Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘No way. I pulled you up,’ he says. ‘You’re still here now, aren’t you?’

  I look out at the horizon, at the line where the black meets the black. There’s nothing there. Just space. Dark matter. It’s like before the Big Bang.

  ‘So we’re partners then?’ he says.

  ‘Partners.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘All right.’

  Until he betrays me? Until he leaves me stranded again?

  The water splashes against the hull. The only other sound is the wind.

  ‘Where are we going anyway?’

  Nino doesn’t reply.

  I think back over my vengeance plot. Find a weapon. Find Nino. Get my money. Kill him. I didn’t get very far.

  ‘So what have you been doing all week?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, the usual.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Bitches and cocaine,’ he says.

  I roll my eyes. This fucking guy. ‘I thought you didn’t sleep with anyone?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he says.

  Bullshit.

  ‘I can’t believe you lost our money. Domenico took it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Brutto figlio di puttana. Domenico found it at my flat. It was after I had to clear out when I shot Dynamite. He blew the door right off the hinges. Took the suitcase. Took the car. By the time I came back for the money he was driving away. I swear, if I ever find that guy . . .’

  Yeah. Tell me about it.

  ‘Nino . . .’

  ‘No, it’s Luca now. I changed my name, got new ID.’

  ‘OK. Fine. Whatever.’

  ‘Betta . . .’

  ‘No, it’s Alvie now.’

  Once I’ve said it I regret it. But fuck it, I need to tell him. I can’t stand another minute being Beth.

  He holds me tight round the waist and pulls me in towards him. I brace myself for his response.

  ‘Alvie?’

  ‘Yes, Alvina.’

  ‘I already knew, you idiot. You don’t think I noticed what was up? You are like a different person. Nothing like Ambrogio’s wife. Your sister always hated guns. And you . . . you’re fucking mental.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  I look into his eyes. Is he bluffing?

  ‘I don’t care. Whatever,’ he says. ‘Alvie, Betta, Betta, Alvie. I don’t really give a shit. I like the new you anyway. Your sister was a pain in the ass.’

  For once in my life I’m actually speechless. I gaze out at the sea.

  A weight has lifted from my shoulders. I feel free at last.

  Eventually I turn to him. ‘Where are we going?’ I say.

  ‘You’ll see when we get there.’

  ‘What’s going on? Are you kidnapping me?’

  ‘Kidnapping you. What are you? A kid? You’re thirty.’

  ‘I am not. I’m twenty-five. Fifteen years younger than you, in fact.’

  He glares at me.

  ‘Hang on. Wait a minute. What day is it?’ I ask.

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  I cock my head to the side. 0509: I remember the code for his phone. ‘It’s Saturday the fifth, isn’t it? It’s your birthday.’

  ‘Yeah. Great. Another year older.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I say.

  Nino spits into the water. We look out at the view. It’s still black. There’s nothing out there. You can see why they thought the Earth was flat. We’re going to sail right off the edge. At least we’ll both die together.

  ‘Life begins at forty,’ I say.

  He lights himself a Marlboro Red and talks into his hands and the flame. ‘Yeah, if you don’t get me shot.’

  I sigh, then my stomach rumbles.

  ‘Man, I’m still hungry. I need to eat.’

  ‘I just saw you eat a whole pack of Pringles.’

  ‘No you didn’t. I gave you one. I need to eat something else.’

  ‘Catch a fucking fish,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I need some carbs. A Pop-Tart or something. I’m half starved.’

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ he says.

  ‘Why are you in such a mood? I saved your life,’ I say. ‘You could have been killed or given life in prison.’ He deserves it, the twat.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he says. ‘I was fine before you showed up. Now I’m Europe’s most wanted man. Five dead cops? Madonna.’

  ‘You’d be fucked if it wasn’t for me.’

  He should be grateful I didn’t kill him. I was this close . . . I swear.

