I feel a raindrop on my head and then the heavens open. SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT. Oh for fuck’s sake. Seriously? Now it’s tipping down. Yeah, thanks for that, God. How very apt. Like She’s making a point. I run for cover under a tree. I don’t have an umbrella. I stand here in the cold damp air. Rain. Of course, what else?
Rain, Rain, go away,
Come again another day . . .
Or not. I don’t care.
I really need to pee. I should have gone before in Rain’s flat. But it’s too late now. I’m not going back. I don’t know where it is anyway. Everything’s dark and unfamiliar and now it’s turning green.
I like absinthe. It’s the first time I’ve tried it. I feel like Mr Soft. The pavement turns into marshmallow and I moonwalk along. There’s a sign up on the wall. I float closer, but I can’t read. I close one eye and turn my head round ninety degrees: ‘VIOLINS AND VIRGINS’ or ‘VIADUCT VIRGINIA’ or ‘VIA DELLE VERGINI’. Another sign says ‘VIETRI ALLERGY’ or ‘TREVOR GALLAGHER’ or ‘TREVI GALLERY’. Another sign says ‘FORMICA’ or ‘FARMYARD’ or ‘FARMACIA’. Maybe.
The street is lined with closed shop windows, the plastic shutters pulled across. It stretches out to infinity. I really, really need to pee. I can’t run. My bladder’s too full. I’m feeling hot and dizzy. You’re only supposed to drink three shots, but I think I had twenty.
I float up and up, round a corner, into something big and white. I gasp. Oh wow. What’s that? Towering lanterns with little glass lamps illuminate an oasis. I rub my eyes. Am I dreaming? A marble fountain. Winged horses. And a god. Who is it? Neptune? Or Triton? A mermaid king. A merman. His robes seem to ripple in the wind. Majestic rocks. A bountiful beard. A seashell chariot. He stands over a shimmering, magic turquoise sea.
Behind him, a grand marble building. Endless tiers of balconies. Corinthian columns stretching up as far as the eye can see. The sun glides over the horizon: the first rays of dawn pierce silver night. The facade comes alive with dancing nymphs, beautiful in the golden light.
I set my bag down on the edge and step into the fountain. The water is cool and blue as I sink into the shining sea. I feel the liquid swirl across and all around my body. I dive down and taste sweet water. It mixes with the liquorice, the weird and bitter green. There are hundreds of coins all over the floor, gold and silver and glistening. I pick up three and shove them in my pocket. I come up for air and rise out of the water. Suddenly the fountains turn on. Water gushing and crashing and blasting in torrents and frothing streams. (I really fucking need to pee. I’m just going to go in the water.) I stand beneath a waterfall and let my hair flow down my back. I am a goddess. A movie star. Anita Eckberg in La Dolce Vita. I give myself up to the god.
I feel better now I’ve had a pee.
‘FUORI DALLA FONTANA.’
I hear a voice. A man’s voice. Is that God shouting? Shouting at me?
‘Hey you. Get out of the water.’
I wipe my eyes and look around.
‘Is a five hundred euro fine.’
A policeman is waving at me. I jump up and out of the fountain and run down the street soaking wet.
Help. Help. That cop’s going to kill me. He’s after me. He knows what I did. I’ve got to get out of here. Run away. It’s over. The murders. I’m done.
I turn one corner then another. Run till I can run no more, my heart exploding. I can’t breathe. Now I’m lost.
Where am I?
It’s some kind of temple. I look around, but that cop has gone. Phew, I must have lost him. It’s dark and my sense of hearing heightens: the yelps of fighting animals and the long, low groan of a cat. It’s just gone four o’clock in the morning according to my cuckoo clock. I can’t walk another step. My feet are killing me. Why didn’t I just call a cab when Rain threw me out? I’m not myself. I’m not thinking straight. It must have been all that absinthe.
