Panikos was kept busy doing practical jobs, and Maria helped with the cooking but was mostly preoccupied with the baby, who continued to thrive and grow.
The little boys had become inseparable, playing together all day and every day, chasing up and down the stairs, kicking balls in the corridors and building camps out of cushions and chairs. They knew that their games had to be played with the minimum of shouting and squeals, but they were used to this now. Mehmet and Vasilakis enjoyed more freedom in The Sunrise than they might have done outside it.
It was spring now, and with a change of season came fine rain. The beach, which was out of bounds in any case, now held little allure.
Chapter Twenty-nine
FOR MANY WEEKS, Aphroditi had been lying in her bed. Savvas was grateful to have Kyria Loizou acting as her nurse and happy to have her coming and going to and from their apartment. He had moved into the spare room.
Kyria Loizou was almost constantly at Aphroditi’s bedside, dressing wounds, changing sheets and holding her hand. It was clear that Aphroditi did not want to talk about what had happened, and it had not been difficult for the older woman to surmise that she wanted to keep something from her husband too.
Savvas accepted the story that his wife had slipped and fallen down the stairs. It would explain her broken fingers and bruised face. He was solicitous but not over-enquiring. His optimism had returned as the country settled down, and he was far more interested in the business opportunities that this new Cyprus offered.
On his trip to Limassol he had acquired some contacts and was already in discussions over a new hotel.
‘I know it’s long-term,’ he said, ‘but we have to think ahead. It might be a while before we can get The Sunrise back.’
He was sitting on a chair at the end of the bed and continued chatting for a few minutes, unaware of Aphroditi’s reaction.
‘I’ve no idea what’s happened to Markos Georgiou,’ he said. ‘He never showed up with the keys.’
Aphroditi turned her head away so that he could not see her face.
‘Your bruises are going down,’ he said brightly. ‘I think we should resurface the staircase with something non-slip. There are some very good materials around these days. All the hotels have started using them. I’ll get it priced up.’
That afternoon, Kyria Loizou found Aphroditi weeping. It was the first time she had cried.
The mention of Markos Georgiou’s name had brought her mind back to the image of him that she had seen that terrible night in Famagusta. Suddenly there was clarity. She knew with blinding certainty that it had not been a hallucination.
The elderly woman took her hand, and when she looked into Aphroditi’s eyes she saw a familiar grief. It was as deep as it had been on the morning she had returned with her injuries.
Up until now, Aphroditi had not confided anything, though her demeanour had already told Kyria Loizou a great deal. That day she was ready to speak.
‘Have you ever made such a terrible mistake … that you can’t make it better?’ she asked through her tears.
Kyria Loizou squeezed her hand.
‘Everyone makes mistakes from time to time,’ she answered kindly.
‘Not like this,’ replied Aphroditi. For a moment she seemed to be speaking to herself, weeping at the same time. ‘He was there. He saw. He saw it happening.’
‘Whatever happened to you,’ the elderly woman reassured her, ‘I’m sure it was not your fault.’
For the next few hours she stayed with Aphroditi as the tears continued to flow. Her pillow was soaked. Kyria Loizou could see that whatever the young woman had done, she had paid very dearly for it.
It seemed from that day that her wounds began to heal a little faster. Within a few weeks she could leave her room, making her way carefully down the stairs, holding the banister rail. Kyria Loizou supportively took her other arm and they went out into the sunshine together.
The moment that the scent of the city hit Aphroditi’s nostrils, she knew she had to leave. The odour of this island would never change for her now. She smelled dust, rat droppings, decay, blood and bitterness. Everywhere.
‘All those things are in your imagination,’ said Kyria Loizou. ‘Perhaps they’ll fade. I can’t smell any of them.’
‘But for me, they’re too strong,’ said Aphroditi, with tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t think it’s possible to live with them.’
She told Savvas that night that she wanted to go and stay with her mother.
When she rang Artemis Markides, she got the response she expected.
