The Moonspinners (26 page)

I think I simply stood there, stupid and sick, with the branch in my hand, and Colin, startled into a moment's immobility, kneeling at my feet. Then he moved. Vaguely I remember him dragging his hands out of the earth, and more stuff tumbling with its choking cloud of dust, and the branch being torn from my hands and flung down where it had been . . . then I was crouching in the shelter of a thicket a little way off, with my head in my hands, sweating and sick and cold, till Colin came pelting after me, to seize me by the shoulder and shake me, not gently.

‘Did you hear the shot?'

‘I – yes.'

He jerked his head seawards. ‘It came from over there. It'll be them. They may be after Lambis.'

I merely stared. Nothing that he said seemed to mean very much. ‘Lambis?'

‘I'll have to go and see. I – can come back for him later.' Another jerk of the head, this time towards the grave. ‘You'd better stay out of sight. I'll be okay, I've got this.' His face still had that stunned, sleepwalker's look, but the gun in his hand was real enough.

It brought me stumbling to my feet. ‘Wait. You're not going alone.'

‘Look, I've got to go that way anyway, I've got to find the caique, it's all I can do. But for you – well, it's different now. You don't have to come.'

‘I do. I'm not leaving you. Go on. Keep right up under the cliffs where the bushes are.'

He didn't argue further. He was already scrambling up the side of the gully, where the cover was thickest. I followed. I only asked one more question, and then I didn't quite dare make it a direct one. ‘Was he – was he covered right up again?'

‘Do you think I'd leave him for those stinking birds?' said Colin curtly, and swung himself up among the trees at the gully's edge.

15

No spectre greets me – no vain Shadow this:

Come, blooming Hero . . . !

WORDSWORTH
:
Laodamia

The ruined church was tiny. It stood in a green hollow full of flowering weeds. It was just an empty shell, cruciform, the central cupola supporting four half-cups that clung against it like a family of limpets clinging to the parent, and waiting for the rising tide of green to swamp them. This, it threatened soon to do: a sea of weeds – mallow and vetch, spurge and thistle – had washed already half up the crumbling walls. Even the roof was splashed with green, where the broken tiles had let fern seeds in to mantle their faded red. A wooden cross, bleached by the sea winds, pricked bravely up from the central dome.

We paused at the lip of the hollow, peering down through the bushes. Nothing moved: the air hung still. Below us now we could see the track running past the door of the church, and then lifting its dusty length through the maquis towards the sea.

‘Is that the way to the caique?' I whispered.

Colin nodded. He opened his lips as if to say something, then stopped abruptly, staring past me. As I turned to look, his hand shot out to grip my arm. ‘Over there, see? I saw someone, a man. I'm sure I did. Do you see where that streak of white runs down, above the knot of pines? To the right of that . . . no, he's gone. Keep down, and watch.'

I flattened myself beside him, narrowing my eyes against the bright afternoon glare.

His hand came past me, pointing. ‘There!'

‘Yes, I can see him now. He's coming this way. Do you think?'

Colin said sharply: ‘It's Lambis!'

He had half-risen to one knee, but I shot out a hand and pulled him down. ‘You can't be sure at this distance. If it was Lambis, he'd be keeping under cover. Hang on.'

Colin subsided. The small figure came rapidly on; there must have been a path there; he made good speed along the hillside towards where the main track must lie, and he was certainly making no attempt at concealment. But now I saw him more clearly; brown trousers, dark-blue seaman's jersey and khaki jacket, the way he moved . . . Colin was right. It was Lambis.

I was going to say as much when I saw, a little way beyond Lambis and above the path he was following, another man emerging from a tangle of rocks and scrub where he must have been concealed. He began to make his way more slowly along, above Lambis' path, converging downhill upon it. He was still hidden from the advancing Lambis, but he was plain enough to me . . . the loose breeches and bloused jacket, the red Cretan cap, and the rifle.

I said hoarsely: ‘Colin . . . above Lambis . . . that's Josef.'

