Second Skin E-Book

Dugald Bruce-Lockhart

• Herausgeber: Muswell Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 496

Beschreibung

1994, five years after a murderous encounter on the island of Paros, Alastair Haston's world is upended by a startling discovery: a son he never knew existed. Desperate to learn more, he travels to Athens, but his pursuit is intercepted when MI6 intervenes, coercing him into a high-stakes espionage mission – to infiltrate a suspected mafia operation intent on abducting his son. As the chase unravels across the Mediterranean, from Athens to Zakynthos and on to Crete, Alistair has a chilling revelation, could the spectre of his past be returning to taunt him? Does the answer lie in that fateful, deadly summer on Paros five years ago?

Leseprobe

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Praise forThe Lizard

‘A terrific, atmospheric thriller. Taut, compelling, masterfully constructed. Outstanding’ William Boyd

‘Intrigue, action and excitement…a terrific debut’ Charles Cumming

‘Bruce Lockhart ramps up the tension and the result is a read-at-a-sitting page-turner’ Best Recent Crime Thrillers, Guardian

‘This impressive debut is written with huge verve, the story twists and turns like a malign serpent’ Daily Mail

‘You’ll be swept up in the hedonistic pursuits and the sun-drenched world of sex and drugs, compelling you to finish this book in one go’ Marie Claire

‘Impressive …. this riotous chase through the glories of the Greek Islands is entertaining’

Best Recent Thrillers, Observer

‘Wicked, dramatic and dripping in the intensity of summer heat’ Women’s Weekly

‘This novel is horrible, atmospheric and gripping’ Literary Review

‘The heady cocktail of kaleidoscopic plot twists and slick writing make this a sure-fire winner for fans of fast-paced thrillers’ LoveReading

‘Reminiscent of Alex Garland’s The Beach this is pitch perfect escapism to effortlessly take you away from it all’ Living Magazine

‘An incredibly gripping tale, awakened by Bruce-Lockhart’s vivid imagination’ The Field

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SECOND SKIN

Dugald Bruce-Lockhart

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For Penny

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Contents

Title PageDedicationPrologue1234567891011121314151617181920212223Epilogue Acknowledgements Copyright

1

Prologue

The last time I travelled to Greece, I ended up in jail.

So I made a promise to myself – well, two, in fact.

Firstly, I’d never let love get the better of me again. It was an addiction, an affliction – a compulsion to define myself through the eyes of someone else; and it had led me a merry, bloody dance. Secondly, I wouldn’t return to the country for many, many years. To set foot again in a land where I almost lost my life – when even the mere hint of jasmine, pine trees, or thyme conjured a crippling flashback of slit throats, twisted limbs and vomit – was a dragon I had no need to slay. My therapist agreed. I was only twenty-one; everything in good time.

Willpower and judgement, however, are fickle friends.

When I accept forbidden fruit, is it because I have no will to resist, or an unshakeable compulsion to partake?

Does judgement ever stand a chance in the face of obsession?

If the mind is but the sum of electrical stimuli, governed by chemical stimuli, dependent on the moment-to-moment accumulation of random information dating back to the nanosecond we left the womb – perhaps, even 2before – then, in one sense, our response to any given situation is pre-ordained.

Begging the question: are we ever truly in charge?

Five years after my release from the Athens penitentiary, I reneged on both of my well-intentioned promises; and for that, I accept full responsibility. No one forced me. I had a choice – or, so I’d like to think.

As for the ensuing consequences: the lies, the violence and the slaughter – were they also on me?

The jury is out.

Not that it matters.

I wash my hands. I still see the blood.

3

1

July, 1994

A month away from my 26th birthday, I was temping for a lifestyle magazine in a fifth-floor office overlooking London’s Drury Lane; an airless, claustrophobic environment at the best of times, with its Formica desks, fax-machines and phones sprawling beneath a stratum of cigarette smoke. Terry, my esteemed colleague from Kent had been moved to my workstation to help improve my telesales technique, but the oppressive heat was taking its toll on even our most experienced players and charitable thoughts were thin on the ground.

‘You’re too nice,’ he muttered, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning back in his swivel-chair. ‘Gotta be more of an arsehole.’

‘Sure,’ I replied, wondering if Terry ‘Top Gun’ Keeley, had a life beyond Millpool Publications’ nicotine-stained walls.

‘Treat ’em like the enemy,’ he added, flicking the fake Rolex on his wrist. ‘Get inside their head and fuck ’em over. Like a game of chess.’

‘Right.’

It was best to stick to one word answers with Terry.

‘You’re not here to make friends,’ he continued, toying with 4his Zippo lighter, as the room darkened. ‘You’re here because you wanna make some dosh.’

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, heralding the imminent arrival of a summer storm.

‘Yup,’ I replied, nodding enthusiastically; resisting the urge to inform him the only reason I was undertaking such soulless work was because my contract teaching English in Japan had been pushed back to September, leaving me in the lurch over the summer. Stupidly, I’d fallen for the ‘no experience necessary’ blurb, along with the promise of ‘huge commission potential’, rather than opt for honest graft on a building site, or a bar job. Too late now, I’d committed.

‘Just chess, man,’ he sneered. ‘Start using your queen and stop pissing around with the foot-soldiers. Pawns are there to be sacrificed, yeah?’ He stuffed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and, picking up his phone – his ‘Walther PPK’ – placed another call.

Truth was, chess was something I was good at. Chess, I could do. But I’d been fingering my metaphorical kings and queens for three weeks straight and had failed to make a single solid move. Telesales was simply not my thing.

Then all of a sudden, the telephone rang.

I stared at it in disbelief. Red flashing light, rhythmic vibration on the desk …

Thomas Cook?

Condé Nast?

‘Want me to take it?’ Terry offered, sucking on his cigarette. ‘Split the commission.’ As he reached forward for my phone, I batted away his hand, grabbed the receiver and sucked in a lungful of smoky air.

‘Millpool Leisure Publications,’ I rasped, trying not to cough. ‘Alistair Haston.’

‘Good morning,’ came the reply.

Male. Middle-Eastern? A slight echo suggested international.5

‘Hi,’ I countered.

Pawn to king four.

‘Mister Haston,’ exclaimed the caller, in a tone that was neither interrogative nor statement.

