Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘Why did he let you go?’ says Beth. ‘He should have let you fall.’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Oh and thanks for the moral support.’

  By the time I’m able to breathe and see, the train has pulled off and the platform is empty. There’s nobody here except me. That’s it. He’s gone. I’m all alone. Alone with a sausage dog . . .

  What is Nino playing at? First the mugger and now this. That assclown is playing dirty. There’s no doubt about that. I thought maybe if he saw me in person, he would realize his mistake. Come crawling back – ‘Oh, baby, I’ve missed you’ – with his tail between his legs (tail/trouser snake). But there’s no sign of an apology. Not a hint of shame or remorse. I swear to God, the next time I see him it’s over. RIP.

  I find a bench at the back of the platform and sink down, shaking. Spent. My handbag’s warm against my ribs. I catch a whiff of something gross.

  ‘NINO? WHAT THE FUCK? GODDAMNIT.’

  The dachshund has taken a shit.

  * * *

  *

  I emerge from the gloom of the underground station, blinking in the Roman sun. My phone goes ping with another message. I find it inside my new bag. The phone’s a bit sticky, but it’s OK. I wipe it on my shirt.

  ‘UR CHASING ME WITH A FUCKING KNIFE? U TRY THAT AGAIN UR DEAD,’ it says. ‘I LIKE UR SEXY NEW HAIR.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Trastevere, Rome, Italy

  I chuck my new handbag into a bush. Fucking Nino. Fucking fuck. So gross. Seriously? Two thousand euros of new-season Prada. Less than three hours old. I transfer the phones and the cock ring and wallet and condoms and make-up and cuckoo clock into one of the other new handbags. It’s lucky I bought some spares. At the rate I’m going, I’ll get through one bag a day.

  I drag the dog on his lead and stomp along the city streets. What the hell was my psycho ex doing? Why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance? I cross the square by my flat and do a double-take. It’s that woman, the one who owned my dog, sitting outside the café. She’s drinking a large glass of white wine and eating some Kettle crisps. She sees Nino and he sees her. The dog goes bat-shit crazy.

  ‘WOOF. WOOF. WOOF. WOOF.’

  I march over to her.

  ‘Take him. Just take him. You can have him,’ I say. ‘He ruined my new Prada bag.’

  I let go of the leash and Nino runs over.

  She shrieks with delight. ‘Nino, amore.’

  I skulk down my narrow street. I can’t stay here. Not now.

  I push through the door to my apartment and trudge up all five flights of stairs. I don’t feel safe. Not without a guard dog. For all I know that stronzo followed me. I bet he knows I’m living here. Perhaps it was him here last night, lurking on the fire escape and watching me get off with my toothbrush. He ‘Super Liked’ me, the dick. I pack my new clothes, the two new handbags, the cuckoo clock and everything else. I stomp back down five flights of stairs and call up Airbnb.

  * * *

  *

  I find myself a new apartment, a two-bed flat in Trastevere. It’s on the fifth floor, again. It’s a bargain at seven grand. It looks more like a gallery than someone’s flat. The walls are crowded with paintings and photos. There are sculptures and carvings on the shelves. There’s art everywhere you look: modern, abstract, impressionist. That picture looks just like a Warhol. A tin of Campbell’s tomato soup. I check, but it’s not an original. It’s just a print, so who cares?

  I go back and make sure the door is locked. I pull the chain across the gap. Double-bolt it. Double-check it. I look through the spyhole, but no one’s there. I run my fingers through my hair. I take a deep breath and exhale. At last, I feel safe. Kind of. Nearly. I study my hand; it’s still trembling, shaking. I need a drink. Something fucking strong. A whisky or vodka or maybe a brandy. A Blow Job. A Flaming Lamborghini. Something to take my mind off that bellend. My nerves are shot. I’m stressed out, like my mother. I can’t believe I just had to move house.

  I draw all the blinds and then pull the curtains and shutters closed, just in case he’s spying on me through the windows and taking aim with his big gun. I head into the open-plan kitchen. It’s full of overgrown pot plants and flowers. It’s as wild as a rainforest jungle, a luscious garden indoors. I find myself another knife. It’s the only one there is, but at least it’s bigger than the last one. I’d guesstimate about sixteen inches, like the knife in the shower in Psycho.