‘I knew you would see sense eventually,’ said her mother with satisfaction. ‘I’ll send someone to meet you at Heathrow.’
It would be very simple, since she had almost nothing to take with her.
When she heard the news, her kindly neighbour insisted on taking her shopping for some new clothes, even though they would not be particularly suitable for England.
‘You can’t arrive wearing a dress of your mother’s,’ said Kyria Loizou. ‘But I expect you’ll have to buy something warmer when you get there.’
A few days later, Aphroditi was on a plane from Larnaca.
It was a cloudless day, and as they climbed, she had a clear view of her island from above. With its miles of empty spaces and remote, peaceful beaches where turtles came to lay their eggs, it did not seem possible that such bloodshed and division had taken place. She could make out a few scars on the landscape, but the citrus groves, mountains and villages dotted about on the landscape looked deceptively unscathed. The plane did not need to pass over Famagusta for her to imagine its streets echoing and ghostly and its buildings devoid of life.
Aphroditi pulled down the window blind. She did not want to see the land disappear beneath her. The numbness that she had felt since her last visit to The Sunrise had gone.
As feeling had returned, so too had pain.
Chapter Thirty
WHAT PARTICULARLY ASTONISHED Hüseyin was how casual Markos was becoming in his meanderings around the city. He behaved like a man who would never be caught, acted like someone who thought that everyone had their price, a sum for which they could be bought.
For many weeks now, Hüseyin had been on Markos’ trail. It had become an obsession, and yet he still lacked the nerve to confront him.
One night he followed him down a side street on to a main road. About fifteen minutes after he had left the hotel, he realised that a lone Turkish soldier had appeared between himself and Markos. He was thirty or so yards behind the Greek Cypriot, and Hüseyin felt his heart pound.
The young conscript was clearly unaware of Hüseyin, even though there was a similar distance between them. It crossed Hüseyin’s mind that he could have spotted Markos on another occasion, and might already know about The Sunrise.
For a few minutes, they followed each other. Suddenly Markos stopped and bent down. He appeared to be doing up a shoelace. It was then that Hüseyin realised the soldier was drawing his gun. Unless he was very inebriated, the unsuspecting Markos would be an easy target.
Hüseyin was shocked to find that he felt a stirring of pleasure at the thought of Markos being killed by a Turkish bullet. Then it occurred to him that he might not be killed but taken prisoner. Would Markos keep the secret of The Sunrise? He doubted that betrayal was beyond his capabilities.
At the same time as these thoughts were running through Hüseyin’s head, he was surveying the immediate vicinity. The only weapons to hand were lengths of metal, shards of glass and other debris from derelict buildings. Then he spotted a jagged lump of concrete. Without pausing, he picked it up and hurled it. Even if it missed, it would distract the soldier and alert his prey.
Although it was a long time since he had played a game of volleyball, Hüseyin had lost neither his skill nor his strength. He could throw with pinpoint accuracy. The solid slab gathered speed as it travelled and met its target.
The soldier knew nothing. The blow to his head felled him instantl
y.
Markos heard the thud, spun round and saw the soldier lying still on the ground. Hüseyin was a few yards behind him.
The two men looked at each other and simultaneously ran towards the lifeless body.
‘We need to hide him,’ said Markos.
There was no time for questions or explanations. There was hardly time for Hüseyin to dwell on the thought that he had killed a man.
‘Quickly. If they find the corpse, they’ll come looking for whoever did it,’ said Markos.
‘We need to get him as far away as possible from The Sunrise,’ agreed Hüseyin. ‘There’s a big grocery store up that side street. With piles of empty sacks at the back.’ It was one of the shops that Hüseyin had methodically emptied in the days before they moved to the hotel.
Silently the two men dragged the corpse through the street. It was heavy, and even between the pair of them it was a huge effort.
Hüseyin wondered if he might have been one of the soldiers who had attacked Aphroditi. The thought did not even enter Markos’ mind.