The Ruy Lopez opening. Predictable. Safe.

‘Hit me.’ I snapped, cutting to the chase.

Terry nodded enthusiastically.

Encouraged, I stuck a foot up on the desk, swivelled away towards the window, where a pigeon sought shelter from the first fat drops of rain.

‘You want to review your options,’ I continued, wedging the receiver between my shoulder and ear as I reached behind me for the stack of magazines. ‘Front cover’s gone. Back cover under offer … centre-page spread?’

‘This is mister Manolis,’ the caller replied.

Manolis? Had to be Greek.

Waiting for him to continue (Terry’s rule was never to speak unless you had to – ‘let ’em hang themselves’), I swivelled back to my desk, wondering when I’d placed a call to Greece, and to whom. Olympic Airways? Club Med?

‘Just trying to recall when we last spoke,’ I said, giving in and shuffling a stack of paper, as if searching through a copious Rolodex. ‘If I’m not mistaken, it was, er …’

‘This is the first time we are speaking.’

‘Of course.’

Whoever I had called previously – some underling – I was now talking to a key player; someone who had the power to change company policy, if only I could persuade him.

‘How can I turn things around for you today?’ I’d heard Terry use that one.

Nothing but static.

Stalemate.

As a flicker of lightning drew my attention to the window, I wondered if I’d be better off admitting defeat and coming clean, 6but then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Terry watching me, a lopsided grin plastered across his pointy features. When I spun around to face him, he dropped his head, scratched the back of his ear and began to dial.

Unless …

‘I’m still here, mister Manolis,’ I exclaimed, peering around the office, noticing several heads were turned in my direction. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Humiliate-the-rookie-day, was it?

‘I am calling on behalf of my daughter,’ Manolis said, finally.

‘And how the devil is she?’ I jeered, scanning the room for the culprit.

‘She is not well.’

‘I AM sorry to hear that, mister Manolis.’

‘Kristos.’

‘Kris-Kross? Of course,’ I replied, stifling a laugh as I spun back to the window, noticing that the pigeon now had company. ‘Well, Kris-Kross, I hate to break this to you, but, shit happens.’ Over at a table by the door, several more of my illustrious colleagues were studying me with an air of smug amusement.

‘Amara cannot talk,’ he said finally. ‘Because of her injuries.’

At which point, I saw my boss returning from the toilets, heading in my direction. Time to wrap it up: ‘It’s been a pleasure, Kris-Kross, but I’d better get back to washing my hair.’ And then, to cut to the chase: ‘Wanker.’

I turned, ready to slam down the phone, but at the last moment stopped, receiver hovering in mid-air. ‘Did you say Amara?’

‘My daughter.’

Hovering briefly at my side, my boss patted me on the shoulder then passed on by, while behind him on the windowsill the pigeons shuffled to a corner and began to copulate.

Amara …

I’d only ever known one person by that name: the actress I met in the Greek islands, summer of ’88 …7

‘You’re calling from Naxos?’ I asked, tentatively.

Amara’s father had a restaurant in Naxos. I’d been there – before she and I …

‘Athens,’ he grunted.

I hung suspended in a curtain of cigarette smoke as an image presented itself: Amara, standing at the docks, shielding her eyes from the setting sun as the police-launch pulled away from its moorings and transported me captive towards Paros. In another life …

‘Mister Haston?’

A life I’d all but erased from memory.

‘She has been in an accident.’

Across from me, Terry held his thumb held out horizontally like a Roman Emperor waiting to give his verdict.

I shook my head and turned away. ‘Forgive me Mister Manolis, is she okay?’

I just called her father a wanker.

He proceeded to recount how Amara, her husband and their son had been on holiday south of the capital. Amara had taken the child to the beach, and on returning, she had skidded and driven the car off the road. Both she and her son were found unconscious and had to be cut free by a fire and rescue team. They were now recovering in hospital in Athens.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I replied, finally. ‘That’s – awful.’

‘It is a difficult time,’ he said flatly.

‘I see,’ I replied, not seeing at all, wondering also how he had managed to find me.

‘When accidents like this happen,’ he continued, ‘there is always an investigation.’

Then again, Amara knew I’d been to St Andrews Uni. They’d have passed on my home contact details – got my work number off the answerphone.

‘What I am trying to say,’ he continued, ‘is that they can 8be very thorough. And it is only a matter of time before they contact you directly.’

A distant rumble of thunder was followed by a spatter of rain against the windowpane.

‘Who, sorry?’

‘The police.’

Baffled, I turned in time to see the pigeons untangle themselves and shuffle to opposite ends of the window sill.

‘Mister Haston, you must understand …’ he continued, breaking off to cough into the mouthpiece. ‘Amara’s husband is not the father of the boy.’

The heavens opened, and the birds took wing.

‘You are.’

Unable to think straight, I feigned illness to my boss and, taking leave of the grimy publications office, walked five miles home to Putney in sheeting rain. I hoped the elemental weather might help me work out what the fuck I was supposed to do with such information, and, more to the point, whether I might be facing financial or legal responsibility for the child.

At Battersea bridge, none the wiser, I ducked out of the storm into a phone box and put in a call to the to the Citizens Advice Bureau. The bored official informed me I wouldn’t have any parental or financial responsibilities unless my name was on the birth certificate. For my name to be on the certificate, I would have had to have been there, in person, to sign it. Which, of course, I wasn’t – I’d been in St Andrews finishing off my finals.

So, that was that – legally speaking.

Still clueless as to what, if anything, I should do next, I continued my sodden journey along the Thames path, replaying the conversation I’d had with Amara’s father over in my head, wondering if, in fact, there was absolutely nothing to be done. He’d made it clear that any input or participation on my behalf 9was neither expected, nor welcome. After dropping the bombshell, he had simply given me his address and telephone number in Athens, saying that any attempt at communication was to be made through him, and him only – after which he’d promptly hung up. It seemed to have been a kind of bizarre courtesy call; the family making contact in light of an impending police investigation – to save embarrassment, perhaps, on both sides, in the event of me finding out via a third party.

As I reached Barnes, the rain backed off, and patches of blue sky broke through the cloud cover.

