Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘I HAD TO. FUCKING MOVE.’

  Nino pulls me to the ground; I scrape my knee against the tiles. We crouch down low behind a wall, Nino’s body pressed up against mine. He pulls his gun out from his trousers. Oh my God, it’s massive. It’s a shiny new Glock 40 (much bigger than mine). I watch him take aim, his finger on the trigger. We keep our eyes on the hotel door.

  Alessandro runs out.

  He looks hot, I have to admit, but not as hot as Nino.

  ‘Signorina? Where are you? Are you all right?’

  Aww, bless. He’s got a crush.

  KA-POW. KA-POW, goes Nino’s gun.

  I peer over the wall. Somewhere inside the hotel somebody is screaming. Alessandro lies limp and motionless on the tiled floor. Nino shot him in the neck. Blood floods from his jugular. It makes a real mess. I study his lifeless figure, his face, his hands, his arms and legs. I get a twinge of sympathy. Poor Alessandro, but that could have been Nino or me.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  I reach for his hand. Nino’s palm is rough and calloused and his skin is warm. I get a rush through the whole of my body. I feel magic. I’m special. Alive. He squeezes my hand with a vice-like grip, holding it really fucking tight. We leap over the edge of the terrace on to a sloping roof. The tiles are too-smooth terracotta. My new Prada pumps slip and slide. I look out and see the Colosseum and the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. An Italian flag flies high in the distance. There’s the crumbling Roman Forum. Starlings swirl in thick black clouds. The sky is pink and orange. Everything is blurring past us, the city distorting as we rush by.

  KA-POW. KA-POW.

  I look behind us. Three or four more cops run out.

  We sprint over the rooftops. This is such a rush.

  My pussy aches. I’m hot. I’m wet. I can’t wait for the make-up sex.

  I follow Nino along drainpipes. It’s a sheer drop to the ground. Shit. Fuck. Do not look down. Everything looks small from up here. Ant-like people, tiny cars. Rome is a miniature village.

  There’s a gap of two or three metres between this building and the next. We’re going to have to jump it. My stomach churns and flips.

  ‘Come on. Come with me,’ Nino says, and he’s flying –soaring in mid-air – his leather jacket streaming out behind him like the wings of a bat. He looks like Batman (but with a horseshoe moustache). He lands with a crash on the red-tiled roof, slips and then grabs on (less like Batman, I guess). One of the tiles slides, tumbling down, down, down, down, down, down. CRASH.

  Nino gets up and turns to me. ‘Come on, jump,’ he says.

  He reaches out his hand.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is it. I’ve got no choice. I can’t go back to that hotel.

  KA-POW. KA-POW.

  They’re closing in.

  Oh shit, what if I fall?

  That roof looks really far away. I’m not sure if I’ll make it. I look up and see Nino. My Nino. I take a run up and just leap . . .

  My stomach sinks.

  And I’m falling.

  Falling.

  I lurch for the roof, but I miss.

  ‘SHIT. SHIT.’

  There’s nothing. My arms windmill in the air. Nino grabs my wrist. My body slams into the wall. I’m suspended between the rooftops. I dangle and my face scrapes against bricks.

  ‘OW. SHIT. SHIT.’

  Don’t look down. Oh God. Oh God.

  I look up into his eyes. ‘Help. Help. Please,’ I say.

  Is he going to drop me or pull me up? His hands grip tightly round my wrist; his knuckles are bony and white.

  ‘Nino, please. Please.’

  Nino’s eyes – as black as obsidian – lock on to mine, unwavering. We share some kind of a moment but – what? Is he . . . is he hesitating? What’s the fucking problem here? Is he thinking about it?

  ‘Nino. Nino.’ Why is he waiting? ‘Don’t just leave me hanging here.’

  I was right: he is the devil.

  I think I’ve peed my pants.

  * * *

  *

  ‘Come on,’ Nino says. He pulls me up and I stagger to my feet.

  That was close.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  KA-POW. KA-POW. KA-POW.

  Now the cops are gaining on us. They sprint across the roofs.

  I grab the hand grenade from my pocket. Pull out the pin and throw the bomb.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I had no choice.’ Then I scream at Nino at the top of my lungs. ‘RUN! MOVE. MOVE. MOVE.’