For seven or eight paralysed seconds we watched them: Lambis, unaware of his danger, coming steadily and rapidly on; Josef, moving slowly and carefully, and, as far as I could make out, already within easy range . . . The gun nosed forward beside me, light trembling on the barrel, which was not quite steady.

‘Shall I fire a shot to warn him?' breathed Colin. ‘Or would Josef—?'

‘Wait!' My hand closed on his wrist again. I said, unbelievingly: ‘Look!'

Lambis had paused, turned, and was looking around him as if expecting someone. His attitude was easy and unafraid. Then he saw Josef. He lifted a hand, and waited. The Cretan responded with a gesture, then made his way unhurriedly down to where Lambis awaited him.

The two men stood talking for a few minutes, then I saw Lambis' arm go out, as if he were indicating some path, and Josef lifted the field glasses to his eyes, and turned them eastwards. They swept past the church, the hollow, the bushes where we lay, and passed on. He dropped them, and presently, after a little more talk, he moved off again, alone, at a slant which would bypass the hollow, and take him straight down towards the coastal cliffs.

Lambis stood watching him for a moment, then turned towards us, and came rapidly on his way. His course would lead him straight to the church. And – I saw it, as he came nearer – he now had Josef's rifle.

Colin and I looked at one another.

Neither of us said it, but the question was there, hanging between us, in the blank, frightened bewilderment of our faces. Vaguely, I remembered Lambis' evasive replies when I asked him about his birthplace. It had been Crete; was it here, perhaps? Agios Georgios? And had he used Mark and Colin as the cover for bringing his caique here, for some purpose connected with Stratos and his affairs?

But there was no time to think now. Lambis was approaching fast. I could hear his footsteps already on the rock beyond the hollow.

Beside me, Colin drew in his breath like a diver who has just surfaced, and I saw his hand close round the butt of the gun. He levelled it carefully across his wrist, aiming at the point where Lambis would appear on the track beside the church.

It never occurred to me to try to stop him. I simply found myself wondering what the range of an automatic was, and if Colin was a good enough shot to get Lambis at the fore-shortened angle he would present.

Then I came to myself. I put my lips to Colin's ear. ‘For heaven's sake, hang on! We've got to talk to him! We've got to know what's happened! And if you fire that thing, you'll bring Josef back.'

He hesitated, then, to my relief, he nodded. Lambis came out into the clearing below us. He was walking easily, without even a hand on his knife – as well he might, I thought bitterly. I remembered the way he had followed Josef out of sight yesterday – to have a conference, no doubt. Another throught struck me: if Josef had been to the village, then he would have told Stratos and Sofia that I was involved. But they had not known . . . or they surely could not have behaved the way they did. So he hadn't yet been back to the village . . . and now we would do our best to see that he never got back there again.

The rights and wrongs of it never entered my head. Mark was dead, and that thought overrode all else. If Colin and I could manage it, Josef and the treacherous Lambis would die, too. But first, we had to know just what had happened.

Lambis paused at the door of the church to light a cigarette. I saw Colin fingering the gun. There was sweat on his face, and his body was rigid. But he waited.

Lambis turned, and went into the church.

There was the sound, magnified by the shell of the building, of stone against stone, as if Lambis were shifting pieces of loose masonry. He must have used this place as a cache, and he had come this way to collect something he had hidden there.

Colin was getting up. As I made to follow, he whispered fiercely: ‘Stay where you are!'

‘But, look—'

‘I'll manage this on my own. You keep hidden. You might get hurt.'

‘Colin, listen, put the gun out of sight. He doesn't know we saw him with Josef – we can go down there openly, and tell him you're found. If he thinks we don't suspect him, we can get the rifle from him.
Then
we can make him talk.'

As clearly as if the boy's face were a screen, and a different picture had flashed on to it, I saw the blind rage of grief give way to a kind of reason. It was like watching a stone mask come alive.

He pushed the gun back out of sight under his cloak, and made no objection when I stood up with him. ‘Pretend you're a bit shaky on your pins,' I said, and slipped a hand under his elbow. We went down into the hollow.