  I sit down in the lounge in a comfy chair. The knife rests on my lap. It’s stainless steel. Black plastic handle. Nice and sharp serrated edge. It should do the job. But that is what I thought last time and that knife fell on to the tracks. Nino’s so strong. He could have killed me. I’ve got no muscles. No stamina. No strength. No killer moves. It was lucky I killed that man in Romania. And I cannot rely on luck. I need to train. Train hard.

  I lie down on the floor and do a press-up. A couple of sit-ups. A star jump. A lunge. I’ll get myself fit. I’ll do a boot camp. Just a few more days of this and I’ll be Serena Williams. You watch.

  Right. That will do for now. I reach for my fags. Now I’ve worked on my physical fitness, I need to get strategic. Smart. I flop back in the chair and grab my phone. I call up YouTube and ‘Five Great Self-Defence Moves’. Yeah, yeah, yeah, OK, I get it. You’ve got to bridge. You’ve got to block. I watch it three or four more times and then I turn it off.

  I switch on the TV news. I need to know what’s going on. Are there any new developments on my sister’s case? Are the cops still looking for my twin? Is Alvina Knightly still dead? I flick through the TV channels. Is there any more evidence? Are there any more leads? On screen there’s some footage of policemen. A scene of chaos on a road. That looks like the motorway outside Rome, but I could be wrong. Motorways all look the same. They’re long and grey with a ton of cars. That could be anywhere.

  Of course the news is in Italian, so I don’t understand a word. But now the scene flicks to a different story and Salvatore’s on TV. Salvatore, my sister’s lover, the sexy sculptor from next door. That’s his face up there. And that’s a picture of his villa. There’s another image of his car. The boot of the Beamer is wide open. The TV camera zooms inside. I flinch, but it’s empty. That’s where we chucked Ambrogio’s body. Salvo helped me lose his corpse when I killed him last week. We drove it up to the top of a cliff and then dropped it in the sea.

  Oh shit. Now there’s a picture of Ambrogio. (Oh man, he’s hot. I almost forgot. An Italian version of Chris Hemsworth. A slightly more tanned, slimmer Thor.) Did they find a hair inside the trunk? Do they know he was in there? They zoom in on the passenger seat. Beth went for a drive in Salvo’s car, the night I murdered her. I remember. It was just last week. She was sitting right there. Did they find her nail? A bit of skin? A fake eyelash? A drop of blood? Could her DNA frame me for Ambrogio’s murder?

  There’s another picture of Salvatore looking rough and tough and mean. His name is in big bold capital letters: ‘SALVATORE BOTTARO’. Ha. Do they think he murdered me? Do they think he killed Ambrogio? I bet they do. That’s awesome. Salvatore’s a wanted man (it’s just a shame he’s dead). Now there’s a photo of me on the screen. It’s the same one of me at Beth’s wedding: silver fishnets, body-con minidress, just-got-out-of-bed hair. I let my hair cover my face and shrink down in my comfy chair. I bite my thumbnail down to the quick. It bleeds a little bit.

  I search for the news on my burner. I call up BBC World. I scroll through the European stories. Perhaps they’ve published something new? I search for ‘Elizabeth Caruso’. The number-one hit is breaking news. I shift to the edge of my seat and chew my bottom lip.

  ‘Police in Taormina, Italy, are looking for Salvatore Bottaro, thirty-one, in connection with the murdered British national Alvina Knightly. Mr Bottaro has been missing since 28 August and could be armed and dangerous. He is also wanted in connection with t
he suspected murder of his neighbour Ambrogio Caruso, Miss Knightly’s brother-in-law. The public are advised not to approach him if they see him, but to call 112 as a matter of urgency, or to contact local police if he has left the country.’

  I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. Armed and dangerous? Salvatore? You’ve got to be kidding me. He was an artist. A sensitive soul. They haven’t got a clue. I study the photo of Salvatore provided by the BBC. Yes, he was fit and totally stacked – and having an affair with my twin – but a murderer? I don’t think so.

  I turn off the news. I don’t need to worry. They’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m in the clear, scot-free. If the police still want to talk to Beth, it’s more to get her version of events. They want to hear her – my – side of the story. I’m more of a witness than a suspect.

  I check Tinder again, but there’s nothing from Nino. I need to think of a new way to track him . . . Think, Alvina. Think.