I’m tired and drenched and shivering. My clothes drip, drip on the ground. Where am I going? What is that column? What is that massive arch? My feet smash sand and broken rock. I check Google Maps again, but I don’t know which way round the screen’s meant to be. Am I that little blue dot? I squint into the sudden blinding light and try to work out where I am. Rocks. Ruins. Blocks of marble. Mosaics. Floodlights. Shadows.
Urgh.
What’s that swooping? Are they bats?
I trip over my feet into some kind of column. It wobbles a bit and then falls over.
CRASH.
BANG.
SHIT.
It cracks in two when it hits the ground, then rolls around a bit. Fuck it. It looked really old. Not irreplaceable. I run away up crumbling stairs. I try to check my phone again, but the battery dies and I can’t use it. Google Maps can’t help me now. I am on my own.
I find a wall and then sit down and dangle my legs off the edge. I hold my head in my hands. Why am I even bothering? What do I hope to achieve?
Dad left me and Nino left me. And now Rain has thrown me out. My own twin sister was plotting to kill me. My mother seemed happy I was dead. Tell me, God, if you are listening, did I do something wrong? All my life, all I ever wanted was something like acceptance. Love? Love was always beyond reach, something reserved for other people. For Beth or for the cool kids in school. For characters in storybooks. For ‘normal’ people who looked good. For my grandma’s dog.
‘Why not me?’ I shout into the sky.
Nobody replies.
No one knows that I am missing. No one cares that I am gone. The only reason my mum and the cops want to find me is because they think I’m someone else. I peer down between my feet. It’s a really long way down . . . Would anyone notice if I jumped? Would anyone give a shit?
When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.
I can’t think of one reason to live.
DAY FOUR:
The Nun
LAST WEEK
Friday, 28 August 2015
Taormina, Sicily
The lampshade on Beth’s bedside table casts a warm and crimson glow. Nino’s face is half in light, half obscured by shadow. I lean in and kiss him on the mouth. I taste his tongue and his lips. We sink into one another. I lie down next to him on the bed, my body melting into his. I feel the heat rise from his skin, like he is made of flame. There is something so erotic about being in my sister’s bed. The bed she shared with Ambrogio. They were sleeping here last week, but now they are both dead. I close my eyes and breathe Nino’s scent, as his fingers run through my hair.
An owl calls in the garden. Is that a good omen or bad? Huh. I can’t remember.
‘You know,’ says Nino, sitting up and looking me dead in the eye. ‘I don’t usually like Brits.’ He lights a Marlboro Red, then passes it to me.
‘Why not?’ I say. I take a drag. ‘What’s wrong with Brits? You like me.’
‘My papa was killed by an Englishman.’
‘Oh. Right. Shit.’
‘Enzo, his name was.’
Here we go. Where’s the violin? It’s time for a sob story.
I pass the Marlboro back again and place it in between his lips.
‘I was fourteen when he died.’
‘I think my dad might be dead too,’ I say, ‘but I don’t know . . .’
He shakes his head and looks at me. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I saw it.’
His eyes are wide. He looks spooked. Freaked out. I’ll tell him about my dad later.
‘Papa was fucked by an English guy. He had risked everything for this deal. An art deal. Fucking massive. It was going to change our lives for ever. It was better than winning the Lotto.’
He takes an angry drag on his fag, then turns and studies the floor.
‘It was our chance to leave this island, to start a new life in America. Me, my mother, my three young sisters. I remember my papa comi
ng home one night and kissing my mum.’ His eyes lock on mine. They spark like fire. ‘I’d never seen them kiss like that. It stuck in my mind . . .’
I wonder if he’ll go down on me again. That was beyond impressive.
‘He had found a buyer for a stolen picture: a painting of the Crucifixion by Antonello da Messina.’
He looks at me. I look back, blank. ‘I don’t know who that is,’ I say. ‘I just know the British ones.’
‘Da Messina was a Sicilian artist of the Renaissance. He introduced oil painting to Italy. He was very influential.’
I nod. ‘He sounds like the real deal. It must have been expensive.’
Nino crushes the life out of his fag as if it were that English guy.
‘The buyer took the painting and ran. Left papa with a bullet in his shoulder. No painting, no money, no niente . . .’