As we reached level ground, Lambis must have heard us, for the slight sounds inside the church stopped abruptly. I could smell his cigarette.

I squeezed Colin's elbow. He called out, in a voice whose breathlessness (I thought) wasn't entirely faked:

‘Mark? Lambis? Is that you?'

Lambis appeared in the doorway, his eyes screwed up against the sun.

He started forward. ‘
Colin!
How on earth—? My dear boy – you're safe! Nicola –
you
found him?'

I said: ‘Have you anything to drink, Lambis? He's just about done.'

‘Is Mark there?' asked Colin, faintly.

‘No. Come inside out of the sun.' Lambis had Colin's other arm, and between us we steered him into the church's airy shade. ‘I was just on my way down to the caique. There's water in the flask. Sit the boy down, Nicola . . . I'll get him a drink.'

Mark's haversack lay in one corner, where Lambis had dragged it from its hiding place in a tumble of masonry. Apart from this, the place was empty as a blown egg, the stone-flagged floor swept clean by the weather, and the clustered domes full of cross-lights and shadows, where the ghost of a Christos Pantokrator stared down from a single eye. The rifle stood where Lambis had set it, against the wall by the door.

He was stooping over the haversack, rummaging for the flask. His back was towards us. As Colin straightened, I let his arm go, and moved to stand over the rifle. I didn't touch it; I'd as soon have touched a snake; but I was going to see that Lambis had no chance to grab it before Colin got control. The automatic was levelled at Lambis' back.

He had found the thermos. He straightened and turned, with this in his hand.

Then he saw the gun. His face changed, almost ludicrously. ‘What's this? Colin, are you mad?'

‘Keep your voice down,' said Colin curtly. ‘We want to hear about Mark.' He waved his gun. ‘Go on. Start talking.'

Lambis stood like a stone, then his eyes turned to me. He was looking scared, and I didn't blame him. Colin's hand wasn't all that steady, and the gun looked as if it might go off at any moment. And Lambis' question hadn't been quite idle: Colin did indeed look more than a little unhinged.

‘Nicola,' said the Greek sharply, ‘what is this? Have they turned his brain? Is that thing loaded?'

‘Nicola,' said Colin, just as sharply, ‘search him. Don't get between him and the gun – Lambis, stand still, or I promise I'll shoot you here and now!' This as Lambis' eyes flicked towards his rifle. ‘Hurry up,' added Colin, to me. ‘He hasn't a gun, but he carries a knife.'

‘I know,' I said feebly, and edged round behind Lambis.

Needless to say, I had never searched anyone before, and had only the vaguest recollection, from films and so on, of how it was done. If it hadn't been for the grim relics buried in the gully, and for the look in Colin's face, the scene would have been pure farce. Lambis' English had deserted him, and he was pouring forth a flood of questions and invective which Colin neither heeded nor understood, and to which I didn't even listen. I found the knife straight away, in his pocket, and dropped it into my own, feeling stupid, like a child playing pirates. I stood back.

Lambis said furiously, in Greek: ‘Tell him to put that thing down, Nicola! What the hell are you playing at, the pair of you? He'll shoot someone! Has he gone crazy with what they did to him? Are you mad, too? Get hold of that bloody gun, and we'll get him down to—'

‘We found the grave,' I said, in English.

He stopped in mid tirade. ‘Did you?' The anger seemed to drop from him, and his face looked strained all at once, the dark sunburn looking almost sickly in the queer cross-lights of the church. He seemed momentarily to have forgotten Colin and the gun. He said hoarsely: ‘It was an accident. I would have you to understand that. You know I would not mean to kill him.'

I was standing back against the door jamb – the unheeded Doric column – fingering in my pocket the knife I had taken from him. Under my hand I could feel the chasing of the handle, and remembered suddenly, vividly, the pattern of the blue enamelling on the copper shaft. I remembered his using this very knife to slice the corned beef for Mark . . .

‘
You
did it?' I said.

‘I did not want him dead.' He was repeating himself in a kind of entreaty. ‘When you get back to your people in Athens, perhaps you will help me . . . if you tell them that this was an accident . . .'