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  The Assassins’ Village

  By Faith Mortimer

  About the author:

  Faith Mortimer: born in Manchester, England and educated in Singapore, Malaya and Hampshire, England. Qualified as a Registered nurse and later changed careers to oversee a number of travel and sport related companies.

  Faith is married with a family. Once the children attended University, she decided to join them in reading for a Science degree. Faith obtained an Honours Science degree in 2005 and believes the dedication and stamina needed to sit for a degree while in full-time employment, gave her the confidence to finish writing her first novel.

  She has now written and published 10 novels and a volume of short stories. All are available as eBooks from your favourite online book store.

  For more information about Faith and her writing please follow on Facebook. www.facebook.com/FaithMortimer.Author

  http://twitter.com/FaithMortimer

  Website: www.faithmortimerauthor.com

  Where Faith writes a regular blog about all manner of things!

  Acknowledgements

  Once again a Big Thank You to my editor Catherine and to my husband Chris for their invaluable assistance and patient support.

  THE ASSASSINS’ VILLAGE

  Copyright © Faith Mortimer 2011

  The right of Faith Mortimer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2011

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Alicia, Director of Agios Mamas Village theatre group

  Yanoulla, Greek-Cypriot villager, lover to Kristiakis, seamstress

  Kristiakis, Greek-Cypriot villager, lover to Yanoulla, set-builder, brother to Antigone

  Diana, Authoress and actress, married to Steve

  Ann, Expatriate Villager, actress and playwright, married to Pete

  Steve, Expatriate Villager and business man, married to Diana

  Tony, Expatriate villager and playwright

  Pete, Expatriate villager, retired, married to Ann

  Leslie, Expatriate villager and artist, married to Sonja

  Bernard, Expatriate villager and actor, married to Jenny

  Jenny, Expatriate villager and gossip, married to Bernard

  Karl, Expatriate and actor, from another village

  Sonja, Expatriate villager, cake-maker

  Tilly, Fitness Instructor, actress, from another village

  Antigone, Greek-Cypriot villager, cheese-maker, sister to Kristiakis

  Elaine, Visitor from England, Diana’s sister

  Thomas, Visitor from England, son to Leslie

  Alexandros, Greek-Cypriot villager, father to Kristiakis and Antigone

  Police Inspector Andreas Christopopodoulou

  Police Sergeant, Greek-Cypriot Yiannis Loukiades

  Michaelis, Greek-Cypriot taverna owner

  “The Assassins’ Village” by Faith Mortimer.

  Cyprus. A Sunday in late August. Present day.

  Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

  Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 1

  ~~~

  If. Such a small word and yet… If only he had bothered to take a look at his actions. If he had cared one iota, maybe his life would not have been full of ego, lust, self-gratification and profligacy. Self-denial was unknown to him.

  ~~~

  He awoke confused and disorientated, barely able to breathe, his throat obstructed. He heard a voice; soft and persistent, close to his ear. Struggling against the cotton wool seemingly stuffed in his brain, he forced open his eyes. The man squinted at the blinding light. He knew he was lying down. The agonising pain in his left leg intensified when he attempted to move it from its impossible angle. A pain as sharp as a new razor blade cut through him. He shrieked in alarm, realising his leg was broken.

  The whispered voice spoke again. The man looked around him in sudden panic. Who and what was all this? And why couldn’t he function properly? He tried to speak, to answer the phantom voice, but his tongue couldn’t form the words. A sudden movement and a shadow fell across his face… Raising his head, his eyes widened as he remembered being pushed over the limestone cliff into the vineyard below. But that explained nothing. Struggling, the injured man raised himself into a sitting position to confront the shadow.

  A firm hand, calloused and strong, pushed him back down. ‘Keep still. You can’t get up.’

  The man recognised an accent. A trickle of blood rolled down between his dry, tortured lips and a thread of fear crept through him.

  The shadow spoke in a rasping voice. ‘Soon you will see. You must pay for all you’ve done.’ The shadow hissed in his face. A breath that was hot and sour.

  As the shadow bent closer the man gave a start and recoiled; he recognised his assailant. A deep chill spread through his gut despite the heat of the day. In terror, he fought at the cords binding his wrists. With desperation he cried out, spluttering through the soiled coarse cloth in his cheeks. The core of dread in his stomach spread like a foul growth of malignancy. His eyes pleaded mercy.

  The shadow gave a laugh, shrill and mirthless. ‘Shall I forgive you? No. I think not. Never once have I seen you give kindness. You treat all like dogs at your feet. Well, you are dirt beneath mine.’

  Abruptly the shadow withdrew and walked over to a low stonewall. It returned, carrying a pair of gloves and an old leather bag. The assailant drew on the gloves, before untying a thong at the neck of the receptacle. The man watched, beads of sweat sliding down his face, then he writhed in horror, as he realised what was being thrust before him. He twisted his head aside, gagging at the revolting sight; yelling deep in his throat. ‘No! No! Please! Oh God help me!’ His words were garbled and lost.

  ‘This is all your doing. Yours! Did you never think how you hurt me?’

