Greek Island Escape Read online

  ‘Wow, that is cool! You got any other family?’

  ‘My brother, Josh, and Mum and Dad.’

  ‘What’re they like?’

  ‘Awful. No, sorry, that’s not true. My brother’s all right, kinda cool actually. But Mum and Dad, they . . . well, I hardly saw them, even when I was living at home. They’re important people, always trying to make things better for others, that’s all. Me and Josh have them to ourselves for one week a year – when we all go to Crete. I mean, it’s not such a bad thing – we always had Granny Anna. But I found out something, something bad, really bad, about my dad. I was at this party that I shouldn’t have been at, and he was there too. I couldn’t believe my eyes – and he saw me! Anyway, I only intended to stay away until it’d all blown over, but then I found out Granny Anna had gone back to Crete, so I started saving to go out there. Just to take care of her for a bit, and talk things over. And perform in the carnival, of course. What about you?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘Me mam’s dead. After she died, I found Dad, but he had a girlfriend who got up the duff. I bet they’re married by now. She kept bossing me. Dad always took her side – said I was nothing but trouble. I never want to see them again. We’re better off on our own, aren’t we?’ She curled up with her back to Megan. ‘What you doing in Manchester if you’re from London, then?’

  ‘Putting as much distance as I can between me and the druggy boyfriend.’

  Silent for a moment, Megan thought of her parents and Josh. ‘You ever wonder what your family are doing now, Emily? If they remember you, like?’

  Emily sniffed, but didn’t reply. She must have fallen asleep.

  With the wall against her back, Megan curled her limbs against Emily, savouring the heat from her body. They could be sisters – they looked enough alike. Megan had always fancied having a sister to share things with. It might have been easier to talk to a sister about everything than it had been with Josh or her parents. Perhaps if she’d had someone to talk to, things would have turned out differently.

  She dismissed the thought. In the distance, tyres squealed on the wet road, a car horn blasted, another police siren, and then she heard the thrum of helicopter blades.

  Later, Megan heard voices rising through the floorboards. She remembered the light fittings against the door and the knife beneath the mattress, and calmed herself. Feeling safe with Emily’s body against her, she drifted off to sleep.

  *

  The sound of heavy traffic woke her. Daylight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes in the air. Commuters at rush hour meant money to be earned at the traffic lights. She pulled herself up. Emily had gone, probably downstairs to the bathroom. Megan reached for her bag. It was gone, too.

  No, no, no!

  Megan unzipped the thigh pocket of her camo trousers, pulled out her juggling balls and her Ziploc bag. The money was still there: all her savings. But her duffel bag, her passport, the photo of her mum, dad and Josh had vanished. All her personal possessions were gone.

  She had put so much effort into getting that passport, walking all the way to Salford Keys only to find the interview office closed for urgent renovations, and all appointments moved to Portland Street for the month. Now she would have to return to Portland Street, report it stolen and go through the whole rigmarole again. Bloody hell! The woman who interviewed her had been sympathetic, especially when Megan told her why she desperately needed a passport.

  ‘My grandmother practically brought me up. My parents are professional people – they both work all the hours. I hardly see them. Well, now Granny Anna’s gone back to Crete and I’m worried about her. She wasn’t well and, you know, she’s quite old. I could look after her while she gets better.’

  The passport woman had said that was highly commendable, and she’d do all she could to help. Nevertheless, Megan didn’t want to repeat the process. She probably needed her birth certificate, also in the stolen bag. She hoped the passport woman would remember her.

  Her head itched, something tickled inside her bra and she felt the filth of a week in the same clothes. The skanky mattress probably ran with fleas. Centrepoint, a charity for homeless young people, was a two-mile walk. Nevertheless, she needed to clean up before returning to the passport office, and Centrepoint had hot showers and free food.

  Perhaps they would help with her birth certificate and passport stuff. Then she could go to Poundland – a clean pair of knickers and a nylon backpack would cost two quid. She’d soon make enough money to get to Crete if it stayed dry.