  ‘Blowing up a fucking roof? Sei pazza. Pazza. Crazy.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, you killed the Disney prince.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alessandro.’

  ‘And who the fuck is Alessandro?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  It’s a shame about the Disney prince; he was really cute. He was eye candy, a sweetie. At least I got to shag him first, or that would have been a pity.

  Nino takes an angry drag on his fag.

  We listen to the sea.

  ‘How did you find me anyway?’

  ‘The pigs tracked you down,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t that hard. There are cameras in Rome. Webcams? CCTV?’

  ‘It took you long enough,’ he says. ‘I’ve been waiting all week.’

  ‘What was all that shit in the metro?’

  ‘I gave you a second chance. You’re lucky you’re cute.’

  I go and sit back down on the bench and lie on the cold hard wood.

  ‘Everyone I know wants me dead,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ I say.

  We sail further into the night.

  I find a blanket under the bench and wrap myself up in a cocoon. Do not fall asleep, Alvina. Watch this predator. I’m quite concerned he has a gun and I have sweet FA. I’m still not sure if I can trust him. Or if he can trust me.

  I’m just drifting off to sleep when I spot some lights up on the coast.

  ‘What’s that? Those lights? Is it a port? A city?’

  ‘Naples,’ says Nino. ‘It’s Napoli.’

  ‘Great. Why don’t we stop there?’

  ‘Just a couple more hours,’ Nino says. ‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’

  Ha. Unlikely. I know his game. He’ll kill me while I’m sleeping.

  I rest my head on my handbag. It’s probably safer to avoid big cities, especially Napoli. The police will be searching everywhere. And I’ve heard all about Mount Vesuvius. I’ve seen those people from Pompeii, literally petrified: twisted into grotesque shapes and turned to stone. No way. That’s not happening to me. We were lucky last week with Mount Etna. I’m not taking another chance.

  My eyelids are closing all by themselves . . . when I see something sparkling in the water. It’s glinting, silver and spherical like a floating disco ball.

  ‘What’s that over there? An island?’ I say.

  ‘Sì. Sì, it’s Capri.’

  ‘That sounds nice. Shall we stop here?’

  ‘No, I know where we’re going.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Are we nearly there?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  I don’t know how Nino knows where he’s going, I can’t see past the end of my nose. This place is darker than Nordic noir. For all I know we could be inside a whale. He fiddles with the satnav again and I watch the lights all fade away. I pull the blanket tight round me, lie down in the dark and fall asleep.

  DAY SEVEN:

  The One

  TEN YEARS AGO

  Sunday, 30 October 2005

  Lower Slaughter, Gloucestershire

  A plate smashes into the wall above my head, sending ceramic shards in every dir
ection. I snap my eyes shut. Just in time. A splinter rebounds and sinks into my cheek. There’s the smash of glass on flagstones.

  ‘I hate you,’ she says.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘It’s so unfair.’

  ‘How can you say that to me?’

  ‘You don’t want me to be happy.’ My mum’s voice breaks with the threat of tears.

  ‘Just stop throwing stuff at me. Jesus.’

  I stand with my hands shielding my face, the sound of screeching in my ears. I open my eyes again, just a crack, to see the world through the blur of my lashes. My mother stands with her back to me, bent over the Aga. I watch her ribs expand and contract. She’s breathing heavily.

  ‘He’s half your age,’ I say at last, wiping the shard from my face, leaving a slick of warm blood on my finger. ‘What does he want if it isn’t our money?’

  ‘Our money?’

  I grit my teeth. ‘Your money. Yours. Yours.’ He’s after Nan’s inheritance. It’s bloody obvious.

  She turns round to face me now. Squares up. Her eyes are cold. ‘Maybe he loves me for who I am? Maybe he finds me attractive?’

  ‘He finds the half mill in the bank attractive . . .’ I mutter under my breath. So do I for that matter.

  ‘He doesn’t need the money,’ she says. ‘He’s here on a working visa.’

  I frown. ‘But isn’t actually working.’

