Thirteen Days By Sunset Beach Read online

  Sandra gripped Ray's hand, but he couldn't risk looking at her. As they headed for the Sunny View he saw a dark shape nutter across the road. It was the shadow of a moth, but what did it suggest to him? He glanced back at the graveyard, where nothing except lights appeared to move, and then he realised what was on his mind—a thought as useless as it was irrationally unsettling. The moth had reminded him how lights lured nocturnal creatures out of the dark.

  The Saint's Day: 25 August

  "Well, that wasn't our best night," Natalie said. "I don't think we would have minded lying in."

  Pris turned away from watching for the bus. "Sorry if I woke anyone too soon. I just thought we'd planned so much today I'd give everyone a shout."

  "No need to blame yourself, Priscilla," Julian said. "Someone had already wakened us."

  "I was only telling William to let me sleep," Jonquil protested.

  "Perhaps you could have shown a little more consideration for your brother, since you knew he'd had a bad night."

  Ray thought Sandra meant to rescue Jonquil by asking "What were you dreaming, William?"

  "I thought a man got in the room."

  Ray felt close to recalling a dream of his own until Sandra said "That doesn't sound like much of a dream."

  "Well, it emphatically was one," Julian told William. "You said he went away without opening the door."

  "I wonder if you might feel a bit responsible," Natalie said.

  "Why on earth should I feel anything of the kind?" When she didn't answer Julian demanded "For what, for heaven's sake?"

  "For working William up before he went to bed. Maybe for going on so much about things we won't mention instead of letting him come to terms with them."

  "I think I'm exactly the wrong person to accuse of that," As Natalie made to respond he said "And I wonder what you imagine you'll achieve by discussing this in front of him."

  Ray would have liked the sound of a bus to break the ensuing silence, but it was Julian who did. "I appreciate you felt you had to defend your mother. Forgive me, Sandra, if I was abrupt."

  "You're forgiven," Sandra said as they heard a bus approaching from the direction of the graveyard.

  The driver stared so hard at her and the teenagers that he might almost have expected them to remove their hats and sunglasses when they stepped on board. Several women blessed them as they filed to their seats, and Julian seemed near to demanding why. He was silent until the bus reached Sunset Beach. "Don't bother looking, Jonquil," he said then. "We won't be wasting any more time here."

  "What are you looking for, Sandra?" Ray said loud enough for Julian to hear.

  "Just looking. Can't I look?"

  Her reaction was fiercer than he understood. He was distracted by the women in the front seats, who were covering their eyes whenever someone came in sight ahead. Sandra peered at every solitary figure the bus passed, and he could have imagined she was searching for a face. She appeared not to recognise them any more than Ray did, and he told himself that it was comical to fancy either of them could.

  The bus had passed through several villages by the time it reached the path that led to the beach with the cave. As it came abreast of the shrine Ray saw a large white butterfly fluttering its wings on the glass. He was about to draw William's attention to the resemblance to an angel when he realised that the butterfly was struggling in a cobweb. He glimpsed legs twitching into view around the window-frame before a massive spider darted out to seize its victim. He hoped the boy hadn't seen, and looked for sights to point out to him—a herd of goats fleeing up a slope bedside the road, an eagle hovering above the inland hills, the familiar Greek spectacle of uncompleted houses sprouting rusty metal rods where a roof should be. "That's one way of getting some sun," he said.

  The comment would have been more appropriate if the sky hadn't started to grow overcast. "Sorry about the clouds," Doug said. "We only just read there's more here than anywhere else in Greece."

  Masts appeared to be trying to poke holes in the sky above the harbour of Vasilema Town. A few passengers were disembarking from a ferry while a busload of homegoing tourists collected their luggage from the bowels of the bus. Most of them wore hats and sunglasses, and looked paler than their stay ought to have left them. They seemed weary too, but perhaps the holiday representative was urging them to be quick. As the sun found a gap in the overcast they hurried to the ferry with a thunderous rumble of luggage.

  Beyond the harbour a side street led to the bus terminal—a square in which a line of shelters stood in front of a ticket office and a waiting-room. Once the family had stepped down Julian lingered to ask the driver "What time is the last bus back, please?"

