It was the creaking sound he had heard in his haunted slumber that caused him to open his eyes, sharply. The dream he had was a vivid one. All of his team were reaching out from the darkness as he held out a large bag of peanuts.
Now wide awake, he heard the sound again; a shuffling, coming from somewhere in the house. Could it be another bloody patrol? Slowly, he rose from the chair. Stretching for his pistol holster, he slid the Browning from it, checked the safety catch and silently glided along in his stockinged feet, towards the sound.
Entering the small hallway, he spied something on a sideboard. It was a small book, a copy of the Koran. Studying the little black-bound volume, he now realised the house he was in had belonged to Turkish Cypriots.
He suddenly heard the creaking again. There was definitely someone else here. He continued, carefully creeping into the pantry, the room from which he thought the sound had originated. With both arms outstretched, he clutched his pistol, finger hovering over the trigger guard, in case this invisible intruder should be waiting to surprise him.
He moved his eyes as if they were an extension of the gun. Then, he heard it again. Only this time, it was followed by the sound of something metallic falling to the stone floor.
Reynolds quickly flicked his head towards the source. With his gun preceding him, he gently eased himself towards it. He squinted to look inside, only making out a row of shelves with a few tin cans stacked on them. Whoever or whatever it was, they were hidden in the darkness.
He paused, taking a few deep breaths and then, like a tiger, jumped into the dark of the pantry. His face hit something — the pull cord for the light switch. In one lightning move, he fumbled for it, pulling the small room into brightness.
With his pistol ready, he moved it around, but there was nothing. Standing in the walk-in cupboard, he lowered his gun to his side, mesmerised by the tin can rocking on the stone floor.
He stood on the spot, wondering how it had got there. Perhaps a feral cat had climbed in from the outside with the same intentions as his own — finding some food?
He placed the can of chopped tomatoes back onto the shelf, then heard something that sounded like a sharp intake of breath, followed by a whimper. No feline creature makes that sound, thought Reynolds. He froze, slowly crouching to view under the lowest shelf.
Straining his sight, he gazed into the shaded void and a small pair of petrified brown eyes stared back at him. It was a child, a little girl, and she was shaking, desperately trying to push herself further back into the crawlspace away from him.
Reynolds put down his gun and gave her a friendly smile.
‘Hey, don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.’ He pointed to himself. ‘My name is David. I’m a British soldier, see?’ He tugged at his combat jacket. ‘Do you speak English?’
The girl gestured to him with her eyes, indicating she did.
‘So, what’s your name, then?’
He listened, waiting for a response, but the little child just stared at him, her mouth quivering. He decided to try another tactic, and pulled the half-eaten pack of peanuts from his pocket. ‘Here, are you hungry? Would you like some of these?’
He studied her as she moved her eyes onto the blue packet just over a foot away from her, willing her to reach out for it.
A few seconds later, she snatched the peanuts from him, starting to eat them quickly.
Reynolds put out his hand. ‘Steady on with those, little one; I don’t want you choking.’
He continued to watch her as she chomped on the nuts, staring at him. ‘So, what’s your name, sweetheart?’
There was a pause as she swallowed the last of the peanuts. ‘Elma,’ she announced softly.
Reynolds smiled at her. ‘That’s a pretty name. So, is this your house?’
She nodded to him.
‘And where is your mother — and your father?’
Elma sighed. ‘Men come and take them.’
‘Were they soldiers, guns?’
Elma shook her head. ‘Not soldiers, other men with guns,’ she said.
Reynolds suddenly guessed that they were probably Greek paramilitaries — EOKA B.
‘Were they Greek men?’
The girl nodded again and Reynolds thought that her parents could now be dead. While in London, he had seen the news reports about the conflict, that was apparently building up to near civil war, and how the EOKA B terrorists were conducting door-to-door searches, rounding up Turkish Cypriot men. Many of them had been executed in front of their families and what these thugs were doing to the women… it didn’t really take much of an imagination to figure that out.
Reynolds spat the bitter taste from his mouth, as he thought about what fate could have bestowed upon Elma’s parents. He knew that he had to move on, towards Nicosia Airport and the safe haven of the UN buffer zone widely referred to as ‘the green line’: but he also had to do something about this child.
She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. These Greek terrorists, whoever they were, could be back — and if they found her…
He shook the thought out of his head. There was only one thing for it, he would have to take her with him.
First things first though, he had to coax her out of the crawlspace. He turned onto to his front to make himself more comfortable, then slowly eased himself closer to her.
‘So, Elma, how old are you?’
‘I am eight.’
‘Eight? My little girl is eight too, her name is Ayesha. She lives in Morocco, in Africa, with her mummy. She also reads the Koran, just like your family does. I really miss her. She has lots of toys. Do you have lots of toys, Elma? A doll or a teddy bear? I bought Ayesha a big teddy bear, when I was in America.’
He suddenly remembered something that might just work to coax her out of her hideaway. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the little wind-up sea lion, the toy he had confiscated from Sami Ahmed.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see the little Moroccan as he ran along the side of the road with him, firing his Sterling, just before he had been cut down by the heavy machine gun fire.
Reynolds stared at the face of the toy animal, balancing the red and white striped ball on its head, and placed it out in front of him. He glanced at the curious child as she looked on, wondering what the toy would do. Reynolds wound it up, and, setting it down again, watched it started to flick itself on to its chest.
Elma watched, as the toy then spun around with the ball still on the end of its nose, righting itself, to spin the ball again. She cracked a joyful smile, as the little plastic sea lion repeated its tricks, until it slowly came to a stop.
Reynolds also smiled. ‘Wasn’t that funny? Shall I make it go again?’
To his delight, Elma nodded elatedly. He repeated the action and they both watched the toy play out its short performance. Then it stopped, and he gave a false sigh to signify it had ended.
‘Oh dear, it’s stopped again.’
He looked at the girl. ‘I think it’s your turn to wind it up now, Elma.’
He moved the toy closer to her, leaving it just out of her reach. He hoped this would coax her enough to emerge from under the shelves. He braced himself, pushing himself backwards to allow her space to move out towards him.
Suddenly, to his relief, she started to do so and in her prone position she shuffled out.
‘That’s it little one, gently does it,’ he whispering under his breath, beckoning her forwards.
Elma came out into the light and for the first time he saw her jet-black hair. It was caked in dust. With one dirty, olive-skinned hand, the girl reached for the toy and Reynolds prompted her to wind it up.
Cautiously, she twisted the key and after several turns set the sea lion down and watched it spring into life again. Elma then did something she had not done in a long while. As the toy continuously spun round she broke into a laugh.