Stopping at the railings on the riverbank, I gazed dumbly down into the swollen flood waters of the Thames and, following the meandering path of flotsam spiralling in the current, noticed a twig caught up in a backwater eddy. Every time it swung out towards the main flow of the river, it was pulled back towards the bank, before being sent spinning back around again – stuck in an endless, fruitless circuit.

After several minutes of bobbing and weaving, however, the twig was struck by a floating coconut shell, knocking it off its path and pushing it into the main current, where it promptly shot off downstream, free at last.

Which was when it hit me:

That phone call … the accident – what if it had been a sign?

What if it was it the universe telling me my one-night stand with Amara had not been an end, but a beginning? A chance to rewind the clock and resume a love story that had been squashed before it had ever had the chance to blossom?

Was it possible Amara was the one?

She was the mother of my child, after all.

Turning away from the river with a fluttering heart, I pushed my way back through the steaming undergrowth and, quickening my pace, set off again along the tow path in the direction of Putney, in search of a second opinion.10

‘You’re gonna drop everything and fuck off to Greece?’

Flipping the steaks in the frying pan, my flatmate, Vince, began to jig along to Crowded House’s ‘Italian Plastic’.

‘I’m getting a sense of déjà vu,’ he added.

‘Last thing you need is me crashing the party,’ I murmured, regretting having broached the subject. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

Vince had listened attentively enough to begin with, but it was becoming apparent my oldest friend and confidant wasn’t best placed for a heart-to-heart. After a ‘working lunch’ with several of his well-heeled colleagues from his father’s PR firm in Kensington, he’d taken the rest of the day off and persuaded his latest accessory, Kate, to join him first for drinks in Mayfair, then dinner at home. Very much the third wheel, I was cramping his style.

‘Bollocks, have some wine,’ he objected. ‘It’s a South African Pinot Noir.’

In a show of support, Kate drew herself up from behind the table and took a fresh glass from the counter. ‘I think you should,’ she said, fingering her black turtle-neck. ‘Sounds like you need it.’ Without waiting for my answer, she stretched catlike over the table and filled my glass half way, her dark brown locks falling forwards to hide her fine features.

A blue-eyed Audrey Hepburn with long hair – except, taller.

‘To help you out,’ I conceded, noting her boozy slurring had the effect of giving her a slight accent – a transatlantic twang.

‘Here’s the thing,’ Vince continued, testing the peppercorn sauce. ‘Amara never planned on telling you. And there’s every chance the police won’t get in touch. Why should they? It’s not like you were there, or had anything to do with the accident. Leave it. Not your concern.’

‘I’m the father of her child,’ I protested.

This was the line I’d decided to take with Vince: that my intended departure was to clear up the issue of paternity and make sure I had no legal responsibilities to the boy. He didn’t 11need to know the real reason. When it came to matters of the heart, Vince was a philistine.

‘You don’t know that for sure.’

‘Why would she lie?’

Vince took another sip of the sauce and licked his lips. ‘I mean, it could be the other guy’s—’

Kate waited a moment for Vince to elaborate, then turned to me. ‘Who’s the other guy?’

Vince threw me a look of apology.

‘It’s not Ricky’s,’ I replied. ‘The minute he returned to Naxos he was arrested. Before that, he and Amara hadn’t seen each other for days – weeks, even.’

Vince pulled a face. ‘Or so she told you.’

‘I can go into the garden if – well … you’d rather,’ said Kate, taking a pull on her wine and drawing in her chair, suggesting it was the last thing she intended.

‘No need,’ I replied. ‘It’s all out in the open.’

As he topped up my glass, I brought Kate up to speed; a story I’d told countless times over the last five years. How I ended up spending six months in an Athens penitentiary; how a charismatic Australian called Ricky had offered me work on the island of Paros and, with the help of a few dodgy individuals in the local police, framed me for murder; how, with the help of Amara, Ricky’s on-off girlfriend, we’d tried to capture him on Naxos, but failed. And how I ended up killing him in self-defence while protecting my ex-girlfriend, Ellie.

As always, I held back on the finer details of the nature of Ricky’s murders – that his victims had been killed on camera, usually in the act of sex, in what was known as ‘snuff films’. The trick, according to my therapist, was to come up with a conclusive summary which would both satisfy curious well-wishers and shut them up at the same time.

‘Shit,’ said Kate, eventually.

‘Shit, indeed,’ echoed Vince, serving up the steaks onto two 12plates. ‘Anyway, my point is: you don’t know for sure the baby isn’t Ricky’s. And if she really was as bohemian as you always made her out to be, there could be other contenders.’

Kate coughed a mouthful of wine back into her glass. ‘I think a woman knows whose baby she’s carrying.’

‘What I meant, was—’

‘Her father telephoned Alistair because the police might get nosey,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘She’s not going to lie to the police. Not with DNA testing.’

Picking up a plate in each hand, Vince turned and faced Kate.

‘This isn’t about the boy,’ he began, a grin spreading across his face. ‘He’s after Amara.’

From the stereo, the chorus of ‘How Will You Go?’ rolled through the sitting room.

Vince was spot on, of course. But no way was I going to admit it.

‘Am I right?’ he added, setting down the plates.

‘We had a connection,’ I ventured, twisting sideways in my seat. ‘No doubt about it.’

‘Bollocks – he thinks he’s in love.’

‘She’s just reaching out to him, Vince,’ Kate said, frowning at her boyfriend. ‘He should do the right thing – go out and show some support.’

‘Not true,’ Vince objected. ‘Her father’s phone call was a formality – you said it yourself, Haston.’

‘I owe her,’ I replied, catching Kate’s eye. ‘If it weren’t for her help that summer, who knows what might have happened.’

‘Spin it how you like,’ said Vince, sitting down and taking a sip of his drink. ‘You’re just looking for a project.’

‘A project?’

Kate turned to me. ‘Is he always this rude?’

‘Soon as you get yourself a proper career and sort your act out,’ Vince continued, carving into the meat, ‘trust me, the right woman will come running.’13

‘A proper career?’ I objected.

‘Really, Vince?’ Kate snapped. ‘Is that how it works?’

‘For a start, the woman has a husband,’ Vince declared, forking a chunk of blood-oozing steak into his mouth. ‘You don’t think he’ll have something to say about it?

‘Alistair’s just found out he has a son,’ said Kate, incredulous. ‘If I was him, I’d sure as hell want to go over and sort it out.’