  ‘Ma cos’hai fatto?’

  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM.

  The rooftop shakes. Planet Earth seems to quake. I grab Nino by the hand and we throw ourselves down. I look at him as we lie here, at the fear in his eyes and the blood and dirt smeared on his face. Ooh, he looks like Rambo. I feel the heat against my back. Can taste the smoke and flames. It’s just like that forest fire all over again. My eyes sting with the blaze. I try to see through the clouds of smoke. No movement. I can’t see those cops. I cough and cough and cough. Then stop. I think they’re dead. They’re all dead and we killed them. For a moment, I worry. Was that the wrong thing to do? I’m not used to feeling guilty. But then I snap out of it. It was Nino and me. It was me and fucking Nino. We did this together. We’re Juliette Lewis and Woody Harrelson. We are fucking on fire.

  An alarm is going off.

  Soon there will be firemen (sexy). Italian firemen, oh my God. And even more fucking cops. We need to get out of here. And fast. Now how do we get off?

  Piazza Navona, Rome, Italy

  ‘Ooh, what’s that?’

  ‘A Ducati Monster.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘It is now. Get on.’

  I watch Nino hot-wire the engine. It’s a beast of a bike.

  ‘Can I drive?’

  ‘I’ve seen your driving . . .’

  ‘I’m better at bikes.’

  He glares.

  The engine coughs and splutters to life.

  He climbs on and I get on behind.

  Nino offers me the helmet. ‘You want it?’

  ‘Nah, fuck it.’ He throws it away. I watch it bounce along the kerb and roll into a gutter. ‘I’ve already survived one scooter crash.’ That accident when I was a child. ‘I still have a scar from the brain damage – and lightning never strikes twice.’

  ‘Oh yeah? I have metal plates in my head from last time I came off one of these.’

  ‘Do you? Oh shit. OK, you win.’

  ‘Ready?’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Woohoo.’

  I grab Nino round the waist and dig my nails deep into leather. He drives really, really fast through the darkening streets. There’s wind in my hair and grit in my eyes and the taste of diesel. Or petrol? No one’s following us, not yet. No cops. No mobsters. This is fun. We race down a dead-straight street that leads out of the city. The engine roars and snarls like a tiger. I’ve always wanted to fuck on a bike. I hold on tight and push into Nino, my thighs pressed up against his thighs, my tits squashed into his back. I feel the seat shake and vibrate; this thing is foreplay.

  I check the speedometer: 135 mph. Not bad.

  Then a Ferrari overtakes us. It’s sleek and shiny. The engine purrs like Ambrogio’s Lambo.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ I say.

  I don’t think Nino can hear me, what with the wind and the engine noise.

  ‘CAN WE STEAL THAT CAR?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘I WANT A FERRARI. IT’S FASTER,’ I say.

  I watch it as it speeds away. Oh well, another time.

  I hear a siren getting louder. Now what?

  ‘SHIT. THE PIGS.’

  Nino accelerates and I grip tighter. Pull him closer. A
drenaline courses through my veins. I feel my cheeks warping, distorting, flapping in the wind. I turn and spot the blue lights flashing. Have they seen us? Are we screwed?

  Nino swerves and takes an exit.

  Our knees are an inch away from the road. I imagine our clothes and skin scraping tarmac. I wish I’d taken that helmet now. This isn’t very safe. One head injury is enough for a lifetime. I eat dust, the wind in my hair as we race through a forest. I think it’s the same one as before. The tall pine trees are familiar. Tree roots crack the broken road as we bounce along the surface.

  A sign by the road reads Ostia Antica. There’s a faint smell of ash. A desolate scene and blackened branches. At least that fire has gone out. It lasted less than twenty-four hours. It can’t have been all that bad.

  I can’t hear those sirens any more.

  ‘YES, I THINK WE LOST THEM.’

  We pass a woman standing by the road.

  Oh look, there’s that girl. ‘Hey. CHOW.’

  I wave and wave, but she doesn’t wave back. She flips me the bird. How rude.

  I saved her life.

  ‘You know her?’ says Nino.

