Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  I pick him up and hold him on my lap. I stroke his silky head.

  ‘I used to have Mr Dick before, but he burnt to death in a house fire. Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen to you. You’ll be safe with me.’

  I grab Nino’s old fedora from out of my handbag and sniff it. It’s all crumpled and folded funny, but it sure as hell still smells like him. I shove the hat under the dog’s nose. ‘Nino, kill,’ I say.

  The puppy sniffs and then looks up. He doesn’t look impressed. I need to teach him how to kill. How to go for the jugular. I’ll give him a taste for human blood like the hound of the Baskervilles. I look at the tiny creature and sigh. He’s as lethal as a slug.

  I don’t know where my Nino is and I’ve got no way of finding him. I’ve been chasing him for three whole days and all I have is this mutt. It’s all a mess. And I’m a mess. I look down at my crumpled dress. Man, I really need to shop. No bra or pants. A filthy tote. It’s getting kind of urgent. I’ll go and buy a whole new wardrobe. Something nice to cheer me up. Yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do. Shopping will be fun. This is Rome after all. Italy = fashion. What does Alvie Knightly wear now that she’s a kickass killer? I want to look super hot when I find him. He’s going to realize his mistake. Sizzling. Smoking. Fucking explosive. I need a cool new look. Something to go with the fabulous hair and my designer nose. Shopping then killing. My perfect day. It’s all part of my cunning plan. My foolproof disguise.

  ‘Right. Well, you stay there,’ I say.

  Nino looks up and cocks his head.

  I leap off the bed.

  I want to go to Via Condotti. The internet says that’s the best place to shop. I’ll buy a whole new badass outfit. I’m thinking leather. Skin-tight. Hot. Black for autumn/winter. Sexy. And I need some more sensible footwear for sprinting. And a new handbag. Obviously. I glance at the cuckoo clock: Greenwich Mean Time is eight thirty. I guess that means it’s 9.30 a.m.? We’ve been hiding out for nearly an hour. I hope that woman has gone. I walk over to the kitchen window and peer out through the half-drawn curtains. People bustle on the square below. It’s starting to heat up. I can’t see her down there now. And – no – I can’t see my Nino.

  ‘Nino,’ I say, grabbing my bag. ‘You be a good dog. Don’t chew anything or trash the apartment.’ Ha ha. No, that’s my job . . .

  Nino whimpers. I open the door. The puppy runs out after me. He whips through my feet as fast as a whippet and squeezes past me into the hall. Before I know it he’s run down all five flights of stairs.

  ‘Bad dog, Nino. Stay there.’

  I run downstairs and pick him up and run upstairs again.

  ‘Sit,’ I say.

  He doesn’t.

  He flies through the door and back downstairs, all the way down to the bottom. I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath. He speaks Italian.

  Chapter Nine

  Via Condotti, Rome, Italy

  I walk into Prada and everyone stares. The store is spacious and sparkling. Gleaming tiles and bright white light. The floor shimmers, as slick as an ice rink.

  Other shoppers turn and gawk. I ignore them and march right in.

  ‘Fuck are you looking at?’ I say.

  Maybe they think I’m famous?

  There’s the sound of people muttering. An old lady sees me and kind of chokes. The sales assistants gawp. I know I’m in a bit of a state: dirty dress, no underwear, no shoes on (because they hurt), my Hermès tote is covered in mud and – oops – some of that mugger’s blood. At least my nose and hair look ace: it was worth that thirty grand.

  A shop assistant approaches me. Nino growls at him.

  ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.’

  That’s my boy. Go on. You fucking tell him.

  Fierce as a sabre-toothed tiger.

  ‘Ciao, can I help you, signorina?’ He looks me up and down.

  ‘Chow. Chow. Chow. I need some new clothes. My ex-boyfriend stole all my dresses.’

  ‘Ah, sì?’ he says.

  ‘Black clothes. They’ve got to be black, so that I’m hard to see in the dark.’

  He looks relieved; I’m here to shop, not rob him or eat him. ‘Is for an occasion speciale?’

  Nino snaps and leaps out of my bag. The man jumps out of his skin. I let Nino run around. He needs to let off steam.

  ‘Something durable. Hard-wearing. Got to be good for fighting in.’

  ‘Fighting? Is “litigare” . . . no?’

