1 The Assassins' Village (19 page)

‘The inspector knows Kristiakis of old. I still bet you, they pin all this on him. For another thing, Alicia is a bit strange at times, but I can’t really see her as being a murderer. Not with a knife and certainly not being able to cut his throat so viciously. Can you? Besides, the murderer would have been covered in Leslie’s blood.’

Diana started to nod her head as she agreed with Steve. She jumped as the doorbell rang; its peal seeming to go right through her. She certainly was nervy these days.

‘Bugger! What now at this hour? I’m just about ready for my bed. No. Stay there I’ll get it.’

Steve swiftly left the room. Diana heard his heavy tread over the flagstones. Feeling muzzy she swung her feet down to the floor. Turning her head, the room gave a tilt and everything went out of focus. Strange, the gin wasn’t that strong. Maybe they were having a minor earthquake; this part of the world was renowned for them.

Raised, excitable voices reached her ears as she came out of the murk and discovered herself gazing rather stupidly at a white-faced Peter and Ann from next door. Struggling to pull herself together, she stood up and faced her neighbours. Steve followed closely on their heels; he looked astonished.

‘Hi Pete, Ann. What’s up? Have you come round for a nightcap?’

She stopped; registering the look on their faces. Peter soon told her.

‘Oh my dear, there’s been another death. Only this time it looks like a suicide. Kristiakis has finally been found. Apparently he’s hanged himself.’

‘Hanged? Oh! My God, where?’

Clapping a hand to her open mouth she felt herself breaking out in raised goose bumps up and down her arms.

‘He’s in that big old empty house, the old bakery. He was found swinging from one of the beams. He’s still there. Antigone, his sister found him and she cut him down. He has this dreadful laceration around his neck where the rope has chafed him, I never realised there could be so much blood in a hanging. You can go and see if you’ve a mind to. The police haven’t arrived yet. Christ! Another death! What is it about this village? Has it got a curse on it or something?’

He somehow managed to look both forlorn and hopeful at the same time as he gazed at their gin and tonic glasses resting on the glass topped table.

Steve and Diana took a look at one another. Then, without a word Steve grabbed Diana’s hand and made for the door.

Interval

Act 2

Chapter 25.
              Winter in the 1970s

Better be with the dead, whom we, to gain our peace, have sent

to peace, than on the torture of the mind to lie in restless ecstasy.

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 2

A thin, cold winter wind whipped through the cobbled lanes of Agios Mamas, enveloping and almost paralysing the young woman with a numbing of both body and mind. Slipping and stumbling the last few steps, she made her solitary way down into the drear and darkened recess of the disused house.

The pain came again and gasping at the ferocity of it, she bit her lip and took a short intake of breath. Waves of nausea washed over her as she staggered to the broken metal bedstead in the corner. She paused, her hand against the rough unplastered wall for support, before lying herself down to rest upon the twisted broken slats.

Despite the bitter cold, her face was running with sweat. She fought to prevent herself from crying out; the pain was agonising. A minute passed and the torture subsided, leaving her weak and breathless, strangely disorientated.

Despite her tender age and having no living mama, she guessed what was happening to her body. Some deep entrenched instinct forced her mind to register what she must do, if she didn’t want to die.
Did
she in fact want to live? It was hard knowing what she really wanted, so deep was her grief. The earlier numbing of the mind, although blocking her senses had done nothing to alleviate that misery.

While she had the presence of mind, she sat up and dragged herself off the bed. There was an old pail upturned in the corner. It would serve her purpose well. The filth and grime of years past would wash off in the swift, flowing river water outside. Wiping the sweat from her eyes with the back of her little hand, she trudged out of the door-less opening, and across the grassy bank. The seasonal rains had been good this year. The clear river water raced and tumbled its way down to the sea.

Squatting by the river’s edge, she plunged the old bucket into the flow, gasping at the iciness as the water played over her arms. Her long, dark plait of hair fell over one shoulder trailing like a wet rope in the current.

Her bucket full, and wanting to get out of the cold wind, she forced herself to stand and turn back towards the house. Again, she was shaken by another spasm of agonising pain. This time she doubled-up in distress and felt panic as she realised this was far stronger than the last. She cried out in terror before it subsided, her legs buckling with the strain. A minute later and the anguish passed; enabling her to drag herself over the threshold, back to the mean bed.

She had brought a leather bag with her and this she now upended onto the wooden bed slats. She gathered the old towel rags that fell out pushing them in a pile at her side.