I liked it when he fucked my ass; that was a revelation.
‘The next day, I found him . . .’
‘Found who where?’
‘. . . hanging from the lemon tree at the bottom of our garden.’
‘Oh my God. That sucks,’ I say.
‘His leather belt was round his neck. He had a fucking erection.’
‘What?’
‘He had only just died,’ Nino says. ‘Had only just killed himself. If I had been a few minutes quicker, I could have saved him. I could –’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.
I massage his neck. It’s rigid.
‘I had to look after my young sisters. My mother’s heart was broken. So I joined La Cosa Nostra, the family business.’
I gasp. ‘You were fourteen when you started killing?’ I feel a stab of jealousy. At that age I was just killing squirrels. Squirrels and Tamagotchis.
He looks at me, the whole world on his shoulders. ‘Sì. Fourteen,’ he says. ‘It was me and Domenico. He was only eleven.’
I wrap my arms round his neck and press my head into his chest. ‘I am so, so sorry, Nino.’
‘It isn’t your fault, Betta.’ Nino reaches for my face. He cups my chin in his hands. I feel warm fingers stroke my cheek. ‘I never told anyone that . . .’
I breathe his skin. I close my eyes. I can hear his heart beating. This is the closest I’ve ever felt to any human being ever. I want to tell him things that hurt. I want to share this moment. I want to tell him everything. About my dad and how he left. The fucked-up things that you keep hidden. I want to tell him my real name . . . but I don’t want to lose him.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday, 3 September, 2015
Trastevere, Rome, Italy
Sunrise. Pink sky. The birds have all just woken up. Above my head a big, black cloud of starlings swirl and spiral in a massive murmuration. The birds are fucking everywhere. In my face and in my hair. I’m stuck in the middle of a Hitchcock movie.
SQUAWK. SQUAWK. SQUAWK. SQUAWK. SQUAWK.
A sound like my mother’s voice – terrible and witch-like – fills the chilly morning air. It’s far worse than anything I have heard in my whole life. It’s loud, high-pitched and ominous.
‘Fuck off. Go on. Go away.’
What a way to wake up. Really. This is beyond a joke. I groan and swing my legs off the wall. Sit up and stretch it out. I am aching everywhere. That was the worst night’s sleep of my life. My arm’s gone dead from lying funny. It tingles with pins and needles. Who sleeps on walls? I mean, what was I thinking? This is worse than that time I passed out in the middle of a roundabout.
‘You’ve reached a whole new level of crap decisions. Well done, Alvie. Bravo.’
OK, this time, Beth has a point. Not my finest moment. But why didn’t someone rescue me? Like Princess Ann in Roman Holiday? Fine. Whatever. Who needs a hero? I’ll just rescue myself. ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ Gloria Steinem said that.
I peer over the other side of the wall. There’s a sheer drop of twenty metres. Oh! That must be the Roman Forum down there. Rocks and columns and bits of marble are strewn across the sandy floor. It’s bloody lucky I didn’t roll off. I would have fallen to my death. A splat of Alvie/strawberry jelly. I know I fancied death last night, but that would have been a mess.
I ask someone the way to Trastevere. Eventually I find my flat. I climb the stairs and head for my bedroom. Put my phone on charge. There’s a missed call from an unknown number. No new messages. No texts. I can’t use Tinder to find Nino. I can’t use that tracking app. For all I know, he’s left the city. This is fucking hopeless.
‘So you’re just going to give up?’ says Beth.
‘I’m not giving up. No chance. Not ever.’
There has to be another way. This is 2015. I take a calculated risk and turn on my sister’s phone.
Ping.
There’s one new email from my mum, but I can’t be bothered to read it.
I scroll through my sister’s contacts. I don’t know why, but maybe someone can help me? Anna, Bianca, Carla, Domenico . . .
