On the Defensive

Eventually, the pain would fade, as it had done when her own dear parents passed, but it would take time. The loss of Papa Onassis was still so terribly raw.
Justina sniffled and dried her tears with a tissue.
How long could they survive? How long would it be before the bank forced them to close their doors forever?
What had once been a thriving, family business, now struggled under the weight of falling sales and crippling debts. Where once the business generated a small, but steady profit, she and Ore now owed thousands of pounds to the bank and yet more to their suppliers. The darling man tried to hide the worst from her, but the business was in terrible trouble, that much could not have been more obvious. It could not be ignored.

Although he tried not to show it, she could tell Ore was scared. The official-looking letters—the ones he hid from her—made matters much worse. Every time she asked about them, he snapped at her, and Ore never did that. Not her calm, steady, loving husband. Not her Ore. And she could do nothing to help.
All she really knew was that their business would soon fail, and when it did, the family would lose their comfortable, little, upstairs apartment. They would be left homeless.
Sighing, she dabbed away another tear, scraped the finely diced onion into a plastic container, and placed it in the half-empty fridge ready for that night’s service.
In the hope that dear Ore had added bookings without telling her, Justina checked the diary. Nothing. Not a single reservation for the evening, which was unusual, even for a Wednesday.
Preparing the rest of the vegetables and the meat could wait. Why waste ingredients that might otherwise keep for one more day?

Justina had plenty of other tasks to keep her occupied while waiting for Ore to return after collecting the girls from school. Her little darlings would be hungry. They always were after school. Ravenous. She smiled in anticipation of hugging them tight. The quiet family time before evening service always was the very best part of Justina’s working day.
She washed her hands, enjoying the warmth of the water and the aroma of lemon-scented soap—the only preparation that could take away the taint of garlic and onions.
Justina took a clean dishcloth from the drawer next to the sink and rolled the heavy canteen trolley into the dining room. It bumped over the slight lip between the hard kitchen floor and the dining room tiles, causing the cutlery to rattle and the glasses to clink. Happy sounds, she always thought—the sounds of friendship and hospitality. The sounds of joy.
As usual, she began at the four-setting table in the corner furthest from the entrance and worked her way towards the centre.
She smoothed the white, cotton tablecloths, set out the cutlery, folded the plum-red serviettes into attractive, serrated fans, and polished each glass to a shine before placing it in its correct position in the right hand of each setting. Finally, she added the centrepiece—a small, glass vase with its posy of fresh flowers. With only ten tables, Bistro Mykonos could never be described as large, and might not boast a fancy Michelin star, but no one would ever find fault with the food, or the front-of-house ambience. The atmósfaira.
In such things, Justina could still take great pride. She loved the precision of each table decoration.

The bell over the front door jingled.
Unexpected and harsh, the noise shocked Justina out of the familiar, mindless actions that had become her meditation. Her heart leaped. She placed a hand flat to her chest and turned. Two men, strangers, stood inside the open doorway.
She must have forgotten to flip the sign from “Open” to “Closed”. But surely, she had locked the door? She never left it unlocked with the restaurant closed. Never. Perhaps Ore …?
The wall clock above the entrance showed half past three. Ore and the girls would not be home for at least twenty minutes. She stood alone against them.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, surprised at how weak her voice sounded despite the relative quiet. “We are closed.”
Being alone in the restaurant did not usually worry her, but something about the intensity of these men made her uneasy. The way they glowered at her. The way they carried themselves. It sent a shiver through her body. Ore, born and raised in London, would have called it a “bad vibe”. In Greece, her homeland, it would have been given a different description. In her native Greek, it would be “to simádi tou diavólou”—the sign of the devil.
She stood behind the trolley, gripping the dishcloth tight. The trolley offered little security, but it acted as a barrier and hid her trembling knees.
“We do not open until seven o’clock,” she called, forcing the words through a tight, scared throat.
The first man stood tall and straight. He had wavy, blond hair and the lean, athletic build of a soccer player. With his smooth, angular face, strong jaw, and high cheekbones, some women might have considered him handsome, but only if they ignored his hard, lifeless, blue eyes. He carried a shiny, metal briefcase in his left hand and moved quietly towards her, lips bared in a wide smile that exposed sharp, white teeth—the movements of a wolf closing on its prey. Circling. Hunting.

