Andreas sat back, cleared his throat, and began to read:
30 October 1940
My dearest K,
Two days ago, as the dawn began to wash clean the sky here along the spine of our country, Italian troops came from Albania to the Greek border and began their attack. The war has come as we feared, but our resistance is stronger than the will of theirs to succeed. There is disorganization, weakness, and a lack of discipline from their soldiers, while we, alongside the Hellenic Army, crush them as we might a fig between our teeth.
The men here say that Metaxas refused to yield when told to do so by the pig Mussolini, that he shouted for war. Afterward, men ran into the streets of Athens, the cry of “no” on every street, an echo that chased around the columns of the Acropolis, finding its way into the proud heart of every citizen. It is as I told you—our people will not take the knee, they will not bend, nor will they cower. Our heads are held high, and we will honor their bravery by continuing to fight.
Michalis and I have embedded ourselves with the same unit, each given a uniform and a rifle. We were accepted with the papers thatthe brothers prepared for us, and as Zephyr and Atlas assured me, there was no demand that we be trained at any camps. “We are freedom fighters,” I told them, and they put up no argument. When we heard the sound of explosions on the first morning, your brother-in-law began to shake, all over his body, the teeth inside his mouth rattling as though they were pebbles inside a jar. Do not tell your sister this. She must not worry. I will remain close to Michalis, protect him from harm, show him that there is no cause for terror, not from these weak men who try to come. Perhaps I will capture one for you, an Italian to tie up on the hillside with your goats.
I think of you often, my dearest Kat. I imagine that I am stroking your hair, kissing your lips, touching your body in all the forbidden places. I wish that I had a photo of you. Do you have a picture that you could send here to me so that I might keep it close? There is no way to know yet how long it will take for us to push back our enemies, throw them from the highest peaks of the Pindus Mountains so that their bodies shatter against the rock, though I want you to know that I miss you. Every moment. The taste of you, the way my body is ignited when it is beside yours, that fire that spreads between us. It is thoughts such as these that will focus my mind; make me the sharpest, smartest, and truest soldier; ensure that I survive and come home to you.
I must go now, for soon we move once more toward the battle. Write to me, Kat. Give me the company of your words in place of your body until we see one another again.
S
Eighteen
Skye lay on the futon mattress, her world muffled by darkness and muted by the earplugs loaned to her by Joy. Her friend had not been joking about the snoring, and even with a foam barrier in place, Skye could still hear her nasal growl, low and rhythmic, regular as a tide.
But it wasn’t the noise that was keeping her awake; it was the letter.
Andreas had read it so exquisitely that she’d begged to hear it a second time, and then a third, delighted by not only the language but the sentiment. The lonelyKcarved in her attic was gaining clarity—Kat now had a name, a story, a man who had loved her so intensely that he burned with it.
Martyn had written to Skye for the first few months after they’d met. Postcards would turn up each week from wherever his work as a pilot had taken him, colorful images of Bali, Los Angeles, Morocco, and the Caribbean, each with a few cursory lines scribbled on the back. Sometimes he would jot down a joke,occasionally there would be an observation, but most often, he asked her a question—the same one every time:When can I see you again?
Everyone, from Sal to her mum to the other teachers in the staff room, had thought the gesture was romantic and urged her to “put the poor man out of his misery” and agree to a date. Skye had continued to hold back. Receiving postcards and exchanging the odd text message were all she’d felt able to offer. She assumed Martyn would grow weary of asking, that her knockbacks would eat away at his ego until pride stepped in and called a halt to the whole charade. But he never did, and eventually she had given in.
The thin sheet was suddenly too tight, her heart a trapped bird. Skye got out of bed and slipped from the room, careful not to wake Joy. Her friend was on her back, mouth wide open and russet curls askew, ushered into slumber by alcohol. The party had continued until midnight, after which a yawning Mia had announced that it was way past Bruno’s bedtime, and Adam, whom Skye suspected had long been waiting for an excuse to politely depart, fireman lifted his comatose wife out of the house. Andreas had left at the same time, taking the precious bundle of letters home with him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep hold of them?” he’d asked, but Skye had been adamant.