  ‘And it has to be sexy. Super hot. I’m thinking skin-tight leather onesie. You know, like Catwoman?’

  ‘Leather. Certo. Sì. Of course. Please, come this way.’

  I follow the sales assistant; he leads me to the back of the shop. The other shoppers turn and stare. I think they like my rock-chick hair. I look like Pink or Nicki Minaj. They covet my neon locks. I follow the man across the store until we reach the new collection. There’s a rail with some black leather trousers and matching jackets on. Nino runs in and out of the clothes. He rips a jacket off the rail. The store guy doesn’t notice.

  ‘We have these jackets. They are new. They look molto bello. See, the leather is very soft.’

  He hands me the sleeve to touch: it’s as soft as baby Ernie’s skin. I take a deep breath; it smells like Nino. Dead cow, but really nice.

  ‘Yes, but is it durable?’

  ‘I think for you, extra long. Also, look.’ He shows me the trousers. ‘Is very nice. Italian leather from Toscana. You want you try on?’

  ‘Yes. These too. I’m a UK size ten.’ I think about last night’s pasta . . . At least, I used to be.

  He grabs the garments and leads me to a stylish fitting room: sumptuous, spacious, with floor-length mirrors. Glossy black velvet curtains are draped across the doorway. There’s the scent of lily of the valley. (I’m pleased to see my nose still works.)

  ‘You want I get for you some shoes? A top to try on also?’

  ‘Yes, yes, a leather top. Flat shoes. And a handbag. And bra.’

  ‘Certo, signorina. Un momento.’

  ‘And a G-string,’ I add.

  He goes to fetch the other clothes. I light myself a fag. Nino climbs back into my handbag. I think he wants to go home.

  I suck and suck on my Marlboro. I hear footsteps as the man approaches. I stub out my fag. It burns a hole in the carpet. Oops. I cover it up with my bag. I pull the thick curtain aside and take the pile of clothes.

  ‘Oh. Do you smell smoke?’ he says.

  ‘Could be a BBQ?’

  I try on the trousers with a skin-tight shirt, the jacket and lingerie. I run my fingers through my hair and pull on my mirror shades. I apply some purple lipstick from inside my battered tote. I open the curtain and step out.

  ‘Ta-da.’

  ‘Ooh, fantastico.’

  I spread my arms out to the sides like a glorious, murderous butterfly. I’m a dangerous death’s-head hawkmoth.

  ‘To be fair, you do look hot,’ says Beth.

  Damn straight, bitch. ‘Are you being nice to me now?’

  I could floor anyone in this outfit, take on Mayweather with my own bare hands.

  ‘Awesome. I’ll take three of each,’ I say to the man.

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Yes, three.’

  ‘You want three of everything? You buy three exactly the same?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s my new look. One washing, one drying, one on,’ I say. ‘I want to wear it all the time, you know, like a uniform?’

  ‘Sì,’ he says.

  He doesn’t get it.

  ‘A costume . . . like Deadpool?’

  ‘OK. Va bene.’

  I twirl round and check out my bum. ‘And I want to wear it now.’

  I twizzle in the full-length mirror. Swish my Rita Ora hair. I take several hundred selfies, till I get
the perfect shot. I pout into the camera and strike a pose, then I update my photo on Tinder.

  Chapter Ten

  I pay for the clothes and the shoes and the handbags.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  OH GOD. WHAT’S THAT?

  I grab my phone and stare. It’s Tinder. I have a ‘Super Like’. I know it’s from him before I even look. I check. It is. I was right.

  ‘Nino Brusca, 39, from one mile away, Super Likes you.’

  Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Does he know I’m Beyoncé?

  Great. Now Nino has found me on Tinder. He must have seen through my fake name. It says he is a mile away. But it could be less, couldn’t it? That’s the minimum fucking distance. It could be a hundred metres. Or six. A chill runs up and down my spine. What the hell is he doing so close? Nino’s around here somewhere. Is he . . . is he following me?

  I hide behind a mannequin in the window of the store. I peer out at the crowded street, but I can’t see him on Via Condotti. Perhaps he has gone shopping like me? He’s the one with the two million euros; he’s got money to burn.

