Then nothing.
* * *
*
Nino pulls out – I’m draped over the edge of the pool – gasping, gasping, gasping for breath. I feel my cheek slam into the tiles. My face lies flat on ceramic.
‘NINO, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
‘You like?’ he says.
‘I could have died.’
‘That’s a risk I was willing to take.’
I consider this for a split second.
‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘That was ace.’
A lack of oxygen to the brain . . . I already have enough brain damage. I don’t need any more.
The garden spins around and around, blue then green then red. Classical music begins to play. The air is filled with beautiful arias, a crescendo of cellos and violins.
‘Where is that music coming from?’
For a second I think I’m dreaming.
‘Ravello Festival,’ he says.
I look around. We’re still in the pool, our bodies entwined in one another’s. We are still alive. Everything is perfect. I look at his arms wrapped round my shoulders, as bronzed as a god’s, his muscles defined. Nobody makes me come like that. Nino’s the man of my dreams.
We lean over the edge of the pool side by side and look out at the Earth-porn view. The first light of day bleeds over black mountains; the sky’s a vibrant warning red. We watch the sunrise together and listen to the music. It’s magical, ethereal, like they’re playing just for us. I look around the garden; it’s Eden, everything bathed in golden light. This place is paradise.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Sometimes you’re not boring.’
‘Bene.’
‘When you make an effort.’
‘Mortacci tua.’
Ha ha. Now he’s cross.
I splash and crash out of the water. Nino follows and chases me around the garden. I’m laughing and laughing, so high.
I sprint along an avenue enveloped with sweet-smelling flowers: purple blossoms, bougainvillea. Ancient terracotta vases. The milky marble of a nude. I skip into a rose garden. Trip and roll on the soft grass. Nino falls on top on me.
‘Hey, what’s that? On your butt?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That tattoo? “Die Nemo”?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. I’d forgotten about that. ‘I need to go on Tattoo Fixers and get it covered up. Have you ever seen that show?’
‘No, I haven’t. So what does it mean?’
‘It means . . . You know I can’t remember. I was really drunk when I got it. But at the time it was meaningful. You know, that cartoon fish?’
We lie naked on our backs and watch the dawn sky.
‘Oh, look. A shooting star.’
Nino turns to me and says, ‘You gotta make a wish.’
I think I know what I want . . .
‘Why did you say that before?’ I ask. ‘About our honeymoon?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nino replies, stretching. ‘Just something to say. I couldn’t tell him the truth. He wouldn’t have let us stay.’
‘I thought you’d stayed here before?’
‘I never killed a fucking cop.’
‘OK. Good point,’ I say.
‘So, you wanna hear my plan?’ he asks. His voice is excited now. ‘The plan that will make us fucking rich?’ He pulls me up to lie on his chest. He smiles and his dark eyes sparkle.
‘Hell yeah. What plan is this?’ I rest my cheek against his pecs. I feel his heart beat through his chest.
‘We’re gonna work together,’ he says. ‘I’ve been figuring it all out. You remember the English guy I told you about? The one who killed my father?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a billionaire art dealer. And he lives in London. His name is Ed Forbes. Total cunt.’
‘So, what about him?’ I say. I stroke the hair on his chest with my fingers. I kiss him. He’s still wet.
‘He stole from me, from my father,’ he says. ‘It’s time we got revenge. You and me together, baby. We’re gonna take him down.’
A billionaire sounds promising. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Yeah, I love fucking cunts.’
Nino stands and seizes my hand.
‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’
‘Now where are we going? Not London already?’
‘Shut up. You’ll like it,’ he says.
We walk through the gardens hand in hand, butt naked like Adam and Eve. A long, straight path surrounded by flowers leads through a pagoda to a cliffside terrace.
‘Guarda che bella vista,’ Nino says. ‘The terrace of infinity.’
‘Wow, now that’s a view.’