Her despair mounting, she felt another stab in its beginning; the cramping as it spread across her stomach, taking hold and squeezing the whole of her abdomen before running down her legs and into her back.

Gasping in shock, the girl staggered to lean against the bed head as she felt a hot wetness between her thighs. She looked down and saw the rush of crimson as her blood ran down below her knees and ankles onto the dirt floor.
Mama! Oh Mama!
She screamed a pitiful wail.

Terrified, it was happening so quickly. She was unprepared for anything like this. Sobbing, she forced herself to strip off her skirt and ruined knickers, instinct made her lie down on the cruel bed before the pain took charge again. She grabbed the leather strap of her bag and bit down hard to still the shriek of pain that tore itself from her, the contraction spreading, only stopping when she slipped into a moment’s unconsciousness.

Twenty minutes, forty, an hour passed with the contractions becoming more and more frequent; a permanent dull ache between her soiled legs. Each time she felt weaker and had to drag herself up from the depths as the next violent cramping began.

Forcing her eyes to open, she concentrated on the rotting timbers of the roof above. A wood pigeon fluttered in to shelter from the cold, alighting on one of the rafters. Its round eye blinked balefully down studying her figure below. She allowed her mind to wander and she imagined the pigeon taking her pain upon its wing and flying away. Her thoughts spiralled around in her head, dissembling into incoherent pieces. Somewhere a loose wooden shutter banged against the stone wall; a crescendo that splintered inside her mind with flashes of bright silver.

Another contraction; there was now no time, no respite between the last and the next. Biting her bottom lip she tasted the saltiness of her own blood. She felt an overwhelming urge to push down into her bottom, she couldn’t fight it anymore; it felt like the right thing to do. Gritting her teeth, she pushed and groaned with the effort; her face suffused with blood and streaks of sweat and tears. She paused and panted, pushed again. And then there was blessed relief as she felt something wet and pulpy slide between her open thighs.

Closing her eyes with the release of the pain, she began to drift away into dark oblivion. A minute later, and with something like primeval instinct she fought and clawed her way back to the surface to gather what little strength she had, as finally, she expelled the last of her shame.

Chapter 26. A Summer during the 1970s.

A deed of dreadful note.

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 2

Pushing aside the sticky, rainbow-striped plastic strips hanging in the doorway of the family house, the sun’s glare assaulted Antigone after the semi-gloom inside. A pointer-like dog lay in the shade of a prickly pomegranate tree. Its flanks heaving as it lay panting in the morning heat. It scratched one ear, lazily sniffed its foot and rear end in turn, before grunting and resuming its mid-morning doze.

Ignoring the dog, Antigone collected a stout stick from beside the doorway, ducked under the sun-dappled tree and into the lane beyond. This day she had dressed with care. Not her best clothes; they were reserved for church and festivals. Spending longer with her morning wash, Antigone had taken trouble to brush the burrs and tangles from her waist-length dark hair. Her shirt and favourite blue skirt were clean and although patched, the darning was skilfully done. Proud of her needlework, she knew she would make the right man a good wife. Almost hugging herself with excitement Antigone contemplated the man she would choose, most of her nights and days were spent dreaming of him. She carried her customary leather bag on her shoulder and stepping out into the lane, stole a glance both ways beneath her sooty-dark lashes, before being satisfied it was deserted. Antigone crossed over to take the narrow alleyway opposite.

The village was busy; it was the 70s and the locals were rich from the bumper crops of grapes of the last decade or so. Some of the younger generation had already left Agios Mamas, settling in apartments in Limassol or Nicosia and taking smart jobs in offices and hotels. Their parents were baffled as to why they would want to leave the village where countless generations before them had grown up. But their pockets were crammed with pounds they were impatient to spend. Life was more exciting. They yearned to own new things; music centres, jeans, motorcycles or their first car. Even the girls were awakening.  They no longer wanted to spend all their days washing, cooking, cleaning and having a score of babies. The boys thought it macho to laugh at the old ones gathered in the
kafeneos
putting the world to rights with their insular politics. There was football, fast cars, western music and girls. This was the first generation to become spoilt from their parents’ money and they wanted to spend it.

Antigone’s father owned no great tracts of land, just a few donum that provided a minute income. Being fond of
Zivania,
the raw neat fire-water made from grape skins, most afternoons and nights he spent under its alcoholic grip. Whenever he was under its influence Antigone made sure she was well out of reach of his heavy fists.