  Megan stared at the indent in the grimy mattress. She thought she’d found a friend, a sister. Her shoulders dropped: she was a fool. No one had ever really been her friend, her ally. No one except Granny Anna, who had always had time for her, always loved her, who would love her still.

  Megan knew she should have spoken to her grandmother before she ran away. Sometimes Granny Anna could sort things out – but the day she’d decided to talk about her problems, her grandmother hadn’t been feeling too well. Megan found her clutching her belly and rocking back and forth, pain etched on her face.

  Granny Anna claimed it was just a tummy bug and asked Megan not to go worrying her mother, who was snowed under with her new promotion. Although Granny Anna was fiercely proud of her daughter’s achievements, she was also Megan’s number one ally.

  There was Josh, too. He’d always stuck by her, in his way. She had phoned him not long after leaving home. In truth, she missed him.

  ‘Swear you won’t tell that I called, Josh?’

  ‘Megs, get real, I’m not a child. ’Course I won’t tell.’

  She believed him. ‘I’m not going back to school. Mum and Dad can’t make me be what they want.’

  ‘Is that why you left? Just because you don’t want to go back to school? That’s a bit mad. You should discuss it with them, Megs. Tell them you want to study performing arts.’

  ‘I’ve tried. They don’t want to listen. Anyway, they’re always busy. I was going to ask Granny Anna to speak to them, but she wasn’t well. Is she better now?’

  ‘Granny Anna’s gone back to Crete to stay with her sister for a bit. She told me she wouldn’t be surprised if you turned up there, considering how nuts you were about the place. Christ, Megs, I can’t believe you ran away over school. Mum’s been frantic. The police were here.’

  ‘The police? Shit! To tell the truth, there was other stuff, too. Dad caught me at a party and – God, it couldn’t have been worse. There were drugs and booze, and . . . anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. There’s this guy, Simon. He’s so cool. I love him to death. He’s teaching me to drive, and his mate’s got this great band. They’re turning pro, and they’re going to let me have a go at singing with them, one of these days. Imagine! It’s like a dream come true. I’ll bet Mum and Dad have hardly missed me.’ She had paused, waiting, but he didn’t contradict her. ‘They can both get on with their boring careers without me to worry about.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. Food to cook.’

  ‘You, cook? Ha! Call again, Megs. Don’t be a stranger.’

  She laughed at his grown-up words, but once Megan had ended the call, she realised how much she missed him.

  They had always fought like cat and dog, until the day Megan came out of the school gym and saw a couple of bullies having a go at her brother. They had Josh against the back wall, trying to rob his lunch card.

  ‘Oi! That’s my brother!’ she’d yelled, whacking ferociously with her hockey stick. After, she’d lain awake at night worrying that they’d get her back.

  Megan thought about calling him now, but it was seven o’clock in the morning. Besides, she had to be careful. She didn’t want to call him when Mum or Dad were around. But it had been months since they’d spoken. She missed him, and she wanted to ask how Granny Anna was.

  She didn’t know why her grandmother had returned to Crete, and the thought made her a little sad. Granny Anna and Mum were so close – they did near
ly everything together. Maybe she could persuade Granny Anna to come back home, and they’d get on a plane together and walk up to her parents’ door, and . . .

  Megan shook her head. She couldn’t face her parents again, not after that night, the night before she left.

  Megan remembered the lies she’d told her mother. ‘It’s just a sleepover, Mum, so we can study together for the end-of-terms.’ But it wasn’t that at all. The party was an adult affair in a huge house, and the host’s son, a sixth-former Megan didn’t know, had been allowed to have his friends around and use the pool house in the grounds.

  She’d snuck over the lawn to take a peek through the French windows, shocked to see adults behave in such a way. Too much drink and drugs, and one or two couples were actually groping each other, without a worry about who saw them.

  And then she had seen her dad, that glamorous young woman all over him. She barely remembered what had happened after that. She’d drunk even more than before, smoked pot by the pool. And later her dad had seen her, too – drunk, stoned and half-naked in the pool. She had seen his expression, heard him shout her name. She had wanted to die of shame.