  ‘Neither are you.’

  ‘I’m in school.’

  We stand and stare at one another. I sniff. What’s that? It’s smoke. Another bloody barbecue? Or is there something in the Aga that’s burning? I lean back against the kitchen island, my elbows resting on cool marble. I know I wanted a nice new dad, but that was ages ago. Two parents are worse than one. I realize that now.

  My mother grabs a bottle of red and stabs at the top with a corkscrew. She pours herself a too-full glass. It disappears down her neck.

  ‘I can’t believe you agreed to marry him.’

  She sets the glass down on the side, closes her eyes and breathes in through her nose. I know she doesn’t want to hear it, but someone has to tell her.

  ‘Rupert’s a fucking loser, Mum. All he does is hang around and play that didgeridoo. He woke me up at dawn today. “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport”? Who the fuck does he think he is? Rolf fucking Harris? He still hasn’t learnt my name and he’s been living in this house for three months . . .’

  ‘Of course he knows your name. Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘So why does he call me Sheila?’

  ‘It’s a term of endearment, Alvina.’

  We glare at one another.

  I see her before I hear her come in. I bet she’s been watching. Listening. Beth walks over to our mum and puts an arm round her shoulder. She shoots me a reproachful glance, like now what have you done? Beth tops up the glass of red and helps herself to a sip. ‘Well, I really like him,’ she says. ‘I’m happy for you, Mum. I think it’s great you’re getting remarried.’

  ‘Thank you, darling Beth.’

  ‘You’ve been alone for so long. You deserve another –’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’ve had enough. Either Rupert goes, or I do.’

  My sister turns to me and gawks.

  I watch my mother falter.

  No one says a fucking thing.

  The tension is titanium. I eye the bottle on the counter. Oh man, I want that wine.

  Rupert flings open the patio doors and stumbles into the bombsite kitchen. A thick wall of smoke wafts in after him, but he doesn’t care or notice. He opens the fridge and helps himself to a can of XXXX Gold. ‘Everything all right in here, sheilas?’ He steadies himself against the wall, rubs his eyes and stretches. He says something else in thick Australian that I don’t try to understand. Something about raping a koala. Something about a flaming galah.

  Our fight has clearly woken him from his drunken afternoon slumber. I bet he forgot about the fire and burnt all the shrimps again.

  ‘Alvina, apologize to your father,’ my mother says. ‘You woke him up.’

  I glower at my mother, my cheeks flushed red. I study the poor excuse for humanity that has somehow crawled into our home.

  ‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you. HE IS NOT MY DAD.’

  ‘Language, Alvina,’ says my mother.

  My sister rolls her eyes.

  ‘Where is my father anyway? Why don’t you just admit he’s dead?’

  ‘Strewth,’ Rupert says.

  No one says another word. My mother sighs and shakes her head. My sister helps herself to more wine.

  I storm out of the kitchen upstairs to my room. My eyes are stinging with tears. The stupid refrain from that fucking song goes around and around and around in my head.

  I grab my trusty JanSport rucksack. Fucking Beth. My fucking mum. You know what? They deserve each other. If Rupert’s so great, then they’re welcome to him. They can play happy families without me. He’ll never replace my dad. Whatever happened to him. He didn’t go and live in America. No, do you know what I think? I think our mother killed him. Fifteen years ago or so, she hit the roof. She flipped. She knocked him over the head with a frozen leg of lamb, killed him, then ate the proof. The murder weapon was consumed, roasted with mint sauce and potatoes. Who knows?

  I need to find out.

