Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘Can you tell me what happened at the parents’ race?’

  The rule was one kid, one adult, and Mum and Beth ran together. I look at the clock on the wall by the door. The slow hand drags like it’s stuck in Pritt Stick.

  ‘OK, let’s talk about something else . . .’ She shuffles the papers on her clipboard. ‘We had a complaint. From Mandy Simms. She said that you attacked her dad? Do you remember giving her father a nosebleed?’

  ‘HE WAS DRESSED AS A CLOWN.’ (And he wouldn’t marry my mother either.)

  She writes something down.

  ‘Can I go yet? I’m bored,’ I say. The hands on the clock still haven’t moved.

  ‘What happened in art class today?’

  I stare at a poster on the wall. It’s an advert for something called ‘Childline’. The girl in the photograph looks sad. But she can’t be sadder than I am. There’s a number you have to call: 0800 something. If I called it, what would happen? Would somebody rescue me? But I can’t call it anyway. I’m not allowed to use the phone and I don’t have twenty p.

  The counsellor is talking at me. ‘You were supposed to be making Father’s Day cards . . .’

  I leap up and push over the coffee table. The biscuit tin and her mug go flying. There’s a massive BANG and the counsellor says, ‘What the fuck?’ She’s covered in tea.

  I run and make a leap for the window; I fly through it and I’m free.

  ‘Fuck’? What’s that? A new swear word? I like it. I’m going to keep it.

  I fall to the ground and I’m face down on concrete. The cut on my knee opens up again. A line of blood flows down to my sock; the cotton turns bright red. I wipe the grit off my palms on to my skirt then sprint over to the gate. I push through it and I’m gone. I run and run as fast as I can, past the kids holding hands with their dads as they go out for ice creams or to kick footballs in the park. Perhaps they’re going to watch a movie? It’s Friday night. That’s a dad night.

  I slow to a stop. I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t want to go home and see Beth or Mum. I stand in the middle of the road, my heart BU-BUMP BU-BUMPS. Now where do I go? I take a street to the park. I run to the tallest tree and climb up. I hide out beneath the leaves. I’ll stay here until it gets dark.

  I scrape ‘ALVIE’ in the bark with my nail. Then I carve out ‘FUK’. I lean my head against the trunk and close my eyes. That night, I sleep in the tree and I dream about finding my dad.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday, 4 September 2015

  Ostia, Rome, Italy

  I wake up in the car on the edge of a wood, my forehead stuck to the steering wheel. I try to sit up, but blast the horn.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

  What am I doing in a forest? I remember that time I slept in a tree. I was only eight or nine years old. I’d almost forgotten that. I’d woken up stiff and freezing cold, with leaves in my hair and ants in my pants. I was balanced on the upmost branch. It’s amazing I didn’t fall out. My mum went nuts at me the next day. I’ve never seen her so mad. She wasn’t cross because I’d stayed out. She was angry because I came back.

  The nun’s flopped in the passenger seat. Her face is flat against the dash. I prod her, but she doesn’t move. She’s cold. Not breathing. Still dead. I really didn’t mean to kill her. Now what am I going to do with her corpse? She was an accident. A mistake. I feel kind of bad. Almost guilty. It’s just like that time I ate ten chocolate Pop-Tarts all in one go back in Archway. I shouldn’t have done that. I lean her back in the passenger seat, close her eyes and stroke her face.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ I say. ‘This was never part of the plan. If it makes you feel any better, you won’t have to hang with my sister in heaven.’

  She doesn’t reply.

  My mouth is dry and my throat is sore. My shoulders and the back of my neck are sizzling, scorching, hot. The sun is high up in the sky, its laser rays piercing through the glass: magnifying, intensifying. Oh my God, it’s crazy hot. It feels like my skin is about to ignite. It’s that Durex Play all over again . . . I must have slept for too long in the sun. What time is it? Twelve o’clock? I check my (still wrong) cuckoo clock. I do a quick scan – head to toe – of my body. Nothing’s broken. Nothing hurts (except for my nose, which is still a bit tender. I check it out in the rear-view: hot). I study the crack in the broken windscreen. A spidery cobweb spreads through the glass. I can’t have been going fast enough to do any real damage. It was more of a nudge than a crash. But the car is wedged at a funny angle, tipping over at forty-five degrees. It’s making me feel kind of seasick, off balance. I need to get out of here.

