Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (14 page)

‘Everything alright?’ Yorgos asks Marina.
They are still at the kiosk in Saros, just along from the port police offices. Yorgos grips the tubular tin of chocolate wafer biscuits he has bought tightly, the rounded metal cool against his palm.

‘Oh yes. I just needed to call Costas to go in and mind the shop. I remembered that we have a delivery coming, so it seemed like the only option.’

‘Very wise. I also imagine your customers expect you to be open.’

‘I imagine this news has travelled like wildfire, Captain Yorgos, and they will not expect the shop to be open at all.’

‘Please, just Yorgos, no need to call me Captain.’ He pops off the lid off the chocolate wafer sticks and offers her the tin with a broad smile.

She waves her hand over them as a refusal and looks down the street toward the port.

‘No need to starve yourself. Keep your strength up.’ He offers them again.

‘No thank you, Captain. I don’t like that particular biscuit.’ Marina pays for the phone call and begins to walk away.

Yorgos looks at the open biscuits. Maybe he could get a refund. The man in the kiosk, who has been watching the exchange has one eyebrow raised. The captain decides against even asking and hobbles after Marina, trying to stuff the lid back on.

‘I take it that it is a good-sized farm you’ve got?’ He opens the conversation. It is only responsible to know what he is getting himself into.

‘Oh you know, about average.’ Marina sounds distracted.

‘It is too much for just your son.’ Making it a statement rather than a question is a good line, show her how another man around the place could be useful.

‘What makes you say that? He manages just fine.’ Marina is walking faster back to the port police office than she did going.

‘Ah, I know that often, we men pretend we are fine when really we could do with a bit of help.’ If he rolls onto the outside of his foot as he walks, for some reason the pain in his thigh is less.

‘Do you need help, Captain Yorgos?’ Marina stops walking. Yorgos’ relief comes out as a puff through bulging cheeks.

‘No, no.’ He tries to laugh lightly but he also has a need to cough, and the cough wins.

‘Good. Then I will leave you here.’ And she marches off toward the port police, leaving Yorgos leaning on his knees, coughing and holding tightly to the biscuit tin.

Irini stays where she is under the boom. It’s been a while since she has talked to the port police. Perhaps she should make contact. Go below, use the toilet, and make a call.

‘Just going below,’ she tells Sam as she stands. But he is not in the cockpit where she expected to see him. Even with both hands as a sun visor, the brightness that reflects from the boat’s white gel-coat makes scanning the deck tricky. With a second sweep, it is clear that he is not there. She dips her head into the hatch, blinks a few times so her eyes can adjust to the relative darkness. The intense sunlight through the hatch cuts a diagonal line into the dim interior: dark one side, light the other. He is standing by the stove, a jar in his hand and a smile on his face.

‘Coffee?’ He asks, holding the jar towards her until it falls into the sun rays, the glass sparkling.

‘Yes.’ The port police will have to wait.

He puts a pan on the stove. The water from the bottle glugs into it in a rhythm, a rhythm that speeds up as the bottle empties and diminishes to a trickle with the last of the contents. He holds the empty bottle horizontally between his palms and crushes it, the sides concertinaing in, and then replaces the lid, which maintains the compression. Throwing it lightly into the air, he pops it off a contraction of his biceps. The balled bottle lands in the sink with the dirty dishes. This seems to amuse him and he smiles to himself as he turns the knob on the stove and the gas hisses. He then bends his knees to lower his sights to the level of the knobs, quickly turning the gas off again, as he does not seem to find whatever he is looking for.

‘Where’s the spark button?’

‘You need matches.’ Irini is still hanging through the hatch.

With a twist of his head to one side and a raise of his eyebrows, he asks why she isn’t telling him where they are. It would be easier to show. With quick steps, she is below, the confined space bringing them close to each other. By reaching past him to the shelf where Captain Yorgos tucks the matches away, she rubs across his chest. The boat wallows and his hands are on her waist to steady her.