I look out over the sea. The land slides down into the ocean. The mountains are covered in citrus groves with pops of yellow and gold. Villages cling to the craggy cliffs among dark green trees and azure blue. The air fills once more with the beautiful music. Now I want to dance.
‘It’s incredible,’ I breathe. ‘This would be a great place to propose.’
‘I can’t propose. I don’t have a ring.’
He smiles a mischievous smile. And suddenly it all makes sense. This was all just meant to be. Nino is my Mr Right. No one else could handle me. He is perfect. He’s The One.
‘I do. I have two rings,’ I say. ‘Just wait here, don’t move . . .’
I sprint back through the garden to the hotel and up the stairs to our room. My feet slip and slide on the dewy grass, my heartbeat molto allegro. The music’s still playing, something triumphant. Cymbals crashing. A crescendo. I look around for my handbag and find it lying on the bed. I grab it and run back to Nino.
Oh my God, I hope he’s still there. What if he’s gone again?
He’s standing with his back to me, looking out at the view from the balcony. I take it all in, that ass. That view. He was worth all the hard work.
‘Look, I say, ‘two rings. I told you.’
I rummage around inside my bag – damn, I can never find anything.
‘Oh, look, your hat. Do you want it back?’
He pulls on the fedora.
Eventually I find the rings; the silver ring from the hand grenade (I kept it as a souvenir) and the vibrating cock ring. (Ooh, we can use that later.)
‘What the hell is that?’ he says. He looks at the cock ring in my hand. Perhaps he’s not into sex toys?
I get down – quickly – on one knee.
‘Nino,’ I say, ‘will you marry me?’
‘If I say yes, will you shut up?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says.
I jump up and push the cock ring on his finger; it’s pink and stretchy like jelly.
‘Yippee,’ I squeal. ‘Now you ask me.’
I give him the ring from the grenade.
Nino gets down on one knee. ‘Alvie, will you marry me?’ He slides the ring on my finger.
‘Yes, I will,’ I reply.
‘Congratulations,’ says Beth in my head.
Then we kiss.
Nino and Alvie
Together for ever. His
Balls belong to me ☺
I skip and Nino walks back to the swimming pool. We pick up our crumpled clothes and head inside to our room. I’m so happy I could explode. I do one line after another until my brain is a snow globe.
Nino crashes out, exhausted, on the king-size bed. But I don’t want to sleep; I’m too excited. I’ve got a wedding to plan.
‘Nino? Do you want some?’ I ask.
Oh, he’s started to snore.
I’ll just have both of these lines to myself . . . Waste not, want not. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Twice the fun and double the trouble. I’m too young for a heart attack.
I turn on the TV for som
e company. I want to watch the news. Perhaps there’s more on Domenico’s story? That would crack me up. I do the other line. Whoop! Whoop! Now I can’t stop smiling. It’s all I can do to stop myself from bouncing on the bed like a kid. The TV’s showing scenes of some cloisters. A church or a convent. A solemn crowd. An Italian nun’s being interviewed. I don’t know what she is talking about; it’s probably very dull. They overlay a photo of an elderly-looking nun. Not any nun. MY NUN. ‘Sorella Francesca di Marzo, 71, also known as Teresa di Gesù.’ Shit fuck shit fuck shit. A presenter speaks in hurried Italian. His face is sombre and sincere. The camera moves to zoom in on a road. Streaks of red. Those are bloodstains. Of course, that’s where I ran her over. Where is this going? What does it mean? Have they found her body? Another scene. The charred remains of the Cinquecento. Blackened branches. Broken trees. Scenes of sylvan carnage. Burnt grass and singed leaves. The camera zooms in on the car. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t open it. Don’t look inside, please. They spare us the sight of the nun’s charred body, but I can see her in my mind’s eye. Gross and haggard, her skin melted off. Grey hair turned to charcoal. Her clothes just threads . . . I close my eyes and shake my head.
‘No, no, no.’