‘Sort what out?’

‘Clarify … confirm it.’

‘Then ask her to send confirmation,’ said Vince, with his mouth full. ‘Seriously, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.’

Kate pushed back her chair.

‘Personally, Alistair, I think you should go,’ she muttered, before knocking back her wine. ‘If nothing else, to get away from your prick of a flatmate.’

‘What’s bitten you?’ came Vince’s riposte, as Kate stood up and made her way across the sitting room.

At the doorway into the corridor, she turned again and glared at her boyfriend.

‘I came running?’

Contrite at last, Vince leaped to his feet.

But Kate had gone.

While Vince joined Kate in the bathroom with the hope of salvaging the rest of their evening, I sat out in the garden with a can of beer and, breaking a two-year abstinence, chain-smoked my way through a pack of Vince’s Silk Cuts, staring up at the airliners on their final approach to Heathrow.

My best friend’s caustic behaviour was nothing unusual. After a few drinks, he would often resort to trying to fix me and sort my life out with lashings of one-sided advice. He didn’t like the idea of me working from job to job, free at any moment to set off around the world while he remained chained to his desk 14in nine-to-five purgatory. Strong-armed into his dad’s family business straight after uni, he had all the trappings of success: a high-salaried job, his own house, a Porsche convertible … but no life experience to go with it.

He was jealous – plain and simple.

But he also cared about me. He’d been there to pick up the pieces when I’d returned from Athens after my release from prison; he insisted on me paying him only a modicum of rent. He was merely being protective, in the way an older brother might.

On paper, his arguments against me returning to Greece made sense. But that was Vince. He was all about toeing the line, risk aversion and spread sheets.

Yes, Amara had a husband – but the marriage had almost certainly been one of convenience. A single mum, at the age of not even twenty? Of course she was going to settle for security; a pair of safe hands. Her controlling father had most likely hastened on the union. He’d interfered elsewhere in her life – stopped her from seeing me after I went to prison; put an end to her dreams of becoming a professional actress by not allowing her to go to drama school.

A low-flying Jumbo passed overhead, its silhouette a blinking triangular behemoth sliding westwards over the neighbouring rooftops.

Stubbing out my cigarette in the empty beer can, I hauled myself to my feet and turned to face the house.

For all I knew, Amara was thinking the same as me: that fate had offered us a second chance. An opportunity to pick up where we left off and continue what should have been.

If I was back in two days, chastened and humiliated – so be it. If I was to remain the estranged father to a boy who wanted nothing to do with me – so be it.

But was I prepared not even to investigate?

Sorry Vince, but – fuck you.

15

2

The Olympic Airways 737 resumed its cruising altitude and cabin crew returned to their duties, serving up much-needed refreshments. Skies had been clear over France, but conditions deteriorated rapidly crossing the Alps when we flew through a succession of thunderstorms, forcing the shaking aircraft ever higher in order to avoid wind shear. Now fairer conditions had returned, passengers seized the opportunity to ease their jitters with a helping hand from the drinks trolley.

Flicking on the overhead light, I dug out my copy of Let’s Go Greece and leafed through the extensive section on Athens in an attempt to locate Amara’s father’s address – 102 Ion Street – but without success. I did establish the relevant district, however. Kallithea was a residential area in the southern part of Athens, just to the east of the port, Piraeus. I made note of several cheap hotels and a youth hostel in the vicinity of three of the larger hospitals listed, pinpointed two police stations, and found the location of The Royal Bank of Scotland – in case I needed an injection of emergency cash.

Quite how Amara’s father would react when I knocked on his door, I had no idea.

I’d tried to give him the heads up. Before leaving for 16Heathrow to join the queue for the standby flights, I rang his home in Athens and connected with an elderly woman who had an incomprehensibly thick accent and spoke no English whatsoever. Hashing together the little Greek I could remember, I explained I was a friend of Amara’s, coming over from England to see her. Did she have a telephone number for the hospital? At which point she became excitable again, repeating the word ‘apopse’ (‘tonight’) over and over, before hanging up. Baffled by her fervour, I came away confident there’d at least be someone home when I arrived, if not Amara’s father himself.

I buried the Let’s Go Greece back in my rucksack and turned to the window.

The sky above was a deep cobalt blue, melting into a streaking blood orange towards the horizon. Below us, the air had thickened with the onset of evening. No tell-tale city lights. A uniform slate-grey. Must have been over the Adriatic, somewhere off the Dalmatian coast.

Catching my eye in the reflection of the window, my thoughts returned to Amara and our candlelit dinner beneath the stars, on the rooftop of her father’s house in Naxos:

Legs touching in the shadows of the flickering yellow light; fingers brushing as we shared a humble plate of olives … discussing Shakespeare, Yeats, and the nature of obsession … And in the morning, her lying naked in the four-poster bed, sheets down below her breasts; hair tumbling over the pillows … the aroma of honeysuckle drifting in on the night air, mingling with the scent of sex …

Before it had all been taken away.

By Ricky.

Turning away from the window, I switched off the overhead light and gazed down the aircraft cabin.

I hadn’t thought of the Australian in over two years, let alone spoken his name out loud. He’d been banished, extinguished from my mind – thanks to the help of my therapist. He’d visited 17me, of course, in the early days – and nights. Once I’d returned to university; once normal life had resumed and everyone else had forgotten my ordeal. The nightmares had increased tenfold after I’d found the Greek postcard waiting for me in my cubby hole at St Salvator’s Hall. No postage stamp, and bearing only two words: ‘Missing You’. Signed ‘Rx’. For weeks, I deluded myself that Ricky was still alive, that he was coming for me. That he might at any moment crawl out from under my bed and finish what he’d started. Of course, he never materialised. My mind was the adversary, not Ricky. Ricky was dead. No one could have survived those injuries. I knew it. The world at large knew it. The postcard had evidently been delivered to my room by mistake. Post was always getting mixed up in the antiquated postal system in the lobby; such were the foibles of a uni that prided itself on immutable tradition.

Just then, a flight attendant came into view down the aisle on her return journey with the trolley. Catching her eye, I ordered another drink.

She smiled and gave me two.

We touched down at Athens International Airport just after 9 p.m.