  ‘YEAH, SHE’S COOL. I BURNT DOWN HER TENT.’

  I can see the sea on the horizon: a vast black void of nothingness. The forest gives way to the seaside, beaches, restaurants, bars, hotels. Nino parks the bike by the strand.

  Someone’s playing music.

  ‘How Deep Is Your Love’ by Calvin Harris.

  ‘Ooh, I love that song.’

  It’s coming from the beach.

  I walk over to a metal rail and look down at the shadows moving on the sand. There’s some kind of carnival down there, people drinking and kissing and smoking and fucking on the beach. I sigh and watch the partygoers, tasting sea salt and hash. There’s a fire-twirler spinning wheels of dazzling yellow and white. Orange flames flicker and dance. Concentric circles flashing and blazing. Mmm, is that kerosene? I ♥ combustible hydrocarbons. I watch him throwing shapes in the sky. It’s hypnotizing. Mesmerizing. I want to have a go. Someone’s lit a massive bonfire. It’s like a scene in a film by Fellini. It looks really fun.

  ‘Nino, look. A beach party. Come on, I want to go.’

  Nino shakes his head.

  ‘No. We gotta steal a boat.’

  He heads off down the promenade. Why is he such a killjoy? I watch him as he walks away then turn back to the party. Someone whoops. There’s the pop of a cork. What is that? Prosecco? Champagne? Fuck it. I’m going. I want to have fun. I just killed God knows how many cops. I need to let off some steam. I’ll go to the pier and find Nino later. It will take him a while to steal a boat. First, I want to dance. Unwind. And I need a drink.

  I swing my legs over the rail and jump down on to the soft sand. I can’t believe Nino lost two million euros. Seriously? What a knob. After all the time I’ve spent looking for it I really need to drown my sorrows. Get out of my mind. Off my head. I walk over to the party and join the people in the crowd.

  ‘Chow,’ I say to whoever.

  ‘Ciao,’ shouts a guy. He smiles.

  I pull off the wire stuck under my shirt and throw it in the fire.

  The music’s playing: UNTZ UNTZS UNTZS. I close my eyes and just feel it. Now it’s Swedish House Mafia. I start to get my groove on, moving and bumping and grinding along in time to the fucked-up bass. I open my eyes and a man with dreadlocks offers me a spliff. He has long blond hair right down to his waist. He wears an orange Hawaiian shirt with bright purple flowers on. Nino would never wear something like that. I place the spliff between my lips. Take a nice deep drag. Mmm, skunk; it’s sweet and grassy. I hold in the smoke and then blow it out. Whoosh – it goes straight to my head; that’s strong. Just what I need. A young girl standing next to me looks at the joint like she wants a go, but I’m not passing it on.

  I dance closer to the bonfire, feeling its warmth against my skin. It crackles and pops and glows so bright. The flames lick at my feet. The music changes to something else with a funky rhythm. It’s kinda eighties. Nice, I like it. ‘Shut up and Dance’ by Walk the Moon. I take another drag.

  I sing and I’m floating, dancing like no one can see. I’m really going for it now, twerking and throwing my head around, and shaking my booty like Bey.

  I look around for something to drink and spot some open bottles of spirits on a fold-out table. I pick one up and take a swig. Yum, is that Tia Maria?

  I swirl around and around in circles, my arms stretched up above my head, the alcohol spilling and splashing my clothes, my hair, my cheek, my face. Someone grabs my arm and I drop the bottle, feeling cool liquid splashing up the inside of my leg.

  ‘Hey. Get off.’ I look up. It’s Nino. ‘Leave me alone. I was having fun.’

  He drags me away through the writhing crowds, my feet stumbling through the sand.

  ‘Betta, we got to move.’

  The joint is dead now so I chuck it and follow Nino off the beach. We walk along the promenade to a pier with some yachts and boats.

  ‘You could have partied with me,’ I say. He doesn’t reply. ‘So, how the hell do you steal a boat?’

  ‘Same way you steal a bike or a car.’

  ‘You got one yet?’ I say.