  What is this shit? A nun? A forest? What the hell am I doing here anyway? I’m surrounded by branches and foliage. Trees and hedges. Wild flowers. An earthy smell and dirt. Decay. This isn’t central Rome. How long was I driving for? Did I drive to Umbria? Tuscany? I turn the key in the ignition and try to reverse the car . . .

  But it doesn’t start. Ace. Fucking fantastico. I’ve only had this car five minutes and I’ve already written it off. I check the gas, but the tank’s not empty. Perhaps the engine overheated. The metal melted in the sun. No great loss. It was antique, on its last legs anyway. By the looks of its faded and dated interior – cream plastic steering wheel, beige leather seats, silver dials, a tiny mirror, small round retro speedometer – this thing is fifty years old. I try to open the driver’s-side door, but it’s stuck firm against a tree. I lean over the dead nun and try the passenger side. That door won’t budge either. Oh my God, I’m trapped inside. I’m captive, like a hamster or a goldfish. I sit and scowl in the boiling car; it’s heating up like a Hanoi whorehouse.

  What fresh hell is this?

  I crawl over the seats till I’m in the trunk. There’s some kind of metal can. I pick it up, shake it a bit and give it a sniff. It’s petrol. Or possibly diesel. I chuck it back into the boot. The liquid swishes and sloshes around. I look around for some kind of handle, but I can’t open the trunk from inside. I pant and sweat and swear until suddenly I look up. There’s a sunroof. Huh, that’s lucky. A bead of sweat slides down my neck. I crank it open. Fresh air. I need a drink, some vodka or something. I’m wilting like a pot plant. I wriggle up and out through the gap. A cool breeze flows through my damp hair. Yes. Yes. I’m finally free. Now I know how Mandela felt in 1990.

  I wobble on my hands and knees on the hot tin roof, thinking about cats and Tennessee Williams. Then I jump down to the forest floor and take a look at the car. There’s a streak of blood on the bumper. Oops. I try to wipe it off.

  I hear a man’s deep voice and jump.

  ‘Ciao, come stai?’

  For a second I think it’s Nino. But it’s not his voice. It’s just some guy.

  ‘Oh. Chow,’ I say.

  I turn round. But it’s not a man; it’s a woman. I think. I’m confused.

  ‘Tutto bene?’ she says.

  I study the woman: big hands, big jaw, Adam’s apple, stubble, tall. She has broad, manly shoulders. She’s wearing a bra and a short pink skirt. High heels (inappropriate for a forest.) Too much make-up on. Ooh, I like her sparkly earrings. I wonder where she got those from. She’s made quite an effort for a woodland stroll. Perhaps she’s lost, like I am?

  ‘Um, oh. I don’t speak Italian,’ I say to the woman. What’s she doing here?

  ‘No problem, sugar,’ she replies. ‘Are you looking for something, sweetheart?’

  ‘No. Not really. No,’ I say. Apart from vodka. And Nino . . . ‘Actually, my car won’t start. Do you know anything about mechanics?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong girl.’

  She holds my gaze a little longer, then shrugs. ‘Ciao. Have a nice day.’

  She turns her back and walks away, her buttocks wiggling in the tight pink skirt, her heels sinking into mud.

  ‘Hey, no wait. Come back,’ I say.
r />   The woman walks along the road. Then she stands and stares at nothing, at the place where the pavement should be. Why is she waiting there by the road? It’s not a bus stop or anything. What an odd place to hang out. Unless she’s trying to hitch a ride? I glance at the fucked-up Cinquecento. You know what? I’ll hitch-hike too.

  Oh no, I get it. She’s a hooker.

  I’m about to walk over and join the woman when I stop.

  Oh shit. The nun.

