The Bamboo Mirror (12 page)

Utterly exhausted by his ordeal, Richard lay there not quite believing where he was. Water streamed from his body and he knew that soon he would begin to feel the cold as it seeped through to his bones. Coughing and retching seawater, Richard sat up and noticed the ring of sturdy looking sea boots clustered before him. He attempted to stand and felt strong arms supporting him. He braced his legs against the motion of the deck and looked round. A circle of anxious faces stared back; a stocky bearded fellow whom he assumed to be the captain, four or five crew members and an ashen-faced Toby.

The captain cleared his throat, about to speak. Again, Richard looked around his surroundings and forestalled him by hoarsely saying, ‘Where’s Connie? Where’s my wife?’

His voice wavered and he felt his heart thump wildly in his chest. There was a silence. No one spoke. All sounds drifted away from him. He was in a dreamlike glide and the reality was too strange to comprehend. He felt as though his actions were slowing, as if seen in a slow-motion film, frame by frame passing by. Everything took an eternity, a raised hand placed on his shoulder, a sentence spoken by someone slowly, but everything seen with an achingly clear focus, sharply defined. He imagined her limp in his arms, her head thrown back and the curve of her throat, so beautiful. She was gone.

The slow world turned crimson red. It spun wildly on its axis, and then rushed up to engulf him as his head hit the hard deck with a thump.

***

Sometime later, Richard struggled to clear the mistiness away from his brain. As fast as he reached out and clawed at the blackness that engulfed him he was drawn back down again into his own violent hell. He tossed and turned in delirium on the sweat-drenched bunk where the crew had placed him after he had collapsed on the outside deck.

The ship’s medic had quickly examined Richard’s head wound and although it was a minor laceration he was more worried about the state of his patient’s mind once he regained consciousness. As he observed Richard and listened to his feverish cries of anguish he could only guess at the nightmares that coursed around his brain. The medic knew from Toby a little of what had happened on the yacht’s fated voyage and he shook his head in pity as he again wondered how Richard was going to cope. He had had everything going for him he had been told, and now this. How the hell had it all gone wrong?..........................................

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Excerpt from 
“The Assassins’ Village” by Faith Mortimer.

Cyprus. A Sunday in late August. Present day.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 1

~~~

If
.  Such a small word and yet… If only he had bothered to take a look at his actions. If he had cared one iota, maybe his life would not have been full of ego, lust, self-gratification and profligacy. Self-denial was unknown to him.

~~~

He awoke confused and disorientated, barely able to breathe, his throat obstructed. He heard a voice; soft and persistent, close to his ear. Struggling against the cotton wool seemingly stuffed in his brain, he forced open his eyes. The man squinted at the blinding light. He knew he was lying down. The agonising pain in his left leg intensified when he attempted to move it from its impossible angle. A pain as sharp as a new razor blade cut through him. He shrieked in alarm, realising his leg was broken.

 The whispered voice spoke again. The man looked around him in sudden panic. Who and what was all this? And why couldn’t he function properly? He tried to speak, to answer the phantom voice, but his tongue couldn’t form the words. A sudden movement and a shadow fell across his face… Raising his head, his eyes widened as he remembered being pushed over the limestone cliff into the vineyard below. But that explained nothing. Struggling, the injured man raised himself into a sitting position to confront the shadow.

A firm hand, calloused and strong, pushed him back down.  ‘Keep still. You can’t get up.’

The man recognised an accent. A trickle of blood rolled down between his dry, tortured lips and a thread of fear crept through him.

The shadow spoke in a rasping voice. ‘Soon you will see. You must pay for all you’ve done.’ The shadow hissed in his face. A breath that was hot and sour.

As the shadow bent closer the man gave a start and recoiled; he recognised his assailant. A deep chill spread through his gut despite the heat of the day. In terror, he fought at the cords binding his wrists. With desperation he cried out, spluttering through the soiled coarse cloth in his cheeks. The core of dread in his stomach spread like a foul growth of malignancy. His eyes pleaded mercy.

The shadow gave a laugh, shrill and mirthless. ‘Shall I forgive you? No. I think not. Never once have I seen you give kindness. You treat all like dogs at your feet. Well, you are dirt beneath mine.’

 Abruptly the shadow withdrew and walked over to a low stonewall. It returned, carrying a pair of gloves and an old leather bag. The assailant drew on the gloves, before untying a thong at the neck of the receptacle. The man watched, beads of sweat sliding down his face, then he writhed in horror, as he realised what was being thrust before him. He twisted his head aside, gagging at the revolting sight; yelling deep in his throat. ‘No! No! Please! Oh God help me!’ His words were garbled and lost.

‘This is all your doing. Yours! Did you never think how you hurt me?’

As the victim stared with revulsion his throat gagged and he retched. Stomach churning, he felt a warmth spread beneath his loins. Screaming in panic he tried to pull away from the calm face of his attacker, only to realise that it was futile. The end, when it came, was swift, a thrust and a sharp twist.  At first, there was no wound; then the blood flowed and grew like a blossom of deep red peonies spilling their petals to hiss upon the hot honey-coloured rock. Satisfied, the assassin bent down, removed the pretty blue scarab ring from the victim’s finger, placed it in the bag and walked away without another look.

But of course, this is a later scene – let the play begin…

Act 1.