  I look at the boats bobbing out on the water; there are speedboats of various sizes. They’re shiny and white with girls’ names on: Lola, Maria, Esmerelda. There are hundreds of little yachts. I spot a sleek super-yacht; it’s fuck-off huge, the biggest by far. The kind of thing Russian oligarchs buy to impress prostitutes. It’s totally pimp. I want it.

  ‘That one. That one. There,’ I say, pointing.

  Nino walks past it towards a smaller, older, browner-looking boat. It’s still a nice speedboat, but far less flashy, made entirely of polished wood.

  ‘We’re taking this one,’ he says.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with the other one?’

  ‘This one won’t have an alarm.’

  The boat is called Ofelia. That sounds ominous. Why are they always named after women? Why aren’t there any blokes? I follow Nino on to the deck. It lurches when I jump down. I grab on to the side.

  ‘Hey. Whoa there,’ I say. ‘Make it stop. Make it stop.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘The wobbling.’

  ‘It isn’t wobbling.’

  ‘Oh.’ Must be the wacky baccy. My head’s on upside down.

  I slump down on a bench on the deck. I cross my legs and hug my arms across my chest. The other boat was so much nicer. I light myself a fag and watch Nino’s sexy back. He kicks open a cupboard door underneath the boat’s controls. He bends down and fiddles with some wires. A little light flicks on.

  I’m not sure this is a good idea. Me and Nino alone at sea. I’m not convinced I totally trust him. It would be way too easy to lose me. I narrow my eyes and cock my head. I’d better stay awake. Keep an eye on this motherfucker. He might still want me dead . . .

  An alarm goes off on the boat.

  ‘Merda.’

  ‘I thought you said it wouldn’t . . . oh.’

  Nino has pulled out his gun.

  I close my eyes and tense. Oh God. Oh God. It’s over. I’m wasted.

  He shoots the alarm.

  It stops. OK. That’s good. I’m not dead.

  He starts the engine and I stub out my fag.

  ‘Can I drive the boat?’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  We’ve been sailing for hours and hours and hours on the black and boring sea. It’s freezing. Windy. The middle of the night. All I can see are the stupid stars and the tiny light on the boat. I sit on the cold hard bench and watch the nothingness. I’ve got the munchies from that spliff. I’m dangerously hungry. I look around for some kind of food. There’s a packet of Pringles in the cupboard. BBQ flavour. It’s like they knew I was
coming. I crunch on them while Nino fiddles with the boat’s satnav. He turns the radio up. They’re playing ‘Niggas in Paris’ by Jay-Z and Kanye, and Nino raps along.

  He’s ruining it. He’s tone-deaf, like my mother.

  ‘Pringle?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘Nino.’ Crunch. Crunch. ‘I don’t believe we finished our conversation.’

  ‘What conversation?’

  ‘Before, in the bar.’

  ‘Before you blew up the cops?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m still not happy with you.’

  ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘You taking off and leaving like that. Stealing the car. The money. My clothes. It was really cold in Romania. I had nothing to wear.’

  ‘Romania? What were you doing in Romania?’

  ‘Nothing. I only stayed for eight hours. I went to meet a vampire.’ I glare at him and chew. Urgh. He knows exactly, the bastard.

  Nino looks at me and frowns, his face dark with shadow.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ he says and he’s laughing, laughing, laughing at me. I’ve never seen him laugh so hard.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone . . .’

  ‘You already told me you did,’ he says.

  ‘So what? Who was that guy anyway? And why the fuck did he have your phone?’

  ‘I paid him to take the phone to Romania. He was a contact in the Romanian mob.’

  ‘He tried to strangle me,’ I say. ‘He tried to steal my bag.’

  Nino shakes his head. ‘That wasn’t the job. I was just trying to lose you. He probably improvised. Did you get my message?’

  ‘Message? Which message? About my new hair?’ I finish off the packet of Pringles and toss it in the sea.

  ‘When I said we could work together?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. So what?’

  ‘I had to see if you were capable.’

  Bullshit. ‘Whatever.’ He’s such a liar.

  ‘It’s a dangerous job. Not for everyone.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me,’ I say.

  ‘I have to be able to trust my partner with my fucking life.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ I glare at him. ‘What was that shit before on the roof? I thought you were going to drop me.’