  No, she couldn’t face her father after that. And she couldn’t face her mother, knowing what she knew. If Mum knew Dad was having an affair, then God, who knew what might happen! No: she needed her grandmother’s help to put things right.

  Megan had loved her holidays in Crete. One day she would watch Mama Mia on her own telly, there, on the island. Or on a tablet. Yes, she’d have a tablet again, and a smartphone. She’d get a job as a holiday rep through the summer, perform her music and juggle in bars every night and swim in the sea every morning. In the winter, she would hike and write plays, and one day her mother would email her and say she loved her and missed her, and ask her to come home.

  Do you ever wonder where I am, Mum?

  CHAPTER 5

  SOFIA & MARKOS

  Sofia, Athens, 1944.

  AT THE BACK OF THE theatre, I slowly regained consciousness. Sounds were sharp, yet muffled, as if behind closed doors. The high-pitched screeching hurt my ears, but the human screams were more terrifying. Inside my head the noise felt like a hot wire being pulled through my brain. I tried to put my hands over my ears, but I couldn’t move. I had a flashback, an image of a lost second. Hurled into chaos, pinned down by a dead weight of adults. My first thought: I’d been discovered in the back of the auditorium and pounced on by angry theatregoers who’d paid high prices for their seats. Had they punched and kicked me unconscious? The weight on top of me made it difficult to breathe – and then acrid smoke caught in my throat.

  A disturbing sensation grew in my body, like those seconds before a numb limb gets pins and needles. Bristling, electrifying, but more intense.

  The stench of burning wool, hair and flesh made my eyes water. The ear-piercing sound seemed to fade, but perhaps I had simply adjusted to it. The rising ‘whooo’ of the air-raid siren gained velocity. Alarm bells clanged through the Athens streets. I imagined emergency vehicles racing across Syntagma Square.

  Where were they going? How could I hear these things from inside the soundproof theatre? What had happened?

  A thought half formed in my mind. A bomb. There must have been a bomb.

  Under the crush of people, I tried to shout for help but couldn’t draw enough air into my lungs. Each breath tore at my throat.

  ‘Help! Help me!’

  I was pressed against the marble floor. Something hard dug into the palm of my hand. The barley sugar. I tried to wriggle free but my head banged against solid wall and I realised I was jammed into the corner where I had hidden. Nothing made sense.

  ‘Please! Can you move, please!’ I whispered to the people that weighed me down. ‘You’re crushing me.’ I pushed with all my strength, gasping for air. There was a shifting. Someone moaned: a man, his voice soft, guttural, with the bubbling sound of wetness.

  ‘Sorry, I have to get to my father, please let me go!’

  There was a sliding movement and suddenly I could see the dusk sky above.

  Bodies slid around me as I pushed and shoved my way out of the heap. Someone whimpered.

  ‘Help! Papa!’ I cried.

  As my eyes adjusted, I stared around in disbelief. The stage area and the front half of the theatre was a giant smoking hole in the ground. There were limbs, grotesque faces; people lay scattered, limp over wreckage. Everything spun and tilted. White dust rose like steam. The only wall still standing was the one against which I had hidden. It leaned at an angle that defied gravity. Rows of upended seats were tangled around my corner, and plaster and people were scattered about.

  ‘Help!’ With each shout, the pain in my head exploded.

  Then there were shadows leaping, black devils cast by a fierce flashlight.

  ‘Sofia! Is that you?’ a man cried. The light came my way, blinding me. Big Yiannis, chief usher, his uniform almost white with plaster dust. ‘There’s a child here, alive!’ he yelled over his shoulder, as he rushed towards me.

  I straightened, stupefied, glancing back at the heap of bodies. They were too still. Warm limbs, soft and relaxed.

  ‘Sofia, get out of there. The wall’s about to come down!’ Big Yiannis scrambled under twisted rows of seats. ‘Sofia, move! Come towards me, quickly!’ His eyes bulged, fear on his face, a gaping gash on his forehead.

  Pale sand sprinkled down, then lumps of plaster. My legs were paralysed. I stared at him as he faded in the fog of dust. Something hit me on the head and pain raced down my spine. Lights flashed behind my eyes and I was falling, fading into oblivion.

