The Knowing House

Miri took the whitebait out of the egg wash and tossed it in seasoned flour; then washed her hands and took the calamari out of the fridge, where it was submerged in its little milk bath. The chips were already chopped and stood ready in a covered bowl, protected from the summer flies that invaded the south-facing kitchen. She had already created a Jenga table and stools out of the moving boxes. They would eat from paper plates. Moving house was not the time to be prim and proper. The boys would be back soon with the last of the boxes, and they would be ravenous.

Her curls fell into her eyes as she strained the calamari. She almost dropped the whole batch. She blew the hair away with her lips until she’d gotten control and they were safely in the strainer. It wasn’tuntil she turned the tap off after washing her hands that she heard a sound from upstairs: running water.

‘I’m going to kill those boys when they get here,’ she muttered, climbing the stairs while holding the bannister carefully. At the top, she turned on the light and took in the narrow hallway with its four doors. The bathroom door stood ajar. She let her eyes adjust before crossing the hall. It always seemed darker up here, even with the generous windows and the gift of electricity. All the other doors were closed. It wasn’t until she turned the faucet off that she remembered the boys hadn’t slept here last night. She jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. She searched her pockets, then realised she’d left it downstairs. She closed the door on her way out.

The phone was in the fridge, still ringing. She rolled her eyes as she answered. It felt cool on her ear.

‘Hi Yiayia,’ she said.

‘Ella kori mou,’ Yia Yia Vasoulla replied, ‘I was just checking that you’re still OK.’

They were both born in Cyprus and enjoyed speaking this mix of Cypriot Greek and English. Miri found it so strange how she could switch from one language to the other without consciously doing so and understand every word. Yia Yia Vasoulla’s words roughly translated to ‘come my girl.’

‘Well, I somehow put the phone in the fridge, but I’m still alive; the boys are just bringing the last of the boxes.’

‘Bravo, bravo. You could have always stayed with me, but he would have found you here.’

Miri eyed the getaway bag, still not hidden by the kitchen door, and let out a small sigh of relief.

‘I don’t think he’ll find me here,’ she replied, ‘but I still can’t relax.’

‘My darling, you’re just getting used to a different house. Not to mention that evil bastard you just escaped from. Give yourself some grace, ok? Are you unpacking?’

‘No, YiaYia, I’m just cooking lunch.’

This would derail the conversation. Yiayia Vasoulla was her grandma from her mother’s side. With her elegant curls and cockney accent, everyone called her Val. She always smoked her cigarettes from a long, black, tortoise-shell holder. It reminded Miri of Audrey Hepburn.

‘What’s for lunch?’

‘Calamari, whitebait, fries and salad.’

‘Did you remember to soak the calamari in milk as I taught you?’ was the reply. Miri chuckled.

‘Yes, YiaYia. Of course I did.’

‘Remember to get the oil nice and hot, ok?’

‘I know, YiaYia!’

‘Etsi bravo, ade bye,’ she said.

Miriam heard her grandma’s bracelets jangle and imagined her taking another puff.

‘I’ll check back in another two hours. The news on the grapevine is that he’s gone to Cyprus for a month. To visit the family. But it could be a ruse.’

YiaYia Vasoulla was a very shrewd woman and didn’t easily trust. Especially Miri’s ex-husband, practically forced on her by her parents. YiaYia had fought them tooth and nail, but Miri was obedient back then and had given in. She hadn’t realised she’d be walking out of the frying pan and into the fryer.

‘Thank you, Yia Yia,’ she said, and then paused for a second before adding, ‘YiaYia?’

‘Yes, ayapi mou?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, now get those boys’ lunch ready before they come home.’

The line dropped, and Miri looked around her kitchen, listening to the silence.

Half an hour later, the kitchen burst into a cacophony of voices as the boys came in one by one. They each kissed her cheek as she stirred the chips in the hot oil, then went back out to fetch more boxes. She chuckled as she heard them arguing about where to best place the boxes.

‘We should just put them all in the hallway for now, guys, until we eat; then we can put them away properly,’ her youngest, Mario, said.

‘I agree! I’m starving!’

Petro’s voice. The loudest of them all. Her middle child. He looked adopted.

‘I think we should ask Mum how long we’ve got until lunch is ready. We might still have time.’

Stefano was her oldest and always the pragmatist. They all piled into the kitchen, and Mario opened the fridge.

‘Don’t you dare snack now! Lunch is nearly ready.’

‘Relax, Mum, got any Cokes in?’

‘Do you see any Cokes in the fridge?’

‘Nope.’

‘There’s your answer.’

The boys giggled, and Stefano slapped Mario on the back of the head.

‘There’s juice, and a bag of ice cubes in the freezer. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks, mummy,’ Mario said.