  The man jerked his hand at the windscreen, presumably gesturing at the ticket office rather than the sets of blind eyes that twitched above the mirror—the zeros of a defunct digital clock. "Most helpful," Julian said and marched over to the booth, where he planted his elbows on the window ledge until the woman at the counter looked up. "How late do you go to, you'll forgive me if I can't pronounce it. How late do you go through Sunset Beach."

  She nodded at the waiting-room. "On board."

  Ray might almost have imagined she was advising them to return to the bus, except that he saw she was indicating a timetable. As Julian made to retort Ray remembered Doug's warning not to antagonise anyone official. "It's not important, Julian," he murmured. "We won't be going back that late."

  "I prefer to have information before it's needed," Julian said but followed him as he made for the toilets off the waiting-room. Tim was peering at his reflection in a mirror that spanned the wall above the sinks. As soon as the men appeared behind him he dodged out of the tiled room so fast that his reflection was a blur. Ray wasn't surprised if Tim had found it hard to see himself; the glass was splintered in several places as though somebody had tried to smash the entire mirror, and Tim's sunglasses could hardly have made his view clearer. Ray used a urinal while Julian bolted a cubicle door and coughed immoderately to cover up the sounds he had to make. Once he'd washed his hands Ray dried them beneath a blower so fierce that it sent ripples through the loose flesh of his arms, a sight that reminded him of the face he'd imagined he was seeing in the graveyard. "I'll be outside," he called, which elicited a louder cough.

  The family was waiting on a corner of the square, outside a tourist shop that displayed considerably fewer bottles of sun cream than of artificial tan. "Maybe you'd need that if you lived here," Doug said, and Ray saw he had the narrow streets in mind. Perhaps they were too narrow to receive direct sunlight even when the sky was cloudless, although had there been less sun cream than fake tan in the supermarket by the Sunny View? "We're over here, Jules," Pris called, "nobody's hiding from you," which drove the question out of Ray's mind.

  The street that led uphill was too narrow for him to hold Sandra's hand in the crowd. Few of the tourists looked as if they came from Sunset Beach, even though some were as young. Ray assumed one of their generation was responsible for graffiti at the far end of a side street, where a name was sprayed on an otherwise unblemished white wall—RYK. Or had letters been erased on either side of those? He hadn't time to be sure before he followed Doug and Pris uphill.

  Quite a few of the streets that climbed or crossed the hill were roofed with awnings overgrown by vines, which provided so much shade that Sandra and the teenagers took off their hats. Shops clustered together as if seeking the company of their own kind, so that one street sold only clothes and shoes, while another was devoted to herbs and oils and other Greek fare. Here was a street pale with embroidery—hanging tablecloths and doilies and place mats—while the next was ruddy with leather goods. Souvenir shops swarmed with images of the local saint, not just wooden icons but pottery bearing his likeness and even jewellery borrowing his shape. As Doug lingered in front of a window full of St Titus painted in a variety of styles, the proprietor waddled out to him. "Special price today," she said.

  "Just looking, thanks. This cha
p gets everywhere, doesn't he?"

  The woman folded her arms, which flattened her ageing breasts. "He is history."

  "He's yours, you mean. Your island's." Since she seemed unaware that her words were ambiguous, Doug let them go. "I wasn't disrespecting him," he said.

  The woman was examining the family. "Where do you stay?"

  "Just along from Sunset Beach," Sandra said.

  "I see it."

  The woman's lined face darkened as she withdrew into the shop. "Actually," Pris called after her, "maybe you could tell us—"

  The woman halted between two paintings of St Titus flourishing his spear, and Ray had the odd sense that she welcomed their protection. "What can I tell?"

  "What's your saint supposed to fight? We've seen some images of him where he's fighting something, but we couldn't make out what it's meant to be."

  "He did not fight. It was people's wish he did."

  "In that case," Natalie said somewhere between patience and amusement, "what didn't he fight that you wanted him to?"

  "What came after."

