Psychro Killer: Chapter 5 - Arrival in Crete

Heraklion Airport was a whirlwind of noise and movement. Crowds of travellers jostled for space, dragging suitcases, navigating the chaos of customs. It was a far cry from the quiet, heavy grief that had consumed him for so long. Now, he was being thrust into something raw, almost primal. And he liked it.

As Niko walked through the glass doors of the arrival terminal, his eyes swept over the crowd. A large, handwritten sign reading "NIKO" caught his attention. There, beaming under a face cracked with joy, was Yannis. Older, unmistakably recognizable, and standing beside him were two children—silent but bouncing on their toes, their eyes wide with curiosity.

Without a word, Yannis strode toward him, his gait heavy with purpose. Niko barely had time to process the flowers Yannis shoved into his hands before he felt the man’s strong hands on his shoulders, gripping him as if he were assessing the weight of Niko’s existence. Before Niko could say anything, the first slap came. Sharp, swift. Then another. Three, maybe four, delivered with the kind of brute affection that left him stunned.

Niko felt his body tighten, his instincts battling between fight and flight. What the hell is this? His thoughts spiralled. A half-wit? A controlling macho psycho? But before he could act, Yannis grabbed him by the neck—not in anger, but with a force that made Niko feel oddly secure. Like a kitten being carried by the scruff, led across the bustling airport. Yannis didn’t say a word as he manoeuvred Niko through the chaos, his grip firm but strangely reassuring. Niko stumbled toward the car, still clutching the bouquet.

Yannis pushed him into the passenger seat with a grunt, slamming the door behind him. It was only then, as he reached for his own door, that Yannis noticed the children. His grandchildren. They had followed him like ducklings, unnoticed until now, their faces still brimming with excitement.

"Alexa! George! Get in, quick!" Yannis barked, his voice cracking the silence at last. The children scurried into the backseat, giggling, as if used to this chaotic dance.

Niko sat in the passenger seat, heart racing, gripping the flowers like they might anchor him to reality. His mind raced. He had no idea what to do with the bouquet, but part of him—the part that had always been quick to judge—was already writing off his uncle. Controlling. Brutal. Unpredictable.

And yet, sitting there in the passenger seat, Niko felt something else: an unexpected calm. No need to talk. No need to perform. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to think. He could just be. The silence wasn’t oppressive—it was liberating. It was as if, in that moment, Yannis had stripped away all the expectations. Niko was just Niko. And, in a strange way, he felt safe. Safer than he’d felt in years.

Yannis clambered into the driver’s seat, barking a few more orders at the children as he reversed the van out of the parking lot. The cityscape of Heraklion quickly gave way to the wild Cretan countryside, the horizon stretching wide and untamed.

Niko stared out the window, his thoughts swirling as they drove further from the airport. This is a man who doesn't bother with words. A man who speaks with his fists, his grip. A man who acts, not thinks. And yet, in the pit of his gut, Niko realised something unsettling. This man—his uncle, this brute—had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years: loved.

The air was thick with the scent of wild thyme and sage, the sun casting a golden hue over the island’s rugged hills. There was something magnetic about it—beautiful, yet untamed.

Yannis began talking, mixing Greek, Cretan and English, pointing out landmarks and telling stories of the island’s deep, storied history. Niko listened, more out of courtesy than interest.

As they wound through the narrow roads, Niko noticed a road sign peppered with holes. “What’s all that about?” he asked, pointing to the barely legible sign.

Yannis chuckled. “Ah, that’s just normal here, Niko. Everyone has at least one gun. We like to drink and take shots at the signs as we drive by. And it’s not just the road signs—weddings, christenings, any party really. You’ll see. It’s tradition. Cretans like to let off a few shells.”

That took Niko by surprise. A bit different from London, he thought. Like something out of the Wild West.

“Now, as you know, we live in Psychro,” Yannis continued, his voice swelling with pride. “It’s about an hour and a half away. The perfect introduction to Crete—and, of course, your true homeland.”

Niko watched as the landscape shifted. The sea gleamed in the distance, and tiny villages appeared on the horizon, their white-washed houses clinging to the hills like clusters of pearls. Olive groves and vineyards stretched out in patchwork fields, and sheep grazed lazily, while the occasional goat clung to rocky outcrops, defying gravity.

Once they found a rhythm in their journey, Niko couldn’t decide if Yannis was performing some grand act or if he was, in fact, genuine. Yannis' curiosity seemed boundless, spilling over as he peppered Niko with questions. It was as if, after years of silence, the dam had finally broken. He wanted to know everything about Helena—his "magnificent sister"—and her "handsome husband," Vassilis.

Niko couldn’t get over it. Vassilis. Helena. The names felt foreign on his tongue, like they belonged to strangers. His parents had lived an entirely different existence, one he had been completely shut out of. He held back the urge to mention their identity change. Not yet, he thought. One step at a time.

Instead, Niko found himself recounting the life his parents had built in London, the trials they had faced, the quiet but steely resolve of his mother after Nicholas’s death. As he spoke, he watched Yannis closely. The joy that had lit Yannis’ face when they first met slowly dissolved into sorrow, his eyes growing red and watery as he listened to the story of his sister’s hardships.

“I wish I could have been there for her,” Yannis whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His gaze drifted to the passing fields, as if trying to reconcile the years they had lost. “I never stopped thinking about her, you know? Wondering if she was happy... if she was safe.”

There was a heaviness in Yannis’ voice, the kind that came from years of unspoken questions. And Niko could feel the weight of the one question hanging in the air, almost palpable—Why hadn’t Helena come back? Yannis didn’t ask it, but his silence spoke louder than words.

Why hadn’t she? He was so close to pushing it, to confronting Yannis right then and there, but something in him hesitated. He had just arrived. He hadn’t met the rest of the family yet. Best not storm in with guns blazing.

But the question hung in the air. He could feel Yannis avoiding it, dancing around the reality that was so obviously lurking in the shadows. The more Yannis skirted it, the more Niko felt the pull to dig deeper. Soon enough, Niko thought, as the landscape continued to shift, the mountains looming ahead. Soon enough, we’ll face that truth.

For now, he’d play along.