She heard boxes opening as Pete and Stefano looked for glassware.

‘Oi! There are plastic cups on the table! I haven’t got time to be washing glasses right now!’

The boys pissed themselves laughing.

‘Awesome table, Mamma,’ Stefano said, ‘how long until food is ready?’

‘Five minutes. Wash your hands and sit down.

Miri took a moment to watch her sons around the makeshift table, grabbing forkfuls of food onto their plates and passing the bowls around. They’d taken off their shirts and now sat with vests on, sweat beading on their temples. She couldn’t believe how much they’d grown. She served herself some food, and the sight of them made her ache with it.

‘I love you babies,’ she said.

Mario and Stefano looked up and smiled at her. Pete was busy squeezing lemon wedges onto his calamari.

‘We love you too, mum,’ Stefano said.

Then they heard Pete chewing. They turned and stared at him. It took him a few beats to realise he was being watched.

‘What?’ he said, still chewing.

This was what Miri loved about family dinners: the banter, the laughter, and the way her boys loved her cooking. Pretty soon, they’d be leaving the nest. They wouldn’t be relying on her meals anymore. She looked down at her plate and moved her food around with her spork. Pete noticed and kicked his brothers' shins under the table to get their attention. They fell quiet. Stefano was about to speak when a thudding sound reverberated from upstairs. Four pairs of eyes shot up to the ceiling. Mario shot up first, shaking the table and knocking a stack of boxes. Stefano and Pete followed.

‘Mum, stay there!’

‘No fucking way!’ she replied and followed behind them. Mario gestured for them to stay back and shush. Miri waited on the fourth step down, and they all listened. More footsteps, but they seemed to be coming from the roof. A door creaked open opposite the bathroom—a spare room Miri had been planning to convert into an office. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. Pete grabbed her hand, his own shaking. Stefano mouthed at Pete and Miri.

‘Dad?’

Miri tried to pull Pete back down the stairs and gestured to Stefano to follow. He shook his head and pointed to Mario, who was already halfway to the open door. Miri wanted to call out to him, but for the time being, all they had was the element of surprise. She backed down one step at a time, keeping an eye on Mario, the brave one. The reckless one. Just before he got to it, the door slammed shut. She saw her baby jump out of his skin. She heard the sharp intake of breath from Pete and Stefano, who were closest to her. She heard the blood pulsing in her ears. She ran downstairs and grabbed her exit bag. She was about to run out and throw it into the car when she heard Mario calling for the boys. She listened as their footsteps ran across the hallway. She grabbed the frying pan, just cool enough to hold without a scald, and started to step slowly towards the kitchen door, closer to the stairs.

‘Mum! Come here!’

She ran, still holding the frying pan, until she reached the top of the stairs, breathless, and raised the pan over her head. She had suffered at his hands for too long. She was determined her boys wouldn’t suffer. Even if it meant murder. Even if it meant jail.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, panting at the top of the stairs. They looked lost, confused. They stood at the doorway, staring.

‘The bag’s ready, guys; we should run.’

‘No, mum, you need to see this.’

She looked at Stefano, who glanced at her, then back into the room. She lowered the frying pan and walked closer. The boys moved aside to let her see. The door had opened onto a short brickwork hallway. To the right was the start of a spiral stairway.

‘That wasn’t there before.’

‘Are you sure, Mum?’

Miri gave Stefano a sarcastic glare.

‘Well yeah, I think I’d know which room this was before I bought the house! This was a bedroom.’

‘But mum, that’s impossible,’ Pete added, eyebrows furrowed. Mario had already started up the stairs.

‘Mario! Don’t!’

Miri tried to pull at the bottom of his t-shirt but missed.

‘Wait for me,’ Pete added, and started up after him. Stefano held out his hand for his mother. She stared at it for a moment before handing him the frying pan and accepting his hand. They started up the stairs together. They were steep, and the winding direction made Miri feel a bit dizzy. She wasn’t sure if it was worse when she’d thought her ex had found them. Maybe he still had and knocked them out. Maybe this was some kind of fever dream. It felt real enough, though. The bricks felt cool and dusty to the touch, and she could feel the distinct textures between the bricks and the grout as she made her way up, using her free hand to balance herself on the wall.

As Miri and Stefano rounded the last bend, they found themselves on a narrow landing, with an open door right in front of them. Pete’s back blocked their view of the room. Miri placed a gentle hand on Pete’s back.

‘What is it, son?’

Pete moved to one side. It was a dark room. The walls were blue paint, very Batchelor pad. One wall was made of exposed brick, and the headboard of a large double bed was pushed against it. Two single beds flanked it on either side. Mario stood between the single bed on the left and the double bed, in a very narrow space. On the opposite wall was a crib.

