Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

Ben bought a prepaid mobile phone from a market stall. He had a call to make. He sat on a low wall in San Rocco Square and dialled the Bradburys’ number. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to them, but sooner or later they were going to hear about the bombing, and Charlie’s death. He couldn’t afford to have them freaking out on him.

The moment Jane Bradbury picked up the phone, he knew he was too late for that. There was a muted sobbing on the line, and then a rustle as she passed the phone to her husband.

‘Hello?’ Tom Bradbury’s voice sounded weary and strained. ‘Ben, where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, all over College and in the library. I even went to your flat when you didn’t answer your phone.’

‘I’m on Corfu,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve heard what happened, then.’

‘Is she hurt? Was she involved?’ Bradbury asked urgently.

‘She wasn’t there,’ Ben said.

Bradbury sounded relieved. ‘Thank God. But your friend – It’s terrible. I’m so sorry. What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know.’

Bradbury was silent for a second. ‘Forgive me for saying this. I know it sounds terrible. But before he was killed – did your friend -’

‘Find Zoë? No, he didn’t. I don’t know where she is.’

‘But you’ll find her?’

‘Did she ever mention any connections in America?’ Ben asked.

Bradbury sounded surprised. ‘Yes, she has a friend there.’

‘A lawyer called McClusky?’

‘No, I’ve never heard that name. Her friend’s an elderly lady she met while teaching a summer school course here two years ago. Her name’s Miss Vale. Miss Augusta Vale. We’ve been out to dinner with her, and Zoë’s been to visit her a couple of times.’

‘In Georgia?’

‘Yes. Savannah, Georgia. What’s this about, Ben?’ Bradbury sounded more and more anxious and confused. ‘Has something terrible happened to our daughter?’

‘What about the name Cleaver?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Or someone called Rick?’

‘No.’

‘One last question,’ Ben said. ‘Did Zoë ever talk about a prophecy?’

Bradbury was quiet for a moment. ‘What?’

‘A prophecy that could make her rich.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Bradbury asked, anger rising in his voice. ‘What I need to know is if something’s happened to my daughter. I’m going to call the British Consulate in Athens. And the police. This could be a kidnapping, and all you’re doing is asking me about prophecies.’

‘I know it sounds crazy,’ Ben said. ‘I have reasons for asking. But if this is a kidnapping, and you start ringing alarm bells, it just raises the stakes and will put her in more danger.’

The anger in Bradbury’s voice died away. He sounded distraught. ‘What do I do?’

‘Sit tight and wait. Let me do things my way. I’ll keep in contact. As soon as I know what’s happening, you’ll hear from me.’

‘What if there’s a ransom demand? We’ve no money left. What will they do to her, if we can’t pay?’

Ben already knew there’d be no ransom demand. It was much too late for that. ‘Let’s just take this one step at a time, all right? You told me you trusted me.’

‘We do trust you,’ Bradbury said weakly.

When the call was over, Ben shut the phone and sighed. He’d needed to sound in control for Bradbury’s sake. He wished he was so confident in reality.

He looked around the square and took in the scene. His mouth felt dry. He walked to a nearby café-bar and drank a couple of double Scotch on the rocks. The atmosphere in the place was sombre, a mixture of gloom and rage as people watched news reports of the bombing on a TV in the corner. After half an hour or so, Ben left and hung around like a tourist for a while. He bought a kebab from a hot food vendor. Munching as he went, he headed towards the west corner of the square and strolled down an arcaded walkway, gazing in shop windows. Then he wandered over to another bar, where he sat outside on the terrace and drank a couple of chilled beers and ate a bowl of olives.

He spent a few hours like that, just wandering aimlessly around the town centre, thinking about Charlie and Zoë and all the things that were happening in his life. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky by the time he picked out a busy taxi rank and showed the driver the address on the key fob Spiro had given him.

Fifteen minutes later, he was stepping inside the Thanatos family beach house a few kilometres south of Corfu Town. It was small and simple but welcoming, with whitewashed walls and cool tiled floors. The couple must have been expecting him. There was a vase of flowers on the table, and half a dozen bottles of local white wine chilling in the fridge along with spicy cold meats, a dish of stuffed vine leaves, a mountain of fresh green olives and a bowl of fruit.

He grabbed one of the frosted wine bottles, pulled the cork and walked out onto the beach. The sound of music drifted towards him on the breeze, and he looked to see where it was coming from. About three hundred yards away across the white sand there was an open-air beach taverna shaded under a long canvas awning. He set out across the sand.

By the time he reached the taverna the bottle in his hand was empty. He showed it to the bartender. ‘Another of these,’ he said, and the guy nodded. Ben pulled up a stool at the bar and slumped in it. The bartender left him the fresh bottle and a glass and went back to his chores. Ben turned on his stool, sipping the wine, and looked out to sea. The sun was dipping over the horizon, casting a red glow across the water.

At the tables around him, a few people were drinking, talking, laughing. It looked as though mostly everyone was making an effort to forget the horror of the previous day. One or two faces were showing the strain. A little five-piece band were gamely plucking guitars and bouzoukis in the corner, churning out quick-time traditional dance music. Three or four couples were up on their feet, moving to the fast rhythm.

At another table were two pretty girls. One of them kept glancing at Ben. She leaned forward and whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both smiled at him.

He ignored them and watched the spectacular sunset.

After a few minutes a woman entered the taverna. She joined him at the empty bar, and laid her handbag on the stool between them. She was in her late twenties or early thirties and wore a low-cut, cream-coloured linen dress. Her hair was lustrous and black, curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. She spoke English to the bartender, talking with a warm Spanish accent. He served her a glass of mineral water and she sat sipping it, looking preoccupied. Ben watched her for a moment and then went back to the sunset.

The woman’s phone rang. She tutted and fished it out of her bag. She answered it in Spanish. Ben knew the language well enough, and he couldn’t help overhearing. She was telling someone called Isabella that, no, she wasn’t having a good time and that no, she wasn’t staying here any longer. She was flying back to Madrid tomorrow.

The woman shut the phone and looked apologetically at Ben.

‘Happens to me all the time,’ he said. ‘People phoning when all you want to do is get away.’

She smiled. ‘You are English?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Tourist?’

‘Not really.’

She smiled again.

‘You’re from Spain?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘As you heard. I’m sorry. I hate people who talk on phones in public places. It was my sister. She’s concerned about me.’

‘You’re not having a good time here?’

She frowned. ‘How did you know? You understand Spanish?’

‘ ¿Qué vas a tomar? ’ he said.