‘Hmm. Now let me see.’
She takes a clipboard from a shelf and leafs through a couple of pages. ‘Dum-di-dum-di-dum. Oh, yes, I have a Diamondback 9mm, a Karh Arms CW380, a Kel-Tec P-32, a FN Baby Browning .25, or a NAA-22S Short. All great weapons. Top of the range. What would you like to see?’
She looks at me expectantly. Legs like a racehorse. Washboard stomach. Man, I wish I had her figure. But without the treadmill thing.
‘The first one you said, with the diamonds?’
She nods, then turns away. I watch as she walks to a row of cases, then climbs to the top of a folding ladder. She takes a small black plastic case from the top and brings it to me.
‘Ta-da. This is the DB9.’
She flips open the case to reveal a tiny matt-black handgun. The handle has a diamond pattern: a cute design with raised plastic shapes, but there aren’t any actual jewels. Shame. I guess I could buy some diamanté and jazz it up a little?
‘Don’t you just love it?’ she says.
Domenico frowns at me. ‘This isn’t really why we’re here . . .’
‘Oh? It isn’t?’ says Rain, looking up.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I agree. ‘But as we are all here . . .’
I take the pistol from the case. It’s light, so light it doesn’t feel real. It seems more like a children’s toy, but I know it’s lethal. It can stick a slug inside your brain. It can shatter your patella.
‘So why are you here?’ says Rain.
She stands with her hands on her hips. She’s as toned as a synchronized swimmer.
I try to hide the gun in my pocket. It fits perfectly.
‘I wanted to take you out tonight. You know . . . out for dinner.’
‘Like a date?’ she says.
‘Like a date.’
She leans in and kisses me. Her lips are soft and warm and sweet from the protein shake.
‘Nino,’ says Domenico. ‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘Who’s asking?’ asks Rain.
‘I am, actually.’
‘Ohhh . . . that Nino,’ she says, turning to me. ‘So that’s who you were talking about. How weird we both know the same guy.’
Domenico shakes his head and lights himself a cigar.
Ha, see that, Domenico? No torture required.
‘I have seen him. How much?’ she says.
She looks at Domenico then me.
Domenico sighs. ‘Alvina, are you going to buy that lame-ass gun?’
I pull the pistol from my pocket. Weigh it in between my hands. I feel the tiny raised diamonds and stroke the pistol like a cat. ‘You know what, I think I will.’
‘How much for the info and that gun?’
I glance at the cardboard box by the door. ‘Ooh and a hand grenade. I want one of those as well.’ Might come in handy. You never know. They look really fun.
Domenico rolls his eyes. ‘Are you sure you know how to use them? They’re very dangerous.’
‘Yes, I know, that’s why I want one.’
‘They can cause a lot of damage. They’re more powerful than a gun.’
‘Jesus, stop with the mansplaining. I understand. I want one.’
Domenico shrugs and turns to Rain. ‘How much for the info, the gun and a hand grenade?’ Rain downs the rest of her protein shake. ‘Tastes like shit. Don’t know why I drink them. Can I get you people something? A bourbon perhaps or a mint julep?’
‘Niente,’ says Domenico.
‘I’ll take a bourbon,’ I say.
I need a drink. I’m freaking out. Was Nino right here in this room? Standing here where I am standing? What did he want? Did they have sex? O most pernicious woman! Did she fuck my guy? She opens up a drinks cabinet and pours out our drinks. One for her and one for me. She hands me a couple of inches of bourbon; it’s dark and gold like honey.
‘Ice?’ she asks.
‘No, neat,’ I reply.
‘What’s your favourite kind of restaurant?’
I say, ‘I don’t know. Italian?’
‘So how much?’ interrupts Domenico.
Whatever it is, I’ll pay it. I can’t take any more of this. It isn’t good for my mental health. I need to find that asshole yesterday. I’m getting all stressed out. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a haiku. My mind’s a messy blur. I down the drink in one. The bourbon burns the back of my throat.
‘Ten thousand euros,’ says Rain. ‘And I’ll throw in some ammo for free.’