Stefano let go of Miri’s hand. Ran his hand through his hair as he exhaled. He turned and walked back out, down a couple of stairs. Miri turned towards, and Pete and Mario came and gathered behind her.

‘What’s wrong, Stefano mou? You’re scaring me.’

He looked up at her, eyes bewildered. Her heart hurt when she saw her son shaking like he was.

‘Remember when dad took us for that trip?’ she heard Mario say behind her. She carefully turned to face him, incredulous.

‘It wasn’t a trip,’ Stefano called from his position a few steps down, ‘it was a kidnap, Mario, don’t you remember?’

‘I was pulling my hair out,’ Miri whispered, ‘he was only supposed to take you for a few days, and it turned out to be weeks.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mario, looking from one brother to another, ‘it was a trip, don’t you remember the games?’

‘We made the games up so you wouldn’t be scared,’ Pete spoke up, placing a hand on Mario’s shoulder.

‘Anyway,’ Stefano interrupted, using his hands to steady himself against the wall, ‘that was the room. It was in a hotel in Larnaca.’

‘So, he did try and take you abroad?’ Miri asked, now sitting on the top step, her legs unable to support her.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I heard him talking to Uncle Panteli. I always hated him. He was asking for fake passports.’

Miri’s shoulders started to shake, and the tears fell. She heard sniffles behind her. Mario was crying, incredulous.

‘We know you always admired dad,’ Pete said, making eye contact with Mario, ‘but he was a monster. We tried to protect you from the worst of it. Don’t you remember mum’s bruises?’

‘She said she walked into things. She said it was her vertigo.’

‘I didn’t want you afraid of your father unless you had to be,’ she whispered. They gazed in her direction as she stood up. ‘I hoped for so long that things would change.’

‘In the end, YiaYia Vasoulla came and got us at the airport, in front of security so dad wouldn’t make a scene. She was brilliant.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

A loud pop reverberated around them, like a gunshot. Stefano nearly fell backwards, and Mario caught the back of Miri’s t-shirt as she nearly fell forwards. Stefano climbed back up the stairs, and they stepped back into the room.

‘Dad?’ Pete croaked.

He lay on the floor, in a river of blood which seeped from somewhere around his head. Standing over him was a fading image of Uncle Pantelli, holding out a gun. Miri and the boys were rooted to the spot, eyes wide. Then the phone rang, and they all screamed and clamoured back down the stairs, so terrified that Stefano lost his footing and fell the last two steps. Miri tripped over him and landed on the upstairs hallway. The hallway that was supposed to be there. From the safety of the stairs, Mario and Pete helped them up. The door slammed behind them, and they were left in the hallway, mesmerised. The phone was still ringing, and Miri found it in her pocket this time.

‘Yia yia?’

‘Are you ok? You sound weird?’

‘I’m not sure, something weird just happened – I, we,’ but she couldn’t find the words to explain. She looked at the boys, and they shrugged.

‘Listen, I have news,’ YiaYia Vasoulla continued, ‘are you sitting down? Because you need to be sitting down for this one, kori mou.’

Miri sat down cross-legged on the floor, the boys pacing the hallway, still unable to verbalise what they had just seen.

‘I’m sitting, Yiayia.’

‘Ok, he’s dead, you don’t have to worry about him ever again.’

‘What? Really? How do you know?’

‘You’re very calm about this.’

‘I haven’t quite taken it in yet,’ Miri answered softly, quietly, ‘how?’

‘You know that no good brother-in-law of his? Panteli? He killed him. Something to do with business gone sour. Apparently, he owed a lot of people a lot of money.’

‘How? How did he kill him?’

‘You don’t need to know, kori mou,’

‘Yes, I do, YiaYia, I really need to know.’

‘They shot him.’

Miri dropped the phone and covered her face in her hands, rocking to and fro in disbelief.

‘What, mum? What the fuck happened?’

‘Language!’ YiaYia’s voice shouted down the phone. Even in this situation, she couldn’t help herself. Mario picked up the phone while Pete hugged his mother.

‘Sorry YiaYia, we’ll talk later,’ he said, and then hung up the phone.

‘Your father died,’ Miri whispered, pulling them close to her in a group hug.

They pulled away and looked at the door. Opened it again. It was the same bedroom it had always been. No hallway, no winding stairs.

There was only ever one other time Miri found the stairwell in the upstairs bedroom. She was much older then and struggled to climb up because of arthritis in her knee. She found YiaYia asleep on her favourite rocking chair in her living room. But she wasn’t asleep. Miri went to look closer and realised that her YiaYia wasn’t breathing. She had passed away peacefully at the ripe old age of 99, after seeing her granddaughter safe and living a full life, and her great-grandsons graduate, and then marry, and fill the house with the next generation.