  "After his death, you mean." When the woman didn't contradict this Ray felt driven to prompt "And that was..."

  "He was meant to keep island holy. Monks thought he would."

  Ray wondered if the unholiness she had in mind might be represented by the likes of Sunset Beach. Apparently she'd said all she cared to, and was retreating between the saintly canvases when Julian commented "Someone needs to rethink their sales pitch. That didn't make the fellow sound much use at all."

  The woman turned, though her resentment looked like unwillingness. "Maybe he helps you remember."

  "Remember your island, you mean?" Pris said. "I'm sure we will."

  "Some will."

  Ray couldn't tell who she was staring at, let alone the reason behind her frown. "Who won't?" he blurted. "Why shouldn't they?"

  The woman was already disappearing into a back room. "They come back and remember."

  "Did anybody understand what that was all about?" Julian demanded, and not quietly either. "Doesn't anyone round here speak proper English?"

  "They speak it better than most of us speak Greek," Pris said just as loud.

  "They're pretty new to tourism," Doug pointed out. "I'd say they've made us welcome."

  Sandra was making her way uphill as if the woman's frown had sent her onwards. Ray limped after her, ready to support her if she found the climb too much of a task. The street felt increasingly steep to him, though the gradient hadn't changed. How long had it been since he wouldn't have thought twice of such a climb? Remembering felt like trying to clutch at a past that was out of reach, but the present was all that should matter to him. Just now Sandra was all that should.

  The way ahead was narrowed by a stall selling henna tattoos. Among the stick-on flowers and snakes and names he was unsurprised to see images of St Titus with his lance. Tim pointed at a troop of them. "We could get sainted," he told Jonquil.

  "Don't so much as think of disfiguring yourself, Jonquil," Julian said. "We don't want to be seen with anyone who cares so little for herself. And the same applies to you, William."

  The young woman seated on a folding chair beside the stall blinked fast and then more slowly at the teenagers. "Too late," she said.

  "How's that?" Doug said as if he hoped she was joking.

  "They are no good now."

  "Is that another local custom, talking down your merchandise?" When she only blinked at Julian he said "I think I was perfectly clear."

  "Sorry." Pris might have been apologising to the vendor on his behalf. "What are you saying about your tattoos?" she said.

  "The boy said they would make them like the saint. Pictures can do nothing."

  "I was kidding," Tim protested. "I won't have one if Jonk isn't."

  "Please don't try to alter my decision," Julian said. "In every way that's inappropriate."

  "I think Tim's just supporting his cousin, Jules," Doug said.

  "I don't see why that's called for. We apologise for wasting your time," Julian told the young woman and strode uphill.

  When Natalie followed him, the others did. As they crossed a lane Ray noticed more graffiti on a wall. The letters could have been advertising a local version of a worldwide drink—KOLA—or were they flanked by faint traces of more? He hadn't time to dawdle, since Sandra looked determined not to falter before reaching the top of the hill. At least he was able to take her hand, though he scarcely knew which of them might be sustaining the other, when they emerged into a square in front of a church.

  The square gave them a view across the sea. Small curved waves reminiscent of fingernails clawed at a beach to the left of the harbour. The ferry that the bus had passed was sinking over the horizon, where the clouds fell short of a larger island, letting the sunlight brighten all its colours like a concentration of summer. A plane passed overhead, descending towards the distant island, and Ray and Sandra said "Casablanca" in unison as they always did. As slow protracted thunder trailed the plane across the sky Pris said "Shall we look in the church?"

  The interior was brighter than the square. Hundreds of thin white candles flamed in holders along the walls and before the altar. At first Ray could hardly see, so that the figures with upraised hands seemed to form out of the distance beyond the flames. They were saints, and their gestures were blessings, though Ray could easily have felt admonished by the stern-faced golden frescoes and their stained-glass brethren. He was trying to decide which if any of the saints was Titus when Doug said "We aren't supposed to do that, Jules."

  "There's a notice by the door," Pris said.

  "For the love of all that's holy, what else aren't we allowed to do?" Julian demanded and continued photographing frescoes with his mobile. "It strikes me that they tell their visitors one thing and themselves another. If we aren't meant to hold our hands up, why are these fellows doing it?"