She puts some bullets in the case with the gun.
Domenico whistles through his teeth.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Where is he?’
She raises a thin, perfect eyebrow. She’s looking right at me. ‘First I want the money, baby.’
‘Do not baby me.’
I grab a thick handful of banknotes from inside my bra.
‘One, two, three, four . . .’ I count out €10,000.
‘Nino came here a few days ago.’
I knew it. I could smell him.
‘He wanted a new identity. I got him a passport, a driving licence . . .’
‘Ooh, can I get one of those?’
‘He’s changed his name to “Luca Mancini”.’
‘Luca? What the fuck?’
‘And he bought a gun. A new Glock 40 –’
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Someone’s knocking on the door.
I hear a voice call from outside. ‘SIGNORINA. POLIZIA.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Piazza della Republica, Rome, Italy
‘POLIZIA. POLIZIA.’
It’s a kid’s voice: high-pitched and whiney.
‘Shit. It’s my lookout,’ says Rain. ‘Let’s go.’
She stuffs the money in a handbag lying on the sofa. It’s a Marc Jacobs satchel in sapphire like her eyes.
Domenico growls. ‘Che palle.’
Rain says, ‘Follow me.’
She sprints out of the back of the flat and through the kitchen door. It’s lucky we’re on the ground floor.
I grab my gun out of its case and a handful of bullets and the hand grenade. I follow Rain and Domenico out and through the garden.
I stuff the weapons in my pockets as we sprint out through the gate.
Rain turns and glares at Domenico. ‘Why are the cops here?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t call them.’
‘Beyoncé?’
‘No idea.’
I bet it’s those Sicilian cops after me again. Oh man, why won’t they leave me alone? Will I always be on the run?
Rain, Domenico and I race along a cobbled street into a crowded square. It’s called La Piazza della Rotunda. Oh look, there’s the Pantheon. How cool is that? It’s splendid. Majestic. Fucking sublime. It’s nearly a mile high with towering columns and an enormous dome. The facade’s engraved with Roman letters. I have no idea what they say. I look around for the police, but I can’t see them. Yet.
‘I’ll take you to where Nino is staying,’ Rain says. ‘Come on, this way.’
We follow her across the square. ‘Hey, slow down.’ I’m out of breath. She’s so much fitter than me.
We run past a trattoria; it’s bursting with city life. This place would be great for people watching. I could sit here all day long, eating ready-salted crisps and drinking cold white wine. But not right now, I guess; we’re busy. We’re going to find him.
Holy fuck.
THIS IS IT.
Any second now.
We turn a corner on to a street. Rain stops and points to a building.
Peach shutters. Cream walls. Pretty flowers in boxes.
‘Are you kidding? He’s in there?’
‘Shh,’ says Domenico.
He pulls out his foot-long Colt. I grab the Diamondb
ack.
I stop.
There’s a chill in the air.
Then a sudden, deafening noise:
KA-POW. KA-POW.
I turn round.
Rain is down on the floor.
Two black holes have appeared in the middle of her forehead. Shit. What was that? Was that me? I study the gun. Look down the barrel. But it’s cold. I didn’t shoot. It isn’t even fucking loaded. It wasn’t me. So who? The cops? Domenico? I look up and see Domenico sprinting across the square. But it can’t have been him; he was up ahead. I could see what he was doing. People are screaming. Seriously, what is going on? I scan the square. No cops. But then . . . Nino. Of course. He must have seen us. We’re standing right outside his flat. I look up and see that a window is open. A lacy curtain billows through. He saw us or heard us. He was waiting, the wanker. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. A swirling mess inside my head. I look down at Rain’s chest. It’s still. She isn’t breathing. Fucking Nino. This fucking sucks. Why did he have to kill Dynamite? What am I doing, just standing here? I need to run.
I hear a loud siren.
A panda car approaches. It’s a sleek black car with thin red lines and ‘Carabinieri’ written on it in white. The car swerves right and heads for me, blocking off the end of the street.