Not having any luggage to collect, I bypassed Baggage Reclaim and joined the queue at customs, wondering if they’d pull me over.

Before long, impatience gave way to a fretful restlessness, and I found myself scanning the hall for signs of police activity.

Had my arrival been clocked?

Was that why it was taking so long?

I’d been proved innocent of all charges from the fateful summer of ’88, and my name cleared, but who knew what details remained on the police database? Computers were prone to error … humans were prone to error. And if the police investigation was already aware of me being father to Amara’s 18injured child, it was even more likely my name would surface on their radar. Then what? I’d be questioned at the very least. Detained … searched …

With each shuffling step closer to Border Control, the paranoia grew. I began to recognise faces in the queue. People were whispering about me … pointing, laughing. The officer in the booth: despite his Ray Ban sunglasses, I was convinced I’d seen him before … Leo, from the campsite on Paros? Same set of the shoulders … the shaggy mane of hair. No! he was more like the guard from the Paros police station – the man who attacked me in my cell …

But that was impossible, he’d been executed.

Knifed to death in the caves off Antiparos …

As I would have been, had I not murdered the murderer.

It wasn’t murder – it was self-defence …

A hand on my back snapped me out of my stupor and I whipped around, ready to smash the owner in the face.

An elderly lady.

A kind, elderly lady.

‘Are you alright, dear?’ she croaked, recoiling at my twisted face.

It took me an eternity to find the words, but then I apologised and assured her I was just a little tired. When she offered me a packet of Aspirin, I muttered my profuse thanks and, crimson with embarrassment, turned back to face the front of the queue.

How fucking embarrassing.

When I eventually handed over my passport, the burly official barely looked at me.

It was the same going through customs: no one could be less interested in Alistair Haston, graduate of St Andrews University, sporting a second-class degree in German and Moral Philosophy, ex-inmate of the Athens state penitentiary. Indeed, why should they be? I was just another tourist, visiting Athens on a weekend break.19

Hoisting my rucksack higher on my sodden shoulders, I set out with a spring in my step across the arrivals hall in the direction of the EXIT sign, then came to a stop in the middle of the concourse.

The heat …

Dry oven heat. Not a drop of moisture on the air. Traditional bouzouki music from Duty Free clashing with R.E.M. blaring from a tinny radio in the arrivals café; the heady cocktail of coffee and cigarette smoke floating above the hubbub of human traffic. And then, weaving my way to the threshold of the open doors of the terminal, the sweet scent of night-blossoming jasmine drifting on the faint breeze; a row of cypresses silhouetted against a low-slung crescent moon. The solicitous chirrup of crickets from the shadows.

Greece.

I’d forgotten what it was like: the lure of the Mediterranean that lay beyond the asphalt of the airport. Endless blue horizons and cut-glass azure ocean …

The promise of romance.

I set off once more and crossed the threshold of the terminal building to join a queue for the taxis that was already twenty-deep. But the moment I stepped out into the night air, I was shoved sideways by a young woman struggling with an enormous suitcase.

I was about to object, but she looked up and smiled apologetically, then tripped and fell backwards, dropping the suitcase on the ground, which burst open, strewing its contents onto the pavement.

Instinctively, I bent down to offer a helping hand.

She was already on her feet, cursing in Greek and kicking the suitcase in anger. ‘Panagia mou,’ she muttered, sweeping her hair from her eyes. ‘I am sorry – I did not mean to hit you.’

‘Den pirazee,’ I said – no problem. Then began to scoop up various items of clothing off the ground.20

‘Efkaristo,’ she said, stuffing some underwear deep into the case.

Then she stood up, brushing invisible dirt from her dress while I took over trying to fasten the bulging suitcase. Sitting on it to keep it closed, I eventually fastened the clasps, and then, hauling the thing upright, lugged it behind me, following her to the kerb where a Volkswagen estate had pulled up.

‘Well, better get going,’ I said, eyeing a group of German tourists barrelling towards the taxi rank. ‘Good luck with the suitcase.’

As I turned to go, she reached out and put a hand on my arm. ‘You need a taxi? Please – we can share.’ Her tone was serious. More instruction that invitation.

‘Well, I’m erm … going to the Kallithea district, near the port,’ I replied, brushing a mosquito off my cheek.

‘It will be the morning before you arrive,’ she said, thrusting her chin in the direction of the taxi queue. ‘I am getting off in Glyfada, but the driver will take you wherever you need. Come.’

Fifteen minutes later, we were on a busy dual carriageway heading downtown through the suburbs towards the city centre.

Having given Mr Manolis’s address to our driver, my companion fell quiet and began to apply make-up from a small compact mirror, while I stared out at the rows of billboards advertising Coca Cola, Pampers and Canon bubble-jet printers, recalling the last time I had made the same journey. That 4 a.m. arrival; the rickety tourist bus that had threatened to break down any moment; my obsession with my ex-girlfriend, Ellie …

‘Your first time to Greece?’ she asked finally, breaking the silence.

‘No, actually,’ I replied. ‘Travelled to Paros a few years ago. Spent the summer there.’

‘Ah yes. Paros. You have the party and the beaches,’ she murmured, snapping shut her mirror. ‘Best of both.’ She turned and looked across at me, smiling. ‘You have friends in Athens?’21

I couldn’t work out how old she was – maybe thirty. Strong cheekbones, yet sensitive eyes. A thick cascade of black hair brushing her shoulders. Her lips a deep blood red.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘A chance to catch up and see a few sights before work starts.’

There was no need to give her the real reason.

She stopped listening anyway. Adjusting her dress, she called out to the driver to pull up.

‘I am getting out here,’ she announced, as the car rolled to a stop. ‘He will take you where you need.’

She paid up, then the driver re-set the clock on the dashboard before hopping out to fetch her suitcase. ‘Have a good trip,’ she yelled from behind the open boot.

Before I had a chance to thank her, she disappeared across the road into the entrance of the high-rise, dragging her unwieldy suitcase behind her, while my driver turned the car around and we set off once more along the main road.

After ten minutes, we entered a residential area that had a distinct air of prosperity about it. Tall spreading cedars and palm trees; Pampas grass, lush lawns, and swathes of jasmine climbing over expansive whitewashed walls; the glimpse of a swimming pool here and there through wrought-iron fences.

