Richard House - The Kills

The drive alongside the salt lake, a flat plain of sand and salt, a white crusted line furred pink along a soft horizon. The colour is miraculous, iridescent, just a line, bright and wild with specks of black and white to signal other kinds of birds, then a rich blue sky.

‘The flamingos come every year. They’ve started coming earlier. They come from Africa, or on their way, and stay for the spring. I don’t think they breed here, I don’t know. And I don’t know where they’re from.’

Isa sits quietly at the front. One hand on her lap, the other supporting her hat against the wind. She braces against the bumps in the road but doesn’t complain. This lake is different than the lake at Larnaca, and the road sweeps round as if to contain it. The sea borders the salt flat on two sides, so that Akrotiri rises almost as a separate island. There isn’t the same sense of scope. As the road curves alongside the lake, a building rises in the background, a block that elsewhere would look like a housing complex.

‘That’s the military hospital.’

‘That’s where we’re going?’

‘That’s where I’m going. You’re going to the beach club.’

Isa complains that Rike is making that face again. ‘Sometimes you have this strained expression like you don’t want to be here, or you’re expecting something bad, like the entire room is going to laugh at you.’

If it were deliberate, Rike replies, then she’d stop, but she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

‘Like now. Right now.’

This is Isa, picking at the stitching until she’s left with a lap-full of patches and threads.

Henning drives to the hospital then lets Rike out of the back seat to drive. He stands in the sunlight beside the car, sweat already marking his shirt in dark curves.

Isa looks to the front of the hospital, blocked stone columns, long white windows, metal instead of wood. A serious building: the stone, the glass, the sensible design.

‘Is this where he is?’ Isa asks, her voice deliberately conspiratorial although there’s no one about to overhear them.

Rike watches for his reaction, but he keeps his face straight, ignores the question and leans into the car to kiss his wife.

‘Keep those passes with you, and keep that badge in the car so it can be seen. Take the road we came in on to the end and you’ll find the bay and the beaches. I’ll meet you at the boathouse at four.’

* * *

Rike drives carefully and quite a bit slower than Henning. She follows the road to a small shopping centre, a NAAFI, a cinema, a plaza for parking: open, low buildings built in the same stone as the hospital, neat and old-fashioned.

‘Not many people. Have you noticed how clean it is?’ Isa asks Rike if anything is wrong. ‘You’re quiet today. Quieter than usual, even for you.’

Rike says it’s nothing.

‘You weren’t quiet this morning. I heard you chatting with Henning. How did the lesson go? How is your Nordic man?’

Rike can’t help but grimace.

‘Are you still making him spy on his neighbours?’

The road curves by a group of houses set back from the road with dry gardens, sparse bushes and long low walls. Deep concrete storm drains run either side of the road.

‘You’ll like what he was talking about today.’

‘What about it?’

‘There was a murder.’ The word is too ridiculous spoken out in the sunlight, stupidly implausible. She can’t quite believe it, but doesn’t know what it would take to make it such an event credible. Falling buildings, burning planes, deserts on fire, more plausible because of the scale. ‘They never found the victim.’

‘When was this? Who?’

‘I don’t know. I think it was some time ago. They never found who did it, and they never found a body.’

‘Here? Are you serious?’

‘Very serious.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘I’m not sure? A while ago. Two men rented a room, they had it specially prepared. When they left it was covered in blood.’

Isa pulls a face. ‘How fantastic.’

‘It just doesn’t seem possible.’

‘You think these things don’t happen?’

‘I’ve never heard anything like this before.’

‘Why? It’s just a matter of density, of where you live. It isn’t so uncommon. People kill each other all of the time.’

‘I don’t know. I just think it’s sad.’

‘And how did you get to talk about this? It’s not your usual discussion during language school?’ Isa asks almost with admiration.

‘I was asking for details about his family. I think he wanted to avoid the subject.’

‘Well, well done.’

Rike gives her sister a small angry glance.

‘And did he talk?’

‘Just about the room.’

‘He didn’t start talking about himself?’

‘A little. He told me he was assaulted. He was in hospital. He was attacked.’

Isa nods as if this is not uncommon.

‘Now he’s talking about it, he probably won’t shut up.’

‘You think?’

‘That tends to be the case. Uncork something like that and you won’t be able to shift the discussion to anything else.’

‘Oh, god.’

This is perfect, exactly what she wants, a daily rehashing of today’s discussion. An endless speculative loop of loss. ‘Thanks,’ Rike says flatly.

‘What for?’

‘For getting me this job. Thanks. Thanks a whole lot.’

‘So this is the cause of his stress? You’re going to have to take him.’

‘Oh god. Isa.’

‘I’m serious. Ride it out of him. Distract him. Men can only think of one thing at a time.’

‘I’m his teacher.’

‘Oh, like this has never happened. You’re both adults. Give him back his money if it troubles you.’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘You haven’t said you don’t want it to happen. The idea doesn’t horrify you.’

‘It’s always the same with you. Why is everything about sex.’

‘Because everything is about sex. But I’m right aren’t I? Would you?’

‘Would I what?’

‘I’m being serious. Would you? You like him? You must like him, and he must like you if he’s telling you all this information.’ Isa whispers conspiratorially. ‘He’s confiding in you. He trusts you.’

Rike rolls her eyes.

‘I’m serious, if he’s telling you about his deep emotional scars then he trusts you. Just don’t do what you usually do and turn him into a friend.’ Isa won’t drop the subject. ‘Is he handsome?’

‘No. You already asked.’

‘But you like him?’

Rike points out the sea. She parks the vehicle and they walk in silence across the sand. Rike lays the towels side by side and wonders if Isa will be able to sit down and get back up.

‘Is he muscular?’

‘Who?’

‘Your Norwegian. They’re outdoorsy, those Nords. I bet he’s muscular.’

‘He keeps himself fit.’

‘Fit? Sounds old.’

‘Not so much. But he keeps himself in shape.’

‘So, you’ve been checking him out. Eyeing him up between his conjugations? I like them muscular, not too much. Henning could use some muscles.’

‘You’re complaining already?’

‘I’m just stating a fact. Henning is in need of some muscle.’ Isa kneels on the towel. ‘So if Henning and your Norwegian were in a fight who do you think would win?’