  I’m bored of Tinder so I log on to Bristlr: ‘Connecting those with beards with those who want to stroke beards.’ I read about it in a magazine and I’m keen to explore a new fetish.

  Do you have a beard? YES/NO.

  ‘No.’

  Are you looking for: MEN/WOMEN/EVERYONE.

  ‘Men.’

  Showing bearded people who are within 200 km.

  I scroll through the photos. The men all have beards. I guess that’s the point. You can rate the beards between zero and five stars, say ‘Not a beard’ or just ‘Skip beard’. I scroll until my fingers ache and my chewed thumbnail bleeds.

  But it’s not a fucking beard I want . . .

  It’s a horseshoe moustache.

  * * *

  *

  ‘Hello. I want a tattoo.’

  ‘Of course. Please, come this way.’

  The woman in the shop is tall and pretty. Her back and neck are inked with stars. Her dyed blue hair is tied up in a funky skull-print scarf. I follow her through the tattoo parlour. There’s a smell of other people’s sweat. The walls are lined with photos of clients, pen and ink drawings, new designs. Someone’s had an excellent likeness of the face of O.J. Simpson tattooed across their bare midriff. Huh. They must be a big fan. There are snaps of people’s penises illustrated with Britney Spears, as well as a more unusual selection: life-size portraits of Princess Anne, Ozzy Osbourne and Donald Trump are inked on people’s chests and backs. Ellie Goulding looks out at me from a man’s shaved thigh. (What happens when his hair grows back? She’ll become a bearded lady. I didn’t see any of those on Bristlr. Now that would be niche . . .)

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, pointing to a tat inked in colour on someone’s back. It’s a woman with a wide crimson smile, a straight blonde fringe and turquoise eyes. She’s sexy in a lacy bra. She could be someone’s girlfriend.

  ‘Oh.’ She smiles. ‘That’s Cicciolina. She’s very famous in Italy. Well, her stage name’s Cicciolina.’

  ‘Stage name? Who is she? A singer or something?’

  ‘No, no, she’s a politician.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I see.’

  ‘She was an MP back in the nineties. But before that she was a porn star.’

  ‘A porn star?’

  ‘Uh-huh. She made loads and loads of pornos.’

  I look again at the woman in the picture. ‘She has enormous breasts.’

  ‘Do you have any exotic actors in power in your country?’

  I think of Michael Gove and Boris Johnson. ‘I don’t think so, but I guess you never know.’ (That’s not a film I want to see. I hope I don’t find it on YouPorn.)

  ‘So, what would you like to have done?’ she asks. She picks up her ink gun and smiles.

  ‘I was thinking “DIE NINO” on my bum. Capital letters. Big black font?’

  ‘OK. Absolutely.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘That’s an excellent choice.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s a popular one.’

  I lie down on my front on the little bed and pull my trousers down.

  ‘Really? “Die Nino”?’ I ask.

  ‘Absolutely, we get that a lot. “Die Dory”, “Die Marlin”, “Die Mr Ray”. . . You’d be surprised,’ she says. ‘Hold still now. The needle won’t hurt.’

  There’s a high-pitched shriek as she fires it up: a sound like a pneumatic drill.

  Buzz.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘You need to stop moving. You’ve got to keep still.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s fucking painful.’

  ‘I haven’t started yet.’

  ‘Such a pussy,’ says Beth.

  ‘Have you got any vodka or ketamine?’

  She turns and rifles through a cupboard. Pulls out a half-full bottle of red.

  ‘You can have some Valpolicella.’

  She opens it up. It’s a screw top.

  I take a swig straight out of the bottle. The wine tastes like medicine and plums. I drink some more and brace myself, screwing my fists up into balls. She starts the needle again.

  Buzz.

  ‘Ow. OW.’

  ‘I haven’t even done the “D” yet.’

  ‘No. That’s fine. You can stop there.’

  ‘You just want a “D” tattooed on your ass?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s great. That’s just what I like. “D” for “dog”. I like dogs.’

  I get up off the bed and walk to the mirror. Turn round and check out my bum. The ‘D’ looks red and raw and incomplete on my left buttock.

  ‘That looks seriously fucking stupid,’ my sister says inside my head.