Another photo. It’s that man! ‘Lorenzo Mancini, 51’. I recognize him straight away. I stole his car. That was his rusty old Cinquecento. I remember his red face pressed up to the window. I remember that thick roll of fat. He looks bemused, beyond baffled. He is standing outside a courtroom. Police vans and bustling crowds. I watch as the man cowers under his coat, trying to avoid reporters.
‘Signor Mancini,’ call the hacks. ‘Signor, é stato lei?’
The man is ushered past the crowds in handcuffs. There’s a group of angry nuns. Placards. A solemn-looking priest. And not any priest, it’s my priest. The one I rescued from the forest and who gave me a lift. My brain whirs and whirs and tries to compute, but I’m so high now that I can’t think. I try to work it all out. Someone interviews the priest. I don’t know what he is saying, but it looks like some kind of eulogy. I guess he’s talking about that nun, Sorella Francesca Di Marzo. He’s probably saying it’s sad she’s dead. That people shouldn’t kill nuns . . . The police must have arrested that man on suspicion of murdering the nun. Is that what’s going on here? I can’t believe it. There is a god. I stare at the screen for a couple more minutes. Then the story changes to something else.
I run over to Nino on the bed. I want to wake him. I have to tell him. I can’t believe my luck. But it wouldn’t make any sense to Nino. He doesn’t know who that nun was. He doesn’t know I killed her. I guess it isn’t really that urgent. I’ll let him sleep a little bit more. It can wait until morning. See? I’m a sweet, considerate soul. I’m a thoughtful girl. I’m going to make a wonderful wife. Nino is a lucky man. Doesn’t know how lucky he is.
I watch him sleep. I could watch him for hours and listen to him breathing. It’s dark in the bedroom; the curtains are drawn and shadows form a chiaroscuro that accentuates his features. My eyes rest on his beautiful face. The portrait of a Roman god. An Italian supermodel. He could be an angel by Caravaggio. He could play Ciro in Gomorrah.
I light myself one of his cigs and stand at the window, beaming. I am so goddamn good at this. I am getting away with murder. I don’t even know how many that is, but that’s a fuck-ton of bodies. We’re going to be the best assassins that the world has ever seen. We’ll go down in history as the maddest and the baddest. Nino’s my king and I’ll be his queen.
I smile at the sparkling sea. The sun is rising over the water. It’s going to be a beautiful day. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. I love it when it’s like this. The pink of dawn evaporates into a blue as pale and clear as Dynamite’s eyes. I’ve forgiven Nino for killing her. He did what he had to do. I’ve forgiven myself for killing those cops. Alessandro too. I’ve all but forgotten about that mugger, and my twin had it coming to tell you the truth. The nun was . . . regrettable. But you can’t be a pussy in my line of work. The minute you catch the feels, you lose. You falter and you die. I stub the fag out on the tiles and flick it out to the garden below. I turn back into the bedroom. Nino is still sleeping.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and stroke his raven hair. Nino’s snores are soft and low, as sweet as baby Ernie’s. They’re not monster snores like Domenico’s. (He’ll be popular in jail.) Nino stirs and moves in his sleep. He mutters something, ‘Alvie?’ He’s dreaming about sex with me, I can guarantee it. There’s a flicker of a smile at the edges of his lips. I lean in and kiss him. My partner. My lover. My husband-to-be. I can’t believe he wants to marry me.
The bag of coke is lying open. Just one more bump – what harm can it do? I lick my finger and stick it in the pure white powder. I rub the drug into my gums. Mmm, that’s proper lovely. Nino’s gun is lying on the little bedside table, beside the lamp and his engagement ring. Oh. Why has he taken that off? I’m still wearing the silver ring from the hand grenade. But the cock ring isn’t on his finger; it’s right there on the table. That’s strange. I’m not sure if I like it. What the fuck does it mean? My heartbeat quickens. Is that the coke? Or something else? But it’s cool. It’s OK. Chill out, babe. I stand up and stretch it out. Perhaps some chamomile tea?