‘Oh, there aren’t any.’ Irini pulls back and he lets go of her but their eyes lock. His bottom lip quivers. With the smallest of movements, his hand brushes her fringe from her eyes and then he breaks away.

‘I’ll get mine.’ He is on deck and back before Irini can work out what just happened. He has his bag with him, a small dark green canvas rucksack, and from it he takes matches, strikes a light, and the gas hisses and ignites.

Irini tries to carry on as if nothing happened, but she finds she is distracted and her hands shake ever so slightly as she takes two cups down and finds a spoon. The sugar jar is empty and the milk in the fridge slops against the sides in lumps.

‘Black then,’ he says and sips through the steam.

‘Sam, make a new life.’ It is a beseeching request.

His face softens, a half-smile creates just one dimple.

‘Please,’ she adds.

He takes another sip of his drink and then puts it down on the saloon table.

‘Any plastic bags on board?’ he asks. It is an odd request but Irini pulls out a plastic carrier bag that is full of other plastic bags from under the sink. Yorgos keeps them there to line the rubbish bin.

‘Will these do?’ she asks. He takes them and puts his rucksack on the table. Flipping it open, he takes out a pair of balled socks and a pair of underpants. He puts them into a plastic bag and ties it securely.

Irini watches but says nothing as he waterproofs the rest of the contents. Is he agreeing to swim ashore, make a new life?

‘Pass that pen.’ He points to a biro rolling around on the chart table. Irini does as she is bid, but he just lays it to one side and continues bagging his possessions. There is a hardback book and a thin notebook.

‘Does his mean you are going to do it then? Start again?’

‘It means I like to be prepared.’

But as he delves deeper into his sack, he says, ‘See if they are getting closer. Stay up there and watch.’

Irini understands she is being asked to leave, that there are things in his sack that he doesn’t want her to see. She is glad to go on deck. If he doesn’t want her to see something, then she does not want to see it. His world scares her.

The boats that are following have edged closer still. The land on the left is falling away; they have come to the channel that leads to Orino Island. Another hour would see them in Orino harbour. Maybe she should persuade him to turn here, go in close to the land so he can slip onto the island. So much of it is uninhabited, he could lay low for a while and then start again from there. What law has he broken anyway? Mercenaries are legal. He says he is wanted, but for what, and how much of it was his fault? She was a thief – every day - when she was homeless. Life pushed her to that to stay alive. What has life pushed him into?

If he has done wrong and they put him in prison, what incentive, when he gets out, will he have to start again? A criminal record won’t help. He will come out penniless and with no future. He is bound to end up back in Casablanca, back to his old haunts. It is the only way he knows how to make money, to live life.

She swallows hard.

‘Sam.’ She looks down through the hatch. He has the first aid box out on the saloon table next to him and is writing in his notebook. He puts it down quickly as she calls.

‘I just wanted to let you know that we are at the place where we would need to turn to go to Orino Island. It might be a good place to slip off, you know, hide low, think about a new life.’

His smile is broad and reassuring.

‘What are the port police doing?’

‘They have moved in a little closer.’

He nods. ‘Okay. I’ll be up in a moment.’

‘Shall I change course?’

‘No.’

Irini sits again and watches the boats behind, the channel opening out and the mainland passing by on the starboard side.

Something feels different. She is not sure if it is Sam’s actions of waterproofing the contents of his rucksack or the closing in of the following boats.

As the last of the mainland slides away on the port side and the channel to Orino Island takes its place, the clouds touching the water there are all but black. If they sail that way, it looks almost sure that they will hit bad weather. The sea will grow dark and become choppy; the rain will obscure visibility. It might even be to Sam’s advantage.

‘Sam,’ she calls down again. The saloon table is empty, the rucksack is over his shoulder. He has put his t-shirt back on but still has on his shorts. He looks ready to leave. It takes her by surprise. They have been motoring along together for six or seven hours now, and the thought of him suddenly not being there jerks at her. She has so much more to say to him, so much more she needs to listen to. They have only just begun. It is too soon.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I was just thinking that the weather over the island looks bad. It is bound to start raining over there soon. It will make visibility bad. Might be a good chance to get away.’ His return smile is so warm, light, as if he does not have a care in the world.

