odd thing is that it was made at a time when Sumerian was no longer used. I think that both tablets refer back to something much older to a time before metal, in fact to the Neolithic. The very context of the sites disturbed here on Samos; odd, so much coincidence, don’t you think?”
“So what does it say?”
“I am not sure it will help you much but it reads ‘E-temen-ni-gur-ru’. This roughly translates as ‘house whose foundation platform is clad in terror’. And I don’t think that gets you much further. The precise meaning is impossible to construe but it indicates something has been built over some pre-existing feature associated with dread. I find it hard not to connect that with the fact that Neolithic burials are being disrupted on this island. Any link with the gruesome murders I don’t want to know.”
He sat back and downed the second raki. Theodrakis sat confused. Andraki got up to leave; as he turned to go he asked a question almost as an afterthought.
“Oh, one thing, Syntagmatarchis, here is a question you probably should be asking yourself. Why did your colleagues not tell you any of this? What are they trying to hide?”
Theodrakis watched him walk away across the square and then ordered a raki for himself, not caring how out of character this was. His mind was spinning dangerously and he needed something to arrest it. What Andraki said made weird sense of what Lucca had told him about at least one of the murder weapons being some type of flint blade.
But what really shook him was closer to home: his colleagues not only disliked him, they were deliberately withholding evidence from him. He couldn’t believe that any level of dislike would persuade cops or their civil service bosses to do that. After all, this was their island and their women were also at risk, they were as scared of this as everyone else. He shouted to the waiter for another drink and as he waited he remembered a cult film he’d watched with a group of friends as a student.
Something about a cop who had been lured to a remote island to solve a kidnapping case but ended up being ritually sacrificed himself. He thought it might have been an English film and remembered they had laughed about it at the time. It didn’t seem funny now, on a different island in similar circumstances. He sat nursing the drink and brooding.
Sometime later he got up, left some money and set off for the police station. He would have it out with them; either they were straight with him or he would inform Athens about the state of policing on the island.
He knew influential people and his father was a man to be reckoned with. Walking to the police station through the stifling hot streets, his anger grew as he concocted how he’d confront them. He knew what he was planning was imprudent but his frustration and the raki drove him on.
As he reached the flight of steps leading up to the station entrance, the automatic doors slid open and the slovenly figure of Samarakis shambled out. He knew that of all the people he might have confronted about this, Samarakis was the least appropriate but before he had time to reconsider they were face to face.
“Been for any more paddles in rivers have we, Mr big shot Athenian?”
Samarakis laughed at his own joke and as Theodrakis opened his mouth to reply he said,
“And you’ve been drinking I see, nice that some of our local customs are rubbing off on you.”
Before he could say more Theodrakis had him by the throat.
“Listen you fat ignorant pig, I know you’ve been withholding information from me; so what does that make you? Not laughing now, you fat fuck, are you?”
He could see the surprise in Samarakis eyes as clearly as he could see his spittle flecking the podgy cheeks. Samarakis tried to shake him off and gasped out.
“Look, people are watching; stop this, it’s doing neither of us any good.”
And now s
hocked himself, he dropped his hands letting Samarakis breathe and talk more easily.
“Listen maybe we’ve not been fair to you, you know, overdone it a bit, but you’ve not helped yourself. We’ll talk later; I’ll fill you in properly but not here, like this, better tomorrow.”
Theodrakis said nothing but watched as Samarakis shuffled off noticing that around his neck he wore a charm to ward off the evil eye. The small crowd that had gathered to watch dispersed, and Theodrakis stood for a moment on the steps alone and shamed. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the building, nor could he face going back to his apartment in Vathia. It was at that moment, feeling at his lowest ebb, he remembered someone on his first day recommending a small fishing village on the other side as somewhere to chill. He walked back into town, brought a new shirt and toothbrush, and flagged down a taxi.
Later, sitting on the balcony of his hotel room overlooking the sea, he considered his options. He’d been dropped off at the hotel by the taxi driver who told him he’d have no trouble getting a room. Normally during the tourist season the place was packed, but not this last couple of years. In fact, the hotel was more than half empty and the man watching football in the empty bar who welcomed him gave him a choice of rooms. He chose the best they had: a sea view with balcony and air conditioning. He lay down on the bed and slipped easily into a deep and mercifully dream free sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was setting behind the mountain diffusing the room with soft light; he was hungry so after throwing some water over his face he grabbed his jacket and went out. He felt free, no one knew he was here, his problems could wait. The harbour was lined with a scattering of tavernas and bars, all of them half empty except for a scruffy one that was obviously the haunt of the local fishermen. This bar had a large group of men talking loudly clustered round a backgammon table.
He recognised, to his surprise, the Englishman he’d seen with Andraki that morning amongst this group, and he envied him. He followed the waterfront to the last taverna by the harbour mouth; only one table was taken and the waitress was sitting by the entrance reading. He’d intended, out of some strange instinct of loyalty, to eat at the hotel, but this place appealed to him and he sat at the table nearest to the water and gazed out beyond the harbour to the mountains fringing the bay.
A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the water and he watched the refracted reflection of the sun on the sea fade as night came in. The waitress looked up from her book and came over to the table. She was slim with short black hair and unusually tall. When she took his order a smile lit up her face, rendering her beautiful. He ordered a beer, followed by another, then feeling hungry asked for the menu. She laughed.
“There is no menu tonight: we have some octopus stifado or we could make an omelette if you prefer.”
He opted for the stifado and a jug of white wine. The food was surprisingly good, the wine thin and harsh. But the night air was cool and the stars hung over the bay. He asked the waitress to sit down and help with the wine. She agreed to sit, as he was by now the only customer, but declined his offer of the wine, preferring a coke.
