Behind Closed Doors (6 page)

The man who had broken her nose had threatened her with hurting Nico. He had mentioned his name. She hadn’t thought it at the time but she realised now that Nico must have been in on it all. He had been part of this gang, whatever it was. She thought back over the conversations they’d had, the things he had said to her, trying to make sense of it.

She had been out with Juliette when she’d first seen him.

Juliette had not wanted to go. But their mother had been unwell; some food or other she had eaten on the first day of the holiday had disagreed with her, and she had been sick several times. In the late afternoon she was asleep in bed and, although the sisters didn’t particularly enjoy spending time together, neither of them wanted to spend time with their father either.

‘We could go and have a look at the shops,’ Scarlett had said, hopeful.

‘What for?’ Juliette said, taciturn. Head in a book, of course. Scarlett could never tell if she was actually reading it. The pages turned regularly but she seemed to just stare at it, unmoving, silent. As though it was a diversionary tactic.

Juliette would have preferred to stay in the room, the curtains drawn across the patio doors, the heat in there stifling because their father wouldn’t pay for air-conditioning in their room as well as the other room next door, the one he was sharing with their mother.

‘You can sit in here,’ he had said, when they’d first arrived and had the argument about it, ‘if you get too hot.’

They couldn’t sit in there with their mother vomiting and moaning, of course.

‘I just want to go out somewhere,’ Scarlett said. ‘Please, Jul, let’s go out. For a walk.’

‘Leave me alone.’

So she started getting ready, pulling on a loose vest top over her bikini, cut-off denim shorts.

From her bed, Juliette said without looking up, ‘He won’t let you go on your own, you know.’

‘He won’t find out unless you tell him.’

‘Don’t be daft. He knows everything. And he’ll see you go.’

The way out of the apartment complex was past the pool, and of course that was where Clive Rainsford was right now, around the other side of the pool on a sun-lounger, as far away from his wife and daughters as he could get while still maintaining control over them. He knew exactly where they were, at every minute of the day. He would not countenance any alternative.

‘Come with me, then. Once we’re in town we’ll find a café or something, you can sit with your book and I’ll just have a wander round. It’ll be fine, there will be loads of people.’

‘Don’t be stupid, I can’t sit in a café on my own.’

‘Why not? What’s the difference between that and sitting in here? And you can have a nice cold drink; I’ll buy you one.’

In the end, Juliette had relented. They had consulted with their father by the side of the pool. They were given an hour and a half, and then they had to be back.

They had stopped at several cafés on the main road, none of which was suitable. Juliette was incredibly, frustratingly fussy – but she had always been like this. She was quirky at best, downright annoying at worst. But pushing her, goading her, was not the right way to handle things. Even at the age of fifteen Scarlett knew that the best way to bend her sister to her will was to meet her halfway.

They went down a side street and there was a Moroccan-style café, dark red plaster walls, decorative hookahs, low glass tables and dark wooden fretwork screens.

Dark – Juliette’s favourite thing. And she could get proper mint tea here, which was what she’d been hankering for.

‘You’ll be okay in here,’ Scarlett said. ‘You read your book; I’ll be back in an hour. I’ll just go along the shops for a bit. I’ll look for something for Mum, shall I?’

Juliette had already withdrawn. Scarlett left.

Back up to the main street. It was late afternoon but still searingly hot, the sun glowing off the pavement and reflecting back at her like an oven. She strolled along, browsing through the tourist shops. They all sold exactly the same things. Olive oil soap. Beach toys. Hats, sunglasses, a rack of Hawaiian Tropic sun lotion. Crocheted bags, scarves, ceramic ornaments and fridge magnets. Postcards.

The shops gave way to more cafés and bars. She would have enjoyed coming here at night, but with Cerys rather than her family. That would be fun. When she and Juliette went out to dinner with Mum and Dad they came early in the evening, and when they were done and strolling back to the apartment the bars were just starting to come to life. This time of day they were mostly empty, only the ones with internet terminals temptingly lined up inside the shady interiors showing any signs of life.

She paused outside the Pirate Bay Club and looked. There were three internet PCs on a table, with a sign saying ‘20 minute = 3 euro’. She thought about Cerys, and what she might be getting up to back at home.