The door to the shop was open and they pulled the body to the dark area at the back, where they covered it with layers of sacking. Only the smell of decomposition would give it away, but by the time anyone came to look, the flesh would be gone and just the bones would remain.
Markos glanced at his watch. This episode had made him late, and he knew that the man he was meeting would be getting impatient. He felt trapped with Hüseyin standing there but knew he needed to get away as soon as he could.
‘Why were you following me?’ he asked insouciantly as they finished their work.
In those minutes as they were dragging the body, Markos had been calculating how best to win Hüseyin round. There was, of course, a possibility that this was the one and only time he had been followed.
‘I wanted to see why you were leaving the hotel when you had told everyone else they must stay,’ said Hüseyin boldly.
The effort of moving the body had left them both out of breath. It was hidden now, but the two men were still in the gloomy recess of the shop.
‘There was something I wanted to sell,’ said Markos, leaning forward and touching Hüseyin on the arm. He wanted to make it seem as if he was confiding in the younger man and perhaps even professing a little guilt. ‘I knew it was a risk.’
If he had not watched Markos Georgiou in the strongroom that night and seen for himself the look of lust on his face as he cradled the guns and gems, Hüseyin would have swallowed the man’s lie. Over the past few weeks, though, a very different picture of Markos had evolved, and he knew that there was a wide gulf between who he was and who he seemed.
Hüseyin felt he was the only person who had any idea of the reality, but he was inexperienced and did not know what reaction he would provoke. Truth mattered to him.
‘I have seen you before,’ he said. ‘Not just today.’
Markos did not instantly react. Confronted with such simplicity and openness, it was difficult to think of anything to say. Given how carefully he felt he had covered his tracks, and how assiduous he had been in every way, he was astonished to have been found out. In fact he was furious. This had never happened to Markos Georgiou, and the sense of exposure was like having a thousand searchlights beamed into his face.
His body temperature rose. How dare anyone follow him, but more importantly, how dare this Turkish Cypriot boy pass judgement on him? Anger was a rare thing for Markos, but in the back of this huge shop in an isolated part of town, he slid his hand inside his jacket.
Though he could not see Markos’ face in the darkness, a memory of the devilish grimace that he had seen in the strongroom came to Hüseyin. The other image that flashed before him was of Markos holding a small gun. He had no doubt that he had it with him now.
When they were concealing the body, Hüseyin had noticed a knife on the counter close by. It was the tool used for slitting open the sacks.
The younger man’s reactions were swift. As Markos was pulling the gun from his pocket, Hüseyin grabbed the knife that lay rusting on the surface. For the second time that day, action had to be faster than thought. He knew that Markos would not think twice. The young Turkish Cypriot was learning that killing was sometimes about self-protection.
The speed of Hüseyin’s action came as a total surprise to Markos. He hardly had time to fold his fingers round his gun before the knife was rammed into his chest.
Hüseyin had once helped his father kill a goat. There was the same disconcerting silence as the blade penetrated flesh. The sound it made as it was withdrawn, accompanied by the gushing of blood on to the ground, was more shocking than the stabbing itself.
Until that night, Hüseyin had not realised how sickeningly easy it was to rob a man of his life. He turned away, full of remorse and self-disgust, and leaned against the counter to steady himself. His hands were shaking so violently that he dropped the knife. He feared that the noise of the metal blade scudding across the stone floor would be heard from miles away.
The knife had pierced Markos through the heart. He had dropped backwards to the ground, soaked in blood. For a sudden disorienting moment, Hüseyin’s mind flashed back to a decade before, to the bloodstained shirt of his cousin Mehmet.
In a state of disbelief over what he had done, he dragged the body towards the empty sacks. It left a trail of blood that he would have to clean away before he left. Markos seemed weightless, almost insubstantial compared with the Turkish soldier. Hüseyin hid the corpse close to the first one, but not touching, and took the gun.
