Untethered

Prologue Somewhere in the hills, about a mile from the nearest town, the light from a single bulb seeped through the slats of two wooden shutters on a close-to-derelict drinking den that was once the area’s most popular taverna. A unique take on an old classic, kleftiko cooked in zivania, had brought the restaurant fleeting fame in the 1970s; a time when people seemed to enjoy their lamb marinated in an alcohol most commonly used to sterilise wounds. Then, as the years passed by, tastes changed, along with a catalogue of names and owners, until, four decades later, the Astraea Taverna was a crumbling ruin of its former glory and called Nicos. Somewhat surprisingly, the metal trellis at the head of the driveway remained in place, but where it had once welcomed tourists with Moorish lanterns lighting up the vibrant hues of snaking magenta and orange bougainvillea it now supported only rust. Underfoot, courtyard tiles that had fallen victim to the extremes of weather and neglect, were little more than fragments within a scrubland of weeds and spiny shrubs, and only a sprinkling of cigarette butts at the end of a gravelled pathway revealed the taverna continued to attract custom, though the damage inflicted on the once-solid walnut door gave some indication as to the type of custom the place now invited. In short, the Astraea Taverna, now known as Nicos, was a shithole. Immediately behind the battered front door sat eight circular tables, suggesting some kind of dining area. A number of cardboard boxes, worn carpets, broken fridges and punctured bicycle tyres at the back of the room suggested a skip. Walls and ceilings that were once painted white were now nicotine yellow, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a monument to the national determination to defy modern thinking on such traditional pastimes as the inhalation of carcinogenic chemicals. In the middle of the room, between the dining area and the skip, was a counter that appeared to serve as a bar. To the right of it, a glint of light crept along the edges of the kitchen door, beyond which three voices could be heard. They were all female and they appeared to be debating the shape of the planet. “Well, that’s just nonsense,” said the woman sat in the middle seat of a row of three chairs. “Maybe, but go and stand anywhere, at any height, and the horizon will always be at eye level,” replied the woman to her right. She had a slight American accent though the inflection in her speech was eastern European. “And that’s your proof?” “Not my proof. I’m just telling you what other people believe.” “That the earth is flat?” “That the earth is flat.” Lillian stared at Emilia, unsure as to whether she was having fun at her expense. The Romanian was hard to read at the best of times, but with a balaclava covering her face it was nigh on impossible to work out what was going on. She turned to Cara. “Have you heard of this?” “I’ve heard of the Flat Earth Society,” Cara admitted. “I don’t know much about them, but they’ve been around for a while. Apparently, we’re all drifting through space on the back of a giant disc. Kind of like a Terry Pratchett novel, minus the massive elephants.” “Oh, this is absurd,” Lillian replied testily, her exasperation compounded by the mention of elephants. She turned to Emilia. “Who the heck believes in this stuff? And how can anyone believe it’s true when photos from space clearly show the earth is round as a ball?” “Actually, it’s not that round. It’s more like a ball squashed at both ends and as for explaining, I explain nothing,” replied Emilia, employing a studied indifference that occasionally set Lillian’s teeth on edge. Most of the time, however, Lillian liked her enormously, though she was still unused to the company of ladies bearing tattoos and piercings. “But the photos?” “Look, I’m with you, Lillian; the flat earth conspiracy is bullshit. But those people who like to believe in this bullshit say the photographs are lies – lies made up by the ‘Round Earth’ conspiracists.” “Oh, give me strength.” Emilia laughed. Though it felt unfair at times, she enjoyed toying with Lillian; she was so very British and a child of a certain age still harbouring a sentimental belief in an empire long dead. A lot of the Brits were crazy like that, or at least the ones she’d come across. “Look, it’s like this; anyone who doesn’t believe that the earth is flat is a Round Earth conspiracist,” Emilia explained patiently. “As for the photographs taken from space, they are supposedly fakes created by NASA and other government agencies.” “And NASA shoots anyone who tries to climb the wall,” Cara added, causing Lillian’s head to spin left with the kind of speed usually seen in Hollywood exorcisms. “What