Made sense. I knew that Amara’s father had done well in the food trade.

‘Endaxi,’ said my driver, pulling up behind a Domino’s Pizza Van that was parked outside a building resembling an old colonial out-house. ‘Afto, einai,’ he grunted. We’re here.

I paid him eight hundred Drachma and told him to keep the change. Then, inhaling a lungful of honeysuckle, I followed the pavement up to a short flight of steps that led to an expansive set of doors flanked by a pair of Doric columns. The number 102 was imprinted on a brass plate underneath a frond of bougainvillea.

I pressed the bell.22

For a while nothing happened, just dogs barking in the distance. The sound of a helicopter circling overhead; the crickets in the oleander shrubs …

I buzzed again. Almost immediately, the door flew open and a wizened old woman dressed in traditional black beckoned me in with a jabbing finger, without waiting for me to speak. ‘Ella. Ella etho! Grigora, grigora!’

Evidently the person I’d spoken with on the phone.

‘Hello,’ I began, ‘Emai Alistair Haston, sto Anglia. Ti kaneis – Kala?’

‘Ti Kaneis, ti kaneis,’ she echoed, and then disappeared into the hallway, chattering to herself – or to me – I wasn’t sure.

Gingerly, I took a step onto the expansive marble flooring, expecting to meet Amara’s imposing father. But there was no sign.

Waiting for her return, I hung back in the vast open-plan sitting room, noting the Turkish carpets, the opulent chandeliers and a pair of Rothko copies on the wall, the abundance of framed black-and-white photographs …

I let my rucksack slide to the floor and wandered over to what appeared to be a family portrait, hoping for a glimpse of Amara, her father – and, of course, the boy. But before I was close enough to make out any detail, a voice came from behind me.

‘Good evening.’

I spun around and came face to face with a square-jawed man in a pinstriped suit; slick haircut, early thirties.

Where the hell had he come from?

Had I walked right past him?

‘My name is Alistair Haston,’ I said, scratching at the mosquito bite on my right cheek which had already begun to itch. ‘I have come to see Amara’s father. You must be …’

‘Takis,’ he replied. ‘His son.’

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

‘Is there a problem?’23

‘No, it’s just – Amara never mentioned she had a brother.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he smiled. ‘Strictly speaking – half-brother. Same father. Different mother.’ He thrust his hands amiably into his pockets. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’ve come to see Amara and her boy,’ I explained. ‘Your father told me of the accident. I came as soon as I possibly could.’

‘You spoke to my father?’

‘He called me in London.’

Behind his head, a gecko shot out from behind a Rothko and scuttled up to the ceiling.

‘I see,’ replied Takis, stroking an earlobe, before shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it on the sofa. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake. Amara is not in Athens. She left for Zakynthos yesterday morning.’

I stood immobile for a moment, wondering if I’d misheard.

‘They’re out of hospital?’

‘They are on holiday,’ he replied, knitting his thick eyebrows.

‘But, your father called me, the day before yesterday,’ I protested. ‘He told me about the accident – that they were in hospital, here, in Athens.’

Despite the air-conditioning, I suddenly felt unbearably hot.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Haston,’ he replied, ‘but this is not possible.’ Casting his gaze to his feet, he kicked away an imaginary pebble, before looking up at me once more, his smile fading. ‘My father died two years ago.’

Dumbfounded, I remained rooted to the floor as Takis poured two large glasses of Scotch and expounded on the subject of his family: explaining first that his father had died of bone cancer after a seven-year battle with the disease, and second that, being Amara’s half-brother from his father’s first marriage (along with the fact he was eleven years her senior), they’d never been close – rarely spoke, even.

‘We see each other very occasionally,’ he added, passing me 24a drink. ‘At Christmas, or Easter. When she and Xander got married, three years ago … But not since my father’s funeral.’

He took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit up, apparently expecting me to make some form of comment. But I was so blown away by his earlier revelation I was unable to utter a word.

‘I can assure you she is not in Athens,’ he continued, easing himself into the leather sofa. ‘When my father died, I took over his financial affairs, including the management of the family villa. Usually it is for the tourists, but for some weeks in the year it is reserved for family. Amara is there now, with Max and her husband.’

He gestured for me to sit, but I remained standing. I had the sickening feeling that the whole affair had been a prank; that someone, somewhere – for reasons best known to themselves – had played an unholy trick on me. Who, though? And why? Why on earth would anyone go to such lengths?

I could almost hear Vince’s scornful laughter.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said finally, struggling to find the words. ‘And for taking up your time. But the person who pretended to be your father and lied about the accident also told me Max was my son.’

Takis held my gaze, unblinking; the slightest frown creasing his heavy brow.

Above him, the foraging gecko returned to his lair behind the painting, a moth twitching between his translucent jaws.

‘My father was a proud man,’ Takis eventually replied. ‘Always protective of his daughter.’

‘That’s not an answer,’ I said, as politely as I could.

I felt a droplet of sweat slide down my spine.

‘There were … rumours, of course,’ he added. ‘But, as I say, we were forbidden to talk about it.’

‘Forbidden?’

Takis didn’t respond.25

Why was he being so evasive?

I knew I’d been persona non-grata as far as Amara’s father had been concerned – he hadn’t wanted his daughter to be associated with a murder suspect. But the father was dead. I’d been proved innocent.

‘You have a photograph?’ I asked, scanning the pictures on the walls.

‘Of Amara?’ he replied, puzzled.

‘Of her family – of Max.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, tipping back the rest of his Scotch. ‘Please – help yourself to another whisky.’ Then he disappeared off down the corridor into the kitchen, where I heard him rummaging around in a drawer.

Utterly baffled, I returned to the first photo-frame I’d seen, only to discover it wasn’t a family portrait at all. It looked like a graduation ceremony: Takis in a robe and decorative hat, standing with three other men – they appeared to be clutching their diplomas, or something of that ilk. I quickly roamed the room and found all the other photographs to be of Takis, taken sometime between his early to mid-twenties. In one of them he was with a woman – blonde, elegant and pale skinned – but in all the rest he was with one or two men of his own age, and of similar Mediterranean complexion. On the beach, in cafés … on a ski lift.

