the water surface.
The moon was bright and when Nikos turned the engine off, in the silence it seemed to him that he had gone back in time and the boat was an island and he was its only inhabitant but at the same time its captain because he had found his old captain’s cap.
Nicos was going to fish for two to three hours so as to comfort his heart because lately the rolls somehow resembled cleaned scaleless pieces of fish on their way to the frying pan.
Nicos unfolded a small fishing net, positioned two fishing lines and waited. He took out his Greek cigarettes, Karelia Agriniou, saved for occasions like this one. His wife was jealous of everything that was Greek, so he could smoke it here, inhaling the familiar rich smoke. Soon he began singing Ta Matia, Your Eyes, and quite frankly he was thinking of a Greek girl whose eyes years ago had given him so many promises.
Nicos waited for an hour and pulled the net. The catch was good and he tried again. Again he stood there silent, carried back to the past and to the eyes of a young girl, his first love, which he had betrayed for the beauty of his future wife now still in their warm bed.
Suddenly Nicos decided to go home.
He spat the cigarette out and bent over to pull the net in. It was then that some strange power got hold of him and abruptly pulled him down into the cold night water. Born and raised by the sea Nikos was a good diver so he wasn’t immediately scared.
Fear came later when he realised that he was never to see his wife and children again. He was still kicking but that seemed to be the game of Death.
Someone was slowly, very slowly playing at killing him. Oh, ta matia, the whole world turned into two enormous eyes, eyes of a girl but also of a woman. He fought for a gulp of air, screamed and defended himself but his gut instinct told him that all was in vein. For a moment he gave way to the game, relaxed, even smiled.
Nikos wanted to know who was playing with him the nasty game and why; tossing him around, biting pieces off his body. He got caught in his own net and felt blood spurting out from the gaping wounds as if caused by a gutting knife. The taste of the water around him was different, a taste which in sea would have attracted sharks.
Was there a shark too, in this small quiet lake?
It was late for questions. Ta matia, was singing someone in a loud deafening voice, accompanied by bouzouki, whose sound bounced and reverberated in his head that turned to be a small claustrophobic space for the thundering decibels.
At this moment Nicos saw something. Something that made his heart burst with horror. Yes, he died not because of his bleeding wounds but of the horror induced by a hideous creature that appeared before him and for which he had no name.
Chapter 12
“AUNTY DO, A BLACK pebble has appeared in the lake.” He was panting under the burden of this exciting announcement only to notice that the solitary carer at the Home was unmoved. “Aunty Do!”
The woman slowly took her eyes off the ancient washing machine that spat the children’s clothing dirtier if not unravelled. “What again?’ Her voice was muffled by the noise coming from the inside the Home where the children had poured soapy water onto the bare cement floor and were now sliding amid screams and jostles.
Aunty Do or as she was officially known as Aunty Dobreva looked miserable and exhausted. Someone had snitched the cylinder of the spare washing machine. Men used those cylinders to brew highly intoxicating rakiin them so they generated a tempting price.
Feeling sorry for her, Rob pulled a pillow case with puke stains from a laundry pile and wrapped it around her neck. Bursting in anger the heavy woman grasped the pillow case off her shoulders and aiming it at Rob not unlike kung fu nunchuck.
Too quick to be caught by surprise Rob jumped aside which left Aunty Do with the only option to press the pillow against her sweated forehead as her body shook with sobs.
“Give me five!” Rob came back to her again desperately wanting to cheer her up.
Aunty Do raised her hand spraying her chunky fingers as his clawed hand met hers. Aunty Do opened her palm only to see a shiny black pebble nesting in it.
“You can’t eat it,” said Aunty Do and dropped the pebble.
Rob picked it up. Perhaps Lala would be more interested if I tell her about this pebble, he thought and left in search of the red-haired girl.
Inside the children were all dripping wet. The sliding on the muddy cement floor had put them in a good mood and to forget hunger they started to sing as Aunty Dobreva had taught them.
The tallest boy Gosho the Poet began first because every day he thought up new words for the simple tune they all knew:
An ant crawls
On the ear of the Earth,
Crawls crawls and sings.
The children joined in raising squeaky voices:
An ant crawls
On the ear of the Earth,
Crawls and sings:
Here everyone burst screaming:
Tickle, tickle, tickle....!
The choir broke up. The children began to chase, push and tickle each other. Only Fatzy Dembo, who until now had drummed on his bloated cheeks, blowing air out in a slow hiss, went away as he preferred to tickle himself on his own. He tickled himself on his armpits and behind the ears with a floor brush or with the help of a twig from a spiny gooseberry bush, or with the cord which Aunty Dobreva tied the windows together so that an unexpected storm wouldn’t further damage the crumbling building. Fatzy Dembo liked this friction, sending electric waves through his body, so much so that the cord started to fray and on the first stronger puff of wind the windows smashed sending glass pieces everywhere in ambush for the barefooted children. Soon all the floor was stained in blood, Gosho the Poet flared his nostrils to breathe in its pungent smell since it inspired him more than sniffing glue. He fell into an even deeper trance and began to chant another song:
If not a drunk
Who spent all his dough on whore
My father’d have bought me the Earth
To play soccer and surf.
Soon the children gathered around him chanting at the top of their voices: To play soccer and surf.
Later in the only dormitory of the Home all children were with their legs and hands tied to their bunk beds. That was the only way for their only carer Aunty Dobreva to secure herself a peaceful sleep once a week.
“O-o-o-oh,” Sali the Gypsy fidgeted in his bed, “my body’s itchy, damned fucking lice, damned fucking fleas.” His snot ran freely down along his dirty cheek.
“I want to pee, I want to pee!” Rob writhed on the upper bed pressing his Teddy Bear to his face. It was a miracle that the mangled soft toy was still around, mainly due to common fear of Rob’s undiscriminating fists.
On his left Gosho the Poet, who had at that time already drunk the bleach, held a pencil in his mouth and was writing
