The Liberation

by Kate Furnivall

  Jake had stood at the bar and watched Caterina dance with Signor Curly Hair not once, but three times. The man’s soft hands had caressed the gleaming skin of her naked shoulders, his loose lips had bent and kissed the mulberry line of scabs along her forearm. The wound gave her an air of danger that was beguiling, as though she were the kind of person who had fought off a lion. Jake considered breaking one of Curly’s fingers.

  The warm seductive rhythm of Duke Ellington’s Take the ‘A’ Train swung through the nightclub, but instead of thawing the ice-sheet between them and drawing them together in a slow mirroring of steps, it left her still staring angrily at him.

  ‘Why did you let Sal Sardo go?’ she demanded.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You should have kept him in a cell and you know it. No, don’t deny it. You had the power to keep him locked up but you chose not to. If you had done your job properly he would still be alive. Not dead. Not . . .’

  ‘Wait!’ His voice was sharp. ‘Where the hell has this come from? I released Sal Sardo because I had extracted all I could from him and have enough riffraff clogging my cells.’

  ‘Liar.’

  She didn’t raise her voice. The word was no more than a whisper, a small stiletto gliding between his ribs.

  ‘You released Sal because you were using him as bait to catch a bigger fish. He was a tadpole to you. Throw him back in and see who looms up to eat him. It’s true, isn’t it?’

  Jake didn’t deny it.

  ‘Why this sudden interest in one of the dog-end dregs of the criminal world, Caterina?’

  Her thumb lifted away very deliberately from his where he held her hand as they danced. A gesture of silent rejection.

  ‘Nor did you contact me afterwards,’ she continued, as if he had not spoken. ‘For days I wondered where my so-called protection was and here I find it swimming in the bottom of your whisky glass.’ For a brief moment she removed her hand from its place on his shoulder and snapped her fingers together. ‘That’s what your promises are worth.’

  He had no defence.

  ‘I was working.’

  It was all he said. No mention of the blood, spilled like red wine over the shirt fronts of the two men he’d been stalking at the factory. Or of the two empty chambers in his gun. Nor did he mention the dreams that spiked his nights, but she must have caught a faint trace of something in his voice because she looked at him oddly and fixed her gaze on his chest for a long time, as though she could hear something cracking inside it. A thick barrier of silence rose between them, though their bodies continued to dance in perfect harmony.

  ‘Tell me,’ Jake asked to break down the barrier, ‘how you know about the man called Drago Vincelli?’ He heard her breath quicken. ‘Caterina, Drago Vincelli is not a name you tout around in public so blithely, if you want to hang on to your . . .’

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘He is a greedy, ruthless killer, one of the scourges of Naples who is making a corrupt fortune while the city is on its knees. You must stay away from him, Caterina.’

  He saw shadows gather in the hollows of her face, but all she said was, ‘Why don’t you arrest him?’

  He guided her smoothly past a couple of dancers who had more enthusiasm than skill on the floor. ‘Two reasons. He keeps himself squeaky clean. No dirt on his fingers. No blood. We have not a shred of proof against him, and no one dares speak against him if they want to keep a tongue in their head. Secondly, Drago Vincelli is always on the move, he is never in one place longer than a heartbeat. He has bolt-holes all over Naples and as soon as we track him down, he’s gone.’ He could hear anger grating in his voice and pushed it away. ‘What do you know about this killer?’

  ‘He is the one who threatened me. Threatened my family. In Sorrento.’

  He drew her slender body closer to his, whether she wanted it or not. The saxophones wailed in his ears.

  ‘Tell me more,’ she said.

  ‘Drago Vincelli is a bomb expert and a brigand,’ he continued. ‘A highly dangerous and ruthlessly successful one. He keeps a close team around him and has gained control in many areas of this city. He brushes up against the Camorra at times, but also he chooses to work with them when it suits him. When this stinking war hit Italy, it was jackpot time for him – he started to deal in stolen firearms and in pharmaceutical drugs stolen from the Germans at first and then from the Allied stores. Nothing is out of this guy’s reach, it seems. Nothing. Now it is stolen artworks that he . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ she whispered. A dry exhausted sound. ‘Enough.’