Again, Justina shuddered, and she gripped the dishcloth tighter.
Although the blond man was intimidating, his partner was worse. A dark-skinned giant, he had to turn sideways and duck to fit through the doorway. The expression on his tattooed face shouted anger. His eyes were as dark as his skin, the eyeballs yellow rather than white. Muscles bulged and rippled beneath a stretched T-shirt, and his grey, two-piece suit, although well-tailored and expensive-looking, seemed out of place on so square and large a body.
Justina’s heart thumped faster, and she shuddered under the monster’s fixed gaze. The dishcloth she had been wringing slipped through her sweaty hands.
The big man with the tattooed face shut the door and turned the lock. She had turned the sign to “Closed”. He stood with his back to the door, feet apart, arms folded across his barrel chest. A man on guard. A rock. Immovable. Terrifying.

Dear Lord! What is this?
Beyond the windows, the world continued as normal. Cars still crawled past, but more slowly, and pedestrians still tramped the opposite pavement, but no heads turned towards her.
She stood alone. Helpless. Vulnerable.
The clouds chose that moment to break apart once again, and the sun burst through the windows. The monster cast a huge shadow into the room, but somehow, with his tattooed face darkened and hidden by the glare, his ominous presence became even more terrifying.
The blond man stopped in front of her, keeping a table and the trolley between them.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Constantine,” he said quietly. “Or may I call you Justina?”

He knows my Christian name!
His voice carried a heavy, East-End-of-London accent and had the guttural rasp of a man who had smoked cigarettes for many years. The voice sounded older than his looks.
“My name is Alfred Lovejoy, but you can call me Alfie.” Again, he smiled, but it was equally as chilling as the first. “It’s always nice to call people by their first names, isn’t it? Much more conducive to pleasant conversation. My rather large friend over there is known as Tugboat, for obvious reasons, but I call him Tuggy. It’s much nicer, don’t you think? Gentler. Friendlier.”
The fact that Lovejoy stood over her, menacing and scary, was bad enough, but that he did not mind telling her his name seemed somehow worse. It showed he did not care that she knew.
“W-Who are you, and what do you want?”
Lovejoy’s smile melted away and his cold, blue eyes drilled straight through her.
“Weren’t you listening?” he said, his tone aggressive, harsh. “I just told you my name. Clear out your fucking ears, bitch.”
Her mouth dropped open. She backed away until stopped by a table, but Lovejoy stayed where he was, his upper lip peeled back into an animal sneer.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I thought that would get your attention. I hate resorting to foul language. Swearing is the last resort of the ill-educated, don’t you think? But sometimes, the shock value helps drive the message across. So, what do I want? Hmm. I’ll tell you what I want.” He hummed a familiar tune, jiggled his hips, and chuckled. “Ah, the Spice Girls. Lyrically brilliant, weren’t they?”
He swung the metal briefcase, slammed it on the table, and pushed it towards the middle. Justina jumped. Glasses smashed and cutlery scattered. The centrepiece vase broke. Water spread over the tablecloth and dripped to the floor.
A long-stemmed wine glass, the final one, wobbled. Justina’s arm twitched involuntarily. She wanted to rush forwards to catch it, but Lovejoy’s presence locked her in place. Frozen in terror.
The glass toppled and fell slowly from the table. It hit the tiled floor and smashed into a dozen pieces. Only the stem and base remained intact.

Dear Lord, the mess.
Insurance would not cover such a small loss, but how could they afford to replace the broken glasses and the vase? A flash of anger pricked Justina’s bubble of fear. How dare he do such a thing? She had only just finished setting the table!
She ground her teeth but kept quiet and lowered her gaze. The trolley’s cutlery drawer was part-way open, showing her the wooden handle of a wickedly sharp steak knife. It lay within easy reach. She only had to stretch out a hand and take it.
Without removing his eyes from her, Lovejoy snapped the clasps of the briefcase, opened the lid, and removed a document bound in a clear, plastic cover. He dropped it on the table amongst the shards of glass, the flowers, and the crushed napkins.
“W-What is that?” she managed to say, lifting her gaze from the steak knife to stare at the document.
Lovejoy lowered the briefcase lid, secured the clasps, and placed his hands together as though in prayer.
“That there,” he said, back to his smiling, quiet worst, “is a contract for the sale of this … shithole.”
For the first time since entering the Bistro, Lovejoy dragged his gaze from her and scanned the dining room through half-closed lids.
“Jesus H Christ, what a pitiful excuse for a restaurant. Not worth half the price we’re offering, but the boss is a generous man. Too fucking generous if you ask me. He recognises the challenges involved in ‘uprooting young families from their homes’. His words, not mine. I don’t give a fuck.”

