A Breeze Across The Aegean Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Robert Cole

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781838596637

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Jo, Carlaine, Angus, Guy, Wanda and Martin for your patience, advice and encouragement. Many thanks must also go to Belinda for your valuable editorial input.

  And of course to Greece and your magical islands for providing such a rich canvas for this story.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter One

  Rhodes

  Nicholas felt cold, dispirited and alone. Perhaps a final drink in the hotel bar would help. He pushed open the frosted glass door to find Lindsey Buckingham singing “Go Your Own Way” to a cheerless, windowless room. Dimly lit, gilt uplighters did little to improve the atmosphere. Only two others sat in the gloom. Both looked like businessmen. One was slumped in a corner nursing an ouzo; the other tapped tiredly at a laptop.

  He opted for a stool at the dark-wood bar with its polished brass countertop and untouched bowls of pistachio nuts. He ordered a large Metaxa, took a sip and thought over his day. Searching the home of a virtual stranger, however necessary, had felt intrusive and alien to him. What was the abandoned apartment trying to tell him? It had looked as though it had not been lived in for some time, but its occupant had clearly intended to return. He ran a weary hand over his face, brushing hair still damp from the evening drizzle from his eyes.

  Distracted with his thoughts he didn’t notice someone take the stool next to him. Hearing a woman’s voice order a red wine in Greek from the barman gave him a start and he glanced at her. She took a couple of measured sips, then turned to him and said, in accented English: “You are Nicholas.” It wasn’t a question.

  Recovering his surprise Nicholas studied her before answering. She was slightly older than his 37 years, dark-haired and dressed immaculately. There was a small birthmark high on her left cheek.

  “Yes I am. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “No, I am afraid you don’t.”

  Was she trying to flirt with him? He wondered how to respond. He would be happy to have some brief company after his unsettling day – and she was attractive, if in a rather formal way. He was shocked out of that notion when her eyes narrowed and, lowering her voice, she said: “I want you to listen to me very carefully. You are getting yourself involved in things that do not concern you. Whatever it is you think you are doing you need to stop. And you need to stop now.”

  Nicholas felt anger rise. “Who the hell…?” She interrupted him with a raised hand.

  “At the moment, Mr Adams, we will leave this as a warning. Go back home to your work and your life in England and nothing further will happen to you.” She took a deliberate sip of her wine and, leaving a half-full glass, stood up and put on her coat. Smiling down at him she said quietly “You will not be given a further chance” and walked out of the bar.

  Feeling shock, Nicholas stared unseeing at his brandy. He did not think to follow the woman. Her words, and their quiet menace, had stunned him. He had never been threatened before – such things didn’t happen in his world. He looked up and tried to focus. Nothing in the bar had changed. The businessmen had not stirred and the barman was now engrossed in polishing glasses. For the first time, he wondered what he had got himself into. Coming back to Rhodes had seemed the right thing to do. He lingered for a time over his drink, trying to take it all in. Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” played on in the background as he thought back to what had led him to this: the day he had met Alessandra.

  —

  It was a Friday in mid-October. There was a sweet-scented cooling breeze. It was not unwelcome, as it promised to be another warm day. A dog slumbered in the shade under an old red Fiat parked outside the taverna. Sitting beside the water in the tiny port of Skala Kamirou, Nicholas was savouring a strong black coffee. Fishing boats bobbed and scraped in the swell. The early morning sky was cloudless. A seagull eyed him expectantly from the low wall that enclosed the taverna. There was no sign of the ferry, but it was still early. For the first time, he felt a sense of expectation. He had been alone on this holiday for too long already and, to his surprise, he looked forward to being among people. Apart from enforced interactions with his work colleagues and keeping in touch with his parents, he had avoided social encounters for a long time.

  Nicholas had come to Rhodes a week ago, as a last-minute decision. He shook his head in amusement at the very idea that he had acted on a whim. Planning was one of his strengths; spontaneity naturally made him uneasy. He had been to the island once before, many years ago, and lingering memories of sun on his face, rocky coves and welcoming locals had brought him back. He had needed to get away – not just from the autumnal grey of England, but also to escape from the pervasive thoughts that crowded in. He had felt out of sorts for too long.

  He had rented a white-fronted villa set on a hillside among olive groves, overlooking the sleepy village of Pylona, just inland of Lindos, on the east coast of the island. Clad in purple and red bougainvillea, with a swimming pool to the rear, the villa was the perfect spot for a romantic getaway, but he was alone.