  She leaned her slight body against his as they glided across the dance floor, her cheek an inch from his. He inhaled the scent of pine trees in her hair. On his shoulder her hand rested with a feather-light touch, but while they danced he became aware of her fingers slowly tightening. The insistent rhythm of the music swelled around them, and with every step he felt her gripping the khaki material harder. He wanted to tell her that he would not run. That she could hold on as long as she liked, that he would find Vincelli for her, but it would take time and she must keep out of sight and out of Naples till then.

  ‘How is your arm, Caterina?’

  ‘Much better, thank you.’

  ‘And the dog. Did it survive?’

  One corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. He was tempted to kiss that tilted corner, so close to his, but he knew that it was the whisky doing the thinking, so he put the brakes on that notion.

  ‘Who is your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean Leonora di Marco?’

  They both knew he meant Signor Curly Hair. She twisted her head round, but whether she was seeking the girl in white or the arm-kissing Curly Hair, he couldn’t tell. The music paused. A slinky blonde female singer swept out on to the stage and the band struck up the opening bars of You Always Hurt the One you Love, slow and achingly sad.

  ‘Caterina, it strikes me that Drago Vincelli must believe you know something crucial.’ She was staring blindly at the band, not at him. ‘Crucial enough to make him want to keep you alive.’

  He saw her mouth fall open. Registered the infinitesimal flicker of anguish before she clamped down on it and blanked any expression from her face. A pulse ticked at the base of her throat. She detached herself from him, sliding her fingers from his, and stepped to one side of the dance floor where she stood immobile. Still the steady throb in her throat. Jake slowly scanned the ballroom, but could spot nothing to set alarm bells ringing.

  ‘You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn’t hurt at all,’ crooned the singer.

  She possessed a rich sultry voice, the kind that knew how to slide inside you, smoky and seductive, drawing her audience close. A spotlight caressed her silky blonde hair that fell in a curtain across one cheek, and she wore a figure-hugging gown of crimson with sequins. A raw slash of scarlet for a mouth and eyes that could peel the skin off you.

  Though Caterina’s face was turned towards the singer and the band, Jake doubted that she was seeing them. He decided it was time to leave, to get her away from here. He could drive her home.

  ‘You always take the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall.’

  As the final words of the torch-song breathed their last, wild applause broke out as men at the front tables rose to their feet. But Jake was more interested in the sight of the white elfin figure of Caterina’s young friend sidling off the dance-floor, moving fast between couples and heading straight for the gilded door at the far end. He swung round, tracking her flight, and he murmured to Caterina that her friend was leaving but she didn’t respond.

  He touched her arm. It was cold.

  At the corner of his eye there was a flash of red and a skein of cigarette smoke was exhaled in his direction.

  ‘Ah, my bella Caterina, what in hell’s name are you doing in a place like this?’

  It was the singer. She was standing with one hand on her curvaceous hip, a cigarette-holder poised in the other,
a tight smile flashing fine white teeth right in Caterina’s face. Full-breasted and older than she had appeared on stage, her challenging stare whisked over to Jake and skimmed appreciatively from his head to his toes, taking in his rank and his ribbons.

  ‘Are you going to introduce me, sweetheart?’ The singer’s voice came out low and provocative.

  Caterina turned her rigid face to Jake, a small jerky movement.

  ‘Major Parr, this is my mamma.’

  Jake should have known. Should have seen. The mirror-image, the same but different.

  If anything, the mother was the more beautiful. Her features were subtly finer, her eyes a more startling blue, but it was the same delicate oval shape to her face, the same angle to the jawline and razor-edge cheekbones, the same wide forehead. The same, yet glaringly different. The lines were harder, steel mesh under the satin-soft skin, and the full scarlet mouth possessed a sensual twist that was not her daughter’s.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ she said with an attractive chuckle in her voice, ‘what’s the matter? Lost your tongue? Aren’t you going to give your mother a kiss?’