He snorted and shook his head.
“If it was up to me, I’d torch the place one night with you, your hubby, and your sweet, little girls still inside.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the monster blocking the door. “Tuggy there’s a dab hand with a Molotov cocktail. Aren’t you, Tuggy?”
The giant did not move or make a sound.
Lovejoy continued. “Trouble is, that wouldn’t give the boss what the lawyers like to call ‘ownership with vacant possession’. Get me?”
Justina shook her head.
She had no idea what the horrible man was talking about.
“Stupid cow. It’s all hubby’s fault. He keeps refusing to sign the papers we send him. Damn it, the bastard didn’t even acknowledge receipt of the fucking things. Didn’t answer or return our phone calls neither. If he’d have responded, the boss might have been prepared to negotiate an even better price, but … Ah well, water under London Bridge. Too fucking late now. Much too late. Time’s short and a new deal’s out of the question. Orestes has caused too much irritation. Do you understand me now, Justina?”
Despite his supposed explanation, Justina did not comprehend any of it. Ore had kept so much from her, telling her things like they had to “soldier on” and “stay afloat until the good times returned”. Sometimes, even after nearly nine years of marriage and ten years of living in London, Justina still had no idea what Ore was talking about. Although she spoke good English, and was proud of her ability to converse easily with the customers and the suppliers, some English expressions sailed way above her head like the wind over the Aegean.

What did money and papers have to do with one of the bridges over the river Thames? No sense. No sense at all.
“The rude bitch isn’t listening, Tuggy. She isn’t paying attention,” Lovejoy said and sidestepped the table. As he rushed towards her, she stood transfixed, shaking, any hope of reaching for the steak knife gone.
He jerked the trolley aside and stopped within arm’s reach, staring down at her. Even taller than she first thought, Justina had to tilt her head up to look at him, but she did not want to stare into the harsh, dead eyes. She wanted to scream for help. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. No one to save her.
She shuddered under his evil glare.
Lovejoy leaned closer. Justina’s nose wrinkled in distaste at his overpowering, spicy aftershave.
“Let me make this perfectly clear, so even you can understand, you thick, Greek bitch.”
The sweetness of his peppermint breath freshener made her gag.
“If your hubby doesn’t sign the contract, Tuggy’s gonna pay you a visit one night. You like playing house with sweet, little girls, don’t you, Tuggy? Yeah. You love it.”

My girls? My girls!
“Do not touch my babies!” she screamed. “I will kill you!”
Justina lunged forwards, clawing for his face. She wanted to scratch and tear, gouge the eyes from his head.
Laughing, Lovejoy dodged to the side. He caught her flailing arms and crushed them together, holding them by the wrists in one big, powerful hand. He slapped her so hard with the other, the blow rattled her teeth, and lights flashed behind her eyes. Her knees buckled, but he held her up by her arms and stopped her from falling.
Lovejoy grabbed her hair and tugged, snapping her head back. The skin stretched tight across her vulnerable neck. She was totally at his mercy.
Justina stopped struggling. Stopped fighting. He was too strong. His powerful grip hurt her wrists and her scalp stung where he pulled at her hair so hard. Her eyes watered again, more tears flowed. Her stomach churned. She fought the desperate need to throw up.
“Tut tut,” Lovejoy said, his face millimetres from hers, his spittle wetting her chin. “Now, that’s a rather aggressive way to react to a legitimate business proposition. And all because I mentioned Tuggy in the same breath as your offspring. That’s likely to hurt his feelings. Don’t let his size fool you. Tuggy has feelings, don’t you, mate? I call that unjustified, Justina. Unjustified.”

He laughed again. A horrible, cruel laugh, it turned her stomach. Loud sobs erupted, unbidden, from her mouth. She could not help herself, could not fight it. The thought of her babies in the clutches of these creatures tore her insides apart, but she could do nothing but struggle impotently against the powerful grip of the evil man.
Lovejoy turned towards the glowering monster and stepped to one side, lifting Justina’s arms above her head, displaying her to the creature—a piece of meat for his approval.
“See what I did there, Tuggy? Justina—justified? That’s what’s called a pun. So, what d’you say, mate? Fancy paying a night-time visit to a couple of frightened kiddies?”