‘Seriously, it would be better than the calm weather straight ahead.’

‘I have not made any decision yet.’

She steps back and sits down as he comes on deck. He stays low and slides onto the seat.

‘Getting brave,’ he comments as he sees how much the distance has closed between them and the port police boats.

‘Why don’t they just come alongside and arrest you? I mean, what difference does it make how slowly they come in? If that is their plan, I don’t understand their hesitation.’ Catching the darkness that crosses his face, she adds, ‘Not that I want them to arrest you, but you can see what I am saying yes?’

‘They know what they are doing,’ he replies. ‘They wait, they wait some more, they wait again. It is a game. I might make a slip-up, I might get fidgety. They will wait until either I or the dusk gives them the advantage.’

‘What advantage will the dusk give them?’

‘The same as the storm. Poor visibility can be turned to be either side’s advantage.’ He is looking at her with such concentration that she shifts her position, sweeps her fringe from her eyes. ‘As long as the sky is blue and the waters are still, then nothing will happen. Which, for now, I would prefer.’ He locks eyes with her. The implication is that he prefers it so he can sit and stare at her.

‘Sam, do you think our memories will ever fade enough to live life like other people?’

‘I think yours will.’

‘Why, because yours include the child?’ She is about to tell him how she is not sure that he is to blame for being so brainwashed but he speaks first.

‘No, because you have the advantage of being loved and love can heal many wounds.’

‘But if you make the decision to start a new life?’

He lets out a little laugh.

‘Sam, it is possible.’ She reaches out to him.

He takes her hand and looks at it, turning it over, stroking her palm with his other hand, and then he raises it to his lips and kisses the mound by the thumb, gently, as if she was a child sleeping.

‘It’s alright, Irini.’ He wipes a tear from her cheek, tucking in his little finger so his loose skin does not touch her.

‘No. It’s not. It’s very wrong. Please tell me that we will make a new life.’

Looking over the stern, he takes in air. His chest lifts as it fills and then collapses as he breathes out.

‘Alright, Irini. When the light begins to fade.’

The relief she feels is dramatic.

She is just not worth the effort. He has been nothing but friendly and she has just left him there, whilst he was struggling for breath, coughing. How unkind was that?

The captain bends his knees and then his back, slowly, in stages, as he reaches for his hat. It fell to the ground in his coughing fit.

‘You alright, old man?’ A teenager passing by stops and, with a graceful sweep of his arm and a supple bow to his spine, he picks the captain’s cap up before the ‘old man’ can reach it. He hands it back to him with a smile, the carefree expression of youth.

‘Who are you calling an old man?’ Yorgos snaps.

‘No offence meant.’ And before Yorgos can answer, the youth is gone, with long strides, each of which has a slight bounce. The captain shuffles his own feet forward.

Is that how the world sees him now, an old man? Is that how he looks to other people? Sure, his legs hurt and he struggles to walk at the moment, but everyone can have a temporary setback. They will come right. Although what the doctor could do next for him, he is not sure.

‘Maybe I should have walked more,’ he mumbles. ‘Well, I am walking now; what more can I do?’ He can feel a pressure in his sunburnt cheeks that he recognises as anger, but he has no idea who or what he is angry at. ‘To hell with them all,’ he mutters and his shuffles become a little more like a stomp, each foot padding down hard before lifting the next.

Before he is even at the bottom of the port police stairs, he can hear the commotion.

‘But Irini is on board. How can you take that sort of risk?’

‘I am not saying we will. We just have orders that they need to be prepared for it.’

‘That is the same as saying they have permission to!’

It is Commander Demosthenes and Petta. Yorgos mounts the stairs, pressing his legs to move more quickly. Everyone in the room is gathered around the radio.