  ‘No.’

  The air between them seemed to ignite, suddenly too hot to breathe.

  Caterina’s lips were chalk-white, but her eyes dark with rage. She raised a hand, palm flat towards her mother, warding off any approach, but Jake saw the tips of her fingers curl. Wanting something. To rip her mother’s eyes out? Or to cling to her mother’s neck. It was impossible to tell.

  ‘Go away,’ Caterina said. Short spiky words. ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t come near Luca. You have done enough damage to our family. No word from you for eleven years.’

  It did not dislodge the scarlet smile. Her mother spread her elegant bare arms in a wide generous gesture and said, ‘All the more reason to celebrate being together this evening, don’t you think?’

  Nothing from Caterina.

  Signora Lombardi continued with a small shrug, ‘All right, darling, I admit I should have sent you a postcard.’

  It was a joke. A bad joke. She laughed at it herself but no one else did. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here in a nightclub? And what have you done to your beautiful hair, though I must say your gown is divine, my angel.’ She turned to Jake and kept up the flow of words, as though nervous of silences. ‘You soldier boys know how to pick all the best girls. Don’t you think she looks lovely in it, Major?’

  ‘Divine,’ he said.

  Caterina’s eyes jumped to him. For a second he thought she would laugh but she didn’t, so he slipped her arm through his own. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Signora Lombardi, it’s interesting to meet you but I was just about to drive Caterina home. Goodnight. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  He felt Caterina’s small arm tighten on his, and her shoulder tuck in close, but she made no attempt to leave. Her mother’s blue eyes registered the uncertainty in her daughter and she brushed her hand along Jake’s sleeve.

  ‘Be a sweetheart, Major, and get me a drink, would you? Singing is thirsty work. A vodka for me to drink my girl’s health would be perfect.’

  She laughed up at him, but Jake paid no heed to her practised charm. This was not the time to play at being a gentleman. He had to get Caterina out of here.

  ‘Mama, what are you doing here?’ Her words came out stiffly, each one separate from the next.

  ‘Singing for my supper, of course. You always liked my singing when you were young, remember?’

  ‘I mean, what are you doing here in Naples?’

  ‘Oh, I’d had enough of Rome.’ She gave a dismissive toss of her head, setting her long earrings swaying. ‘All those parties.’ She drew on her cigarette so hard it burned almost to her fingers. ‘So tedious.’

  ‘Go back to Rome, Mamma.’

  ‘Don’t be unkind. I’ve come all this way to see you. And little Luca too, of course.’

  The mention of her brother’s name was like a wasp sting. Caterina jerked herself free of Jake and took a sudden determined step towards her mother. Lucia Lombardi was the taller of the two but she backed off, her eyes suddenly wary.

  ‘Now, Caterina, I . . .’ she began.

  ‘Stay away from Luca.’ Caterina pushed her face close to her mother’s. Jake saw it again, the strength mirrored in each face, but Caterina could not quite hide the anguish behind her anger. ‘I’m telling you to stay away from Luca. You hurt him by leaving us once. I will not allow you to hurt him again.’

  Her mother relaxed, sensing first blood, and she gave another small shrug. Her smile this time was harder.

  ‘Or what, my bella Caterina? What will you do to me if I go near my son? Push me off a cliff?’

  For a fraction of a second, Jake thought Caterina was going to slap the cool mocking face. But instead she said in an icy tone, ‘Eleven long years, Mamma. I do not want you in my life now.’

  Then Caterina was gone. Her pale figure vanished into the crowd. The band launched into Glenn Miller’s In the Mood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lucia Lombardi stood immobile, her face a frozen mask.

  The whisky had done its job well on Jake. The treacherous amber road to oblivion. Jake cursed it. It had dulled his reactions. He would have been right on Caterina’s heels if not for the whisky, but he missed his chance. He was too slow, caught off guard. He started after her and called, ‘Caterina, I’ll drive you home,’ but a hand gripped his arm. He looked down to where red-painted nails had sunk their tips into the weave of his khaki sleeve.

