The Threshing Circle
On the Greek island of Crete, traditions run deep and there are often secrets that are best left buried. Weaving myth and magic, history and adventure, The Threshing Circle is a powerful exploration of honour, betrayal and revenge.
Visitors Eleni and Patrick seek to uncover the story of a beautiful English woman who was executed on the island during the 1940s Nazi occupation. Their questions begin to unpick a web of forbidden love, betrayal and greed, murder and vendettas. Then they vanish.
A feisty Scottish woman and an irascible, Zorba-like Greek form a reluctant and unlikely alliance in a race to find them. The journey leads them to remote villages abandoned after decades of vendetta, hidden rituals and characters good and evil. Very soon though, the hunters become the hunted, as the murderous family behind the original crime seek to remove all threats to their honour and position of power.
changed and show her a step or two. The phone started ringing just as he was deciding what to wear. ‘Barba Yiorgos,’ Maria, from Stalos, said. ‘I’ve been meaning to call you for over a fortnight, but Mother took a bad turn.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. A feeling of apprehension began to seep through the phone. He wanted to hang up and almost did before she could say any more. ‘Only, I wanted to tell you that you were right.’ ‘Right?’ ‘Regarding the young British couple.’ He
Kirsty to do the same. Which she did, and saw Barba Yiorgos give her a warning look. Then Katerina began to flirt, touching Barba Yiorgos at every chance and whispering so closely that her thick lips were almost brushing his ear. And, to Kirsty’s mounting anger, he appeared to be lapping it up. Then the food started to arrive. Massive platters of meat—goat ribs, lamb, pork, village sausages and a steaming pan of snails—along with wooden bowls of Greek salad and potatoes glistening in
‘Right, you murdering bastards,’ Kirsty snarled, ‘see how you like this.’ She turned the key, her foot on the clutch, the gear engaged and ready to hit the throttle and wheel-spin through them. Nothing happened. She tried again and again. The ineffectual whirr of the starter motor sang a pathetic song. She looked out of the window. Both men were beaming with delight. Leonidas drew something slowly from behind his back. A set of spark-plug leads dangled down from the distributor cap.
its location was not. His father had taken him. An early lesson, before the ones about an English woman, an illegitimate daughter, a grave, betrayals and dishonour. ‘I want to show you something, Yiorgos,’ his father had announced. ‘So some day you might come to understand just how far people can grow apart, even when they’re joined by blood and brick.’ Barba Yiorgos looked at the road leading through the village, then at his watch again. Kirsty should have arrived by now. He lived a
Yiorgos and Kirsty Barba Yiorgos gunned the Brough Superior across the wet sand. The storm had passed but the sea was still raging and drowning out the noise of the 1000 cc V-twin engine. He tried to assure himself that at least it might prevent him from being heard. It was small comfort, though, as the growing panic mounted. He was lost. Barba Yiorgos slid the bike to a halt and stared along the single beam of light. He saw four sets of tyre tracks marking the beach and joining his