All along what was once the water’s edge, the deluge had done its worst and restaurant terraces had collapsed. Bits of wood, tables and chairs bobbed about in the current or were jammed together in ugly heaps, seemingly clinging to one or other of the few still upright posts. On the right, a fishing boat was marooned absurdly in the middle of what was once the opening to a narrow lane.
Buildings were no match for the angry torrent either and water had flooded into the shops and restaurants, wrenching off doors and windows and stealing away precious stock.
A cry from behind made Cleo spin round, and she saw one woman desperately trying to gather together a large pile of sodden clothing which she presumably recognised from her store.
She tried to lift the pile up but it was too heavy and anyway, the situation was hopeless. The clothing was ruined and along with it, her precious business.
It was the same all along the street: shop windows smashed, restaurant interiors knee-deep in stinking water, overturned tables, fragments of fishing nets, the occasional child’s toy and out to sea, boats overturned and drifting, anchorless, on the wrathful tide.
The air buzzed with flies and Tash kept close to Cleo, grabbing her shoulder once when she stumbled.
‘Where on earth do we begin?’ Cleo muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
‘It’s chaos, I know,’ Achilles replied, rubbing his beard. ‘But it’ll be easier once the water subsides. Then we can start to clear away the mess and rebuild.’
Just as he spoke, a lone seagull swooped above their heads before landing on an upturned fish display counter.
Cleo remembered walking past what she thought was the very same display on the night she met Achilles. It had been filled with tasty-looking sea bream, sea bass, red mullet, squid, prawns and mahi-mahi, all freshly prepared and ready for the barbecue.
Now, those same dead fish were probably floating far out to sea, if they hadn’t been swallowed up, along with the poor restaurant owner’s profits.
Perching elegantly, the seagull fixed on Cleo and the others with its sharp little eyes, its head tipped inquisitively to one side, before flying off again with a loud squawk, in a flurry of white feathers and pointy black talons.
Cleo fancied nature itself had sent the bird ahead to test whether it was safe to begin again. Soon, perhaps, its friends would return, filling the air once more with their plaintive cries.
They came to a gap between two tavernas where a steep alleyway led up to some narrow, winding paths dotted with whitewashed houses. The water here had already retreated, leaving mounds of squelchy clay and mud.
One of the houses belonged to Marina’s elderly father, Konstantin, who owned the leather shop on the high street. After some discussion, it was agreed today’s group would begin work on his place, as he was the oldest and one of the most vulnerable in the village, as well as some of the buildings close by.
Soon, Maya, Tash and Cleo, with sleeves rolled up, were working with villagers to clear the muck by the front door and inside the dwelling, using whatever equipment they could find.
Cleo discovered an old broom and didn’t ask what she should do, she simply started sweeping, pushing aside clumps of mud and twigs. She found the rhythmic motion strangely steadying.
For a long time, no one spoke, there was just the sound of work: scraping, sloshing, the occasional creak as wood shifted back into place.
Every so often a villager would pass by with a wheelbarrow piled high with debris – ruined furniture, broken tiles and silt-soaked clothes.
When Cleo’s eyes met theirs, they’d smile at each other and nod. The strain and worry showed on their faces, yet there was something unspoken binding them together – a shared determination, perhaps, or the simple knowledge that survival had made them kin.
Achilles was there too, with his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, his jogging bottoms streaked with clay. At one point he looked up from where he was hauling a plank clear of a doorway.
‘Cleo,’ he said, his voice hoarse but warm. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that without gloves.’
‘Nor should you,’ she replied. ‘But we’ll live.’
He stepped closer, his eyes flicking over her muddy hands, the hair stuck to her cheeks.
‘You look—’ he hesitated, then shrugged ‘—like you’ve been in a war zone.’
‘Feels about right,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Can someone give me a hand?’
Maya’s voice was brisk but not unfriendly.
Cleo walked towards her, her steps squelching in the muck. The smell of wet plaster and seaweed filled the air.
Maya’s dark hair was tied back and her hands were red from scrubbing.