  As the victim stared with revulsion his throat gagged and he retched. Stomach churning, he felt a warmth spread beneath his loins. Screaming in panic he tried to pull away from the calm face of his attacker, only to realise that it was futile. The end, when it came, was swift, a thrust and a sharp twist. At first, there was no wound; then the blood flowed and grew like a blossom of deep red peonies spilling their petals to hiss upon the hot honey-coloured rock. Satisfied, the assassin bent down, removed the pretty blue scarab ring from the victim’s finger, placed it in the bag and walked away without another look.

  But of course, this is a later scene – let the play begin…

  Act 1.

  Chapter 1. The previous Tuesday evening. 24th August

  Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?

  Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 3

  Alicia stood in front of the hallway mirror. A freckled face, pale and thin, stared back at her. Smoothing back her unruly red hair she heard the deep tone from the old clock striking in the hall. The sound echoed along the hallway and into the living room beyond. Alicia counted the chimes. Seven o’clock! Time to go. Swiftly, she gathered up the sheaf of scripts for the forthcoming play reading, tucked the bundle under her arm and threw open her front door. The evening’s sweet scent from a frangipani tree reached her and she took a few seconds to steady herself before closing the door behind her.

  She was going to be late. It was a nuisance; she needed to compose herself. It was important to be in cont
rol. Especially tonight as she intended to instigate the first of her carefully laid plans. He would not get away with it.

  Alicia told herself, keep calm. The walk would take just a few minutes if she passed through the church grounds. Crunching up the jagged stone steps Alicia glanced at the Greek Orthodox Church that gave its name to the village; Agios Mamas. It loomed in front of her, large, rectangular and faced in the local pale-coloured sandstone. The Church had been rebuilt in 1860 after the earthquake that had shaken its original foundations. Now, it served its purpose well. Its regular congregation of mostly black-clad old ladies was swelled on Saints’ days with visiting families. She imagined the rows of dutiful women as they sat nodding in the back of the church, surrounded by the heady smell of incense and candles. Alicia was not one of the worshippers. Her faith and allegiance belonged to another deity altogether. Something she rarely mentioned to anyone who knew her, and if she did then it was with complete reticence. The New Woman World Alliance was secretive in its ministry to outsiders. When questioned about the order, Alicia remained tight-lipped about its overall aims and functionality. Only once had she made the mistake of letting someone know its secrets.

  Years ago, when she was an art student on a year’s sabbatical she had journeyed through Pakistan, India, and far up into Bhutan and beyond. Somewhere in the wild and arid hills she strayed into a sect different from anything else she had known. Feeling compelled to stay; she had been indoctrinated with its scriptures. Forgetting her people back home in Ireland Alicia turned her back on her College education as she took up the narrow life the sect demanded of her. To this day she remained committed. And because of this commitment she had to stop Leslie and his vile threats.

  Alicia walked down the path to the road that wound its way around the hillside eventually leading to the rehearsal venue. The sun’s rays slanted down through the half-ruined buildings, casting long purple shadows in the broken darkened doorways and windows. Tumbledown houses mixed in with the renovated stone works, a startling blend of courtyards, paths, Venetian arches, and gardens drenched with flowers, all behind a jumble of walls.

  The air smelt of over-ripened grapes and she could hear the low drone from the wasps as they buzzed in the overhead vines. Swallows and doves fluttered in the soft evening sunshine before disappearing into the gaping holes of the empty dwellings. It could have been creepy, but Alicia never found it so. She loved the solitude in the labyrinth of the deserted houses that stood in quiet sentinel before those still inhabited. It suited her covert nature. A flight of pigeons made her pause. They swooped down from their high roost in an empty two-storied house. Alicia felt the beating of their wings as they swarmed around her; faltering, fluttering, a renewing of position before they made off down the valley.

  At the end of the cobbled path she caught up with Yanoulla picking her way down the rough slope. Alerted by footsteps behind her, Yanoulla turned to greet Alicia.

  ‘Alicia. Kalispera. How are you?’

  The slim, blonde Cypriot woman fell in beside Alicia. She was a few years older than the Irish woman and it was noticeable. She was plain, ugly even; her large nose dominated and spoiled her face. Tonight she looked weary, despite the pleasant smile.

  ‘And good evening to you, Yanoulla. I am well and you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Are you excited about tonight?’

  They rounded the corner catching sight of the open-air theatre. Alicia’s heart gave a lurch. Village and town theatres were all very well, but the thought of directing Shakespeare at the amphitheatre always filled her with an excited inner glow. The villagers were fortunate having been awarded a grant from the European Union to build their own theatre and Alicia was determined to make this production her best.

  ‘Oh yes. I always like beginning new plays, especially Shakespeare. This year we have the makings of a very good cast. I hope everyone will agree with my final choice.’ As she spoke she knew she would have trouble. There was always one or two who would disagree with anything. They had already had their inaugural committee meeting and the cast auditions. Most roles had been allocated and agreed a week ago. However, as director she had the final decision, and had decided to make a couple of changes. Well, she would address that if and when the problem arose.