Other than the Rothkos, the only other non-photograph was an oil painting hanging above the archway into the kitchen. At first glance, it had the appearance of an amateur work – by Takis himself, perhaps? It was of a naked man wrapped in a bed sheet; again, Mediterranean? Impossible to say.

‘Sorry you are waiting,’ Takis announced, emerging from the corridor with a fistful of photographs. ‘Loula is too good at her job. You can never find anything.’ He handed me the photos then wandered back to the drinks cabinet and poured another Scotch, before extending the offer to me.26

I declined with a shake of the head and addressed the photographs, wiping the sweat first from my eyes, and then off the celluloid.

My heart leaped.

The top photo was of Amara on the beach in a bikini, unchanged in appearance since I had seen her last, except that she had cut her waist-length hair into a bob. She was as exquisite as I had remembered: thick raven locks framing a button nose and fathomless doe eyes, that lithe, supple physique … the hint of mischief playing about her parted lips.

My eyes reluctantly shifted left …

Sitting half-buried in sand next to her was a fair-haired boy of maybe three or four years, holding a bucket and spade above his head and apparently shouting, eyes screwed shut.

No way of knowing from that shot. But … fair hair?

I turned to the next photograph. Amara sat, legs crossed, at a restaurant table, holding hands with a good-looking man considerably older than herself; swarthy, athletic and looking decidedly pleased with himself. He wore a gold chain around his wrist, and a medallion nestling in his hairy chest.

‘This is Amara’s husband – Xander,’ grunted Takis disapprovingly, sucking on his cigarette as he peered over my shoulder. ‘He is a musician, from Crete. A playboy.’

A playboy?

‘When did they meet?’ I asked.

‘A few months before they got married.’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the drinks cabinet and thrust his hands back in his pockets. ‘Amara is impulsive. She doesn’t think.’

I’d been wrong. Amara hadn’t married a safe pair of hands at all; she’d done the precise opposite. To piss off her father. To get revenge upon the man who had interfered with her life … and prevented her from reaching out to me.

I flipped over the final photograph:

Max. Standing in his pyjamas in front of a Christmas-tree, 27clutching a toy aeroplane. Unruly locks of blond hair framing his elfin face, head tilted to the left, chin thrust forward, gap tooth-grin glinting in the flashlight …

I sensed Takis move away. Heard the tinkle of ice cubes.

‘This is at the villa,’ he said, topping up his drink. ‘Last Christmas.’

I could only stare in wonder.

The resemblance to my five-year-old self was astounding. ‘I have a similar photograph,’ I murmured, enthralled. ‘Taken at my grandparents’ house in Norfolk. They gave me a toy Spitfire …’

A truck rattled past the front of the house, then all was still.

I threw another glance around the siting room.

Amara had a husband and a son – that much was true. And that photograph of Max, along with Takis’s reluctance to talk of Max’s paternity, left no doubt in my mind that I was indeed the father.

But what of the fictional car crash? The person claiming to be Amara’s father?

‘Do you know who telephoned me?’ I asked finally, meeting his gaze.

‘I have no idea,’ he replied, unblinking.

He was lying.

Indeed, the three shots of whisky he’d poured in the space of less than five minutes suggested he was far from comfortable in my presence.

As I continued to study him, however, it dawned on me.

How could I have missed it?

‘It was Amara,’ I exclaimed, taking an involuntary step backwards. ‘She had someone call me on her behalf …’

Takis remained implacable.

‘Was it you?’ I added, heart thumping at my rib cage.

Averting his gaze, Takis checked his watch and placed his glass decisively down on the table. ‘The villa overlooks Gerakas 28beach on the west of Zakynthos,’ he declared slowly, dropping his arms to his sides. ‘Villa Aphrodite.’

That was as good as a confession.

Amara had enlisted the services of her half-brother in a ruse to bring me over to Greece.

To rescue her from her no-good husband.

‘I’m very grateful,’ I replied slowly, handing him the photographs. ‘Sorry again for the intrusion.’ No point pressuring Takis any further. He’d done his bit. Now he was washing his hands of the matter.

‘I wish you luck,’ he said, sweeping open the front door and letting in the muggy heat of the night. ‘Any friend of Amara’s is a friend of mine.’

He couldn’t have made it any clearer.

Admitting – without admitting.

‘The name of that beach again?’ I said, reaching for my rucksack and heading for the door.

‘Gerakas,’ he replied, avoiding my eyes. ‘It is famous for its sea turtles.’

‘Villa Aphrodite?’

‘Exactly.’ He gave a curt nod and clicked his heels together.

I shook his hand and stepped out into the night.

29

3

Hovering by the roadside, I took a moment to get my bearings, then headed downhill towards the city centre.

Next step – a bed for the night.

In the morning, I’d book the first available flight to Zakynthos.

And rescue Amara.

But as I started to cross the road in front of the Domino’s Pizza van, an engine fired up off to my right, followed by a flash of headlights.

Shading my eyes against the glare, I found myself staring at the same Volkswagen taxi that had delivered me an hour or so earlier.

‘Boss!’ called out the driver, hanging his head out of the window. ‘You need taxi?’

Approaching the vehicle, I spotted an abundance of cigarette butts in the central ashtray, along with fast-food cartons and a crushed can of Coke.

‘You are looking for something?’ he asked, stepping out onto the road and hitching up his jeans. ‘Food? Bar? Girls?’

I told him I wanted to head towards the port – anywhere I could find a cheap hotel.30

‘Endaxi,’ he replied, coming around to open the rear passenger door. ‘Hotel, no problem. Please.’

Seconds later, we shot off downhill, the city lights of downtown Athens blinking in the distance.

Seizing the opportunity, I asked if he knew about flights to Zakynthos.

‘Every day, there are two,’ he grumbled, turning down Oasis’s ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Star’ on the radio. ‘One in the morning – the other … I don’t know. Night time, maybe.’

He then asked if I was a football fan.

‘Rugby,’ I replied. ‘Or cricket – sometimes.’

I caught his disapproving frown in the rear-view mirror just as we pulled up at a crossroads, where we stopped, engine idling. After a minute or so, when it became clear there was no traffic in either direction, I asked the driver if there was a problem.

‘One moment, please,’ he said, fiddling with the rearview mirror.

As I swung around to see what he was looking at, the passenger door opened and a heavily-set man in a linen suit and Hawaiian shirt slid into to the seat beside me.