wall? What are you on about now?” “The 150-foot wall of ice that surrounds the earth. You probably know it better as Antarctica.” Cara raised her feet onto the front spindle of her chair, conscious of the urine creeping along the cracks in the tiled floor. “It’s this wall that stops the oceans from emptying over the edge,” Emilia added. “Oh, come on now, this is just silly.” Lillian shook her head. “No wall can hold back an ocean. And why would NASA, or anyone else for that matter, bother denying the earth was flat if it was true, let alone shoot people over it?” “Because the beliefs of the Round Earthers discredit the Bible,” Cara replied. “What’s this got to do with the Bible?” “In the Bible it says the earth is flat, stationary and built on pillars. Or at least that’s what they say it says. I’ve never read it.” Lillian raised her hands to her eyes, barely able to cope. The lack of faith these days astonished her. Nobody believed in God anymore and yet people were quite willing to believe they were hurtling through space on the back of a giant frisbee. “Well, I have read the Bible,” she finally said, “and I can’t say I remember anything about the earth being flat. However, I do recall the Prophet Elisha sending two she-bears out of the forest to kill 42 children for calling him ‘baldy’ and I’m not sure that’s anything we should take too literally either.” “Nice prophet,” remarked Emilia. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” replied Cara. “Like mass i*********e?” “If you don’t mind,” Lillian muttered, and her friends, aware of her faith, shut up. “Anyway, how do you know so much about this Flat Earth thing, Cara?” As she spoke, Emilia’s eyes widened. “No names, we said!” Lillian winced and immediately spluttered an apology. “Do you think he heard?” she asked, the panic evident in her voice. The three women turned their attention to the man in front of them. Nicos, the owner of the taverna, was wiry, middle-aged and casually dressed. He was also tied to a chair. His weak chin had long ago slumped to his chest and a line of spittle had formed a bridge from his mouth to the second button of his shirt. “I think he’s gone,” Cara said. “Poke him with your gun,” Emilia suggested, and Lillian shuddered. With a weary sigh and with one eye on the urine at her feet, Cara got up from her seat, took hold of Nicos’s hair, and lifted his head. The eyes were closed, the mouth was slack and his head felt as heavy as a sack of bricks. If he was listening, he was a far better actor than he was a restaurateur. “Yep, he’s gone,” Cara informed the others, “so we better go too. To be honest, he’s starting to smell.” Lillian raised a gloved hand to her mouth. “Come on,” she mumbled, “let’s get out of here.” Getting to her feet, she reached into her bag, pulled out a black felt tip pen and handed it to Cara. “Where? Over there?” Cara asked and Emilia nodded. Walking over to the white Formica table taking up space in the middle of the room, Cara drew four circles above a fat looking triangle. After filling in the shapes, she stood back. “It should have claws,” Emilia remarked. “Nicer without them,” Lillian replied. “As terror signatures go, ‘nice’ isn’t normally the desired reaction,” Cara said before handing the pen to Lillian. “Have you got the chocolate?” “I’ve got it.” Emilia passed the truffle to Cara who placed it next to her artwork. She then handed the empty box to Lillian. “Why do I have to carry everything?” “You have the bag,” Emilia replied. “Not to mention the evidence,” Lillian retorted. “Give it here then, if you’re uncomfortable. I’ll take it home and burn it.” As Emilia reached for the bag, Lillian pulled away. “You can’t,” she said. “It’s a Louis Vuitton and my passport is in it.” “You’re kidding me.” Cara’s eyes rolled within the sockets of her ski mask. “You’ve brought your passport to a crime scene? Why would you even do that?” “In case of emergency,” Lillian answered feebly. “The same reason I carry a condom,” Emilia joked. As the two women giggled, Cara stared at them until they noticed and quietened down. Once she had their full attention, she gestured, with some exasperation, towards Nicos. “Finished?” she asked, and Emilia and Lillian nodded. “Come on then, let’s go. It’s a hell of a walk to the car.” “Oh God, the car...” Emilia dropped her head, reminded of the fatigue she had been fighting and trudged through the back door, held open by Cara. Once Lillian and Emilia were outside, Cara glanced at the paw print drawn on the Formica table before turning to the unconscious figure strapped to the chair. “Serves you right, you evil bastard,” she whispered. She switched off the light, shut the door and followed her friends down the gravel pathway leading away from the taverna.