  I don’t want the cops to find her body. My fingerprints are all over the paintwork. Her blood is smeared all over the bumper. I don’t want that death coming back to haunt me (I’ve had enough of that with my twin). Perhaps the car’s owner got a good look at me and gave the cops a detailed description? What if that other nun saw my face and has done an unflattering sketch? No, there’s only one thing for it. I need to torch that tin-can car. I need to lose that nun in a furnace of ash and smoke and flame. I reach inside my Prada bag and rummage around for my purple Zippo: condoms, lipstick, Nino’s phone, cuckoo clock, cock ring, my lighter . . . I turn back towards the car. I spring back up on to the roof – the skin on my kneecaps sizzling, burning – then dangle down through the sunroof. I grab the can from the boot and winch myself up. I pull all my stomach muscles.

  I remember the last time I torched a car, the headmaster’s car at my old school. I can still feel the warmth of the blaze on my face. I can still smell the toxic fumes. In hindsight, he made the right decision when he wouldn’t marry my mum. But I still enjoyed destroying his ride. And that was excellent practice. I open the can and sniff. My eyes sting. Perfect, that ought to do it. I glance at the woman, but she isn’t looking. She’s a good hundred metres away.

  I pour some petrol through the sunroof and into the Cinquecento. GLUG, GLUG, GLUG, GLUG. This stuff really stinks. I pour some over the nun, her wimple, her hair and her long, black habit.

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ I say.

  I wonder if she’ll ever forgive me. Of course she will; she’s a Christian. Forgiveness is what Christianity is all about.

  I shake out the last few drops, then chuck the can inside the car. I reach down for a broken branch and set fire to a leaf with my Zippo. Another leaf. Another twig. A few more leaves and twigs. They’re bone dry. The flames flare up, hot and red and orange. It’s a familiar smell. My eyebrows are singeing. I throw the branch inside the car, then jump down and jog away. There’s a WHOOSH as the petrol ignites and the fire spreads through the rusty Fiat. I crouch down low and peer in through the glass. The seats are burning nicely. The flames spread up across their backs, consuming the cracked leather. The fire flickers to the ceiling, engulfs the interior. Goodbye, Fiat. So long, sister. Another sister. Great. Now I really need that drink. A chocolate milkshake with Baileys, Kahlúa or a strong Long Island Iced Tea.

  There’s a toxic stink of burning rubber from the thick, black, ugly smoke. A crackling sound, a pop, a hiss. I breathe it in and choke.

  I walk over to the woman.

  ‘Hey, hey you,’ I say.

  She looks over. Clocks the Fiat.

  ‘Your car’s on fire.’

  ‘I know.’

  She gazes out towards the road. Gold eyeshadow. Too much rouge. I like her diamanté lashes; they look really cool. In a clearing in the woods I spot a little two-man tent, the modern kind with a low roof. Guy ropes. A purple door. We’re standing right next to a dual carriage-way. What an odd place to camp.

  ‘Do you know where I can get a drink?’

  ‘Cuckoo,’ says my clock.

  The woman shakes her head. ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Some vodka or a bar or something?’

  ‘There’s nothing around here.’

  There’s a hum as a car approaches. A Lancia parks up on the road. I watch a middle-aged man step out. He’s average build, an average height. Pretty nondescript. I watch as the woman approaches the man, wiggling her tight derrière. The two of them head to the tent.

  I smell the smoke from the burning Fiat. I can hear it snap and roar. It tastes like a crematorium. Tiny flakes of ash float by and settle like snow on the scorching tarmac. The flames are spreading to the trees. I could watch for hours. But I can’t just stand around all day (even though that fire looks awesome). I’ve got shit to do. I’ve got people to kill. I need to get back to Rome. I have to look for Dynamite. Now. Before Domenico does. I’ll get to Nino first.

  I check my phone. No internet. And no fucking signal. I can’t call myself a cab. I can’t walk from here. Perhaps that guy could give me a lift when they are – you know – finished?

  I turn and watch the forest fire; the Cinquecento’s disappeared behind an incandescent glow. Ten or twenty trees are burning. That nun will be barbecued. I watch the tent rock to and fro. I’m guessing they could be a while. I stick out my thumb and scan the road. A Maserati. A Prius. A SEAT. Another Fiat. I feel the warmth of the spreading fire. It stings my sunburnt skin.