Antigone had no mother. Sadly, she passed away one winter after succumbing to one savage beating too many. Antigone now bore the brunt of all his frustrations and ill behaviour. Of course nobody in the village
knew
for certain that Alexandros beat his wife senseless on occasions, but when she had been found at the bottom of a flight of steps, covered in horrible bruises, many people hurriedly crossed themselves and muttered a prayer for her soul, and of course their own. Nobody interfered. What went on between husband and wife was not their affair, the man was the boss. Even the Church turned a blind eye;
O Papas
was fond of
Zivania
also. It was a strong and altruistic priest who interfered in private family life.

Antigone’s brother, Kristiakis, was like his father. Swaggering around the village, Kristiakis was a handsome bully taking his pick of the unattached girls on account of his looks and silver tongue. To him, Antigone was just his younger sister. Her rôle in life was to keep him and his father fed, the house clean and the courtyard swept.

Today, Antigone’s thoughts were on anything but household chores. For the past few weeks she had been mesmerised by the influx of a group of British soldiers billeted here. According to the
mukhtar,
this small group were installing some sort of radio station nearby. The older villagers could not comprehend, and although friendly and polite, they watched the soldiers with covert looks and suspicious eyes. They didn’t really want strangers in their village for long, especially soldiers from a foreign land.

Antigone surprised everyone at school. For the first time in her life she excelled at something; learning and speaking English. On occasion she was called to the mukhtar’s office where she shyly interpreted the English spoken by the officer in charge. The fine looking Captain was so impressed; he swiftly commandeered her as acting unofficial interpreter when his own man went sick.

Taking one look at the slim handsome officer, with his smooth educated voice and even smoother smile, Antigone’s sixteen-year-old heart beat faster in her breast.

The Englishman was delighted with her; she was an excellent stand-in for Corporal Bates. So much so, she found he was requesting her to assist him time and time again. Slowly, without Antigone realising, the time spent together became less official and of a more personal nature. The officer would question her in his velvet voice about her life in Agios Mamas; what she liked doing when not caring for her brother and father. Antigone didn’t understand. Historically, Cypriot women had very little free time to pursue individual ideas. What leisure they had was spent in a group, with the click of knitting or crotchet needles in time to a cacophony of voices. Their hands were never still. She could not comprehend idle hands or whiling away hours reading, writing or simply day-dreaming.

Slowly, feeding her head with dreams, he impressed this unsophisticated and naïve young girl.

As Antigone imagined a life very different from hers, she was aware of the women in their ancient, mouldy black-serge watching and clucking their rapacious tongues when she overstepped the mark, even just once. Her erstwhile friends were confused with this new and confident Antigone, and didn’t know what to make of her. Withdrawing into little groups and gathering on the corners of the lanes they chattered and giggled behind their hands whenever her name was brought up.

Antigone was immune to their sly looks, and when the officer suggested she might like to sit and pose as he sketched her, or, if he read and taught her some of his favourite romantic poetry or classics, Antigone shyly nodded and suggested she knew of a place, quiet and unused. He possessed such a nice smile.

Never had she been so daring. Nevertheless, knowing that no matter how innocent their meetings, they had to be circumspect and in total secret.

Over the next few days they stole the odd hour or two; more and they would’ve been missed. Antigone gazed dreamily at his face while he talked. Despite not understanding half of what he said, she admired him above all else. Nothing untoward passed; an accidental touch or two, nothing more. Antigone felt perfectly safe with him, despite the rapid beating in her breast.

She now tore along the stony path leading to the old house, way down by the river. Antigone was terrified her hero would become impatient with waiting and
return to the village. They always travelled by different routes and different times; the Englishman insisted no one should chance upon them together.

Nearly reaching the rough cut stone-house, Antigone paused under the shade of a pine tree catching her breath. Even for the time of year it was oppressively hot. The place was completely secluded, hidden in the bottom of the valley, nestled in tall oak and eucalyptus trees. By comparison it was always a cool and shady spot. The trees fringed the riverbanks and the overgrown house garden. Not a sound could be heard except the occasional bird or the whirring of the cicadas in the thickets. It was her special place. Feeling refreshed, she smoothed down her hair with her fingers and carried on walking with a slower more lady-like pace.

The two-storied house was almost derelict, standing empty for years. The surrounding wild was reclaiming the land. It rose tall and silent before her. Small clumps of colourful wild flowers grew in the cracks between the crumbling stones, a couple of bright green lizards scuttled through the dry leaves carpeting the ground.