  The name of the villa had intrigued him. Villa Cleobulus, according to the bookings website, was named after a local tyrant king of the sixth-century BC. Paradoxically he was also known as one of the Seven Sages of Greece, a contrast in attributes that had resonated with Nicholas. Rhodes, and the little village he had chosen to stay in, suited his present mood. With only villagers and watchful stray cats as neighbours, he was already feeling more relaxed. He needed time to think. He wanted to go home with at least the beginnings of
an answer. He hoped this brief break away might allow him to move on.

  As the sun climbed higher, he saw the ferry edge its way across from the headland and through the small harbour entrance. A bus emblazoned with “Aegean Tours” in blue lettering clattered along the dusty streets, then swept past through the square, where straw-coloured weeds lined the kerbside. It stopped below the granite cliff. Passengers emerged, blinking in the morning brightness before huddling on the dock, waiting for the arrival of the morning ferry to Halki. Nicholas looked at his watch. There was forty-five minutes before it was due to leave. The cicadas chorused the rising heat. A woman in a red skirt and white top with the badge of the tour operator flirted with the young ticket seller. Another coach arrived. The largely middle-aged and elderly passengers disembarked carefully.

  Nicholas’s coffee was long finished when the Nikos Express reversed slowly towards the harbour wall. The gangway was lowered, its rusted chains grinding, amid shouted instructions from the crew. He watched the ferry being loaded with boxes of canned goods, vegetables and large plastic water containers. A crane at the back was hoisting a palette of cement bags. As he looked out over the jetty at the gathering crowd he joined their shared anticipation of visiting a new place. He was happy to be with others. Back home he had become too accustomed to his own company. Now, he felt more positive, almost buoyant.

  “Efharisto,” Nicholas said with a smile and nod to the elderly grey-faced waiter. He was not a linguist and felt embarrassed by the limitations of his vocabulary. He paid and left the taverna.

  By the time he had bought his day-return ticket all the seats downstairs in the cool of the air-conditioned cabin had been taken. He climbed the stairs to the upper level to find shade under a canvas awning, and squeezed in among the excited tourists. The forced jollity, loudly orchestrated by the animated tour leader, made him feel uncomfortable. His British reserve took over as his new optimism receded. Was this trip going to be a nightmare, rather than the pleasant diversion he had hoped for? He opened his guide to Rhodes and the Dodecanese and prepared to bury himself in the section on Halki, but his attention was drawn to the woman to his left. Dressed in a blue, tie-dyed T-shirt, white shorts and sandals, she was young, attractive and tanned. Her long dark hair and vivid blue nail varnish made her stand out. He watched as she rummaged through a shabby green canvas bag at her feet, pulling out a jumble of notebooks and maps, before she freed a bottle of water and took a drink.

  The engines’ vibration grew stronger, as the ferry headed out to sea. Tourists gathered around the railings to watch the receding harbour. A bulky, older woman, dressed in shapeless khaki trousers and an old greying top, not wanting to miss a photo opportunity, heaved herself awkwardly up from the slatted wooden seats. Clutching her rucksack and phone, she tottered across the deck. A sudden increase in the sea swell sent her staggering across the aisle and she dropped her bag. Nicholas’s neighbour leapt up to take the woman’s arm and steady her. “Are you all right?” she asked in English, as she guided the woman back to her seat, before retrieving the fallen bag. Once the woman had recovered, her rescuer said: “You sit quietly for a moment. Here let me take that photograph for you.”

  The woman nodded. “Danke. Thank you. You are very gracious.” She sounded shaken.

  As the ferry followed the mountainous west coast of Rhodes south, past the sixteenth-century Kritinia Castle overseeing the port, Nicholas turned to his neighbour, holding the water bottle that she had dropped in her haste to help the woman. “That was a really nice thing to do. Are you with any of these tour groups?”

  Her eyes crinkled as she squinted into the sun. She regarded him for a moment, then replied: “No, I am actually living here at the moment. This is actually a day off from work. I didn’t think it would be so busy today, though,” she said, with a grimace. Thanking him for the water bottle she asked “And you?”

  “I’m a visitor, I’ve come to Rhodes for a couple of week’s break from work. And, to briefly escape the English weather” he added. “I thought I should visit some of the nearby islands while I’m here. Have you been to Halki before?”

  She hesitated momentarily. “No … no I haven’t. I have visited most of the islands around Rhodes, but not Halki. My name is Alessandra, by the way.”

  She spoke good English, but with an appealing hint of a continental accent, which he struggled to place. “It’s good to meet you, Alessandra. Mine’s Nicholas, Nicholas Adams.”

