The Medusa Stone

Chapter 13

At the British Museum, the place was bustled with cleaning crews and officials. Professor Helen Barry and her assistant Claire were watching the commotion from a distance while taking a quick cup of morning tea.

“The place almost looks as good as new,” Claire remarked. Realizing how ironic the statement was for a museum, she added, “For a museum, the place looks as good as new?” Claire cringed, of the mind that it still did not sound right. Helen’s stare turned into laughter at Claire’s silly confusion. “I get it, Claire. I agree too,” she said. After some pause, Helen looked a bit more disappointed. “Looks like we’ll be on our feet again soon. Just a pity about the Greek Art exhibit. It was our best in a long time.”

“I know, Professor. It sucks that of all our displays, the best and most lucrative was the one we had to break up and remove,” Claire replied, looking thoroughly bummed about it. She quite enjoyed that particular exhibit, because of her interest in mythology and ancient gods. Naturally she never had a shortage of the subject in her line of work, but it was the first display that gave her the creeps — but in a good way. Never before had she felt so present in the ancient world as when she stood alongside those pieces. It was as if their authenticity reached way beyond just their provenances and carried a certain aura of their era to anyone who cared to bask in it.

Claire was one of those people who allowed the pieces to infiltrate her personal space, her mind, and her admiration. What a feeling they lent her as if their essence reached out and caressed her skin until it grew taut and forced her hair to stand on end. If ever there was an exhibit Claire could call ‘living history’, The Mythos Paradigm was it.

“Mrs. Fidikos called, by the way,” she told Helen. “Her people will be here to crate and load her pieces later today.”

Helen looked distraught. “God, she must hate me. She did not even say goodbye after she got the news of the destruction, you know?” Helen sighed and put her empty mug down on the trolley. “She will probably never speak to me again.”

“Oh rubbish,” Claire consoled her boss. “Besides, how is it your fault that God broke London? You had no way of saving the contents of the museum, Professor. If she thinks that, then she is daft. What, did she expect you to buckle in the artifacts in their baby seats?”

Helen glared at her assistant for a long while until Claire started feeling she had overstepped her boundaries.

“My God, Claire, you have a way of making me feel better…” Helen shook her head as she ran her hand down the girl’s upper arm, “… by the absurd shit you can utter!”

They two ladies shared a good laugh under the newly connected ceiling lights that illuminated the hallways beautifully.

“Good to hear some laughter in this awful situation,” a female voice halted their merry release. They turned to find the big black-clad queen standing there.

“S-Soula,” Helen stuttered, completely taken aback by the sight of the last person she had expected to see here. “I thought your people will be coming alone.”

“What?” Soula Fidikos scoffed. “Have you ever seen the speed at which those bastards work when they are not under a whip? I always accompany my deliveries and collections, dear. I am so glad to see you two are alright!”

Dumbstruck in their amazement, Claire and Helen found themselves in Soula’s embrace. Helen felt much better now that she knew there were no hard feelings between her and the Greek millionaires.

“I’m so sorry about some of your items, Soula,” Helen apologized.

“Are you serious? I had no idea you were to blame for that earthquake, Helen,” Soula exclaimed with her big black eyes stretch frighteningly wild.

Helen looked at her assistant, silently acknowledging the exact sentiment she had just voiced a few moments before. Claire smiled and winked.

“I know, but still. I feel responsible because we invited you to exhibit here and all that,” Helen explained.

Soula waved her hands dismissively. “Och, just stop,” she ordered cordially. “It is not your fault. I am insured after all, and the artifacts that suffered damage were not exactly the best pieces. They are replaceable, so no more worry, okay?”

“Alright,” Helen sighed in relief.

“Now, tell me, what are you doing tonight?” Soula asked, as Claire took the hint and decided to leave their company.

“Excuse me, ladies. I have to meet the people from the Evening Post,” Claire said, looking at her watch and marched off.

“I was going to go to bed early, actually,” Helen answered. “Why?”

“Well, now you are not,” the loud Greek insisted. “I leave tomorrow morning on my private jet, and you have the day off tomorrow, no?”

“I do, yes. How did you know?” Helen asked.

Soula just smiled. “I have sources,” she smiled, refusing to reveal her source — Claire — to the flabbergasted professor. “Anyway, I was hoping my husband and I could take you to dinner tonight. I will not be back in England until next time I have an excuse to come, so it would be nice, don’t you think?”

How could Helen say no to such a proposition? She was recently divorced and very lonely. For now, she had no work or social life to drown herself in.

“I would love to, Soula,” she smiled. “Efharisto. Is that right?”

“Perfect! And thank you,” Soula smiled. Her huge nose bulged under the force of her smile, yet she looked debonair and lovely.

For a change, the London night was serene with no threat of rain or earthquakes looming. In fact, it resembled a Parisian evening with a mild, temperate breeze breathing through Stoke Newington. It was Helen’s idea to have dinner at her favorite restaurant, although she told Soula that it was just a nice place she picked from a list Claire made. Since Helen got divorced, she had not allowed herself to eat there anymore. It was the painful reminder of where her now ex-husband had proposed to her, and where they had celebrated subsequent anniversaries together.