Her name was Hippolyta. She’d not managed to find a suitable job after university so had borrowed money to open a shop for tourists; after a year the economic crash scuppered tourism and the shop went bust. Now she was in debt and a waitress. They talked until the place closed and when he asked if she worked here every night, she said no but told him she’d be there tomorrow.
Later, as he sat on his balcony looking at the stars, he tried to imagine somewhere else out there in the multiverse where one of the infinite versions of himself had had the courage to ask her out.
Chapter 6:
Slow Turn
Steve heard her before he saw her: the siren blasts from the car horn not only startled him but everyone else in the village. He looked out of the window to see the silver sports car, roof down, with Alekka at the wheel.
“Kirios Steve, you must be quick, Saturday morning is almost gone and you have a match of cricket to play.”
He was both alarmed and pleased; no formal arrangement had been made for this weekend and he hadn’t been sure if anyone would collect him. He was not sure about the cricket though.
“I don’t have anything to play in.”
“Do not worry, we have all the cricket costumes and protectors that you could need.”
He quickly swilled and spat out a shot of mouthwash and ran downstairs. As he closed the door behind him he remembered he’d left his phone on charge in the flat, but the proximity of Alekka drove the thought from his mind. He climbed into the passenger seat and she leant across and lightly kissed him on the mouth.
“Why I let you kiss me, Steve, I do not know after you make no attempt to call me since you leave my father’s house last Sunday.”
He recognised this as a tease but was pleased by its implications so he said nothing, just sat back in his seat and stared at her bare brown legs as the car accelerated away from the curb and sped through the narrow twisting back lanes of the village towards the main road. Had he bothered to look, he would have seen two old village women swathed in traditional black make a gesture with their first and fourth fingers then spit into the road. The car shot straight over the cross roads without pausing and up the hill, screaming round each bend. Exhilarated by speed, danger and the beautiful driver, Steve luxuriated in the rush of hot air and sunlight. When they came to the roundabout where a right turn bypassed the small hilltop town, Alekka, instead of turning, carried straight on, and noticing that Steve was going to ask her why, she braked abruptly.
“If you want to see why we are taking the slow way, look over there.”
He turned his head towards the bypass and saw about fifty metres from the exit there was a police barrier.
“Death has been discovered there, Steve, and they are very frightened because it’s one of their own. They only knew about it early this morning - a shepherd found the body.”
“What? You mean a cop’s been killed?”
“Yes, either that or suicide, they are not sure, they say the body is one of those who are investigating the demonic killings.”
To most people, the word demonic would have seemed either quaint or just the mistranslation of a more ordinary word; but not to him after Skendleby. He privately hoped it was suicide brought on by personal problems but asked,
“How can you say that if they’ve only just found the body?”
“Because we know everything, Steve. My family knows everything that happens on this island, sometimes before it happens; I thought you already understood that.”
She laughed and gently put her hand on the back of his neck just below the hairline and spoke while looking tenderly into his eyes.
“Oh, Steveymou, you look as if you are afraid of me now, it was a little joke, I thought you English loved to make a joke of all things in life. I know these things because the entire island knows. There was an argument, perhaps even a fight, depending which version you believe, between the two senior police who investigate the murders. The pale Athenian and Samarakis: The entire world saw it. It was on the steps of the big new police building in Karlovasi.
“So I have a good idea whose body they examine over there: that fat pig Samarakis is a very bad man to cross and he has many wicked connections. But we will not talk more of it, as I see it has begun to spoil your day, Steve; and it is a day that was going so well, was it not?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just gunned the engine and sent the car screaming through the narrow silent streets of Marathakampos. It had disturbed his day and to an extent, he figured, that even she couldn’t guess. It took the whole of the nerve jangling car journey before he regained his earlier sense of anticipation.
The car tore into the courtyard and screeched to a stop. He saw several expensive black windowed cars parked up and members of staff carrying baggage from them into the house, and he hadn’t even remembered a toothbrush.
“You get out here,
Steve, and go to my father’s terrace; there you will find a surprise, then you play cricket. You will find the uniform laid in the changing tent. Today will be busy, but tonight after the party you might like to walk with me in the garden.”
She reversed at speed out of the courtyard and the car screeched noisily away. He entered the house and followed the sound of laughter and voices, emerging shortly after onto the crowded terrace. Vassilis saw him and motioned for silence which instantaneously followed his gesture. He moved towards Steve took him by the arm and led him to the centre of the crowd which reshaped itself into an audience around them.
“This is Doctor Steve Watkins, the man who saved the life of my son, who would now like to thank him in front of you all for the gift of his life.”
In the shadows under the awning at the far side of the terrace Steve recognised the young driver threading his way through the throng of guests. He was pale but apart from a dressing round his neck looked in much better shape than Steve had expected. He crossed to Steve, mumbled thanks in English and then kissed Steve on both cheeks, looking unhappy at having to perform such an act in public. In fact, Steve felt he resented being brought face to face with his obligation. Vassilis led a round of applause as the kiss was delivered and himself embraced and kissed Steve on both cheeks. Then raised his arms above his head in an archaic gesture and pronounced,
“It is fitting that Doctor Watkins is able to take the place of Antonis in our island team, and now we will process to the chapel for the blessing. Afterwards we will take a stirrup cup and pour a libation before we go to meet our opponents on the cricket field.”
He led the way down the steps towards the chapel; Steve found it hard not to laugh, but didn’t have time to think further as a soft hand gripped him by the arm and looking round he saw Brandi next to him, this time sober. She squeezed his arm and whispered in his ear,