Nemesis of the Dead by Frances Lloyd Read Free Book Online Page B

elbow and steered her away towards the lobby. ‘Hypnosis? Bewitched indiscretions? Vengeance and retribution?’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Are they barmy or is it me?’
     
    At only twenty square kilometres, Katastrophos was easily walkable but in fact, there were very few sights to see beyond the main town of Agia Sofia, named after the saint who brought Christianity to the island. Tiny, compact and photo-snappingly pretty, the town, which was in the south of the island, had a small square, edged with such of the Venetian buildings as had survived the earthquake. A maze of whitewashed alleys led off the square with clusters of geranium-decked houses overlooking a small fishing harbour. Given the remote location of the island, it was surprising that there were no large sea-going boats. This was because most Katastrophans had little desire to sample the delights of mainland Greece, where evidence was stark of the Greek love affair with the concrete mixer and a willingness to bulldoze beautiful beaches to make a fast euro. Indeed, many of the older inhabitants had never left the island. The only building of any size was the church of St Sophia with its red dome and scarred old clock face. It housed the mummy of the island’s patron saint circled by brass oil-candle holders but little else. According to the sparse tourist information, the church’s revered religious icons, including St Sophia’s precious relics, were kept elsewhere on the island for safety. Corrie was not surprised. The theft of icons and other valuables from Greek churches and monasteries was on the increase, with a growing market in rich collectors.
    ‘It says here, St Sophia has special responsibilities for fecundity and childbirth.’
    ‘She’s doing a sterling job,’ observed Jack.
    It was true, there were children all over the place – running, swimming, playing – totally unaffected by the heat. As they came out of the dark church the sunlight was blinding, bouncing off the white walls like a magnesium flare.
    ‘Picturesque seclusion. That’s what sells this place.’ Jack pointed. ‘Look. Two mini markets, a bakery and a kafeneíon but nothing much in the way of tourist shops and no nightclubs, thankfully.’
    They stopped at the kafeneíon where old men sat with worry beads, drinking ouzo and spitting at lizards in the dust. Naturally gregarious, Sidney sat amongst them enjoying a cold beer. He kept taking off his photo-sensitive sunglasses to check that they had gone dark, in case he’d paid nine-pounds-fifty for nothing.
    ‘Morning, Jack … Corrie.’ He raised his sombrero, wincing as the noonday sun pounced on his thinning scalp. ‘Bit quiet, here, isn’t it? I fancy a bit of adventure, me. I wish now that I’d done one of those activity holidays where you go down potholes or crawl inside volcanoes.’ He took a long swig of his beer. ‘Tell you what, though. I wouldn’t mind having a look up there.’
    Sidney pointed to a spectacular rock rising some seventy metres out of the sea just off the island’s south-east coast. On the summit they could see a ruined building with hundreds of steps leading up to it, hewn out of the stone.
    ‘These blokes reckon it was an old monastery,’ said Sid, indicating the men drowsily clicking their komboloi . ‘It looks like it’s in the sea but when you get close, it’s actually on a little island connected to Katastrophos by a causeway of stepping-stones. It wouldn’t take long to nip across and have a butcher’s.’
    Jack peered at it, shielding his eyes. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone’s been up there for years; the steps are all overgrown.’
    ‘Oh, there’s definitely someone up there,’ asserted Sid. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night for the heat and those bloomin’ chirpy things, so I went outside to get some air. There was a light flashing inside the monastery. You don’t reckon the monks still live in it, do you? Hell of a journey to fetch a newspaper