Chapter 1. The previous Tuesday evening. 24
^th
August

Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?

Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 3

Alicia stood in front of the hallway mirror. A freckled face, pale and thin, stared back at her. Smoothing back her unruly red hair she heard the deep tone from the old clock striking in the hall. The sound echoed along the hallway and into the living room beyond. Alicia counted the chimes. Seven o’clock! Time to go. Swiftly, she gathered up the sheaf of scripts for the forthcoming play reading, tucked the bundle under her arm and threw open her front door. The evening’s sweet scent from a frangipani tree reached her and she took a few seconds to steady herself before closing the door behind her.

She was going to be late. It was a nuisance; she needed to compose herself. It was important to be in
control
. Especially tonight as she intended to instigate the first of her carefully laid plans. He would
not
get away with it.

 Alicia told herself, keep calm. The walk would take just a few minutes if she passed through the church grounds. Crunching up the jagged stone steps Alicia glanced at the Greek Orthodox Church that gave its name to the village; Agios Mamas. It loomed in front of her, large, rectangular and faced in the local pale-coloured sandstone. The Church had been rebuilt in 1860 after the earthquake that had shaken its original foundations. Now, it served its purpose well. Its regular congregation of mostly black-clad old ladies was swelled on Saints’ days with visiting families. She imagined the rows of dutiful women as they sat nodding in the back of the church, surrounded by the heady smell of incense and candles. Alicia was not one of the worshippers. Her faith and allegiance belonged to another deity altogether. Something she rarely mentioned to anyone who knew her, and if she did then it was with complete reticence. The New Woman World Alliance was secretive in its ministry to outsiders. When questioned about the order, Alicia remained tight-lipped about its overall aims and functionality. Only once had she made the mistake of letting someone know its secrets.

 Years ago, when she was an art student on a year’s sabbatical she had journeyed through Pakistan, India, and far up into Bhutan and beyond.  Somewhere in the wild and arid hills she strayed into a sect different from anything else she had known. Feeling compelled to stay; she had been indoctrinated with its scriptures. Forgetting her people back home in Ireland Alicia turned her back on her College education as she took up the narrow life the sect demanded of her. To this day she remained committed. And because of this commitment she had to stop Leslie and his vile threats.

Alicia walked down the path to the road that wound its way around the hillside eventually leading to the rehearsal venue. The sun’s rays slanted down through the half-ruined buildings, casting long purple shadows in the broken darkened doorways and windows. Tumbledown houses mixed in with the renovated stone works, a startling blend of courtyards, paths, Venetian arches, and gardens drenched with flowers, all behind a jumble of walls.

The air smelt of over-ripened grapes and she could hear the low drone from the wasps as they buzzed in the overhead vines. Swallows and doves fluttered in the soft evening sunshine before disappearing into the gaping holes of the empty dwellings. It could have been creepy, but Alicia never found it so. She loved the solitude in the labyrinth of the deserted houses that stood in quiet sentinel before those still inhabited. It suited her covert nature. A flight of pigeons made her pause. They swooped down from their high roost in an empty two-storied house. Alicia felt the beating of their wings as they swarmed around her; faltering, fluttering, a renewing of position before they made off down the valley.

At the end of the cobbled path she caught up with Yanoulla picking her way down the rough slope. Alerted by footsteps behind her, Yanoulla turned to greet Alicia.

‘Alicia.
Kalispera
. How are you?’

The slim, blonde Cypriot woman fell in beside Alicia. She was a few years older than the Irish woman and it was noticeable. She was plain, ugly even; her large nose dominated and spoiled her face. Tonight she looked weary, despite the pleasant smile.

‘And good evening to you, Yanoulla. I am well and you?’

‘Yes, thank you. Are you excited about tonight?’

They rounded the corner catching sight of the open-air theatre. Alicia’s heart gave a lurch. Village and town theatres were all very well, but the thought of directing Shakespeare at the amphitheatre always filled her with an excited inner glow. The villagers were fortunate having been awarded a grant from the European Union to build their own theatre and Alicia was determined to make this production her best.

‘Oh yes. I always like beginning new plays, especially Shakespeare. This year we have the makings of a very good cast. I hope everyone will agree with my final choice.’ As she spoke she knew she would have trouble. There was always one or two who would disagree with anything. They had already had their inaugural committee meeting and the cast auditions. Most roles had been allocated and agreed a week ago. However, as director she had the final decision, and had decided to make a couple of changes. Well, she would address that if and when the problem arose.

‘I too am looking forward to this year. Making costumes is a lot of fun and I love the challenge.’ Yanoulla was an expert with her needle and in the past Alicia had been indebted to her. Apart from her sewing, Yanoulla had introduced Kristiakis to the group. His huge physique was an asset when building wonderful stage sets.

Reaching the bottom steps of the amphitheatre they said hello to the members already gathered; lounging and chatting on the stone steps; enjoying the evening sunshine.

A tall dark Cypriot man was sitting by himself near the top. He rose to his feet and approached the two women. After a brief nod to Alicia he took Yanoulla to one side and rapidly addressed her in Greek. Yanoulla’s face grew still as she listened to her lover. When he had finished talking, Yanoulla replied in the same language. Alicia’s Greek was nowhere near perfect but she knew enough to understand a lovers’ tiff when she heard one.