Her heart thumping in anticipation, she stepped over the threshold of the house. A hand on her shoulder made her gasp; her eyes widened in fear and then crinkled as she smiled and relaxed in the company of the man in front of her. ‘Mr Leslie you frightened me!’ she chided.

He chuckled as he stepped away from the sagging front door and greeted her by slipping an arm casually around her slim waist. At his touch Antigone was both pleased and surprised. Despite her innocence, she recognised that his hand excited her as a heat spread through her body.

‘I am sorry. I was only teasing.’ His eyes were warm and smiling. She noticed the beginnings of small crow’s feet accentuated under his deep Cyprus tan.

‘What is -?’ she paused, savouring the word. ‘Teasing please?’

‘A game.’

‘Oh.’ Slightly bashful and embarrassed she looked away. Staring, Leslie was again captivated by her prettiness and youth. She was an innocent in every way. He admired her charming looks; she had the most beautiful, long raven-coloured hair framing an elfin-shaped face. Her eyes were an unusual dark shade of blue and sparkled with excitement. Her body was slim, firm and unblemished.

Antigone felt him studying her and stole a quick, shy glance at his face. His eyes lingered on her bodice and she felt her face flame. Not wanting to put her off, he turned away and beckoned her to follow by stretching out a hand towards her.

‘Come - let us sit down somewhere comfortable. I thought outside, maybe by the river?’

Taking her hand in his, he led her around to the back of the building. He forced his way through the overgrown bushes, and held the worst of any thorns away from her. As Antigone stepped through the thicket she exclaimed at the sight that met her eyes. Lying upon the ground he’d placed a woollen-plaid blanket, and resting on this a picnic basket.

Leslie grinned at her surprise.

‘I thought we might as well be comfortable. See, I’ve brought wine, bread and some cheese and fruit. We have fresh water from the river if we need it. Come, sit here.’

Delighted that he had taken the trouble to spoil her, Antigone happily knelt on the blanket. She removed her shoes and sat down, her brown legs tucked underneath her skirt.

The spot was perfect, cool and shady, and completely hidden from anyone unless they took the trouble to push their way through the almost impenetrable thorn
hedge. She could hear the river beyond as it chuckled its way over the smooth rounded stones. Its downward journey would take it over twenty miles before disappearing into the sea.

Uncorking the white wine, Leslie passed a glass to Antigone. She took a tiny sip, discovering she liked the taste. Cypriot women rarely drank alcohol. It was reserved for the men and if a woman took a drink it was usually frowned upon. A small bunch of succulent looking black grapes lay nestled inside a gingham napkin, local bread and cheese alongside. They talked while they drank and picked at the food. Antigone asked what Leslie had planned for today. Sometimes he read to her from one of his favourite books, or occasionally he made a few sketches with a captivated Antigone watching his slim brown hands as they flew over the paper. Today, he withdrew a slim, red volume from his trouser pocket and flicked through its pages until he found his place.

‘Today I’m going to read you some of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Not sonnet number eighteen as that is over-done. I think number twenty-four will suit today. He looked at Antigone with a warm smile and began to read out.

‘Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d

Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein ‘tis held,

And perspective it is the best painter’s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill…’

Relaxed by the warm air and the wine, Antigone straightened her skirt modestly over her legs and lay down; her lustrous hair spilling around her as she pillowed her head on her arm. Leslie’s voice was soft and gentle, melodious as he breathed the poem to her. She didn’t understand more than one word in three, but his voice stole over her, lulling and enveloping her, finally leaving her with a warm deep longing.

It was so hot. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. She let her mind drift and float away to dream. She wished they could always be together like this. If only he could just persuade her father. She dreamed on, fantasizing a life together; a life with a family of their own. Her eyes were closed, heavy and drowsy with somnolence. Her long eyelashes fringed upon her cheeks, a renegade sunray filtered through the tree canopy playing along her jaw.

Her breathing was shallow as Leslie watched her slim chest rise and fall, allowing his eyes to travel down from her small pert breasts, over her flat waist to the lie of her firm thighs as her skirt fell in a blue puddle on the coarse blanket. She was exotic, exquisite and intoxicating.

Leslie was overcome. His throat flushed and his breathing quickened as he gazed upon her. He was confident of his many practised charms. As soon as he first met her, he had been determined to make her notice him. He could not believe how easy it had been to entice her with his beguiling words and ways. Putting the book aside Leslie drew nearer to her recumbent form. Inhaling the sensual smell of her body was to him indescribably like nothing he had breathed in before. His breath became ragged and hot against her ear as he whispered her name.