Angel of Death

Giving herself a little shake, Pandora said, ‘Oh, yes, sure. Take no notice of my moaning. What are you going to do today? Would you like Milo to arrange a tour of the island for you after lunch?’

Lighting up, Miranda said, ‘I’d love it, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. But maybe I could sit with you and keep you company?’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I have to sleep a lot of the time. The doctor gave me tranquillisers to keep me sleepy. You go and find Milo. You’ll find him in the dining room, supervising the layout of the buffet lunch. We have a buffet lunch every day, it saves on staff and is cheaper and easier than serving at the tables.’

On her way to the door, Miranda tentatively said, ‘I promised to ring my mother, to reassure her that I’m safe – I’ll pay for the call. Do I ask the operator to give me a bill?’

‘No need to do that. If you make private calls they will be deducted from your salary at the end of each month. Make your call after eight o’clock, it will be cheaper.’

It was only as she walked towards the dining room that Miranda wondered what Pandora had been about to say when she suddenly stopped and changed the subject. She had mentioned her father, who had been Milo’s best friend, then added something about Milo now being the best friend of someone else. ‘My . . .’ she had begun then halted.

Had she been going to say Milo was her husband’s best friend? No, Miranda was sure Milo was no friend to Charles. She had noticed a coldness in his face, in his voice, whenever he spoke to Pandora’s husband.

Who had Pandora been thinking about? Herself? How close was her relationship with Milo? Was he jealous of her husband because he was deeply attached to her? But that was ridiculous. Milo was twice her age, old enough to be her father.

Reaching the dining room, she sat down to wait to have a word with Milo, who was watching the staff clearing the breakfast things away before beginning to lay the buffet table for lunch. He amiably promised to arrange a tour at three o’clock that afternoon.

‘Would you like to see your office now? I have half an hour free.’

It was a large room, spacious and light-filled, but with grey louvre blinds fitted at the windows. ‘If you lower them it makes the room cooler in the afternoons,’ Milo explained.

There were two Greek girls working in the room. Milo introduced them to her and they smiled and shook hands, but obviously did not speak much English.

‘Letha has just got engaged to Melanie’s brother, Philo,’ Milo told Miranda. ‘I told you, this is very much a family firm!’ He turned to the other girls and spoke in Greek.

They laughed, nodding. Letha was tall and willowy, with long black hair, a beautiful, golden-skinned girl with a wide, full mouth. Melanie was short and slightly plumper, with brown hair and big, bright hazel eyes. It was obvious they were very good friends.

‘They will help you with your Greek, too,’ promised Milo. ‘And you will help them with English,’ he added, again translating his comment into Greek, and both girls nodded enthusiastically.

‘Yes, yes, please. We do English at school but . . .’ They shrugged their meaning. ‘Not good.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ promised Miranda.

A telephone rang, Letha answered it and began to chatter away in Greek.

Milo pointed to the third desk in the room. ‘This will be yours. You do know how to use a word processor, don’t you?’

Faintly surprised, she recognised the machine on the desk. ‘Yes. In fact, this model is the one I used in London. My firm made them.’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Milo steered her out of the room. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy working here. I’ll arrange that tour at once. What are you going to be doing for the rest of the morning?’

‘I thought I might walk down to the sea.’

‘Take care on the beach. There are rocks and pebbles as well as sand. We don’t want you to fall and break your other leg, do we?’

‘No, we don’t,’ she fervently agreed.

She set off ten minutes later, moving slowly, enjoying the morning sunshine. It was not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. It took longer to reach the sea than she had expected. The gardens tailed off, then she was in that rough, wild territory she had found last night when she followed Milo. This time she did not glimpse the house. She was following a well-marked track through the long, sun-bleached grass and gorse. Hotel guests often went down to the beach, Milo had told her. Especially those with children.

She heard the sea before she saw it, tumbling up on to the sand, then falling back with a hoarse whisper, and smelt the cool, salty breeze as it blew her hair back.

Suddenly she wanted to walk in the water, paddle like a child, remembering other times when she had, when she had been three, six, nine, young enough to find the sea enchanting, to love playing in it.

She sat down and took off her sandals, then began a slow descent over pebbles and sand, leaning on her crutch. She hadn’t reached the curling waves when she heard somebody else walking on the beach. Between her and the clear, blue horizon she saw a tall, dark shape.

Her heart seemed to stop.

It was him. The Angel of Death. Walking along the edge of the sea, through the shallows, towards her. He was naked, to the waist; wore just brief black swimming shorts.