Mr Fotakis had arranged for someone to take us to the airport. This man wasn’t just a driver – he would be escorting us in and introducing us to the man who would give us the tickets and passports. While we waited, Mr Fotakis made us Greek coffee in tiny cups, as if nothing had happened. I watched him as he heated it on the stove, and it took everything I had not to open one of the kitchen drawers and take out a knife. I wanted to kill him very slowly. I wanted him to feel every inch of the knife entering his flesh. But, if I took this revenge Afra and I would never be able to leave. If I let him live, we would still have this chance to escape, even though something of me would always be left behind, trapped within the dank walls of this apartment. I’d helped to kill a man before, and I knew I would be able to do it again. I stared at the drawer, I imagined opening it and taking a knife. It would be easy.
‘So you ended up being a hard worker. Very obedient.’
My eyes moved up to his hand and I watched as he stirred the coffee. He smiled as he poured it into three cups.
‘And I guess now you have your dream. Amazing what determination and a strong will can do.’ He handed me one of the coffees and took the other two into the living room, placing them on the low table. His eyes rested on Afra. She was sitting on the sofa and I wished she would do something, scratch her arms, or pick up the cup, or even cry, but she just sat there as if she had died inside and only her body was alive. I felt as if her soul had left her.
There was a buzz at the door and Mr Fotakis helped us to take our hand luggage downstairs, then he placed the bags in the boot of a silver Mercedes. The driver, a tall, muscular Greek man in his forties, introduced himself as Marcos. He leant on the bonnet and smoked a cigarette.
It was a beautiful day, the rising sun illuminating the buildings. Behind was the misty shadow of the inland mountains, a wispy halo of clouds above them. There was a slight chill in the air, but the flowers in the courtyards of the apartment blocks were blooming.
‘I’m going to miss having you around.’ Mr Fotakis chuckled.
We would leave. He would live.
We got into the back of the car and set off and I watched Mr Fotakis from the back window of the car, standing there watching us leave. I turned towards the front and tried to block his face out of my mind. We drove through the streets of Athens and it was strange to see the city in the sun – for weeks I had known it mostly at night, or in the early hours just as the sun was melting the darkness. Now I could see some of its normality, the cars, the traffic, the people going about their daily lives. Marcos was playing Greek music on the radio; when the news started at 9 a.m. he turned the volume up and shook his head or nodded as he listened. He had his window rolled down, his elbow resting out of it, his fingers touching the steering wheel, and I was amazed at how relaxed he seemed, but when the news finished he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror with anxious eyes.
‘When we get to the airport,’ he said, ‘I will open the boot and you take your bags. Then I would like you to follow me, but make sure you stay about ten metres away at all times. Don’t get too close and don’t lose me. This is very important. I will lead you to the men’s toilets. Afra will wait outside. There will be someone else waiting for you there. I want you to wait in the toilets. When they are empty, and only then, knock on a door three times.’
I nodded. He didn’t see as he was checking the mirror to change lanes.
‘Do you understand? Or would you like me to go through that again?’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘Good. Now if you make it to Heathrow, throw your passports and boarding passes in the nearest bin. Wait three hours, and then hand yourselves in to the authorities. Understood?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You must not forget to throw them away. And you must wait three hours, maybe more, but not less. Do not tell them which flight you were on.’
He took a packet of chewing gum from the glove compartment and offered me a piece. I refused.
‘Your wife?’ he said. But Afra was sitting very quietly, with her hands in her lap, a bit like Angeliki, her lips tight, and if you didn’t know she was blind you would think that she was looking at the streets through the window.
‘You’re lucky you’re rich,’ he said. His eyes in the mirror were smiling now. ‘Most people have to make a terrible journey through the whole of Europe to reach England. Money gets you everywhere. This is what I always say. Without it you live your entire life travelling, trying to get to where you think you need to go.’