Before I could protest, the taxi kicked into gear and we did a U-Turn, speeding off and taking a small side road west.

I fumbled for the door-handle, but my intruder was a step ahead.

‘Apologies for the intrusion, Alistair,’ he said, in a cut-glass English accent. ‘Just wanted a quick chat.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ I spat, swivelling around, fists clenched.

‘Gerald Alexander,’ he replied, dabbing his thick neck with a handkerchief. ‘A friend.’

We took off in the direction of downtown Athens, winding our way through the back streets towards the waterfront. All the while, my intruder sat next to me, erect, hands folded in his lap like an attentive school-boy.31

He’d given nothing away. Other than handing me a business card, he’d held a finger to his lips, recommending we wait until we were ‘better situated to talk openly’, before banally asking if I’d had a pleasant flight. I assured him I had. After that, conversation ceased. Despite his deliberate air of mystery, however, I was under no illusion as to why he was there. My arrival into the country had been clocked; eyebrows raised as to why the individual who had caused so much embarrassment to the Cyclades police in ’88 was back.

Less than five minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside Hotel Euphoria; a 1970s high-rise situated in a small square, two blocks back from Piraeus harbour. From the stifling entrance hall at reception, I was led up seven flights of stairs – the lift was ‘unreliable’ – to the roof bar, where we took up position at an isolated table, away from the clusters of tourists and businessmen gathered at the edges of a shabby ten-metre pool.

‘Fewer mosquitoes out here,’ Gerald declared, folding his suit jacket over the back of his chair and placing a bottle of Amstel down in front of me. ‘Nasty little buggers, particularly at this time of year. Grab the breeze while you can, that’s what I say.’ Tugging at his ill-fitting shirt, he lowered himself into his seat and once again produced a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bulging neckline.

I scanned the terrace and made a mental note of my exit route.

‘You can start by telling me what your plan B was, if I hadn’t got into the taxi with that woman at the airport,’ I said, tossing his business card onto the table. ‘What are you, MI5, or something?’

Corpulent and sweaty-faced in his flowery shirt, Gerald Alexander slotted perfectly into the role of bumbling expat. But his demeanour, like his job title, rang false. Aside from the fact it was now obvious my encounter with the woman at the airport had been a set-up, the idea that the ‘Head of Translation for the British Council’ had cause to jump into 32the back of my taxi, unannounced, in the middle of the night was preposterous.

He looked up from his beer and smiled. ‘No flies on you,’ he said, his attention drawn by a couple dancing at the edge of the pool. ‘But MI5 is homeland security, strictly speaking …’

‘Secret service, MI6 – whatever,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘I don’t see why I have to explain anything. And I certainly don’t appreciate having the shit scared out of me by a complete stranger hijacking my taxi.’

‘I can only apologise again for the abrupt introduction,’ he replied, with a frown. ‘Unfortunately, it was a necessary precaution.’

For a man of supposed authority, he seemed oddly nervous. As for myself, the earlier paranoia and anxiety I’d felt at the airport had gone. Now the tap on the shoulder had come, I felt only a growing sense of indignation.

‘Feel free to get to the point, Gerald,’ I snapped. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Of course, absolutely,’ he replied, nodding his head vigorously. ‘The thing is, Alistair, we know of your past troubles. And I need to know why you’ve come back.’

From the streets below, the wail of a siren cut through the music and chatter.

‘Why the hell shouldn’t I come back?’ I retorted. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours or anyone else’s.’

He took a long pull on his beer. ‘It’s of paramount importance, for the sake of everyone concerned, that you tell me why you are here. Otherwise, things could get … tricky.’

Tricky?

I could feel the artery in my neck pulsing against the skin.

‘What if I drop by the Embassy – see what they have to say about it?’

‘You could,’ he replied genially, glancing over at the swimming pool. ‘They’d tell you to return in the morning. At about 339.45 we’d have the same conversation again. With an audience. But I don’t think you’ll get that far.’

I grabbed my rucksack off the ground. ‘This is bullshit.’

Gerald grunted and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Your call. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Greeks will be eager to get stuck in once they get the nod. Kidnapping is a serious offence.’

He turned casually towards the bar, produced a pipe from his shirt pocket and began to tap out the charred remains on the side of his chair.

I froze, my rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Kidnapping?

I felt the outbreak of sweat across the back of my neck. ‘What the …?’

‘You paid a visit to Takis Manolis,’ he snapped, cutting me off. ‘Why?’

I continued to stare, uncomprehending.

‘Don’t test me, Alistair,’ he said quietly, all trace of the goofy Englishman dissolving in an instant. ‘Unless you get off your high horse and tell me, right now, exactly what you are doing here, things will become complicated. And I assure you, the Greeks will be far less understanding.’

I remained rooted by stupor, my brain capsizing.

This was insane.

I’d done nothing wrong. I didn’t owe Gerald, or MI6, or the Greeks anything.

‘Who the hell am I supposed to have kidnapped?’ I stammered, rising to my feet. ‘I’ve only just arrived in the bloody country.’

‘Sit down Alistair,’ hissed Gerald through gritted teeth, nodding to dismiss the nearby couple who had turned to see what the fuss was about. ‘And tell me what you are doing here. Now.’

For a moment, the music died on the PA system and a strange quiet befell the roof terrace. Above the chatter, I heard the distinctive rhythmic chant of a lone cicada, somewhere in the vine 34trellis on the far side of the pool – it must have been confused by the lights.

All at once, I was back in the Parikia jail: moths and flies buzzing around the flickering bulb; dead hornets hanging from spider webs in the paint-cracked corners. The stench of shit and piss wafting in through the barred, windowless, square hole that served as a window. The sickening fear that I had been discarded, forgotten, left to rot …

Music struck up once more from the speakers and the flashback passed as quickly as it had materialised. Gerald was still watching and waiting – his eyes catching the fluorescent light of the fly traps, cracking and popping on the walls as they dispatched their winged victims.

He rose to his feet and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Alistair?’

He was about to blow the whistle.

Experience had taught me it was vital to be straight up with the authorities from the off. Bravura had its place, but it was an unpredictable grenade that could detonate if one held on too tight. I’d made that error in Paros, and it had nearly cost me my life.