“My house is ninety-nine percent rubble,” she’d reminded him. “They’ll be safer with you.”
Watching him drive away, however, had been a wrench.
She closed Joy’s front door behind her, cringing at the clink of the latch, and made her way across the hillside, silent in rubber-soled sandals that she wore below pajama shorts, her bag clamped to her side. Instead of heading toward her own house, Skye banked left, slowing as she approached Victoria and Adam’s front yard. Only then did she switch on her phone.
For the first few seconds, nothing happened, and then the handset began to buzz with activity, notifications falling across the screen like toppled dominoes. Her email inbox was crammed, as were the two messaging apps she used most regularly. There was a slew of news updates, social media prompts, and alerts from her banking app. Skye had methodically changed every single one of her passwords in the days running up to her departure from London before turning off her location services. It had been eye-opening to discover quite how many digital doors were propped open and how easy it would’ve been for Martyn to track her down had she not done her research.
There were no text or WhatsApp messages from either him or her mother, though that was no surprise, given that she’d blocked both numbers. They had each attempted to contact her via email, and Martyn had also reached out on Instagram. A few of her former colleagues had been in touch, asking how and where she was, and there was a flurry of voice notes from Sal. Skye pictured her friend, with her wide smile and seal-bark laugh, nails always painted in different colors because “I get bored easily, you know that.” She missed her so very much.
Turning the volume on her phone to its lowest setting, Skye held it close to her ear and pressed play.
Hey, it’s me. Listen, your mum called again, cross-examined me on your whereabouts. I didn’t tell her where you were, but I had to admit that I knew. She sounded really worried—like, genuinely—and I can picture your face as I say that, but she really did. I’ve been mulling it over, and I think you should tell her, not just about the move but everything. What Martyn did…she needs to know so she can help protect you from him,don’t you think? Sorry, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we promised we’d always tell each other the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, didn’t we? This is just me doing that, so please don’t be cross. Love you, Skittle. Message me back.
She checked the date on the voice note. Sal had sent it six days ago—not twelve hours after Skye had sat up by the ridge and contemplated throwing her phone into the sea. No wonder her mum was worried. Skye had shut her out—blocked her own mother. Self-loathing swirled, a pain growing hard in the back of her throat. She coughed to clear it, raising her hand to mask the sound, and clicked on Sal’s next message. This recording was short—less than fifteen seconds in length.
Pick up your phone, woman. Martyn has been in touch again—he’s bombarding me. He says he’s going to fly out here if I don’t tell him where you are. I’m freaking out here. Call me back.
Fly out to Australia? Skye felt a loosening in her bladder, the strong need to pee accompanied by a frantically racing heart. She squatted and pressed a hand against the ground, steadying herself. There were two more voice notes, both sent in the past few hours. She didn’t want to listen to either, but hadn’t she come out here to do just that? Not bury her trepidation in the dirt but confront it. Her mind went to the man described in the letter. Poor Michalis, with his teeth that rattled like pebbles in a jar, waiting on the front line of a war. This was her war, and it was not fair of her to expect others to fight it for her.
She stood, took a deep breath, and pressed play for the third time.
He’s here. Martyn. In Sydney. He turned up at the school office about fifteen minutes ago, demanding to see me. Thankfully, Brenda is the last woman who will ever be told what to do by a bloke, so she told him to sling it and tipped me off. Apparently, he’s sitting in a hire car opposite the front gates—just sitting there. Jesus. The guy is a proper psycho. I don’t know what to do, Skits. I can get out the back way, but he knows where I live. I’m thinking maybe it’s better if I go out there now and just speak to him. He can’t do much to me in the schoolyard, not with five hundred–odd students liable to be peering out through the windows. That’s a lot of smartphones right there, and he’s too smart to do anything stupid, isn’t he? Fuck. I wish you’d pick up.
A loud bell began to ring in the background of the recording, and the voice note ended abruptly. Skye glanced at her phone. The final message had been sent only moments later and lasted just three seconds.