  I walk further up the road away from the blazing furnace. I hallucinate a rum mojito: a slice of lime, some mint, brown sugar, paper parasol . . . I wave my thumb, but no one’s stopping. They all race past, ignoring me. There’s a THUMP as a branch crashes down to the ground, the leaves orange with flame. I glance towards the little tent. It’s still rocking, swaying. The fire is just a few metres away. I wiggle my thumb.

  At last, an azure Mazda approaches. It’s a young man driving the car. He stops and winds his window down.

  ‘Quanto?’ he says.

  ‘Oh. English?’

  ‘How much for a suck and fuck?’ he says.

  ‘Fuck you. I’m not a hooker. Although I am impressed by your English. Can I get a lift? To Trastevere?’

  He winds his window up again. Then he speeds away.

  ‘Hey. Where are you going?’ I shout.

  This could take some time.

  An Alfa Romeo approaches. This time, I’ll get it. I stick out my thumb. I wave my arm around like a windmill (I would never pick me up). The vehicle slows and stops. I run over to the car. The driver is a middle-aged woman. Her frightened eyes are open wide.

  She points at the raging fire. ‘Mamma mia. Un fuoco?’ she says.

  I glance at the tent.

  ‘Oh God. Wait a minute.’

  Flames are inching up the guy ropes.

  Why do I have to do everything? Those two will be burnt alive.

  I sprint through the forest to the tent. Hot flames lick at my heels. I cough, cough, cough in the blaze.

  ‘Hey. Get out. Get out,’ I say.

  I unzip the tent and rip open the door. I burn my little finger.

  ‘You’ve got to get out of here.’

  The pair are naked and, clearly, fucking. They jump out through the open flap. We run away from the wild fire and out on to the road.

  The woman in the Alfa Romeo stares at us in disbelief. Her mouth drops open: Oh. (I guess we must look quite a sight. I’m the only one who isn’t naked, which is unusual for me.) She revs her engine and swerves away. Great. There goes my ride.

  That’s the very last time I do something nice for anyone ever again. Nino was right: it doesn’t suit me. I don’t know what came over me really. I must still be in shock.

  I study the pair. They’re stark bollock naked: two hard cocks and a pair of tits.

  ‘Can I get a lift to Rome?’

  The one without tits says, ‘Yes.’

  He limps over to his Lancia parked a little way up the road. I watch his bum as he opens the boot; it’s soft like pizza dough. He takes out a bag then slams it shut. He holds the bag over his bits.

  He says, ‘You can wait in the car.’

  I open the door and get in. The Lancia is spacious, nice. It’s a brand-new model. I watch the prostitute walk off butt naked along the road. I wonder where she’s going now. Perhaps she’s got a mate down there who
can lend her some clothes? The other guy walks into the woods and disappears between some trees. I watch him through the passenger window. Has he gone in there to get changed? I check the ignition: damn, no keys. I guess I’ll have to wait.

  The flames are spreading quickly now. I watch the fire for a couple more minutes, then a priest emerges from a burning bush. For a moment I think I’m tripping. Is that . . . is that Moses? He’s wearing a cassock and a clerical collar; his long black cape falls to his feet. He walks through flames towards the car, opens the door and gets in.

  ‘You’re a priest?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  I don’t believe it. Another priest. I already had to kill one last week . . .

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’ he says.

  ‘It’s just that. Oh . . . forget it.’

  He starts the engine and pulls out on to the carriageway. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Don’t be naive. You don’t think priests like transsexual hookers? This is 2015.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Of course, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Priests are their number-one clients.’

  We speed along a pine-lined road and into central Rome. I must have driven all this way sometime last night, but I don’t remember. I must have been half asleep.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘for saving my life.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’

  He doesn’t know I started the fire. I guess it’s better this way.

  I stare out of the window at ancient ruins: old brown bricks and Roman villas. A sign on the road says ‘Ostia Antica’. I thought all the roads lead to Rome?

  ‘So,’ says the priest, ‘are you visiting for business or pleasure?’

  ‘Both,’ I say. ‘Actually, neither.’

  I can’t be bothered to explain. It’s way too complicated.

  ‘Are you enjoying your trip so far?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ I say.

  ‘Have you been to Italy before?’