She took a seat at the terminal furthest into the bar, at the back, and pushed three coins into the slot on a metal box next to the grubby monitor. The screensaver – a cartoon pirate bouncing around the edges of a blue screen – remained resolutely active. She moved the mouse, with no success.

She jolted the metal box, in case one of the coins had stuck. Still nothing. There was no ‘reject coins’ button.

She looked around. Nobody behind the bar. Sitting on the low wall which separated the outdoor seating area from the road was a boy with dark, short hair, a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans. He was staring at her. When he saw she was looking, he grinned.

‘You need something?’ he shouted to her. He had an accent, of course, was a local – but she knew that already because he was wearing jeans. How could anyone wear jeans when it was this hot?

Scarlett assumed he worked there, behind the bar. He had a kind of easy casualness about him, as though he owned the place.

‘It’s not working,’ she called back, slapping the top of the metal box with her palm as a final rebuke.

He sauntered over, arms folded. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘It’s not working.’

He laughed, and then she did too.

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘It’s only three euros.’

‘I will ask Vasilis for it.’

She paused, expecting him to go behind the bar and find Vasilis, whoever he was.

‘He is not here,’ he said. ‘The bar is closed.’

It didn’t look closed. The TV screen above the bar was showing sports with the subtitles on, and some random Greek pop music radio station was playing through the speakers.

‘Are you keeping an eye on it, then?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Keeping… an eye?’ He put one hand over his eye, like a pirate’s eye-patch, and she laughed again. ‘My name is Nico,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.

‘Scarlett,’ she said, taking it.

‘Is a beautiful name for a beautiful girl,’ he said. He turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. ‘You want something to drink?’

‘Oh, sure. A Coke?’

Nico went behind the bar and opened one of the glass-fronted fridges, helped himself to two bottles of Coke, which he popped before bringing them back.

‘I don’t have any more money,’ she said.

‘Is okay. Vasilis has three euros from you, anyway.’

Scarlett had just over half an hour of mindless chatter with Nico while she drank her Coke – slowly – and then she had to get back. Juliette was all right as long as she had a routine, as long as she knew what to expect, but when the uncertainties crept in she would start to panic. Lots of things seemed to cause that these days. Scarlett had said she would be gone for an hour, and knew better than to be even a minute late. As it was, when she rounded the corner Juliette was waiting outside the café, looking anxiously up and down the road.

Without speaking they fell into step together, walking back up towards the apartment. They had to pass the Pirate Bay and Scarlett looked out for him, the dark-haired boy who’d bought her a Coke – or rather, not bought it but helped himself – but he wasn’t there any more.

Scarlett thought about Nico for a whole twenty-four hours and begged Juliette to go for a walk again at the same time next day – using the excuse that they still hadn’t managed to get a present for their mother, who was recovering but wan and grouchy.

There was something about the synchronicity of the timing – at the same time of day, Scarlett knew she would stand a better chance of getting Juliette’s agreement – that made it easier this time. She took her time choosing what to wear, pinning her hair up in an elaborately messy bun. It was so hot that strands of her freshly washed and dried hair were sticking to the back of her neck with perspiration.

Nico was not sitting where he’d been the day before and Scarlett felt an odd sort of panic. She had convinced herself that he would be there, that he would be waiting for her, and when he wasn’t she didn’t know what to do. In the end she walked Juliette back down to the same café and then wandered around from shop to shop, as she had the day before.

In one of the tourist shops she bought a bottle of olive oil body lotion for her mum – five euros. She’d seen the same brand, the same bottle in a shop on the main street at seven euros. It was worth shopping around, here; you’d think prices would be fixed for the same product, but the price of everything seemed to vary depending on how close to the main street you were. The most expensive of all were the shops bordering the town square: jewellers and shops selling silk and fur coats. Fur coats! Why would anyone need a fur coat in a place like this? And yet they were everywhere, shops selling furs. She had counted five of them from the window of the coach that had brought them to the resort from the airport, glass- and marble-fronted, expensive-looking, with empty car parks outside.

She had not seen anyone actually wearing a fur coat. Maybe it got cold in the winter? It seemed very unlikely.

