Chapter 4: Yannis

Helena sat by the window of her small flat in Palmers Green, staring out at the street below. The familiar sounds of the neighbourhood drifted up - children playing, shopkeepers chatting in Greek, the occasional hum of a moped buzzing by. It was comforting in its own way, but today, her thoughts were far from the bustling streets of North London. They were in Crete, in the small rustic village of Psychro, where her life had once been so different.

Her mind wandered back to the days of her youth, to the rugged landscape, where the mountains met the sea, and the air was thick with the scent of thyme and wildflowers. Life had been hard there, but it had also been rich - full of tradition, family, and an enduring connection to the land. She could still hear the bleating of goats as they wandered through the rocky fields, the laughter of village children as they played in the dusty streets, and the sound of her father’s voice, always gruff, always commanding.

But most of all, she remembered Yannis.

Yannis, her older brother, had been larger than life. He was tall and strong, with a presence that seemed to fill any room he entered. Even as a young boy, Yannis had exuded a sense of authority, of knowing his place in the world. He had a deep love for the land, for their village, and for the ancient myths of Greece that their father had told them by the fire on long winter nights. Yannis had believed in those myths with a fervour that bordered on the religious. He saw himself as part of a long line of Greeks who had kept the old traditions alive, and he took that responsibility seriously. He would also protect and care for his sister unquestioningly. 

Helena could still remember the day she had forgotten to lock the goats in after feeding them. It had been a simple mistake - she had been distracted, her mind elsewhere. She was still a child after all. They both were.

“Who allowed this to happen?” came the fearsome voice.

She was standing behind the goat shed, her heart pounded in her chest as she watched her father storm across the yard, his face a mask of fury. The crisp white sheets had become smeared with dirt and torn by the goats’ hungry mouths, and they fluttered pitifully in his hands.

"Look at these sheets!" he roared, his voice cracking with rage as he yanked the tattered fabric from the line. His hands trembled with a barely contained violence, and Helena shrank back, biting her lip to keep from making a sound.

From the house, she heard the screen door creak open, followed by the hesitant shuffle of footsteps. "Father," a voice called out, weak with fear.

Helena peeked around the edge of the shed, her breath catching in her throat. There was Yannis, still in his school uniform, stepping out from the kitchen door. His shoulders were squared, his jaw set, but she could see the flicker of fear in his eyes as he faced their father’s wrath.

"It was me," Yannis said, his voice steady, though Helena knew it cost him everything to keep it that way. "I am sorry."

Their father’s eyes, wild with rage, locked onto Yannis. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, suspended in the tension between them. Yannis’s brave face showed he was preparing for the worst, his fists clenched at his sides as if he could somehow absorb what was coming.

Helena wanted to rush out, to stop this madness, to shout the truth and bear the punishment herself. It was her mistake, her stupid carelessness. But as she shifted to step forward, Yannis’s gaze flicked toward her. His eyes found hers, and with the smallest movement, he raised his hand, subtly indicating for her to stay hidden.

She froze, her breath caught in her chest as she watched him stride up to their father. He knew what was coming - he had always known, from the first time he had stood between their father’s wrath and someone he loved. But Yannis, in his quiet, steadfast way, accepted it. He had long since made his peace with the role he played in their family, the protector, the shield.

And as their father’s hand swung back, Yannis braced himself, never once breaking eye contact with Helena. She could see the unspoken words in his eyes - stay safe, it’s not your fault, I can handle this - and in that moment, she hated herself for being so weak, for letting him take the blame. The crack of the blow echoed across the yard, and Helena flinched as if she had been struck herself. Yannis staggered but didn’t fall. His back straightened, his expression steely, as he waited for the next strike.

Years later, that memory still haunted her - the image of Yannis taking the blows meant for her, his quiet strength and unwavering love a constant reminder of the bond they shared. And it was that same strength that she saw in his eyes on the night they fled Crete.

The sky was dark, the moon casting a pale light over the village as Helena hurried to the edge of the olive grove where Yannis was waiting. He stood beside the old stone wall, his face half-hidden in shadow. When he saw her, he stepped forward, his eyes filled with so much emotion it nearly broke her.

He didn’t say much - he never did. But as he handed her the small bag of belongings he had packed for her, his hands lingered on hers for just a moment longer than necessary. "Take care of yourself," he said, his voice thick with unspoken words.

Helena felt the tears welling up, but she forced them back. She couldn’t cry, not now. Not when Yannis was holding it together so stoically. "Yannis…" she began, her voice trembling.

But he shook his head, silencing her. His eyes, filled with a deep, aching sadness, met hers. He wouldn’t allow himself to weep in front of her, wouldn’t let her see the pain of this final goodbye. He was still protecting her, even now.

"I’ll be fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… live your life, Helena. Be happy. The three of you."

She wanted to say something, to thank him, to tell him she loved him more than words could express, but the lump in her throat made it impossible. All she could do was nod, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned to leave, knowing that she might never see him again.

As she walked away, she glanced back one last time. Yannis was still standing there, watching her go, his figure growing smaller in the distance. He didn’t move, didn’t follow. He had done what he could - helped her escape, kept their secret safe, and now all that was left was the silence of the night, the weight of their shared past, and the knowledge that this might be the last time they would ever see each other.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the darkness, leaving Yannis behind to face the world alone. But she knew, deep in her heart, that he would be alright. He was strong, stronger than anyone she had ever known. He would endure, just as he always had. But that didn’t make the pain of leaving him behind any less. It was a wound that would never fully heal, a scar she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

In those early years in London, Helena had thrown herself into her new life, determined to make it work. She learned English and raised Niko with all the love and care she could muster. But she never forgot Yannis. How could she? He was part of her, just as Crete was part of her. And yet, she had buried those memories deep, telling herself it was for the best.

Now, sitting in her flat, Helena allowed herself to remember. To feel the weight of the years that had passed without contact, the guilt of leaving her brother behind, and the longing for the land she had once called home. She wondered if Yannis ever thought of her, if he had forgiven her for disappearing the way she had. Did he resent her for choosing her husband over her family? Or did he understand, as he always had, that she had done what she thought was right?

She hoped that he had found peace, that the village had continued without her, just as it had for generations. But deep down, she knew that she would never truly be at peace until she knew what had become of her brother, of the life she had left behind. Perhaps that was why she felt so strongly about sending Niko back to Greece. It wasn’t just about reconnecting with their heritage; it was about mending the rift that had torn her family apart.

Helena closed her eyes, picturing the olive groves of Crete, the sun setting over the mountains, and Yannis, standing tall and strong, waiting for her to come home. Maybe, just maybe, this was the way back.