The monster tilted his head to one side as though appraising Justina. After a moment, he nodded and pointed a massive finger at her.
“You want this scrawny bitch, too? Yeah, you can have her if you like. Don’t see why not.”
Tugboat’s lips peeled back. White teeth gleamed against the dark and brooding background.
Lovejoy pulled Justina’s head close to his again and whispered in her ear. “Insatiable, he is, Justina.”
Her cheek still throbbed from his slap, but her vision had cleared, and his dead eyes skewered her so badly, she could not look away.
“Tuggy’s a dynamo, you know,” Lovejoy continued. “Women have told me he can go all night. How would you fancy a man that huge on top of you hour after hour?” Lovejoy leaned away and shook his head. “Nah. He’d probably break a little thing like you. Wear you out from the inside.”
The brute released her hair and her wrists, and pushed her away. Justina staggered to the side and stumbled against the trolley. She held on tight to the handle. She would not fall—they would not make her grovel in her own place of work, in her own home.

“On the other hand,” the braying man continued, “I could be wrong. A woman like you might enjoy Tuggy’s attention. What do you reckon, Justina? I bet the thought turns you on, doesn’t it! I bet you’re wringing wet right now, hey? I wonder.”
He stepped back and looked her up and down, undressing her in his mind.
“You know what? Despite everything, you aren’t a bad looking bit of scratch. Quite tasty, in fact. Decent-sized tits and they still look firm despite having been used to feed your spawn. Flat stomach, too, and a nice, round arse. Wonder what you look like without that baggy apron and that daggy dress? Maybe I should find out. How about it? Fancy stripping for me and bending over that table? I can help you with the buttons if you like.”
Justina’s chin trembled, she gripped the trolley tighter, and prepared to strike for the steak knife. This time, she would grab it. No doubt. No hesitation. If he made another move towards her, she would stab him in the throat and run out the back way. She avoided looking directly at the part-open drawer and waited.
A car horn broke the near-silence. In the street outside, a man shouted something, and another, further away, laughed. Beyond the windows, traffic continued to rumble.

Clouds returned to block the sun, the shadow faded, and warmth bled from the room.
Lovejoy sighed and shook his head once again.
“Nah, don’t worry, darling,” he said. “Only kidding. I don’t need to force myself on a bitch even if she is a bit of a MILF. Just making a point that there’s no one to save you. And don’t bother calling the cops. They’ll do nothing. I can find fifteen friends and the barman who’ll swear that Tuggy and I are in the pub, see? Right now, we’re knocking back Belgian beers and telling bad jokes. The till receipts will show me using my credit card and everything. Got it all covered, see? In short, we’re protected, and you aren’t.”
Lovejoy straightened his tie and smoothed back his blond hair before grabbing the handle of his briefcase and lifting it from the destroyed table. More pieces of glass fell to the tiled floor. He laughed again.
“You have ’til the end of next month to sign those papers. That’s midday, October the thirty-first. Hallowe’en. Got it?”
He stopped talking, probably waiting for an answer, but she refused to give him one.
“Five weeks ought to be plenty of time for you to clear this place of your garbage and fuck off out of it.”
Lovejoy pointed at the contract.
“Don’t forget what I said. Sign and deliver those papers by midday, Hallowe’en, or we’ll be back with a dirty, great ‘trick’ for you and a Tuggy-sized treat for your spawn.”
The evil smile returned to his face.
“Now,” he continued after a short pause, “we’re going out the way we came in. And remember. If we hear you’ve gone blabbing to the filth—and we will hear it, believe me—all bets are off. You, your hubby, and your pretty, little daughters, are fair game. Right?”
He stared at Justina and held the look until she nodded. Only then, did they leave.

