Mortal Remains Read Free

despatched by different couriers employed by rival agents. Patrick’s young man returned, spoke to the driver, said ‘Have a nice time’ to Patrick, and the taxi started.
    How unexpected to meet a red-haired Greek, thought Patrick as they sped along the road. He looked about him, hoping to see something of Heraklion, but the airport was outside the town and their route did not pass through it. The road, straight at first, soon began to wind about among the mountains. The driver kept switching his headlights up and then dipping them to signal their approach as they twisted and turned. A crucifix and some charms hung on the windscreen of the taxi, and a photograph of the driver’s wife or girlfriend. At one point, as they went over a ravine, the driver crossed himself. A notorious black spot, Patrick wryly supposed.
    He felt frustrated at being unable to communicate with the driver. Each had discovered in the friendliest manner that neither spoke the other’s tongue, and that seemed to be the end of it. Patrick thought of all sorts of remarks he could make in French, German, or Italian, but he could say nothing except simple words of greeting in Greek, and it was too dark to consult his phrase book. The journey seemed interminable, spent in silence. Ahead, the lights of another car showed at intervals as they travelled along the twisting roads. What Patrick could see of the countryside was rocky and barren.
    At last the road began to drop down and he saw below them the lights of a small town.
    ‘Challika?’ he asked.
    ‘Nai, nai,’ agreed the driver.
    Not a soul was about, and the sea was like black glass as they drove along the coastal road. A few fishing boats lay at their moorings in the harbour, and there was one large yacht with riding lights at anchor further out. When they drew up outside the hotel, another taxi was already parked there.
     
    Patrick’s driver shepherded him inside and handed him over to a youth of about fifteen who seemed to be in charge of the hotel. At the desk, surrendering her passport, was the white-haired woman. She, too, had driven alone through the night.
    Patrick thanked the driver with a confident ‘efkaristo’ and tipped him generously, which pleased the man since his fare had been paid in advance by the travel agent. The hall of the hotel was dimly lit, and a small maid was swabbing the tiled floor with a mop; the scene was bleak, and Patrick’s heart sank, but the wide smile on the face of the youth was warm enough.
    ‘Please to follow,’ he said, leading the way to the lift. ‘I bring the baggages,’ and he picked up their two suitcases.
    Patrick stepped back to let the white-haired woman precede him.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said, and went ahead. Then she said something to the boy in Greek, at which he beamed and broke into a flood of speech. The woman laughed and answered. Patrick caught the phrase ‘sigha, sigha’ which he knew meant, more or less, ‘slow down please,’ and indicated that the boy spoke too fast for her to follow. He looked at her with new interest.
    Her room was on the second floor. The boy led her away to it, asking Patrick to wait as his was on the one above. After some time he returned and they continued upwards. Patrick by now was tired enough to have slept on the marble floor of the landing without complaint; the boy, who had, after all, to remain awake throughout the night, insisted on showing him all the glories of his apartment, with its bathroom and range of cupboards. There was a balcony, and beyond the garden could be seen the lights of the town shining on the sea. The scent of flowers rose from below, and the sound of cicadas filled the air.
    ‘You like?’ said the boy, with a sweeping gesture which embraced the whole vista around them, as if he owned it all.
    Patrick did.

 
IV
     
    Now that he could at last indulge it, Patrick’s desire for sleep fled. A swim would be wonderful; it would relax his stiff muscles after the journey. He