  I grab the six Prada shopping bags and run out of the shop and on to the Piazza. I climb the endless Spanish Steps two or three at a time. (The shoes are great, black-leather pumps, flat and good to sprint in. I love the bags; they’re bling baguettes, the ideal shape for the puppy. Cream leather. Golden chains. Nice gold Prada logos. The jacket and the matching trousers are a little OTT. Too-tight smooth Italian leather. Sure, my ass looks phenomenal, but I’m getting really sticky.) The midday sun is glaring down as I huff and puff up ancient stairs. It must be forty degrees.

  I push past tourists, swearing under my breath. But finally I reach the top and get an awesome view. I can see everything from here. The busy square down there at the bottom. The whole length of the high street. Ooh look, there’s Dolce & Gabbana. I’ll pop in later (when he’s dead). Over there is Moncler. And Gucci. This is even better than Westfield. Like Bond Street, but continental. Like Oxford Street, but with some class. I scan the heaving crowds for Nino.

  I flop down on the uppermost step, the Prada bags scattered around me. I push my shades back on my head. I’m still catching my breath. This isn’t easy with all these bags. Those stairs were really steep. Where the hell is he? He can’t be far. I need to spot him before he sees me.

  Tourists taking V-sign selfies. Honeymooners holding hands. Kids licking vanilla gelato. What will I do with him when I find him? I pull out my list: shoot him, stab him, run him over, push him off the edge of a cliff . . . I feel for the blade tucked away in my bag. Thank fuck for my big knife.

  I strain my eyes and scan the busy Piazza di Spagna down below. Is he somewhere near that marble boat? There’s a fountain in the square. The Keats museum is to my left, and to my right there’s a tearoom called Babington’s. Did he pop inside for afternoon tea? Could he be in there drinking oolong?

  Then – I can’t believe it – I spot him.

  YES.

  That’s him.

  Down there on the square. Black hair, black leather jacket, horseshoe moustache. (No hat, but then I have got that squished inside my bag.) Oh my God. I’ve finally found him. Oh villain, villain, smiling, damnèd villain. I pull out the knife. I grip it tight. THIS IS FUCKING ON.

  I pick up my shopping bags, run down the stairs and push through the crowds. Panting, sweating, swearing, tripping. This is it. My only chance. One shot, like Eminem. I might not get another opportunity. I can’t let him get away.

  I finally reach the marble fountain. He was here. Right here by this boat. But now where has he gone? Cool water droplets splash my face. I spin round 360 degrees and spy the back of Nino’s head. He turns and we make eye contact, just for a split second; I forget to breathe. The world stands still. So does my heart . . . He turns and walks away.

  Shit, now what?

  That stronzo’s seen me.

  Now he knows that I’m in Rome, there’s no question he’ll be after me as well.

  ‘NINO. NO. WAIT,’ I say. I reach out my hand . . .

  He disappears into the metro station. Oh no, not the Tube. I’ll never find him down there. I race across the cobbled square.

  Hang on, where’s the dog?

  I stop. Look around. Where is my puppy? I spot him drinking from the marble fountain, his little pink tongue going lap, lap, lap. Oh for God’s sake. I can’t just leave him.

  ‘Nino.’ I whistle. ‘Come here, boy.’

  He jumps up, his tail wagging. He runs towards me across the square, his floppy ears flapping, his black eyes sparkling, darting through feet and legs. I put down all the shopping bags. He leaps up into my arms and licks my face. I wipe it off and pop him into my Prada bag.

  ‘Ready? Come on, let’s go.’

  I pick up my shopping and run inside. Shit, I need to buy a ticket. I don’t have time for that. I climb over the barrier and head down the escalator. I think I see him at the bottom. My shopping bags slam into children and tourists. It is way too busy in here. My muscles burn with lactic acid. My breathing is heavy and loud. I’m running, running, running, running. I think I’m losing my mind.

  ‘Move it. Hey. Out of the way.’

  Why won’t people move, goddamnit? Can’t they see I’m in a hurry?

  I finally reach the lower level. Hordes of people are queueing up. Someone with a parrot. A wheelchair. A pushchair. A tree in a pot. Some guy with a backpack that’s bigger than he is. A woman carrying a cardboard box; on the side it says ‘Fragile’. Yeah, good luck with that. I shove past her and scan the crowd. Every other guy looks like Nino. Black hair. Black jacket. Kind of Italian . . . Oh no. No, wait, that is actually him.