Back outside the shop, she slipped the paper bag containing the moisturising lotion into the canvas tote bag she carried over her shoulder, pulled her oversized sunglasses down from her forehead. After that she went up to the town square and sat on the wall surrounding the fountain, swinging her legs idly, crossed at the ankle. She leaned back, closing her eyes against the glare of the sun.

‘Hey, Scarlett.’

She opened her eyes again and looked across the square to one of the cafés, and there was Nico. He walked over to where she sat, weaving between the tourists. He had a handful of leaflets and she watched as he had a half-hearted go at handing some of them out to passers-by. One of them, a woman wearing a gold Lurex top over a leathery décolletage, took a leaflet, glanced at it and then discarded it on the pavement.

He sauntered, giving Scarlett a chance to observe him objectively from behind her huge shades. He must have been seventeen, eighteen maybe, dark hair neatly cut – had he cut it since yesterday? – the same blue shirt and jeans. Dark eyebrows, clear skin, long lovely eyelashes that made him look somehow vulnerable. And then a wide smile showing even white teeth.

He sat down next to her and offered her a flyer. She took it and read it carefully as if he’d offered her a vital document. It was a menu for the pizza restaurant across the way.

‘You’re a – what do they call it? – promoter, or something?’

‘They use other words. Not nice words sometimes.’

‘I thought you worked at that Pirate bar.’

He laughed. ‘Sometimes there. I work many places.’

And then he reached out and stroked a strand of hair away from her face. She flinched as his hand approached, couldn’t help it, but then she relaxed and let him do it.

‘You want to come party tonight?’

‘I can’t,’ she said automatically, about to continue that her dad wouldn’t let her, but stopping because that sounded childish.

‘You have a boyfriend?’ he asked, pouting with exaggerated disappointment.

She felt herself blushing. He must think she was such a kid, she thought, and she was tempted to lie and say yes.

‘Girlfriend?’ he asked then, with a cheeky grin.

‘No.’ Blushing even harder.

‘So why don’t you come party with me?’

‘I have to go out with my family,’ she said at last. ‘My little sister – I have to look after her.’

‘Your sister, what is her name?’

‘Juliette.’

‘You love her very much? I have a baby sister. She is very sweet, but she is a – how you say it – pain in the butt.’

Scarlett was picturing Juliette and wondering if she could ever be described as sweet. Annoying, definitely.

Nico tried again. ‘I have to work tonight until late. But maybe after that we could meet?’

‘Where are you working?’ she asked, looking down at the flyer he’d given her. ‘Is it at this place?’

‘Yes. I will be here. Will you come?’

In the end, she gave him her mobile number even though it was switched off most of the time. She was terrified that one of her mates would call from the UK, or text, and would use up all of her Pay As You Go minutes that she had to work so hard to get. At home, she did chores all the time to justify her meagre pocket money, and most of it paid for top-ups.

When they got back she dressed up – a short cotton dress, wedges – and tried to persuade her father to take them down to the town square for pizza. Her mum was still looking very pale and, although she wanted to come with them, or for them not to go at all, her father told her she should stay behind and rest and they’d go on their own. After two days of consuming snacks from the pool bar, he was ready for a decent meal. Scarlett wanted to say something but caught her mother’s expression and kept her mouth shut. Then, of course, he had to make it all even worse. ‘What more could a man ask?’ he said with forced enthusiasm. ‘A meal out with my two favourite girls.’

It felt as if there was a row brewing all through the early evening. Their mother withdrew back to the bedroom – claiming a headache, probably dehydration; it would make sense after all that vomiting and diarrhoea. After a while their father followed her and Scarlett and Juliette stayed outside on the patio, trying not to listen to the raised voices. Juliette took her book and went into the girls’ room, sliding the glass door shut firmly behind her. Scarlett went off into a fantasy where she lived in Greece all the time, spending her days selling bikinis and sunglasses to tourists on the beach, or handing out flyers in the market square. How old did you have to be, to do that? Nico didn’t look very old, but then he was local. Probably the locals were allowed to do what they pleased. And besides, she could speak a bit of French and a tiny bit of Spanish but that was it – these promoter people had to speak lots of languages, didn’t they?