  "Maybe there are some things only saints can do."

  "I didn't know you were a believer, Jonquil."

  "There's a whole lot you don't know about me."

  Ray wondered whether this was a boast or a complaint if not both. He saw Julian preparing to reply, but as the flash made a saint gleam gold a man came out of a room near the altar and shouted in Greek. Ray thought he was rebuking Julian until he saw that the man was facing a side entrance to the church. The door had swung open, and the flames of all the nearest candles crouched low as if they were trying to flee the intrusion. "It's him," William cried. "It's the man in my dream."

  Ray peered towards the door to see that several newcomers had entered the church. Through the unsteady haze of the dozens of flames that had sprung up once more, he could scarcely make the faces out or even count them. There were three of them, and they appeared to be not merely wavering but merging together. It reminded him of the sight of something underwater, except that they could have been composed of the restless liquid. He was wondering if he should recognise one or more of them when he found he was gazing at the vibrant air above the flames and nothing else. He limped fast to the side door, which was opposite a lane that led so steeply downhill it needed a stepped pavement and a handrail. The lane was deserted, though he couldn't see along the cross streets, except for a section of wall along which a blurred shadow vanished like a drying stain.

  In the church the man was haranguing Julian. "No camera," he said and gestured at the frescoes. "Holy. Fade."

  Ray was afraid that Julian might criticise the rudimentary language, but he slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. "Excuse me," Ray said as the man turned his back, "could I ask what you said to those people?"

  Perhaps the man didn't hear him. He stumped into the side room, shutting the door with an emphatic thud that echoed through the church as the flames shivered. "Did you understand him, Doug?"

  "Pris and I were trying to figure out what we heard. Something about feeding, we think."

  "Maybe they were beggars," Pris said, "which means he wasn't bei
ng very Christian."

  "He said something else, though," Doug told Ray. "As near as we could tell if was about some kind of transfer."

  "Not those wretched tattoos again," Julian objected.

  "No, Doug," Pris said. "I think I've got it now. Not a transfer, a transfusion."

  If this was a clarification, Ray couldn't see what it made clear. "Now, William," Natalie said, "what was all that silliness about a dream? What did you think you saw?"

  "That's how his face went in my dream." With even more defiance William said "Soggy."

  "Then that proves it was a dream, doesn't it? I think you've just found a new favourite word," Sandra said. "I'm feeling a bit watery after all that walking. When everyone's seen what they want to see in here I wouldn't mind some lunch."

  ***

  As the bus left the family behind, William said "Why is he up there?"

  At the far end of a street that led from the main road, lengths of wood were piled at least twenty feet high in the middle of a village square. The figure perched on top wore a black robe with a cowl that hid its face. It was silhouetted against clouds stained red by the sun that had sunk beyond the unseen sea. "He looks like he's looking for someone," William said.

  "He's just for people to look at," Jonquil told him. "Let's go and see."

  "Stay out of the road," Natalie called after them.

  The street was free of traffic, but William stayed on the pavement that the clustered houses had for doorsteps. Some of it was marble and some was red clay, not to mention patches of lumpy pimpled concrete. "Hold your sister's hand, William," Julian called.

  Had the boy discovered rebelliousness? All he did was look askance at Jonquil. "Go on, William," Ray shouted. "Grandma's holding mine."

  Her hand felt colder than he liked. He might even have found it less substantial than he wanted it to be. He squeezed it harder than he meant to and managed to relax his grip as William poked out a hand for Jonquil to take. By now Ray could see that the elevated figure was enthroned at the peak of the heap of wood. At least, he realised as the family reached the square, the effigy was tied by its arms and legs to the rickety wooden seat, which didn't look much like a throne. The head inside the cowl was a featureless white bag, and Ray would have preferred not to be reminded of the spider's cocoon in the roadside shrine. "Well, he doesn't look too saintly," Pris said and turned to a man who had picked up a stray branch to fling on the pile. "Kali nichta. Can you tell us about this?"