  I felt myself swept up by strong arms. We stumbled, bumping into solid matter, snagged on metal, lunging forward over soft, shifting debris, bodies, masonry. An ear-splitting noise cracked the night open, and the back wall collapsed, covering the people that had buried me. The theatregoers that had saved my life. I thought about the woman’s cries, the man’s groan.

  Then we were sitting on the pavement outside, in Syntagma Square. Yiannis clutched me, his chest jerking in great sobs.

  ‘Oh God, oh God!’ he cried, patting me all over. ‘Are you all right? Where does it hurt?’

  I tried to make sense of the chaos. People in white tin helmets were coming from the wrecked building with stretchers. Bodies were lined up on the road.

  ‘Are you all right, Sofia?’ Big Yiannis asked. ‘You’ve got blood on your cheek.’

  I pressed my hand against my face. It didn’t hurt, and when I looked at my palm, there was a red lipstick imprint of Mama’s kiss. Oh, Mama! I curled my fingers and held onto that kiss as tightly as I could, as the truth of the day dawned on me.

  ‘It’s Mama’s lipstick,’ I sobbed.

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Big Yiannis said. ‘You had it on your cheek earlier.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘My wife was in there. Your father got her a free ticket . . .’

  *

  Markos, Athens, 1944.

  Minutes earlier, in the alley behind the theatre, one of Markos’s comrades had poured a bucket of water over him in an attempt to wash away the stinking ka-ka.

  ‘Leave it! Run!’ Sotiris cried, lifting the T-plunger on the detonation box.

  In a moment, Markos and Sotiris were beside each other, racing like hell along the cobbles, then flying through the air. No one had expected such a blast. Everything changed into slow motion and Markos knew tonight would be etched into his brain for the rest of his days.

  Glancing back, he saw the cast-iron sewer cover lift and hurtle towards them. Sotiris stumbled, the spinning manhole cover smashing into him.

  The blast threw Markos flat and pushed him forward in a skid on his belly. Cobbles ripped the front of his vest to shreds, then grated the skin from his bony ribcage. Masonry flew over him and his prostrate comrades. Chunks of brick and plaster rained down. The air filled with black smoke, then fine white dust that billowed towards the darkening sky.

  In the first moment, he heard
nothing but the deafening explosion, followed by a roar as the building came down. He tried to stand and reach Sotiris, who lay across the alley, but his balance had gone. Before he was halfway to his feet, he staggered sideways and fell to the ground again. Terrible pain thundered through his head, and the ringing in his ears deafened him.

  Trying to ignore the pain from his own bloodied torso, Markos crawled to his leader. The manhole cover lay embedded below Sotiris’s ribs, almost cutting him in half. A pool of blood paled in the blanket of dust. Sotiris opened his eyes wide, stared in horror at Markos, and tried to speak. Blood flowed from his mouth and, with a splutter and a shudder, his life ended.

  Markos stared at his lost friend, and the world began to fade around him.

  *

  The day after Markos had buried his mother, three sisters and the newborn, he needed to be alone. His heart was so heavy he couldn’t speak to his father. He pulled on his jacket and walked three kilometres into the centre of town. His favourite church, the Sainted Mother, stood on Erminou Street. He likened the building to an old man – rounded and stooped, chipped at the corners, a grandfather of churches. Bullet holes spattered the stucco and red brick, but over the door, glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight, was the most beautiful golden mosaic of the Blessed Mother and Child he had ever seen. He closed his eyes, thinking of his own dead mother and the nameless baby at her breast.

  Once again, he cursed the armed forces. Finding the church door locked, he kicked it harder and harder as his rage rose up and destroyed his senses.

  ‘Malaka! Malaka! Malaka! ’ he yelled, swearing and thumping his clenched fists against the portal. Tears ran down his face. ‘Damn you to hell, God! Damn you to hell and back!’

  God wasn’t listening, but the papas and a policeman were. They grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away from the door.

  ‘Hey! Do you want to be locked up for the night?’ the policeman said, twisting Markos’s arm up his back. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’