  A large barren island had appeared on the right. He searched for signs of habitation. He could just make out an outline of a ruined church or castle high on a hillside. There were no beaches, just a jumble of large grey rocks tumbling into the dark sea. As the ferry edged by, Nicholas saw what he took to be a goat, standing alone on a rock staring out over the water. Alessandra’s attention had also been drawn to the island. She looked out over the arid and unwelcoming landscape, seemingly lost in thought.

  At the back of the ferry a group of Dutch passengers proudly extracted from their bags sandwiches and fruit wrapped in paper serviettes, clearly the spoils of the hotel breakfast buffet. A gull wheeled noisily over their heads warning others to keep their distance.

  Alessandra turned and smiled, focusing her attention back on Nicholas. He told her of his last-minute decision to get away from work and about the villa he had found near Lindos.

  “Oh, I love Lindos. Those narrow whitewashed streets that run down from the Acropolis are so pretty, I always feel desperately sorry though for the donkeys that take tourists up to the Acropolis. That hill’s so steep. I try to encourage visitors to walk. It’s so much better for them – and for the poor donkeys as well. Do you know the Captain’s Bar? It is one of my favourite places in Lindos. It’s on the way up to the Acropolis. I go there a lot. It’s meant to be the oldest building in the town. I love its courtyard – it’s a perfect place to have a drink and unwind.”

  Alessandra’s attention was directed entirely on him. Nicholas was not accustomed to such openness, but he found he was enjoying it. “No I don’t, but when we get back I will make a point of visiting it. Are you coming back today or are you staying on Halki?”

  “No, I am just going over for the day,” she replied. “I am meeting an old friend. I’ll be on the same return ferry as you, at five o’clock” she said, pointing to his blue ticket. “I work on Saturdays.”

  “I think we are more than half-way. See the mountainous island over there.” She pointed ahead. “That’s Halki.”

  Nicholas turned. Dominating the horizon was a hulking, grey landmass. It was his first sight of the island and there was a slightly ominous look to it. Its brooding outline was unlike any other Greek island he had seen. Nicholas felt a sudden shiver.

  Chapter Two

  Halki

  Seeing him gazing out towards the island ahead, Alessandra said: “Did you know that Halki was also known, many hundreds of years ago, as the land of the Titans.”

  He turned to her again and she said: “So, Mister Nicholas Adams, tell me a bit about yourself. Are you here in Rhodes on your own?”

  “Yes I am. I was married but I have been on my own, by and large, for the past couple of years.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. It really wasn’t meant to be a leading question. I didn’t mean to pry” Alessandra said apologetically.

  “No, you are not prying. I am slowly getting used to travelling on my own again.” Nicholas replied.

  “So, what do you do when you’re not travelling?”

  “Sadly, my work is not that fascinating … but it does pay the bills. I work in marketing for a large pharmaceutical company. I joined them straight from university thirteen years ago and went through their graduate programme before eventually ending up in marketing. Since then I have moved around with the company a bit, spending some time in their Paris and Madrid offices. Sorry, this sounds very much like a CV.

  “I’ve been in pretty m
uch the same job for the past three years. I’m clearly in a rut,” he laughed. “And I am increasingly feeling that the time is right for a change.

  “And you… what brought you to live on Rhodes – apart from the very obvious attractions?”

  “Actually, I was born on Rhodes. My father is Italian, although my mother is English.”

  So that accounted for her slight accent. And for the sun-drenched Mediterranean look about her.

  Alessandra described her early life as a young girl growing up on a Greek island. It all sounded carefree and idyllic, with the freedoms associated with a bygone age.

  “I then went to boarding school in England and on to uni in Bath. English and philosophy did not obviously qualify me for anything.” She smiled broadly, showing even white teeth. “Even the post-grad work I did on Chaucer and the relevance of the Canterbury Tales in modern story writing didn’t provide any particular direction.”

  “I think I can relate to that. I remember back to when I emerged from the protection of university life and then thinking…and now what?”

  Nicholas asked Alessandra whether she would like something from the small bar on the upper deck.

  “I’ll just have a coffee, thanks.” He bought two coffees in plastic cups and carried them back carefully. “Shit,” he exclaimed, as the boat pitched and the hot liquid spilled over his hand. Alessandra giggled as elderly heads swiveled in his direction.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said handing Alessandra her coffee. She continued to beam as he wrung his hand, his embarrassment subsiding.

  Alessandra sipped the hot liquid and picked up her story. She had kicked off her sandals. “So, then I moved up to London, as everyone seems to do. I travelled for a bit – to Thailand and Vietnam – and in between did various jobs. I worked as a PA, did some waitressing. I hated that. I worked as an administrator in a legal firm in the City and then this job came up.