Page 13 of Deep Blue Lies

TWELVE

The next day I head out for breakfast, armed with the photograph I stole of Mum and Imogen standing by the sign for the old Aegean Dream Resort. I pick a cafe with a terrace and sun umbrellas giving just enough shade, order a croissant and coffee, and try to get my head in the right place.

I still feel confident. But I’m nervous too – not about what I might find, but about actually doing it.

Walking up to strangers and asking about something that happened twenty years ago.

It’s the sort of thing that looks easy on TV, but the thought of actually doing it feels weird.

What if they ask why I’m asking? What do I say to that?

There’s something else too. A deeper feeling. I think it’s because I’ve spent my whole life being told – or just understanding – that I’m not supposed to know about this part of Mum’s past. That it’s off-limits. Not my business. Even though it’s literally all about me.

But this is what I came here to do. So I skip the idea of a second coffee and make myself stand up. I walk to the bar to pay, and the waiter who served me follows. When I tap my phone on the reader and the payment goes through, he smiles politely – like we’re done.

But we’re not .

“Um, excuse me,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”

His eyebrows go up. I realise I have no idea if he speaks any English beyond “coffee” and “croissant”.

“Yes?”

I slide the photograph onto the bar, holding my breath. It looks strange sitting there, on the old chestnut wood.

“This is a picture of my mum. She worked here, twenty-two years ago. I wondered if you might remember her? Or know anything about her?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid, and immediately I feel like I must be.

This guy’s only about ten years older than I am.

He’d be, what, ten years old when Mum was here?

Of course he’s not going to remember her.

But even so he leans in for a better look.

And he looks for a long time. After a moment I can sense what he’s thinking.

Like I said before, both Mum and Imogen look stunning in the picture.

I wait, growing impatient as the waiter continues to peer down at the photograph, but eventually he looks up.

“No, sorry, I don’t know.”

I nod and thank him, moving to pick the photograph up, but he stops me.

“This one is your mother, no?” he says, stabbing a finger at the photograph.

“Yes.” I smile awkwardly, then correct myself when I see where he’s pointing. “No, the other one. This one.” I point at Mum.

“Very beautiful,” the waiter says. “Very beautiful girl.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking the photo up this time, and feeling my cheeks flush as I do so.

So, that was a good start then.

But I don’t give up. Holding the photograph facing towards me, I walk hesitantly along the seafront area, looking for more targets.

There’s a few people around, some who look like tourists, and others who I take for locals – or at least people who are living and working here on the island.

I try to find some older people, because at least they will have been old enough to remember Mum when she was here.

I spot an older man, maybe in his sixties?

He’s walking towards me with a tracksuit on, fast walking, like he’s training for something.

Again I tell myself to be brave and just do this.

“Excuse me.” I hold out the photograph in front of him, forcing him to slow and stop. “I was wondering if you might recognise the people in this photograph?”

He frowns, clearly annoyed, and then he puts his hand to his ear, and I realise too late that he has earbuds in, and hasn’t heard a word of my question. So I try it again.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but do you know either of the people in this photograph?”

His response this time is a rapid flow of Greek, none of which I understand.

“These people…” I point at Mum in the photo. “Do you know them?”

More Greek, he sounds more annoyed this time. I step back.

“Sorry.” The man puts his earbud back in and goes on his way, shaking his fist now.

Damn it. This is kind of hard.

Even though there’s very few people around, it feels like everyone is watching me now, and either laughing, or judgemental of how I’m spoiling everyone’s day.

But I’ve come this far, so I try again, with a woman who clearly noticed what happened with the exercising man.

She turns out to be Dutch, and takes a good look at the photograph, but tells me she’s only been on the island for seven years, and doesn’t know my mum.

I stop another older man, carrying a fishing rod and bucket – but at least he doesn’t have earbuds.

His English isn’t very good, but he does look at the photo, and at least appears to consider whether he recognises Mum.

But in the end he too shakes his head. He tells me, in broken English, that many people come to work on the island, but they usually don’t stay long.

I thank him, and glance into the bucket.

There’s an octopus in there, its arms and suckers still moving.

He notices me looking and holds it up, as if he expects I’ll want a better look, but I don’t. I smile and step back instead.

By now I’ve moved well away from the harbour, and along the seafront, down towards where the town stops.

It’s basically a long line of restaurants, Aetos Diving, the water sports centre I saw the other day, and then a few bars, with my one at the end.

I can see Hans is there already, getting ready to open later on, but I know there’s no point asking him.

But then I think about the lady in the shop – Maria.

She knew the truth about what happened at the Aegean Dream Resort, so she’s probably a good person to ask about this too.

Although I’m not exactly sure what I think she might be able to tell me.

I cram this doubt back in its box and set off at a much faster pace, back along the seafront and then inland, towards the supermarket. On the way I wonder if it will be open still, but it is, and I’m relieved to see that Maria is there again. Half-relieved and half anxious all over again.

“Hello.” She smiles a welcome. I remember my need for a shower curtain, and use that as an excuse to start a conversation.

“Over there.” She points to a couple hanging from hooks by the stationery section. I take one and bring it to the till.

“How did the cleaning go?”

“Oh, good thank you.” Before I lose my nerve I pull the photograph out and hold it up to her. “This is a really strange question, but I wonder if you happen to remember the woman in this photograph? I’m trying to find out more about her.”

Maria looks at me first, then picks up a pair of spectacles and fixes them carefully in place. Then she takes my hand, pulling it and the photograph closer. She looks for a long time.

“May I ask why you’re interested?” she says, after a few moments.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” How do I say this? There’s only one way really.

“She’s my mother. I’m trying to find out more about her.”

Maria looks at me a long time after that, without speaking. She has big brown eyes, and they blink slowly, like she’s assessing me carefully.

“I’m sorry, has she passed away?”

“Oh! No…” I stop. This is hard to explain, and maybe it’s easier not to.

“Not exactly. It’s just, complicated. I was born here on the island and I’m trying to find out more about it.

About me.” I try to smile, but feel my cheeks heating up again, and I’m frustrated.

If I want to find out about Mum, why don’t I just ask her?

Because it’s not that easy. I don’t know.

But Maria doesn’t seem to pass judgement.

Instead she looks again at the photograph, drawing in a deep sigh.

“There are many people who come to the island, every summer,” she tells me, like the other guy did, down at the beach. Maria shakes her head. “It’s very hard to remember every face – and I have a good memory for faces.”

She looks at me again, and I think about the story she told me about the Aegean Dream Resort. Does she think that’s what I’m really interested in? That I’m some kind of weird horror-story enthusiast? If so she doesn’t say that.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember either girl, I’m sorry.” I’m about to nod and think who else I could ask, when she goes on.

“But the man here…” She points to the gardens in the background of the image.

There’s a figure there. I’d noticed him before, because he looks kind of hot, even though you can’t see his face.

“I think this is Kostas. When he was younger he worked as a gardener for the ADR, before it closed.” She smiles, like she expects I’ll recognise the name.

“Kostas?”

“Kostas Aetos. Aetos Diving? Down on the seafront. You can’t miss it.”