  I grab some ties to wear as belts, my old camouflage jacket, my pair of shiny cargo pants and some sexy fishnet stockings. I find my favourite beaded bracelet, choker and matching hairband, a cowgirl shirt, some gold-mesh tank tops and a pair of corduroy flares. I sit on the bed. I think I’m packed. That’s my whole world right there in my backpack. That night, I run away from home and hitchhike to central London. I sleep rough in the rain in Leicester Square and never fucking look back.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sunday, 6 September 2015

  Tyrrhenian Sea

  The boat lurches and I wake up as the force throws me on to the deck. I sit up and rub my eyes. Where are we? What’s going on? I should have stayed awake all night. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I could have been sleeping with the fishes. That was a lucky escape. I remember my first night sleeping rough alone in Leicester Square. The terror gripped me like a paralysis, keeping me awake. The cold sank deep into my bones and the damp clung to my skin. Every noise was a predator, every man was a killer. I was convinced that that night was my last. The dawn was a miracle.

  I watch as Nino steers the boat on to a pebble beach. It’s tiny, no more than a hundred metres wide with steep cliffs all around. It’s dark, so I can make out rocks and very little else.

  ‘What is this place?’ I ask.

  ‘Castiglione, Ravello. This is the Amalfi coast. Come on, get up,’ he says.

  I yawn and stretch. My back is stiff. I throw the blanket on the deck, grab my bag and follow Nino. We jump out of the boat into icy water. We’re waist deep and it’s freezing. Urgh, at least that woke me up. It’s so cold I can hardly breathe. The ground is soft and strewn with rocks and slippery seaweed. We stagger up on to the beach.

  ‘Grab some rocks,’ he says.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Gotta sink the boat.’

  ‘Why the hell would we do that? It’s a nice boat. We could use it.’

  ‘We don’t want anyone to see it.’

  ‘Well, I want to keep it,’ I say. ‘Just leave it here. Leave it up on the beach.’ I could use it later on if I need to escape.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like it?’ he says. ‘You wanted that other yacht.’

  ‘A crap boat is better than no boat.’

  He bends to grab some rocks.

  I dump my handbag on the beach and hear the crunch of shells and pebbles. He stops and turns to me.

  ‘Oh Madonna. Listen. We stole the boat; they’ll be looking for it. We are wanted for multiple murd
ers. For killing a bunch of fucking cops. The whole of Italy’s looking for us. We need to cover our tracks.’

  ‘OK. Fine. When you put it like that . . .’

  So melodramatic.

  I stagger up the beach and grab a handful of rocks. ‘OK?’

  ‘More rocks.’

  I grab some more and throw them on to the deck.

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘We need more.’

  I grab some more and chuck them in.

  ‘There now. That should do it.’

  ‘More. More. Mannaggia . . . It has to fucking sink.’

  ‘Oh no. We’re out of rocks. That’s it. They’re all finished.’

  Nino turns and studies the beach.

  ‘There are some over there.’

  Urgh, he’s such a slave driver. Why do I do all the work?

  I walk over to where he’s pointing. I bend down low and grab a few.

  ‘No more. My back hurts. I slept funny,’ I say, letting rocks crash on the deck.

  ‘Va bene. E basta. E basta,’ he says. ‘Now we push the boat.’

  ‘Are you sure we have to –’

  ‘Uno, due . . .’

  ‘Just seems like a waste of a really cool boat.’

  ‘Uno, due, tre.’

  We stagger through the freezing water and push the boat out to sea. The waves splash up into my eyes. I taste salt and iodine, then I’m treading water. We rock the boat, and water spills over and floods the deck. The boat wobbles and then capsizes, sinking down, down, down, down, down. There are bubbles and then nothing. The whole thing took just a couple of minutes. First there was a boat and now there’s just sea. RIP Ofelia. Better you than me.

  We swim back to the pebble beach. Wild waves crashing all around us, seaweed wrapping round my calves. My feet sink down into soft sand like the earth’s trying to suck me down into the underworld.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he says.

  I shiver. I’m dripping wet. There’s a sharp stone in my shoe. I peel off the slimy seaweed clinging to my legs. ‘Yes, yes. I’m coming,’ I say. I grope around in the dark for my handbag, then follow Nino’s silhouette. We climb the steps that lead from the beach.