At the other end of the city, the man who was waiting for Markos had finally lost patience. With increasing fury, he realised that there would be no delivery that day. The Greek Cypriot had let him down, in spite of the fact that he had paid in advance, as always. He had never asked questions, as he had always known that he was getting the better side of the deal, handling magnificent pieces of jewellery for less than half of what they were worth. The item that he had been promised this time was the most valuable and expensive piece he had ever acquired, and now he felt a fool. He would come back each night until Markos turned up. He had been an acquaintance of the manager of the Clair de Lune for a long time, but he was not going to let him get away with this.
Hüseyin hurried back to The Sunrise, stumbling as he went. He arrived just as the light was coming up, hoping to get to his room before anyone saw him.
Unexpectedly, the door to Room 105 opened. Emine saw her son standing there, ashen-faced, his clothes smeared with blood.
‘Hüseyin! Aman Allahım!’ she said. ‘My God! What on earth has happened?’
Leaving Hüseyin in the corridor, Emine immediately woke Halit and sent him to make sure that Mehmet was still asleep. ‘Bring one of Hüseyin’s shirts when you come back, and some of his trousers.’
It was too early in the morning for even Halit to argue, so he carried out the instructions without questioning them. When he returned, bleary-eyed, Hüseyin was in their bathroom.
It was only when he saw his mother’s horrified face that Hüseyin realised he was spattered head to foot with Markos’ blood. Once he had scrubbed it off his hands and arms, he began to stop shaking. The clothes he had been wearing were rolled into a ball and thrown into a corner.
‘Now tell us what happened,’ said his mother gently once he was dressed again.
Hüseyin told his parents everything. Neither of them interrupted even for a second. He described how he had been following Markos for some time, had seen him leaving the city and watched him handling guns and jewellery down in the vault.
At first, Emine was full of disbelief. She had been bewitched by Markos’ charm. He had made all of them feel loved, from the youngest to the oldest.
‘Do you think he was selling Kyria Papacosta’s jewellery?’ asked Halit.
‘It sounds likely,’ said Emine.
Then Hüseyin recounted what had happened that day and how he had killed the soldier who was tracking Markos.
/> ‘It wasn’t Markos I wanted to save,’ he said. ‘It was the Georgious … and us.’
Sitting on his parents’ bed, like a child who had wandered in to seek comfort after a nightmare, Hüseyin broke down and sobbed. Emine sat with her arm around him, waiting.
The first killing had felt remote. He had made no physical connection with the soldier. Perhaps it was the same if you shot a man. With Markos it had been different. There had been a true sense of tearing someone’s breath from them. Even though he had loathed the victim and was defending his own life, the horror of finding himself Markos’ murderer was overwhelming.
‘Canım bemni,’ said Emine. ‘My darling, you had to do it. You had no choice.’
Halit was pacing up and down the bedroom.
‘You should have done it before!’ he shouted. ‘He deserved it! Pezevenk! Bastard!’
‘Halit! Shhhhh! We don’t want anyone to hear,’ warned Emine.
They sat in silence for a while. Gradually Hüseyin calmed down. He was a young man, but at this moment he looked more like a child.
‘Mother, you know the worst thing about him?’
‘There were plenty of bad things,’ interjected Halit.
‘That he was going to kill you?’ said Emine.
‘No,’ replied Hüseyin firmly. ‘The worst thing was that he didn’t help Kyria Papacosta.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Emine.
‘That night. He was there. I think he saw it all.’
Hüseyin described what he had seen. For a moment, both his parents were lost for words. Halit could not contain himself for long.
‘What man would behave like that?’ he roared.
‘Halit! Please … we don’t want to wake everyone.’
‘The problem we have now,’ said Halit, ‘is how to tell the Georgious. They have to know that Markos is dead.’
Emine began to weep. ‘Poor Irini,’ she said quietly. ‘She loves him more than anyone in the world.’
‘They have to know what he was doing,’ insisted Halit.
‘But the truth might kill her,’ said Emine. ‘And in any case, I don’t know if she would believe it. There is no point.’