A cop jumps out and shouts at me. ‘Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’
He points his gun right at my head. I look down at the Diamondback in my hand. I’m faint. My ears are ringing. I turn and run back through the square. Past a fountain. A side street. A terrace café. Rome whizzes by in a dizzying whirl. I’m panting. Sweaty. Gasping. Heart pounding. Where am I going? I run and run and run. As soon as I start, I realize my error. I am really crap at running. What was I thinking? Oh my God, I need to sit down.
I find an alcove and collapse against a cool stone wall. I spark myself a Marlboro Light and take an angry drag. And then, from out of fucking nowhere, someone rugby-tackles me. SMACK. I’m down. I’m on the pavement. I see a dark blue uniform. Someone else’s gun. I drop my fag and my Diamondback.
Damn, I just got that gun.
‘Tu sei in arresto,’ the cop shouts in my ear. He’s lying – heavy – on my back, crushing me into the ground.
‘English please. Do I look Italian?’ When will people learn?
‘You are under arrest,’ he says.
‘OK. Yeah, I got that.’
I breathe street dust. Taste dirt. The cop rolls me on to my back and then he pins me down again. Metal handcuffs clink round my wrists. Without even checking if I’m OK he hauls me up and pushes me. Really, some people. No bloody manners.
‘This is an outrage. It wasn’t me.’
The cuffs are tight. Uncomfortable. He drags me towards his car. Another cop car, then another, speeds on to the piazza.
‘Dude, you’re making a huge mistake.’
The policeman shoves my head down hard. He slams me into the back of his car, then jumps in the front seat. He floors the gas and sirens blare.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I told you already, it wasn’t me.’
‘You were standing by a corpse with a gun in your hand,’ the cop shouts back at me.
‘I know. I know. But I didn’t shoot her. You’ve got the wrong person. I swear.’
‘We’ll see about that. We’ll do a post-mortem.’
‘Ha ha,’ says Beth. ‘They’ve got you this time.’
‘I want a fucking lawyer.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Piazza Venezia, Rome, Italy
This is all just typical. The one time I didn’t kill them is the time that I get caught. It’s ironic, like that song by Alanis (I don’t need a spoon; I need a gun). But they’ll let me go. They have to. They’ve got to. They’ll see it’s a different kind of bullet. They’ll spot it was a long-range shot. At least, I hope so. This whole thing’s a joke. I AM SO PISSED OFF.
‘It’s Nino. He’s the one you’re after. He’s the fucking serial killer.’
I glare at the cop in the rear-view mirror. Oh, he’s actually quite fit. It’s the first time I’ve had a proper look. He looks just like a Disney prince. An Italian version of Aladdin: floppy hair, good eyebrows, nice eyes. He’s even handsome when he scowls (he’s scowling at me right now). I have a thing for uniforms, and, I have to say, Italian cops. It’s almost worth getting arrested. I’m already wet.
We speed along the busy streets, swerving in and out of traffic. Sirens blaring. Blue lights flashing. The handcuffs dig into my wrists. Lucky they’re fastened on top of my lap. Ha, this guy’s an amateur. They’re supposed to be behind your back. There’s still no way to get them off. I lean my head on the window and sigh a long, deep sigh. This is shit. I’ve got to get out of here. Need to find Nino. That fucking guy. I can’t believe he just shot Rain. What did she do wrong? Was it because she took us to his place? Or because she knew his new ID? She was the one who got him the passport. Perhaps he was tying up loose ends. He was covering his tracks. I bet it was Nino who called the cops. The bastard sent them to Rain’s flat.
The glass is cool against my hot cheek. I need to escape. But how? This is ridiculous. Why me? That stronzo’s out there running free. He just murdered that girl in broad daylight. She was three feet away from me. And you know what, I was starting to like her. She was really growing on me. I liked her trainers. Her nail polish. I really liked that Marc Jacobs bag. I wish she hadn’t beaten me up, but other than that she was cool.
The Disney prince has got my gun, but I’ve still got that hand grenade. (Man, it’s lucky he didn’t frisk me. I bet he thought that was my only weapon. Ha ha. Big mistake.) The hand grenade weighs heavily inside my jacket pocket. I can feel it there now, resting on my hip. They’re bound to search me at the station. It was just an oversight. When they find it they will take it and I will be in deep, deep shit . . .