Domenico? Why does that name ring a bell? I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Perhaps he’s someone from Taormina? Domenico? Domenico? Oh, now I remember: I met him last week. He was Nino’s friend. Another one of Ambrogio’s hitmen. But why did Beth have Domenico’s number? Was she sleeping with him as well? Urgh, I hope not. He was rough as fuck. More Neanderthal than man. I can picture him now in that creepy wood. He was the one with the cement mixer and the beat-up pick-up truck. He poured cement on my twin sister. A nice guy. A delight. He’s probably not mates with Nino any more, since Nino escaped Taormina. I doubt they parted on very good terms. I’m pretty sure he’s livid. Nino left a trail of destruction behind him, a murdered priest and a burnt-down villa. He destroyed a painting worth thirty million dollars (if anyone asks, that was Nino, not me). I bet Domenico had a stake in the painting. They were all in on Ambrogio’s deal. He royally screwed the lot of us over. I’ll bet Domenico’s mad like me.
Then I get a crazy idea.
I am going to call him. Yes. It’s brilliant. Two heads are better than one. He’s tough. He’s rough. He’s mean. He’s perfect. We’ll hunt Nino down together. We’ll be BFFs.
I click on Domenico’s number and call.
‘Yeah,’ says Beth, ‘call Domenico. He’s a sweetheart. Really nice. He’ll be thrilled to hear from you. I bet he’s missed your voice.’
I hang up. Swear under my breath. Sarcastic bitch. But what if she’s right? Is Domenico after my blood too? Does he know I was Nino’s accomplice? If I call him up and tell him where I am, will I have two mobsters on my ass? Things could go from bad to worse. The shit would hit the fan.
But what else can I do? I’m running on empty here. It was lucky that none of those birds shat on me, but honestly that’s the extent of my luck. It’s hardly an auspicious day. But you know what? I’ll take a chance. I am going to call him.
Brrring, brrring, brrring.
‘Pronto,’ says Domenico.
Who does Domenico think I am? Am I Alvie or Beth? Am I Nino?
‘Pronto,’ Domenico says again. His voice is deep and gravelly. As rough as tonsillitis.
Shit. I don’t know what to say.
He hangs up so I call him back. My hands are shaking, sweating . . .
Brrring, brrring, brrring, brrring.
Domenico helped us bury ‘Alvina’, so I’ve got to pretend to be Beth. The cops think they’ve found Alvie’s body, so it makes sense. Though what if he’s angry with me as well? Mad at Beth, I mean?
‘Sì. PRONTO,’ Domenico says. I think he’s getting tense.
I swallow. Hard. OK. Here goes . . .
‘It’s me, Ambrogio’s wife . . .’
‘Elizabeth? WHERE IS NINO?’
* * *
*
Slabs of marble cast long shadows on the unmown grass. The sun is low
in the red sky. I study the tombstone.
‘This grave contains all that was mortal of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET,’ it says. ‘Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Feb 24th 1821’.
I sigh and shove the tiny spoon inside my tub of pistachio gelato.
If I were dead, it could be me. I’m an English poet.
He was only twenty-five when he died. That’s the same age that I am now. And look at everything he achieved: ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’, ‘Endymion’, ‘When I have fears . . .’, ‘To Autumn’, ‘Bright star . . .’ I know, I’m under no illusions. Keats was a better poet than me. My haikus show potential, it’s true. I’m impressed I make the effort at all. The height of art for my generation is taking a shit and then taking a photo and posting it on Instagram. Some of my haikus verge on genius; there is no denying that. But I shouldn’t compare myself to Keats. He was a master. One of a kind. A little bit better than me.
The graveyard’s filled with statues of angels and sculptures of women draped with robes. Some of the graves are a hundred years old. It’s beautiful. And creepy. Death is fucking everywhere. It’s under the surface, so you can’t see it. But dig down a couple of feet and it’s coffins and maggots and bones.
I’ve neglected my poetry of late. I’ve been so caught up with all this killing. That’s really where my talents lie. I suppose I should focus on that. I’ll give it my best shot. Keats may have been the better poet, but I am way better at death. ‘Alvie Knightly: Murderess’. Man, that sounds romantic. That’s what I want on my tombstone. That and some TayTay lyrics.
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