The moment they’d gone, Justina rushed to lock and bolt the front door, and collapsed into a chair. She buried her face in the crushed dishcloth and sobbed.
During the whole terrifying episode, the monster, Tugboat, had not uttered a single sound, which was perhaps the scariest part of the whole nightmarish incident. Not a sound.
Justina did not know how long she sat crying, but a rattling on the door made her jump. She spun towards the sound, preparing to run, but found her beautiful, smiling girls tapping gently on the glass.
“Rena, Kora!” she cried again. “My darlings.”
She jumped up, tore open the door, and swept the girls into her arms, squeezing tight. She absorbed their smell, their wriggling warmth, their love.
“Too tight, Mama,” Kora said, squirming. “You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry, moraki mou,” Justina said, easing the pressure but not letting go completely. “It is just that I missed you so, so much.”
Rena ducked out of Justina’s loosened grasp and darted inside. “Mama, did you have an accident?”
“I … tripped. Stay away from the table until I pick up the broken glass. It is dangerous. You will cut yourself.”
Rena shuffled closer, her eyes narrowed, staring hard.
“Mama,” she said, “your eyes are puffy. Have you been chopping onions?”
“Yes, my darling girl,” Justina said, unable to stifle a laugh. The relief at seeing and hearing her babies was overwhelming. “That is exactly what I have been doing. And garlic. Do not forget the garlic.”
Justina picked up Kora, locked the door, and carried her past the damage.
“Rena, come away from there. I told you it is dangerous!”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Now, upstairs and get changed while I clear the mess. I expect you are hungry?”
“Starving, Mama,” Kora said.
Rena nodded and slid the satchel from her shoulder. “Yes please, Mama. School dinner was horrible.”
Justina ruffled Rena’s hair. “Help your sister change out of her uniform and, just this once, you can watch television before doing your homework, okay?”
She shooed them up the stairs to the apartment before rushing back to the kitchen in time to meet Ore, who had parked the car around the back as usual, off the busy street.
Before he had the chance to step fully into the kitchen, she flew into his arms and poured out her heart to him.
For the longest time, they clung to each other.
Ore listened, stroking her hair and whispering soothing words. Eventually, she recovered enough to let him clear the damage and make supper for the girls.
With Ore in charge, she ran upstairs and stood under the shower until it ran cold, scrubbing her skin raw to remove the stench and the feel of a man called Alfie Lovejoy.
She cried for a full hour.

#

Later that night, after they closed the restaurant—six covers all evening, barely enough to cover the night’s electricity bill—she and Ore sat in their living room. The girls were fast asleep and blissfully unaware.
They read the new contract together. She found the legal wording difficult to follow, but Ore snorted at the document’s promised to pay them the full “independently assessed market value” for the leasehold of the building and the goodwill of the business. To Justina, the total purchase price—laid out in words and figures at the bottom of the final page—looked impressive.
“It ain’t enough,” Ore said, holding her close and gently kissing her bruised and swollen cheek. “After paying off the mortgage, we’d barely have enough to clear our other debts. There’d be nothing left over for a deposit on a new home. And worse than that, far worse, we’d both need to find new jobs straight away.”
Despair wrapped around her, choking her, making it difficult to breathe.
“Ore, what are we going to do?”
He threw the contract on the coffee table and turned to face her, holding her hands, and kissing her wrists where the marks from Lovejoy’s grip still showed red and sore.
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find a way out, but …” Ore squirmed in his seat, creating a gap between them. “Before he died, Papa and I had a blazing row. He was planning to sell a share in the Bistro, but I hated the idea. The Bistro is the girls’ inheritance, their future. Papa thought the money would tide us over until after the development company had finished renovating the block.”
“Is that why Papa was on the flight to Amsterdam?”
Ore lowered his head. “Yes. He knew a man in The Hague, a rich man who owed him a favour. Darling, Papa died thinking I hated him.”
Ore wept quietly and, even though she imagined herself all cried out for the day, tears also filled Justina’s eyes. They held each other.
“Papa knew you loved him, Ore. He knew it.”
They kissed and hugged, and for a moment, things were better.
Eventually, Ore leaned back on the sofa, his arm draped around her shoulders. Justina rested her head against his chest, listening to and feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart. The soft rise and fall of his chest lulled her, helping to calm her involuntary emotional and physical twitches.
“After Papa’s funeral,” he said at length, his soft words vibrating through his ribcage, “I found the contact details of the man in The Hague, but … it’s too late. He didn’t want to help me. He said the debt he owed Papa died with him. Darling, I have no idea what to do.”
She had no idea either and they sat in silence for hours and hours.

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