I expected, given how small the rooms seem inside: a tall stone building with patches of crumbling masonry, a spatter of orange tiles on the ground indicating that the roof is in disrepair, too. Metal balconies jut out from two of the upper windows that are crowned by explosions of vibrant pink flowers, lending the place a certain rustic charm. Part of the roof is flat, and there I can make out something that looks like a flat-screen TV with a huge battery attached to the top of it. Perhaps a solar panel – that would explain how the farmhouse has electricity.
A number of outbuildings are visible at the bottom of the hill, rusting and overgrown farm machinery indicating the property’s former purpose. After a while, a feeling of familiarity stirs in me, a small nudge from the recesses of my mind telling me I’ve seen this place before. It’s enough to get me to my feet to have a look around.
The island isn’t what I expected. It looks neglected, abandoned, with stone relics visible in the distance of what appear to be unfinished houses. The earth is dry and parched, and the nearby trees are gnarled and overgrown and filled with thorns. There’s a sense that everything here has to work very hard to survive.
I wonder how anyone would even begin to walk around the island – there’s a narrow dirt path leading from the farmhouse to the trees below, but I don’t imagine there could ever have been vehicles here. It’s a bit of a wilderness. Beautiful, yes, but a savage beauty – not the sort of place anyone would come for a holiday.
I make out three buildings on the north side, the closest one clearly a house that someone didn’t bother to finish. On the west side there are a handful of small beaches strung along the coast, but they appear rocky and treacherous. The ocean wraps itself around the island like a blue cloth dotted with the blurry outlines of boats and landmasses.
Did I really travel that distance across the sea alone? If I was drunk, did I really have the presence of mind to wear a life jacket? Did someone else accompany me? Did they drown?
It is daunting to think that the island is uninhabited. I can’t fathom how Joe, Hazel, Sariah and George don’t feel marooned out here. Or maybe they do, now that their boat is gone.
I check that no one is watching before stepping into my knickers and jeans, then slip the towel to my waist and twist awkwardly into my bra and the yellow T-shirt, my muscles shrieking with the slightest movement. Both the T-shirt and jeans are good quality, both with designer labels. Am I the sort of person who would buy a designer T-shirt? It doesn’t strike a chord. But then, nothing does. I have the sense of being reborn, wiped clean. The ghost of someone else.
When I turn to go back inside I see movement between the house and the outbuilding that looks like a small barn. Panic spears me, until I make out who it is: George, lurking in the shade. Did he see me get dressed?
‘Hello?’
He ambles down the hill towards me, a cigarette in one hand. He looks different in the clear light. Quite tall and portly, his head shining bald. Dressed in a tatty white polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Mid-forties, perhaps more. He throws me a salute.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi.’
‘You feeling any better?’
I try to smile. ‘A little.’
He wiggles the cigarette at me. ‘You want one of these bad boys?’
I shake my head, then pause, wondering if an automatic urge will take over. It doesn’t. I’m not a smoker, then.
‘Thanks for the offer.’
‘You’re welcome.’
A moment passes. ‘You’re not writing?’ I ask.
He takes a long drag before answering. ‘Today’s the day I usually head over to Chania for supplies. I might go take a look at the beaches on the west side, see if our boat turns up.’
‘I’m sorry about your boat,’ I say. ‘If it turns out I’m rich, I’ll buy a replacement.’
George offers a laugh. ‘Hardly your fault. Pretty sure the insurance will cover it.’
This brings a great deal of relief. Maybe I misread his mood before – I felt he was irritated with me, that he blamed me for their boat sinking. He seems less brooding in this light, less intimidating and not as tall. I’m about to ask about getting to Crete, when he says:
‘I contacted Nikodemos half an hour ago.’
‘Nikodemos – the man who owns the island?’
He nods. ‘Well, I spoke to his wife. She says he’s out of town for the next couple of days but she’ll get him to come out here and pick you up on Monday evening.’
I give a gasp. ‘Thank you so much. That’s fantastic news.’
George grins. ‘And he’s bringing food. You ever tried mizithropita?’
I shake my head, only half hearing what he’s saying, but he persists.
‘Gorgeous. Ah! No food like Greek food, I’m telling you. It’s why all the Greeks live so long. I’ve put in a special request for him to bring squid, too. Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it? Squid. Not something I’ve ever tried in England, but here, you don’t want to miss it.’
He’s still talking but I’m thinking about this man, Nikodemos, trying to figure out if his name sounds familiar or not. I decide that it doesn’t, and so I wonder if he will help me contact the embassy and explain to them what happened. From there we can work out how I ended up here, and more importantly how to get back to whoever may be going crazy looking for me.
‘You’re sure you want to leave this place?’ George asks. I notice he’s standing closer, studying my body language. The wind carries a sharp smell of his body odour. I turn my head but he doesn’t notice, pointing at the hills ahead. ‘Paradise, here.’
The island is more of a wilderness than a paradise.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, a bit shabby,’ he says, as though reading my mind. ‘Well, there are some interesting ruins around. Trust me, you’ve hit the jackpot, coming here.’
‘Have I?’
‘Mmmm. Archaeological treasure trove, this place. Real mythology to it.’
I give him a look that says I have no idea what this means, and he grins, pleased that he gets to fill me in.
‘You see that?’ He leans towards me and points at a cave in the distance. ‘Apparently, that there’s the actual cave that King Minos used to send boys and girls into as food for the Minotaur. Thousands of years old, that is.’
I glance at him. ‘Minotaur?’
‘Ah, forgotten your Greek myths, too, then?’ He chuckles. ‘They say King Minos had a son who was half-human, half-bull. Instead of killing him, he built a network of caves, a labyrinth, and put the kid at the end of it to make sure he never got out. Then Theseus, the hero, said he’d go in with a ball of wool to help him retrace his steps. And he found the Minotaur.’
It crosses my mind that he’s telling me this to unnerve me, and if I’m honest it does. Perhaps I sense that this place has been abandoned for a reason.
‘They found some helmets not so long ago, couple of swords, I think,’ George says when I don’t react to his myth. ‘Bigwigs from the museums came over, took the lot.’
He’s still trying to convince me not to leave. I say, ‘Thank you, and it’s tempting, but no. There must be people who are going frantic without me.’
He sniffs, glances down, like a rejected schoolboy. ‘Well then, you’ve got a little while to enjoy this place. Six miles square. That’s how big the island is. Or small, depending how you look at it. The dock’s about a fifty-minute walk in that direction, by the old hotel.’
A small flicker of hope stirs in me. ‘Hotel?’
‘Don’t