I look in the bedroom mirror. It’s dark, but I can see my eyes are like two flying saucers. I’ve never seen my pupils so wide. My jaw is set and rigid. I rub my cheeks hard up and down and slap myself in the face three times. I grind my teeth. Oh man, I’m on edge. I can’t feel my chin or lips.
I see Nino stir in the bed just behind me. He reaches out his hand through the shadows. I watch his fingers inch towards something on the bedside table.
‘The gun,’ says Beth. ‘He’s going to shoot you.’
I sprint back across the room. My heart is pounding double time. I get tunnel vision. Everything goes black beyond the gun. I grab the Glock, but just in time – Nino’s fingers brushing mine – then I pull the trigger.
KA-POW.
Splattered blood and floating feathers.
I’m deafened. Hands shaking. Palms sweating.
Shit.
Then I drop the gun.
What just happened?
What the fuck did I do?
Beth laughs in my head. ‘I win,’ she says.
I slump – heavy – against the wall and sink down slowly to the floor.
‘No,’ I say. ‘What the fuck did you do?’
I watch the red seep through the cotton. Smell the carnal stench of blood.
‘He was reaching for the lamp,’ says Beth. ‘You just killed your soulmate.’
‘No. No. The gun,’ I say.
‘The lamp.’
‘The gun.’
‘The lamp.’
‘The gun.’
‘The lamp.’
‘The gun. The gun.’
I look at Nino, at the hole in his forehead filling up with something black. Everything is in slow motion. My vision is blurry with tears. His beautiful face is stained with blood. My stomach churns. I retch. I vomit again and again and again all over the blue tiled floor.
‘I told you I’d get my revenge,’ she says.
‘No, no, no.’
Oh my God, Beth. I could kill her again. And that fucking clown. She’s been out to get me all along. She hates me. She hates me. I hate me? I cry hot tears. He’s dead. He’s gone. What have I done? What did I do? I kiss him on his still warm lips. I taste hot iron: his blood.
I reach out my trembling hand and feel his wrist for a pulse. I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Come on.
Come on.
Nino.
Nino.
Please.
I gently pull his eyelid open. His pupil is wide. Dilated. It doesn’t shrink when exposed to light. I let it close. That confirms it.
> Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
I lie down next to him on the bed.
Mr Bubbles laughs in my head.
And . . .
The rest is silence.
Epilogue
My Samsung rings: ‘Unidentified caller’.
‘Yes? Hello? What is it?’
‘Alvina, darling, is that you?’
‘Huh?’ Don’t fucking darling me. It’s Mavis. Why is she being so nice? Someone must be listening. ‘Yes, it’s me. What do you want?’ Money for a retirement home? A live-in nurse/carer?
‘I’ll keep this brief, my angel,’ she says.
‘Good. Why’s that then?’ Unusual.
‘I only have a minute, you see, before they cut me off. They’re very strict about personal calls in these police-cell-prison-office things.’
‘In what? Where are you? What’s going on?’ I glare at the phone, but it isn’t FaceTime.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m calling, dear. I’m at the station here in Rome. It turns out the authorities in the UK have finally found your father. Can you believe it? After all these years. Twenty-five to be precise . . .’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Some police officers in Lower Slaughter found your father in the garden shed.’
‘Why was my father in a shed?’
‘Ah, now that is the question.’
‘The million-fucking-dollar question. Who am I? Chris Tarrant?’
‘What? Who? No. Don’t swear. Anyway, the point, my dear, is I have been arrested. On suspicion of first-degree murder. Have you ever heard anything so utterly absurd? Anyway, I very much doubt they’ll have enough evidence to convict me, what with the time span and the maggots. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten about him. Half expected he’d have disappeared or, you know, biodegraded. I was actually calling you to say do come and get Ernesto. I left him with Riccardo and Giuseppe, which is not ideal . . .’
‘WHAT THE FUCK? MY FATHER IS DEAD?’ First it’s Nino then my dad.
‘Will you come and babysit?’
‘You killed him?’
‘Alvina. Let me be clear: that’s for the jury to decide.’
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