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 scanned the throng of people. Then he saw it—a beaming face, holding a large hand-written sign that read "NIKO." Yannis. He looked older but was unmistakably recognizable, his face cracked with joy. Beside him were two children, bouncing on their toes with wide, eager smiles.

“We’re all so excited to meet you,” Yannis announced. “Alexa! George! Say hello to your uncle Niko.”

Two coy, angelic faces peered up at him, and in unison, they chirped, “Hello.”

Niko instinctively extended his hand and muttered, “Kalimera.” The word came out stiff, but Yannis’ smile grew wider.

“Kalimera, Niko!” Yannis boomed, clearly pleased with the effort. “Been practising, eh? Very good! But listen—here in Crete, we have our own way of speaking. It’s not just Greek, it’s older. Richer. If you really want to impress the old folks, you’ll do them the honour of learning a few Cretan words.”

Niko smiled, though internally, he was playing it cautious. “I’ll do my best,” he said in English.

“You’re doing just fine,” Yannis reassured him. “But remember, it’s not just about the words. It’s about the spirit behind them. Speak from the heart, and the people will understand. You’ll see.”

He's one of those, Niko thought. The type that needs to dish out wisdom like it’s fresh off the press.

Niko noticed immediately how effortlessly Yannis seemed to navigate the bustling airport, waving through the chaos of Heraklion like it was a familiar dance. It struck him that Yannis, if he was indeed the chief organiser of the festival, had managed to drop everything just to pick him up. Shouldn't a man in Yannis' position be too busy? A festival so important, the village waiting, and yet here he was, warmly greeting a nephew he had never met.

Niko couldn’t help but admire it at first—the way Yannis seemed so calm, so composed, despite what must have been a mountain of responsibilities. The thought occurred to him: Maybe we’re not so different, after all. Yannis, too, seemed willing to put family first, to let everything else fall away when it mattered.

But Niko knew his own sacrifice had come from a different place, darker, rawer. He had dropped his whole career in a single moment, the moment Zoe died. He couldn’t even remember making the decision; it just happened. All the work, the training, the years of practice for the next grand performance—it had evaporated, meaningless, the second her heart stopped beating.

Had I done the right thing? he wondered, watching Yannis. The responsibilities, the work, the months of rehearsals—it all felt like a distant memory now. Without Zoe, the stage, the orchestra, the music—all of it was hollow. How could he have focused on anything else, when he didn’t even know who he was anymore? And now, standing in Crete, surrounded by a family he didn’t even know, the question came at him again: What am I without her?

Yannis, for his part, didn’t seem to struggle with those doubts. His cheerful confidence was unnerving. But then Niko reminded himself—Yannis had probably delegated everything. The villagers knew their roles; they didn’t need him to micromanage. A part of Niko envied him, for that simplicity. Maybe that’s what it is here, he thought. Family first, everything else comes second. But what am I supposed to do when my family is built on lies?

As Yannis kept talking about the festival, offering instructions to his grandchildren and smoothly navigating the winding roads out of the airport, Niko felt a strange kind of kinship forming. Maybe we’re not so different. Then he checked himself. It was far too soon to be making assumptions like that.

They made their way to the van in the parking lot, an old, clunky vehicle that looked like it had seen better days but was spacious enough. Yannis took the wheel, while Niko squeezed in beside him. As they pulled out, the bustling city of Heraklion began to fall away, replaced by the wild expanse of Cretan countryside.

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 chattered away, 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.