‘What’s going on?’ Yorgos asks the nearest white-shirted youth as he spies Marina sitting by the radio operator, sobbing. It is pitiful sight, and he wonders if his earlier judgement was a bit harsh. His little legs gain momentum as he crosses the room to put a consoling arm around her, leaving the boy before he has had a chance to answer.

‘What is going on?’ he repeats, addressing anyone who will listen. No one does.

‘That is the same thing,’ Petta is shouting at Commandeer Demosthenes, his gentle eyes afire, spittle on his bottom lip. It is scary sight to see such a big man so angry.

‘They are orders. What do you want me to do, risk my men? This pirate has a weapon of his own. You think he will not use it if he feels under threat?’

‘That is my point. You tell your men to be armed and ready and he will feel threatened. Who wouldn’t? Do you not understand? My wife is on board!’

Stroking across Marina’s shoulders is very comforting; she is soft and the material of her dress is satin or silk, something smooth. Every second stroke, he lets his hand steer off course, touching the bare skin of her fleshy neck.

‘I know, Petta. I know.’ Demosthenes is doing his best to calm the man. ‘Look, if, and God forbid that this should happen, but if he uses her, then we want to be ready.’

‘Uses her?’ Tears are running out of the corners of Petta’s eyes but he pays them no heed. They course down the sides of his face and drip onto his shirt.

‘It’s possible,’ the commander says.

‘You mean, like as a shield or a hostage or something?’ The colour has drained from Petta’s face and Marina starts sobbing again. All attempts to either be quiet or ladylike seem to be forgotten. Yorgos takes a serviette from between the cup and saucer of an abandoned coffee. He offers it to Marina, who takes it without a thank you and blows her nose loudly.

Then a thought occurs to him and his hand drops from Marina’s shoulder.

‘Are you saying the port police might shoot at my boat?’

Petta’s glare is hard and cold. Marina stops sniffing.

‘It’s possible.’ The commander looks at the floor as he speaks.

‘That is my home, my livelihood.’ He can feel a pulse in his temple. Petta starts to speak again; Marina begins to say something. The radio crackles.

‘Everyone calm down,’ Commander Demosthenes says and picks up the microphone and listens.

‘This is Port Police 1579, come in. Over.’

‘1579, what is your position? Over.’ The commander speaks clearly.

‘We are closing in on him, both in position and armed. Over.’

‘The orders from Athens are to take the opportunity when it arises, 1579. No need to wait for dusk. Over.’

‘Understood. What about the girl? Over.’

‘The girl is the opportunity. As soon as we contact her, that is your cue. Over.’

‘Understood. Over and out.’

The line crackles again and goes quiet. Petta’s mouth opens and closes like a drowning fish. Marina snivels into her hanky, and no one seems to have given one thought to his boat.

‘So no one moves until you get in touch with Rini?’ Petta asks, his voice quiet now.

‘That’s how it has to be,’ the commander says.

Marina’s head lifts, her face blotchy from crying, but even so, there is something he just cannot help but like about the woman. Petta has stopped bristling and the tension in the room seems to have reduced. It gives a lull in the conversation.

‘So if you hit my boat with bullet, I presume you will take responsibility for that and pay for the repair?’ It is a reasonable question, and he is not shouting. That will help to calm everyone.

It seems as if the whole room turns to stare at him at once. Maybe they are looking at Marina? No, it is definitely him. His hand goes to his trouser zip, only to find it is done up. The commander is looking at him with disbelief.

And then, as if they are of one mind, they turn away from him. The pulse in his temple becomes visible. His face becomes ashen and his eyes fill with tears.

‘Oh, I am not saying that the boat is as important as…’ But he is too late. No one is listening. Surely they cannot think that he was putting his boat before the girl? What must Marina think of him? He puts his hand back on her shoulder to stroke her again but she shrugs him off.

‘
Artemis
, this is the port police. Over.’

They wait. Nothing but crackle.

‘
Artemis
, are you there? Over?’