  I hear myself screaming, ‘NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINOO OOOOOOOOOOOOO!’

  It echoes off the walls.

  He turns and dives into a tunnel. Disappears among the mob.

  Where does that subway lead to? Linea A or Linea B? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I sprint into the crowded tunnel. It’s sticky. Humid. Hot. Steamier than a tropical brothel. No air-conditioning. Graffiti covers curving walls. Someone’s spray-painted a heart – ‘I love you’ – just to piss me off. I hear the roar of a passing train. The high-pitched shriek of skidding brakes. The distant hum of metal rails.

  I reach the end of the narrow tunnel. Now there are two sets of stairs going down . . . which one? They both look the same. I study the poster on the wall. It’s a multicoloured map. It makes no sense to me at all. The trains all go in different directions. North or south or east or west. I look around, but I can’t see Nino. I don’t know which way to go.

  ‘RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH,’ I say.

  Somebody is going to die.

  My blood bubbles and boils.

  Left or right? I have no idea. Nino (the dog) barks in my bag. He can sense the tension rising. Animals are good like that. He’s going completely mad in there. Jumping around like a Mexican bean. I unzip the bag and go, ‘SHHH.’

  ‘WOOF. WOOF. WOOF. WOOF.’

  I take out the knife and hold it tight. Zip the bag and sprint down the stairs (I pick the left, but it’s anyone’s guess). I reach the bottom, crash on to the platform and skid towards the edge. The doors swish shut and the train pulls away just as I reach it. Damn. The platform’s deserted. I’m all alone. I shake my head in disbelief. I must have only just missed him.

  I stand and pant and sweat.

  I’ll just have to catch the next train then. One will be here any minute. I study the ripped-up posters and the bare black brickwork. The bright strip lighting hurts my eyes, too white against the gloom. We’re a hundred metres underground. It feels apocalyptic. Soon the platform begins to fill up. I stand at the edge of the tiles. I hide the knife under my arm and keep my eyes glued on the tunnel. Come on, come on, come on.

  I feel a rough hand on my neck. I’m about to screa
m when I’m totally winded. An arm grips tight round my waist and the knife falls on to the metal rails.

  Oh my God, it’s him.

  He whispers in my ear. A hissing sound and too-hot breath.

  ‘Shhh.’

  I can’t turn round. Can’t move my head. I smell the leather of his jacket. Can feel the heat rise from his chest. His body, lean and taut as barbed wire, presses up against my back. I feel his heart BU-BUMP, BU-BUMP. Can feel his heavy breath. There’s the deep, low hum of a Tube approaching. The platform rumbles. JESUS FUCK. He’s going to push me in front of the train. I struggle and strain, but I can’t move a muscle. He’s got me in a vice-like grip.

  ‘He’s going to kill you,’ says Beth.

  I break out in a cold sweat, my vision blurring, my mind a mess. The front of the train emerges from darkness, speeding out of the pitch-black. Noise. Wind. I can’t speak or breathe.

  ‘He’s going to turn you to jam.’

  He holds me over the edge of the platform, dangling me into the path of the train.

  ‘Please. Please,’ I want to beg him. ‘No,’ I want to scream. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Feet kicking. Heart racing. Life flashing.

  Three metres, two metres, one metre away . . .

  I look up and see the train driver; his eyes are white and wide with fear. This is it. I’m fucking dead. I close my eyes and hold my breath . . .

  Beth laughs in my ear.

  WHOOOOOOOSH.

  He pulls me back at the very last second. The train has missed me by a couple of inches. Stale air blasts into my face. I get a bit of grit in my eye. Holy fuck, that was close. I taste the dust and the salt from the sweat and tears now streaming down my face. I collapse on the floor and sob and sob and sob and sob. I wipe my eyes and look around. But Nino has gone.

  People are staring and crowding around me.

  ‘Tutto bene?’

  ‘Stai bene?’ they say.

  ‘I’m all right. I tripped.’

  I try to get up. Somebody helps me. I glare at the gathering crowds. They get the message and leave me alone. My heart beats in my throat. Pounding, pounding, like a gang bang. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Two more inches and I’d be pesto. Every inch counts.