Now that he could at last indulge it, Patrick’s desire for sleep fled. A swim would be wonderful; it would relax his stiff muscles after the journey. He thought about it, as he stood on the balcony after the boy had gone. The swimming- pool was just below; he could see the shimmer of the water. However, he might astound the lad if he went out at this hour; it was, after all, almost three o’clock. Better wait till daylight.
He had a bath, hoping the gurgling pipes would disturb no one, then stood on the balcony again listening to the cicadas and inhaling the scents of the night: flowers, pine trees, and the sea. Light showed from another balcony below, where someone else must be awake; he wondered if it was the white-haired woman.
The bed was made up with only a sheet, and Patrick found even that superfluous, as he lay in the darkness with the sound of the cicadas still loud in the air. He decided that he was too tired to sleep.
He slept.
At a quarter-to-six he was wide awake. He got out of bed and went on to the balcony. Now, in the clear light, he could see mountains in the distance. The pool, surrounded by geraniums, looked inviting, but the sea would be better.
Ten minutes later, in towelling jacket and canvas shoes, Patrick padded down the marble staircase and into the hall. The lad was still on duty at the desk. He hid a yawn as Patrick appeared, and said ‘Good morning.’
An open door led into the garden, and beyond stone steps went down to a terrace where there were flower beds planted with asters, dahlias and love-lies bleeding. A further flight of steps continued to the beach. Bare hills stretched on either side, dotted with olive trees. Rocks bordered the water’s edge to one side of the beach, and here, Patrick stopped. There was no one else to be seen. He took off his shoes, put his glasses in the pocket of his jacket, which he removed and laid neatly on the ground; then he went to the edge of the rocks and peered into the water. Without his glasses it looked blurred, but it was aquamarine blue, translucent, and deep. He dived in.
It was not cold, just chilled enough after the night to be refreshing. He swam out towards the nearby headland of rock with his easy, not very stylish crawl, then lay on his back looking at the sky as he cruised slowly along. Already Oxford seemed a world away; he would have to make an effort even to remember about Yannis in this peaceful place. He rolled over and swam parallel to the shore for a while, then lifted his head from the water. Towards the rocks, he saw a blob; another swimmer had arrived. Patrick swam slowly in that direction, wondering if it was a solitary-minded person or someone who would exchange a greeting when they met.
The other swimmer was a slow mover. The head remained well down in the water, and there was no sign of action from the limbs. He was like a snorkel swimmer, lying motionless on the surface gazing into the depths.
Patrick swam closer, until even without his glasses he was sure that there was no snorkel tube. The swimmer lay unmoving, face downwards in the water, arms floating outstretched, and there was something very wrong about him, for the figure – it was a man – was fully dressed. Patrick knew before he turned him over that he was dead.