  ‘OK. Fine. Give me back the wine. You can do the rest. But gently.’

  Who are those freaks who like pleasure and pain? Bondage lovers. S&M. (I’m no Anastasia Steele. I’d tell Christian where to shove it.) How do those girls get addicted to piercings? Tattoos inked all over their skin? There’s no danger of that happening to me. I’d be the world’s worst masochist. I prefer to inflict pain.

  ‘And be quick,’ I say. ‘Super speedy.’

  I grab on to the edge of the bed and dig my nails into the mattress. There’s a buzz as the needle starts: a deranged dentist’s drill.

  Buzz.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Do you want me to stop?’

  ‘No, keep going.’

  I swig more wine. Some of it comes out of my nose. My eyeballs weep and sting.

  Buzz.

  ‘Ow.’

  Buzz.

  ‘Ow.’

  (This continues for some time.)

  It feels like I am being stabbed by Borrowers, elves or Lilliputians. An army of tiny, angry people, each with their own sharp knife. I’d really love to strap Nino down and tattoo ‘WANKER’ on his face, then I’d ink every inch of his skin with thousands of pointless dots. Yes. Yes, that would be fun. I’ve invented a new kind of torture. I should call a lawyer, patent it and go on Dragons’ Den. (Deborah would go nuts for that.) I could work at Guantanamo Bay.

  ‘Finished,’ she says, after what feels like for ever. ‘Look. What do you think?’

  I jump off the bed and look in the mirror.

  It says ‘DIE NEMO’.

  ‘That isn’t quite how you spell “Nino”. Otherwise, it’s ace.’

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m totally buzzing from my new tat. I don’t want to go back and sit in my flat. I do my hair and make-up and head out into the town. The club is called Radio Londra. It’s in an old underground bunker. The pavements above it hum like a train is passing. I feel the energy inside. A woman with a whip and collar rocks a dominatrix look: PVC pants with a cut-out ass. Six-inch-heeled knee-high boots. I push through the doors and step inside to hot steam and sweat. The air vibrates. The bass is deep and fucked up. The DJ’s playing tech house so loud it hurts my ears. It
feels like being punched in the face over and over and over. The music beats along my bones and echoes around the inside of my skull. I close my eyes and just feel it, become it. I let the track take over. I don’t want any thoughts, no pictures, no Nino, no Beth, no nothing. I want to forget all about it, to become numb and void, to get wasted.

  Two guys are snogging by the door. I press my body up against the fine black mesh on the speaker. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I feel the bassline pulsing through each cell inside my body. Shivers run up and down my spine. My clit tingles and aches.

  Strobe lights flash and I’m blinded, as if by lightning, just for a split second. And then I see people dancing, moving in stop-motion, white then black then white again: kissing, shouting, laughing all in shattered bursts of light. A woman standing next to me drops a tab of ecstasy; she’s wearing dayglo yellow pants with neon-green legwarmers. A man dressed as a werewolf lifts her up on to his shoulders. Smoke machines blast out dry ice, and I taste chalk and powdered sugar. Warm bodies, sticky skin, Davidoff Hot Water; I push through writhing, pulsing crowds and head over to the bar.

  There’s a man in a tight fuchsia dress. I think it’s made of latex. He’s wearing too much make-up and a black choker with studs on. I’m boiling in my double leather. The tiles are tacky with spilled drinks. I find a space at the counter. There are silver taps and rows of spirits: Smirnoff, Bacardi, Jack Daniel’s, Baileys, Cointreau and sambuca. The barman’s cute, but nothing special. A six and a half out of ten. He winks at me. I don’t wink back. I look away at the menu: Sex on the Beach, Porn Star Martini . . . Anyway, I’ve sworn off men. I’ve gone three days, or is it four? Ménage à Trois, Slippery Nipple. So far I don’t miss them to tell you the truth. I’ve barely noticed at all. Screaming Orgasm, Sloe Comfortable Screw. I don’t know what I want to order. I think I’ll just get a shot.

  There’s a commotion at the far side of the bar. People shouting. Yelping. If it’s a fight, I want to see. I love a spectacle. I push through the crowds and rush over. A woman and a man are fighting. It looks like the woman is winning. She bends his arm behind his back; he’s kind of whimpering. She twists him by the wrist and pushes him down over her knee until his head touches the ground.