Helen was on her way to the Royale Masters Hotel to meet her friends. She took the taxi to Albion Road and walked from there. It was only three or four blocks to Knight’s Lance Tavern from the hotel, so Helen found it so convenient she almost thought it an uncanny coincidence. It was just before 9 pm when she entered the cushy hotel lobby where a single receptionist smiled from behind the long marble and silver desk.

“Good evening, Madam,” the lady smiled.

“Good evening. I am just waiting for two of your guests, Fidikos,” Helen informed her. “Could you call up to let them know I am here, please?”

“Certainly, Madam. Just a moment,” the receptionist said. “Please, feel free to help yourself to some tea or coffee over by the lounge area.”

“Thank you so much,” Helen smiled and headed to the lounge to wait on one of the lavish couches.

Before long Soula found her.

“You look stunning, Helen. Have you waited long?” she asked. Helen noticed that Soula was alone, and what was more shocking, dressed in something other than black for a change.

“Thanks, Soula. You look fantastic yourself, and in red no less!” Helen raved as they kissed cheeks. “Where is your hubby?”

“Oh, he asked me to apologize to you, but I think he has food poisoning or something. He has been throwing up since 2 pm this afternoon, and I must confess, I am getting worried,” she explained.

Helen was sympathetic, but she was a little relieved that she did not have to feel like a third wheel at the restaurant where she used to go with her husband. Having Soula’s husband in her company did make her wonder if the staff who knew her so well would see her alone in the company of a couple.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, love. I hope he will be alright. Did you have a doctor check on him?” she asked Soula.

“No, we decided to see how he feels in the morning,” the Greek millionaires replied. “Now are you ready or shall we just have tea and biscuits in the hotel lounge?”

Helen laughed, “No, absolutely not. I intend to get hammered tonight.”

“That is what I want to hear!” Soula cheered, and she pulled Helen clumsily against her.

“Just another block?” Soula moaned. “You do know I am wearing Prada, right?”

“Have some adventure, foreigner!” Helen giggled. “When last did you not drive somewhere?”

“Uh, never,” Soula gawked at her, occasionally wincing from the sting of her uncomfortable heels. “God, you are killing me with your adventures.”

The two of them strolled along the short, well-lit streets toward the inviting restaurant. It was a pleasant atmosphere all round, with the sidewalks full of couples just walking under the night sky and groups of students out to one of the clubs in the area.

Because of the streets being alive with the delicious smell of food and crowds drinking and having a good time, Helen and Soula did not notice the men following them on foot.

“They are going to the Knight’s Lance,” the one man reported on a device hidden under his cuff links.

“Keep a close eye and maintain your distance,” the voice on their ear pieces commanded. “Don’t take them until the streets are emptier. There are too many witnesses in the vicinity. Do you understand?”

“Roger that,” the stalker said, nodding to his colleague.

“I suppose we are not going to acquaint ourselves with them after all,” the other man said. “Pity. I was looking forward to smelling that witch’s perfume.”

“All in good time,” his partner smiled. “I’ll buy you a pirogue dish that will blow your mind.”

From their table on the cobbled sidewalk, the two men could see the red and green Knight’s Lance sign board under which the two women had entered. As the night drew on, they grew weary of waiting, but their mission could not be deserted at any cost.

Eventually, at 1 am, their patience paid off. Helen Barry and Soula Fidikos exited the tavern, properly intoxicated judging by their loud laughing and slightly impaired gaits. Most of the smaller establishments had closed by now, including the various shops that stayed open later for tourists and sightseers. Just like the streets died down into a lonely stretch with half a dozen souls traversing it at any point, the heavens dampened the stars and the crescent moon.

Clouds were gathering to usher in the wee morning hours. Below the darkening sky, the voices of the two intoxicated women reverberated against the walls of the flanking buildings of the small street they navigated to get back to Soula’s hotel. Soula kicked off her red heels, and Helen carried them as her friend walked on her silk stockings. Half a block behind them, two dark male shadows melted in and out of the shade in between street lamps, appearing and vanishing as they stole along the pavement.

“Stop! Stop!” Soula shouted suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” Helen frowned as her friend cowered toward a dark patch under the tree in front of the St. Mary’s Charity Center. “Soula?”

Helen could hear Soula puke her guts out in the dark patch.

“Oh,” she said, waiting patiently with Soula’s shoes in her hand. “Oh, that. Okay, well, I’ll just wait over here.” Helen felt the wind grow stronger, whipping her dark blond hair with its cold hand. “Soula, hurry up.” But she did not hear Soula anymore. Helen got a chill at the lonesome hiss of the leaves blown along the yard. Then she heard the Greek woman throw up again.

“Um, Soula, do you want me to hold back your hair?”