Page 20 of Deep Blue Lies

NINETEEN

I’m working again the next afternoon, so there’s not time to do much.

Even if there was, I’m not sure exactly what I can do.

I don’t feel like I’m making killer progress out here.

But at least I’m earning money, while living on an actual Greek island.

Maybe it’s like my old tutor at university said: just being here is enough for me to grow up and find myself?

I have that thought in mind as I head down to the bar for my shift, a little early. There’s no particular reason for that, except maybe there’s only so long I can take in the view of the garbage bins from my apartment. Maybe I should have asked Gregory Duncan for a copy of his new book.

I don’t walk along the road though, but along the shoreline.

There isn’t much tide here, I’ve noticed, not like in Sunderland, but there is still a small difference between low and high tides.

And now – with the tide out – there’s a narrow strip of firm sand that’s nice to walk along.

And so, with my sandals dangling from my hand, I step barefoot on the sand, occasionally detouring into the shallow sun-warmed water.

There’s something that’s been worrying me a bit since I’ve got here.

It’s whether I should say anything to Mum, like update her on my progress.

Until now I’ve not spoken to her, not even sent her a text.

I did see some postcards in the little supermarket, and I thought about that.

Wish you were here – but I really don’t.

Anyway. I pull out my phone and tap out a message before I can change my mind.

I just say I got here safe, and I’ve found a job, and everything’s fine.

I think for a second, but then hit send and wait, like there’s any chance she might answer straight back.

But of course she doesn’t. After a few moments I slip the phone away and keep walking.

But now I see my path is blocked ahead by one of the RIBs from the dive centre.

I’m about to turn up the beach when I notice it’s actually Kostas himself on the boat.

He seems to be doing something with the engine – he has the cowling off.

He stops, suddenly wiping his hands on a rag. It’s obvious he’s seen me too.

It’s awkward, but I figure I can just walk by and maybe nod politely or something, but he surprises me by stepping forward. He still has that super stern look on his face, which I find unnerving.

“Hello again,” I say, because the silence is stifling.

He just nods, then glances around at the Bar Sunset, further along the beach.

“I hear you’re working with Hans,” he says, with little indication of whether he thinks this is a good thing or a bad thing.

“Yeah,” I say, because I am, and I have nothing to hide.

“And you went to see Duncan yesterday? The writer?” His dark eyes seem to burn into mine as he speaks. And again I nod. I don’t know how he knows this, but then I have an idea – the farmer, on the tractor. Sophia did tell me news travels fast on this island.

“Um… yes.”

“He tell you anything?”

“No.” I feel my brow furrowing. Why does he care, all of a sudden?

“He didn’t remember them,” I find myself saying. I don’t understand why I’m telling him this, but maybe it’s to fill the silence. “Except maybe he seemed to recognise the woman my mum was with, but he didn’t say.” I don’t tell Kostas how I think Duncan had a sketch of her on his office wall.

“Imogen,” Kostas says, then nods to himself, as if he’s not surprised by this. But I certainly am.

“You know her?”

“Knew. Not anymore.” Kostas looks up and down the beach.

There are a few other people around, but no one close by.

“Duncan was obsessed with Imogen.” Kostas fixes me again with his look, then glances up at a couple coming down the beach.

They’re walking to the other boat, where another guy wearing one of the dive centre’s TEAM T-shirts is getting it ready.

“Um,” I say again, trying to make sense of this. So Gregory Duncan did recognise Imogen. But why did he lie?

“I’m just fixing this,” Kostas tells me suddenly, picking up the engine cowling and expertly lifting it back into place. “I’ve just fixed this,” he corrects himself. “But I have to give it a run out. A spin around the bay. Do you want to come with me?”

The suddenness of the offer throws me. And the strangeness.

What’s he offering exactly, a pleasure cruise?

Why? For a second I imagine really weird scenarios, like he wants to attack me, or even drown me – but that’s crazy.

It’s broad daylight. And there’s no reason…

Then I notice the way he’s looking at me, and I sense something else. There’s something he wants to tell me.

“What… right now?”

“Yes.”

I try to calculate. I don’t start my shift for forty-five minutes.

So I’ve got time. Part of me wants to ask why he wants me to go, why we can’t speak here.

But I sense something else too, that maybe if I don’t go he’ll change his mind.

And he simply won’t say whatever it is he knows. I take a deep breath, and nod.

“OK.”

He doesn’t seem thrilled by this, but he nods back. And then jumps out of the boat and walks up to the front, which is resting on the shore, so that the stern and the engine are hanging into the water. He’s surprisingly agile for such a large guy .

“There’s a buoyancy aid on the seat. Put it on.”

I do what he says, slipping my arms into a blue vest-type lifejacket that smells faintly of oil. Kostas pulls one on too, putting it over his shirt. Then he looks around, up and down the beach, before nodding again, apparently satisfied by something.

Then he pushes the boat hard from the front – the bow, I suppose it’s called – so that it slides backwards out into the water.

When it’s fully afloat he vaults expertly over the rubber side and steps past me back to the engine.

I don’t know what he does there, but then he comes and sits, one powerful thigh either side of the central seat, and turns a key on the instrument panel.

The engine strums into life. It’s much quieter than Sophia’s moped, you can barely hear it, until he puts it into reverse gear and very slowly edges us backwards.

Then it purrs, but more like a lion than a cat.

He turns us carefully around. When that’s done he slips it into neutral, looks around carefully, then into forward gear.

“Hold on,” he instructs, waiting until I do.

Then he pushes the throttle again and we accelerate smoothly, an ever-growing tail of creamy, bubbly wake stretching out behind us as he keeps adding more power.

I grip on tightly to the rubber handle sewn into the side of the boat as the engine’s growl rises to a full roar.

And then we’re flying along, skimming so fast I can barely keep my eyes on the flashing water ahead, and even though my hair is whipping out behind me, getting in my eyes, I need both hands to hold on and stop me falling from the boat.