  ‘Wait!’ Lucia Lombardi said. ‘I wish to talk to you about my daughter. If you care for her at all – and I can see you do – help me to become her friend again.’

  ‘Why would I do that, signora?’

  He removed her fingers from his arm.

  ‘Because,’ she held his gaze, ‘you and I both know she needs me. You saw it. Here. Tonight. As plain as day.’ She looked over towards the bar. ‘Now buy me a drink, soldier, and let’s talk.’

  Her smile was intimate. As if they shared something important. And he wondered how often she practised it in the mirror.

  ‘With respect, signora, I do not think you are the expert on what your daughter needs. But you are right, I do care for her, which is why I am going to find her now and take her safely home.’ He nodded curtly. ‘Good evening to you.’

  He pushed his way through the crowd. Frustrated by the delay. Disturbed that this woman had thrown herself back into Caterina Lombardi’s life with the force of a hand grenade. He had to find her. He sidestepped a couple of soldiers who were weaving drunkenly towards him and carved a path to the door with no sighting of a white dress. He hurried out into the marble-columned reception hall, but still no Caterina.

  He cursed himself.

  Sweetheart.

  The word had lingered on the glossy scarlet lips like cigarette smoke.

  My bella Caterina. That’s what her mother had dared to say.

  Caterina turned her face and spat out the words on to the wet slippery pavement. As if sweetheart could kill her.

  When she ran out of the Pompeii Club into the dark night, it was raining. The odours of the city were more pungent in the rain and she could smell its stale breath. Her own breath came in shuddering bursts as she looked up and down the street in search of Leonora’s retreating figure, but the girl was nowhere in sight. The road was a main thoroughfare lined with fine tall buildings, its surface black as wet ink in the rain, but it was empty at this hour. Some of its street lamps were surprisingly still working, tossing buttery yellow pools on the ground and in one of them two alley-cats were yowling in a stand-off.

  She hurried down the club’s front steps and turned to her right, ducking her head against the rain. It slithered down her neck, along her bare arms, and she was shivering but it wasn’t from the cold. How could her mother think she could waltz back into their lives and tuck her feet under their table once more? She had forfeited that right long ago.

  Sweetheart.

  The word crawl
ed inside her brain. She quickened her pace to outrun it, and wished Jake was at her side, walking with her, talking with her, bringing his calm strength to the turmoil of her mind. She should have waited for him but she couldn’t make herself go back in there. She turned quickly down a side alley to be less conspicuous in the street, but her head was still full of a red dress and blue eyes that wanted something.

  So she heard nothing.

  Saw nothing.

  Hands came at her out of the darkness. She tried to scream but one stinking of fish clamped over her mouth. A sack was dragged down over her head, reeking of onions, but she lashed out with fists and feet. Too many hands, too much sacking jammed between her lips to silence her. She felt a sharp stinging prick in one arm. It wasn’t the rain, however much she told herself it was. Silence came first, warm and silky as the sea in summer, and then, bit by bit, came the darkness.

  But even in the darkness one word continued to pulse inside her head: sweetheart.

  Where was she?

  Jake stood on the nightclub steps in the rain. He scanned the street. No sign of Caterina. Where the hell was she?

  On the other side of the road a boy in rags crouched in a doorway, presumably sheltering from the rain, and Jake darted across to him. The kid huddled deeper into his corner.

  ‘Did you see a young woman in a white dress leave that building just now?’

  The boy shook his head. He was wearing a cap, his eyes invisible beneath it. Jake dangled a cigarette, just out of reach.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  A small hand stretched up for it, palm open. ‘She got in a car.’

  ‘Going in which direction?’

  The hand pointed to the right. Jake stared up the wet road.

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘An American car. Black.’

  Jake dropped the cigarette on the palm and it disappeared. He headed quickly back towards the steps but a chill swept through his veins.

  A car?

  Why would she get in a car? Whose car? The image of the black Buick on Capri and the big brute driving it churned in his head and he hung on to the thought that she could still be somewhere inside the club.