So here is 'Kostas and Jenny', which is not only a short story, but pretty much the outline plot of my next novel...
He walked in and it felt as
if all the air had been expelled from my lungs, a bear-hug contraction leaving
me breathless, drowning… Above average
height, hair the colour of corn and grey eyes , irises ringed with a dark
oceanic blue, a memory of pain and fortitude in their depths… Strong and muscular, but with just a few
extra pounds to soften his frame, to make him perfectly huggable, holdable.
Yes. I
knew he was exactly right for the job. But I went through the questions, just
to see how he reacted. It would help
later.
First thing was to get him talking, see what he sounded
like.
I made myself breathe again and found a professional
smile. ‘Hello. What’s your name?’
‘Kostas. They call
me Kostas.’
‘Have a seat, Kostas.
Tell me a bit about yourself?’
‘I… I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know what you want?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I had his voice now, a musical tenor, clear, with lots of inflection, a
touch of an accent. The sort of voice
you could listen to as if it were your favourite song. ‘When you came into the
room…’ I began.
He lifted his chin to look at me, hold my gaze.
‘I didn’t expect to find myself here,’ he said. ‘I was just going for a walk… and then there
is a building, a door. You.’
‘It’s confusing, I know.
But it’s okay, you’re safe here. Have some coffee, or tea?’
There was a tray on a low table, flanked by easy chairs.
I moved across to sit, inviting Kostas to join me with a gesture. I hope the informality would relax him.
‘Coffee, thank you.’
I poured coffee for us both, most of my attention to the
brew to give him a moment’s recovery time.
The truth was I didn’t have the first idea where I pulled
these people from. I just sent for them, and they arrived. They all responded differently, none of them
sure how they got here, all claiming they’d been plucked from some quiet
inactivity to find themselves in my office.
I remember, years ago now, when I interviewed Rhys… he’d walked in with
nonchalant curiosity, and when I’d tried to get him talking about himself,
instead, he’d held me in his handsome gaze and given me an almost edible smile.
‘I do believe this sofa converts to a bed, did you
realise that?’ he’d said. ‘Care to try
it?’
Of course, that bravado had landed him the job, although
I hadn’t let him demonstrate my furniture’s previously-unsuspected
versatility. Rhys had done good work for
me, still was, in fact. But no-one,
before or since, had ever responded quite so calmly as Rhys had. Generally,
like poor Kostas, they exhibited differing levels of bewilderment.
Kostas was looking a little better now, at least. I decided not to ask any more personal
questions. I could find out later. I always did.
‘So, Kostas, I have something I’d like you to do. A job, if you like…’
‘A job? But I have things to do, places I must be and…’
Of course, it didn’t matter. He would do what I asked; he had no option,
really. Once I told him, he’d find himself set on the course of action I
spelled out for him. The only thing was
how much to tell him and how much to let him find out for himself. I always felt bad, keeping anything from
them.
‘There’s a young woman. She’s alone and vulnerable and
she really needs a friend. But she’s
damaged, and this means she might not behave the way you expect…’
‘A girl? But I have too much to do to be friends with
some girl… I’m very sorry, but I have to go now. Thank you for coffee.’
‘Okay, Kostas. It
was nice to talk to you. I hope it works
out.’
Once he’d gone, I sighed. I’d taken to Kostas in a way I seldom took
to the people I met in here. Perhaps I
was almost a little in love with him.
And I was responsible for what came next for this quiet, calm young man
with the suffering eyes, and I felt rather bad about it. He was going to be very unhappy for a long
time, all because I’d summoned him and told him he was going to meet someone.
‘Oh, Kostas!’ I found myself muttering. ‘I’m going to do so many things with
you. Bad things, sadly.
I gave it a few minutes before considering the next
applicant.
‘You’re Jenny, aren’t you? Take a seat.’
Jenny shrugged.
She had energetic red hair and washed-out blue eyes. Something about her
made my spine prickle.
