Read Online Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) by Paul Johnston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Johnston
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were less strident now; the women would have moved to the houses of the bereaved. She was going to join them. Even an outsider like her could be of some use at a time like this.
A few minutes after the door closed behind her old Maro raised her head slowly and looked around. She ran her arm across her eyes, the sleeve of her ragged cardigan soaking up the tears. Then she walked carefully to the door and locked it. Now she was truly alone. No one could reach her except the ones she wanted.
Going into the small, musty bedroom with its single iron bedstead, she slid her hand into the pocket of her old lace apron and took out a box of matches. She lit two candles in the hollow in the wall that was used for icons in other homes. Her holy place contained a single framed black-and- white photograph. It was of a young man in military uniform, cap on his head and leather strap running diagonally across his chest. He was looking into the lens with a restrained smile.
Maro stared at the photograph from close range then stepped back. ‘My love,’ she said. ‘My sweet love. Come back to me now.’
She bent down and pulled a tin box out from under her bed. ‘Come back to me,’ she repeated as she opened the battered lid and lovingly lifted out a misshapen, blackened skull.
Mavros walked up the slope from Monastiraki, trying to ignore the blast of bouzoukia and the cheers of tourist groups as they took their turn at performing Zorba’s dance in the rip- off joints. That was the problem with living so close to the Acropolis. He glanced up at the great crag, the columns of the temples red in the floodlights of the son et
lumière
. Obviously the narrator was describing one of the great battles, Marathon or Salamis.
He lifted his eyes and took in the velvet of the night sky, the pinpricks of stars glinting through the pollution cloud. A breeze had got up so at least he’d be able to sleep easier. He inhaled deeply as he reached the corner of Pikilis. Even though he was only a couple of hundred metres from the snarls of traffic on the central boulevards, the air was already sweeter. The scents of bougainvillaea and hibiscus floated up from the ancient marketplace, mixing with the underlying aroma of pine needles dampened by the early autumn dew. Mavros felt his spirits lift. For all the clamour and the press of sweaty bodies, the city retained an irresistible hold on him. Then he saw the graffiti some moronic kid had sprayed on the wall— ‘Athens, I fuck the whole of you’.
He turned the key in the wooden door of number 18 and hit the stairwell light. Nothing. He swore under his breath. He’d replaced the bulb only last week. There was no light under his ground-floor neighbour’s door so Mavros had to feel his way up to the first floor. It was a pity he didn’t smoke; matches or a lighter would have been useful. Then, as he reached out for his door, he realised that his feet were catching in something sticky.
He cursed again, kneeling down in the darkness and tentatively putting a finger to the marble surface. The smell was familiar, a faint odour of thyme. He wondered what the cleaner had been playing at.
He managed to get the key in, the metal scraping the paint of the door, and fumbled for the switch. No light here either. He could see the glow of the streetlamp through the shutters that he’d left closed in the morning, so there hadn’t been a sudden power cut. His own fuses must have blown. He stepped inside then remembered his feet, bending over to pull off his espadrilles. The fuse box was in the kitchen. Moving in that direction, he blundered into something hard.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, clutching his right shin.
It was then that he heard stifled laughter from the armchair in the corner of the main room. A match flared and was applied to the thick candle on the coffee table.
‘Niki!’ he groaned. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He moved the heavily laden magazine rack aside.
‘Didn’t you
A few minutes after the door closed behind her old Maro raised her head slowly and looked around. She ran her arm across her eyes, the sleeve of her ragged cardigan soaking up the tears. Then she walked carefully to the door and locked it. Now she was truly alone. No one could reach her except the ones she wanted.
Going into the small, musty bedroom with its single iron bedstead, she slid her hand into the pocket of her old lace apron and took out a box of matches. She lit two candles in the hollow in the wall that was used for icons in other homes. Her holy place contained a single framed black-and- white photograph. It was of a young man in military uniform, cap on his head and leather strap running diagonally across his chest. He was looking into the lens with a restrained smile.
Maro stared at the photograph from close range then stepped back. ‘My love,’ she said. ‘My sweet love. Come back to me now.’
She bent down and pulled a tin box out from under her bed. ‘Come back to me,’ she repeated as she opened the battered lid and lovingly lifted out a misshapen, blackened skull.
Mavros walked up the slope from Monastiraki, trying to ignore the blast of bouzoukia and the cheers of tourist groups as they took their turn at performing Zorba’s dance in the rip- off joints. That was the problem with living so close to the Acropolis. He glanced up at the great crag, the columns of the temples red in the floodlights of the son et
lumière
. Obviously the narrator was describing one of the great battles, Marathon or Salamis.
He lifted his eyes and took in the velvet of the night sky, the pinpricks of stars glinting through the pollution cloud. A breeze had got up so at least he’d be able to sleep easier. He inhaled deeply as he reached the corner of Pikilis. Even though he was only a couple of hundred metres from the snarls of traffic on the central boulevards, the air was already sweeter. The scents of bougainvillaea and hibiscus floated up from the ancient marketplace, mixing with the underlying aroma of pine needles dampened by the early autumn dew. Mavros felt his spirits lift. For all the clamour and the press of sweaty bodies, the city retained an irresistible hold on him. Then he saw the graffiti some moronic kid had sprayed on the wall— ‘Athens, I fuck the whole of you’.
He turned the key in the wooden door of number 18 and hit the stairwell light. Nothing. He swore under his breath. He’d replaced the bulb only last week. There was no light under his ground-floor neighbour’s door so Mavros had to feel his way up to the first floor. It was a pity he didn’t smoke; matches or a lighter would have been useful. Then, as he reached out for his door, he realised that his feet were catching in something sticky.
He cursed again, kneeling down in the darkness and tentatively putting a finger to the marble surface. The smell was familiar, a faint odour of thyme. He wondered what the cleaner had been playing at.
He managed to get the key in, the metal scraping the paint of the door, and fumbled for the switch. No light here either. He could see the glow of the streetlamp through the shutters that he’d left closed in the morning, so there hadn’t been a sudden power cut. His own fuses must have blown. He stepped inside then remembered his feet, bending over to pull off his espadrilles. The fuse box was in the kitchen. Moving in that direction, he blundered into something hard.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, clutching his right shin.
It was then that he heard stifled laughter from the armchair in the corner of the main room. A match flared and was applied to the thick candle on the coffee table.
‘Niki!’ he groaned. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He moved the heavily laden magazine rack aside.
‘Didn’t you
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