  ‘I too am looking forward to this year. Making costumes is a lot of fun and I love the challenge.’ Yanoulla was an expert with her needle and in the past Alicia had been indebted to her. Apart from her sewing, Yanoulla had introduced Kristiakis to the group. His huge physique was an asset when building wonderful stage sets.

  Reaching the bottom steps of the amphitheatre they said hello to the members already gathered; lounging and chatting on the stone steps; enjoying the evening sunshine.

  A tall dark Cypriot man was sitting by himself near the top. He rose to his feet and approached the two women. After a brief nod to Alicia he took Yanoulla to one side and rapidly addressed her in Greek. Yanoulla’s face grew still as she listened to her lover. When he had finished talking, Yanoulla replied in the same language. Alicia’s Greek was nowhere near perfect but she knew enough to understand a lovers’ tiff when she heard one.

  Shaking his head, Kristiakis took a look at his watch. Without another word he left an angry looking Yanoulla and bounded back up the steps and out of the theatre.

  Turning to Alicia, Yanoulla looked furious and miserable; white-lipped. Alicia raised her eyebrows in question, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I am sorry, Alicia, but, Kristiakis cannot be here for tonight’s casting. He has to go to Limassol. He is –’ she paused, unsure how much to tell her.

  Alicia had clearly heard the name Marina mentioned in their conversation and could guess that the predatory Krisitakis had other and better things to do that night. She sought to spare Yanoulla’s embarrassment, as she liked the Cypriot woman.

  ‘Never mind, it’s not important that he can’t make tonight. You can fill him in later. Come and sit with me at the top of the steps.’ She gave her a smile of encouragement.

  Yanoulla shook her head and turned away; her face flaming. She sat down, a pensive, worried look upon her face. ‘Thank you, Alicia, but I’ll stay here for a moment. I’ll join you in a minute.’ Her accented voice was heavy with disappointment.

  Alicia knew Kristiakis’ reputation well. He’d always been a womaniser and he would never change. It was probably why he was still single. She couldn’t see their relationship lasting. She nodded her understanding.

  Kristiakis and Yanoulla were the only Greek Cypriots belonging to the group. At first Kristiakis had been reluctant to involve himself with any expats; especially the British, it was Yanoulla who had persuaded him to help backstage. Yanoulla was at least ten years older than the single Kristiakis and Alicia failed to see what Kristiakis could see in her. Alicia was secretly peeved that an older woman could attract a man so sexy and handsome. Kristiakis was a man wrapped in an aura of mystery. Dark tales of his youth followed him concerning his impetuous involvement with the guerrilla organization EOKA. Whispered stories passed down between the older locals, somehow never managed to translate into a comprehensive history for the expatriate community. Of course, embellished anecdotes made it impossible to tell what was genuine. Whatever the truth, Kristiakis was locally known as “Kristiakis the Bomber”.

  Leaving a sour-faced Yanoulla, Alicia made her way over to a group of three people.

  Lolling on a step was Tony; hopefully sober this evening with his mind in focus for once. He had made a disgusting spectacle of himself the other night at the annual cast party. The other two with him were Ann and her neighbour Diana. As Alicia neared them, she heard Tony plaintively whining an apology to Ann.

  ‘I can only repeat what I’ve already said, Ann. Look! I am sorry for ruining your new shoes. If you want to give me the bill I’ll happily replace them. I don’t know what came over me.’

  Ann looked nearly as cross as when she first saw her new white shoes being destroyed. She drew her matronly che
st up with indignation and launched into him with a tirade. ‘For God’s sake Tony! You’ve got to start to get a grip of yourself. No, no there’s no point in apologising now. This isn’t the first time you’ve over done the alcohol and acted like a complete and utter tosser.’ Sixty-something and a northerner, she was renowned for not standing any nonsense and when angered her northern accent was even more pronounced. ‘What’s more you’re a bloody mess. You need to clean up your act.’

  She waved a hand in his direction. Apart from the sour smell of booze, both imbibed and spilt; his off-white crumpled linen shirt and trousers reeked of stale cigarette smoke and his pale brown hair flopped down into his eyes. He was a mess. ‘Shorry, shorry,’ he slurred slumping back down onto the steps.

  Looking disgusted, Ann hadn’t yet finished. ‘And finally, Tony no, I am not interested in reading your latest play. The last one was pure filth. Can’t you write something with a story for once?’ Ann didn’t wait for an answer. Mumbling something to the younger woman standing next to her she stalked off to sit further away. Diana gave Alicia an apologetic shrug and followed her.

  Alicia knew Tony was writing yet another of his sleazy little plays. Nobody was very interested in performing any of his offerings, despite him saying that it was - very Pinteresque - and nothing like the ‘usual hackneyed rubbish’ put on out here. Irritated, she too could imagine just what it would be like, awful. No doubt he had been trying to persuade Di and Ann to put his idea forward for a later production. Well, she knew Ann would be difficult to persuade once she had made up her mind and Diana was clear-thinking herself. He stood no chance.