‘I was in my room… I do it a lot, when it all gets too
much. I don’t like to be around people… I just fill up with despair and seeing
other people happy just disassociates me…’
‘How are you feeling, Jenny?’
‘Good days, bad days.
I thought this was a good day, and suddenly I’m hallucinating again…’
‘No, you’re not, Jenny, you’re fine. I asked you here because I have a job for
you.’
‘Me? You do know nobody will employ me? Go off sick with
stress-related depression these days, you never work again!’
Her voice was sharp, full of the knives of her past, and
as she lifted a hand to push her pre-Raphaelite hair away from her face I saw
traces of scarring on her wrist.
Sometimes, I really didn’t like my work.
‘Would you like a coffee, cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. Have to watch my caffeine intake, just in
case it sets me off. So, what’s this job, then?’
‘It’s just flat-sitting, really. Full board, a small wage. Somewhere warm.’
‘Good… one of the things they say makes me ill is British
winters. So dark and cold!’
‘That’s settled, then.’
‘When do I start?’
‘We’ll be in touch.
Good luck.’
*
Kostas shook his head.
He’d been walking… he’d been interviewed for a job he knew nothing
about…and now he’d woken up on the beach.
At least it was a beach he recognised, at the west end of Hersonissos,
and about a mile from his lodgings. The sun was setting, and the air was cool.
The surf shushed at the shore. He
scrambled to his feet, suddenly aware of the bite of shingle against his feet.
His sandals were beside him, and he struggled up to a nearby slipway before putting
them on.
It seemed to be that odd time of day where the afternoon
tourists were gone and the evening ones not out yet. It wasn’t quiet, but
neither was it busy, and certainly not so busy that he didn’t notice the
flame-headed woman sitting on the wall at the side of the slipway. She was closed in, shrinking to take up as
little space as she could, he thought, looking forlorn and lost as she stared
down at her feet.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly.
The girl looked up at the sound of his gentle voice. She looked into blue-grey eyes that held
kindness and somehow made her feel safe.
‘I’m lost,’ she said.
‘I’m starting a new job today. Only I don’t know where to go… it’s up
the hill at Hersonissos, only this is Hersonissos, isn’t it? And there’s no
hill… I’ve been walking for hours…’
‘Ah. You see, it
is Hersonissos… but there is also a village, up against the mountain, which is
the real Hersonissos, here before Limenas Hersonissou – the port and the
resort. So, if you have the address, I can walk you to the village, as I live
in Piskopiano, not far away.’
‘Would… would you do that? It’s very kind…’
‘It’s no trouble.
What is your name? I am Kostas.’
‘Jenny. Thank you,
Kostas.’
It was only when she got up that he noticed she had a
suitcase with her, tucked behind her against the wall. He took hold of it, glad
it had wheels and he didn’t have to offer carry it; the village was a good walk
away, and all of it uphill.
They broke their journey at a small blue and white bar,
halfway between the sea and the villages on the hill, drinking beer to the
soundtrack of a raunchy, twangy soft rock song. Jenny offered to pay, but
Kostas refused.
‘No, it is my treat.’
‘But it’s not fair… you’ve been so kind…’
‘Then meet me for lunch tomorrow, and you can buy me a
drink then.’
*
I knew how it was going to end, of course. The entire
story of Kostas and Jenny’s romance, of how she confided in him that she’d had
her heart broken once too often and it had broken part of her mind, she
thought, too. How Kostas would try to
help, to save her from her demons, and they would have some good days, some
happy moments. But, ultimately, they
were doomed. Jenny was going to die and
Kostas would be left with a small daughter to bring up and a huge sense of
loss.
And now all I had to do was live with the knowledge that
I’d brought them together, that I was responsible.
Sometimes I really don’t enjoy being a writer.
Song: ‘Bad Things’ by Jace Everett 2005
More, more, more - pleeeeeease. x
ReplyDelete