The Girl Below(77)

Harold nodded. “Caleb and I will have to share.”

“No fucking way,” said Caleb.

In the small, ovenlike room, we put down our bags and turned on the ceiling fan. It scudded to life and wafted hot, stale air over our faces.

Caleb flopped on the double bed. “I’m hungry.”

We all were, in the inexplicable way jet lag stimulates the appetite, and set out along a strip of kebab joints and all-night bars, grateful to abandon the hotel. It was well past midnight by the time we sat on the curb munching souvlaki, but a gang of olive-skinned urchins was still up and playing in the street, terrorizing a scrawny orange cat and her litter of emaciated kittens. The day had been a hot one, and the stench of baked rubbish was intense but not unpleasant, just all part of the new and vivid sensory imprint of Greece.

For the first time in weeks, I felt energized and awake, but I was out of sync with our itinerary. Our ferry left at seven the next morning, and before long, we were back in the oven, trying to sleep. The beds had lumpy horsehair mattresses over squeaking springs and made a cacophony as we took turns to get up and use the bathroom. Caleb wore pajamas and tried to build a protective wall of pillows down the center of the bed he was sharing with Harold, who came out of the bathroom bare chested, wearing a towel fashioned as a skirt. He climbed in next to Caleb, and fumbled under the sheets before dropping the towel to the floor.

Caleb sat bolt upright. “You’re not going commando, are you?”

“Y-fronts. I don’t like to feel restricted when I sleep.”

Caleb wriggled closer to the wall, while overhead the ceiling fan flapped as though it were trying to take off. The tepid breeze that reached my face smelled of unwashed travelers, with a top note of garlic tzatziki and lamb. Harold fell asleep almost immediately, his snoring a low, steady rumble, but hemmed in next to him, Caleb pitched and moaned. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “I feel like a rotisserie chicken.”

“It’s your pajamas,” I said. “They’re too restricting.”

“Shut up.”

Exhaustion had caught up with me, but there wasn’t enough oxygen to go round the room, and each time I reached the edge of consciousness, a mosquito screamed in my ear, and I swiped at it pointlessly in the dark. An hour passed before Caleb kicked the wall in total frustration. “I don’t see why we all have to go. Granny hates it when we make a fuss over her.”

“I don’t think we’re going for Peggy’s sake,” I said. “Your mum wants the family to be together.”

“Even Harold?”

“Shhhh,” I said, pointing to the bed. “Peggy’s his mother too.”

A loud squeak came from the mattress springs as Caleb catapulted himself out of bed and tugged off his pajama top. Briefly, his bare silhouette appeared in front of the neon hotel sign, his bony shoulders bent over like a spoon.

“What are you doing?”

“Escaping.”

Even though he was asleep, I didn’t want to be left alone with Harold. “Wait for me.”

We headed out in no particular direction but soon found ourselves at the port, drifting alongside a fleet of decrepit fishing boats and freighters, and set off aimlessly along a jetty that pointed out to sea. On one side of the jetty the water was smooth, oily, but on the other it slapped up against the rocks in angry waves. Caleb and I had been walking along the jetty for half an hour or so when it seemed to narrow, and the sea became rough on both sides. The concrete under our feet was wet in places, and once or twice a wave washed clean over it.

I looked over my shoulder to see how far we’d come. Expecting to see the port behind us, I was shocked to discover nothing there at all. Everything, all the freighter hulls and fishing boats, had been washed away, and the only thing left was the sea. On the horizon was a dim orange glow, the faint promise of dawn. I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me, and, a little more slowly, I traced the line of the jetty as it arced away from us. But still, nothing was there except ocean.

“Caleb, stop,” I said, feeling panicky. “Turn around.”

“What is it?”

“Behind us. The port isn’t there.”

He scanned the horizon in the direction my finger pointed, then turned right around until he was facing out to sea. “It’s that way,” he said, as if I was a complete moron.

“What do you mean?”

“We turned around about ten minutes ago and started to walk back.”

“What?”

For a few minutes I watched him continue to walk in the wrong direction, away from the port, and was too stunned to say anything. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to wait for me, I trotted after him. “Caleb, you’re going the wrong way. You’re heading out to sea.”