I get one of my mad ideas.
I set my jaw.
It’s ace. You know what? I’m going to do it.
I glance up at the rear-view mirror. The cop is focused on the road. I reach round with my cuffed hands and pull the hand grenade out. I twist my wrists and the cuffs dig in, cutting deep into my skin. It hurts, but I know it’s worth it. This is going to be great. I cup the uneven metal shell between my hands. The police car speeds and bumps and sways. I hope I have time. I inch forward as far as I can until I’m literally on the edge of my seat. (It’s lucky I’m not wearing a seat belt. Hey, isn’t that illegal?) I tense my thighs and lift up my bum. I can feel the stretch in my hamstrings burn. I pull down my trousers and pants, just like in that cab with Rain. It’s tricky, but the leather’s stretchy and my thong is minuscule. I reach down between my legs, my wrists aching, straining. Ow. Ow. Ow. The cuffs are tighter than I thought. The metal digs into the flesh, scraping at the bone. Slowly and carefully I push the hand grenade inside. I feel it moving up, up, up my (slightly wet) vagina. The silver shell is cold and hard and – oh – quite knobbly. I stretch my fingers and thrust it all the way with my fingertips. Fucking hell, it feels intense. No scratch that: fucking awesome. The metal’s flush against my G spot. I’m panting, wriggling, groaning.
‘OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH.’
‘What the hell are you doing back there?’
‘Nothing. Oh, oh, OH.’
I pull up my pants and trousers and slouch back heavily. The car bounces over a pothole. The explosive jiggles around inside. It feels just like a massive love egg or a big ribbed Ben Wa ball. He slams on the brakes outside the station. I think I’m going to come.
Now remember, Alvie, this is important. Let’s call it an urgent note to self: don’t pull on the ring like a tampon string. That wouldn’t go down well.
* * *
*
They search me almost everywhere. They don’t find anything. They throw me inside a cell and lock the metal ga
te. I listen to the guard’s footsteps as he walks away. Then it’s silent. Nothing. No one. Only me. The cell is small and very dirty. Just like fucking Archway. Grey ceiling, grey walls, grey bed, grey floor. The air smells of piss and despair. The bars are too narrow to stick your head through (that’s a plus point, I suppose). The window’s too high up to see out of. The mattress is tiny, with a thin blanket. The toilet used to be white. No cover. No seat. I don’t want to touch it. I’ll just hold it in till they let me out. It can’t be that long, surely?
Someone’s written their name in blood; it’s scrawled across the wall: Anna, Augusto 2013. Someone else has tried unsuccessfully to scrub it off. Bloodstains are a bitch to get out; I learnt that in Sicily. I wonder who ‘Anna’ was. Was she innocent like me?
I grab on to the bars and roar into the corridor. ‘NINO. YOU UTTER BASTARD. JUST WAIT TILL I AM FREE.’
Last time he left me at the Ritz with hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of diamonds. But this time he shot my hot new date and left me to rot in a cell. This is a whole new level of nasty. This is a new kind of betrayal. If I was mad at him before, this time I’m fucking mental. I am getting out of here. Then I’ll go A-bomb on his ass. I’ll blow up his dick in his face. Alvie will have the last laugh.
I pace up and down the cell. Down and up again. I need a new foolproof plan. I’ve got to figure this out. The cops will realize their mistake and soon they will be after Nino. They’ll want to look for the real killer. They’ll work out it wasn’t me. They’ve got manpower, technology. And now that Dynamite is dead I’m fresh out of leads.
What if we all work together? The cops can help me find him (and kill him). I need to win the Disney prince over and convince him I can help. But how can I get him on my side? What can I do to persuade him?
I’ll worry about that later on.
But first, the murder weapon.
I check the hall outside my cell, but I can’t see anyone. I pull down my pants and thong to remove the hand grenade. I bite my lip. My fingers twitch. I’ve got to get this right . . . Slowly and carefully I reach my fingers up inside . . .
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