Bitter Remedy: An Alec Blume Case

by Conor Fitzgerald

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Prologue

  Everything slithered. Trillions of spores filled her lungs, eyes, nose, and throat. They settled in Alina’s stomach and chest, where gas and nausea and hunger waged war. At first, she tried to measure time through her memory of how long a day lasted. Then she tried measuring the hours by when she went to sleep and woke up. After an indeterminate period, she was no longer able to tell sleep from wakefulness. Sometimes she touched her eyes to see if they were open or closed.

  Then she tried screaming as a unit of measurement. Every now and then, she would open her throat and shout for help at the top of her voice. When it came out as a croak or a whisper or a whimper, she knew very little time had passed since she last tried it; when it came out loud and raw and full of desperation, she knew some time had passed, but the sound of her own terror horrified her, and she began to wonder if it was really her doing all that shouting.

  She tried to recall stories from her childhood, her travels, even the violent men. A slap or a punch now would be familiar and welcome. Male violence would mean she was alive. One time she woke up and the room was full of swirling colours, and she felt a sudden uplift of joy. But then she realized there was nothing but colours. There were no objects to which they might attach themselves. They floated like those she used to conjure up in the classroom by pushing her knuckles hard into her closed eyes. Behind them was only darkness. They were not even proper colours, more ideas of what colours might be.

  Even so, she wanted to give some sort of geometrical form to them. Sometimes the yellow-green lights behind her eyeballs would resolve themselves into boxes or triangles. She could make red circles, yellow spirals, hexagons in green. She imagined an invisible demon sculpting pieces of black coal into twisted forms. Sometimes they appeared all too vividly, going far beyond mere geometrical shapes. Aborted babies, smashed faces, smiling men with black lips floated by her. Harry Potter was there, too.

  Alina prayed. Not only for rescue, but preventatively, in case she died and failed to notice, and found herself unprepared on the other side.

  The colours had gone. She was unsure if she was standing or lying, or perhaps seated on the ground. She put out her palms, and felt wall. Or was it floor? She pushed and felt her arms ache. She turned round and heard the squelch and pop of fungus under her spine. Lying then. She stood up and drew in the blackness though her eyes, nose, and mouth. Total, except for a tiny sliver of greyness that floated into the side of her right eye. She waited, expecting it to float into the middle and then up to the far corner of her right eye like the other optical effects had done, but it stayed there. Cautiously, she turned her head towards it, and it was gone. She tilted her head back, ready to scream again, no matter how futile and quiet the action might be, but stopped because the grey was visible again. She began to walk towards it, and it remained more or less where it was. She touched wall, vertical this time. The rectangle was gone, but reappeared as she stood back. She slid her hands up the wall, and felt it slope away from her. She felt around with her fingers, and realized it was an indentation of some sort. Overcome with a sudden wild urge that filled her with momentary strength, she jumped, stretching her fingers in the direction of where she estimated the hint of light might be. She banged her face and fell back almost senseless to the ground, but the tip of her forefinger was tingling. She had felt air.

  Chapter 1

  Caterina Mattiola let herself into the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. As soon as she entered, she knew he wasn’t there. Not only his top-floor apartment, but the entire building was empty. The entire neighbourhood, for that matter. Alec had chosen to live in a new-build apartment put up by a construction company that had run out of money, or had been accused of recycling crime money, or had been embezzling public money.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he had told her once. Complicated or not, the construction company had vanished, leaving the apartment block above and a line of unfinished houses below, and the site office selling them had closed.

  So now he lived, alone, the only inhabitant in a tall tower block, which stood on an isolated piece of ground that had been partly cemented over, but was now returning to nature. The vista from his living room window was, on first impact, expansive. There was the blue top of the IKEA sign and, beyond that, smooth green hills, now turning orange as the sun set, rolling all the way up to the nature reserve of Veio, where she had gone twice on school trips to see the remains of the Etruscan temples. It had seemed so far away then, well outside the city, but Rome’s suburbs were moving northwards and Alec Blume was in the vanguard, his apartment overlooking the lands soon to be conquered. But then the eye was drawn downwards to the narrowness of the abandoned rows of houses and the narrow roads leading nowhere, and it became clear that the outward expansion had been halted.

  ‘Alec?’ She called his name, though it was clear he was not home. The sound of her own voice made her uneasy, and if he had actually answered, if any sound came back, she might have screamed.

  She looked at the room. He had bought himself a large television. The few pieces of furniture were all from IKEA, presumably the one she could see out the window.

  The first bedroom off the narrow corridor was filled with crates and boxes, which seemed to contain mostly books. She recognized them as the art volumes that had once belonged to his parents, but he had yet to put up any shelves and she was not sure the low-ceiling apartment could ever accommodate them. The next bedroom, the larger one, was his. A bed with three legs and a headboard fitted on backwards had been propped up vertically against the wall, an Allen key still sticking out of it. The frame included two wooden slats, splintered and split as if an angry someone had stamped on them several times. On the floor was a mattress made up with sheets and a grey-and-white chequered duvet. Beside it, on the floor, was a blue plastic reading light. On the pillow lay a copy of the book he was reading. Austerlitz. His neatly folded clothes were stacked on the windowsill, on an ironing board, and on an incongruous coffee table that he must have assembled in there because it was too wide to fit through the door. A sad pile of unpaired socks sat in the corner.

  The bathroom was long and thin, the far end curving outward slightly in a semicircle, creating a slight outward bulge that was visible as a ripple on the brickwork on the outside of the building, presumably for decorative effect. The effect inside was to give the room the shape of a coffin, the toilet and shower sitting where the upturned face would be, the bath and hand basin playing the part of the arms, the floor and washing machine where she was, the feet. The medicine cabinet contained mouthwash, an unopened razor, and nothing else. She
imagined him simply sweeping everything else into a plastic bag.

  This was only her second time in his tower, as she thought of it. The first time she had been in a far more hostile mood, having kicked him out of her apartment just a few weeks before when he had proved himself incapable of being a caring father both for the child they had made together and for her son, Elia, whose dead father seemed to be a matter of complete indifference to Blume. As she was leaving that first time, he had pressed his house keys into her hands, but she had thrown them back at him, saying she was done with caring for him. She was past caring, she had told him.

  But then, one day, he had left them on her desk in the police station, and when she had grabbed them and marched into his office to throw them back in his face, she found he was not there. Later that day, she learned he had taken an ‘indefinite leave of absence’. For several days all the talk, the whispers when she drew near, had been about the Commissioner Blume’s crisi di nervi.

  Two days later, she swept the keys angrily into her handbag before going home. A week after that she had phoned him, and he had sounded . . . Fine was not the word. Definitely not fine, but he had lost none of his ability to infuriate her, which, after her anger subsided, she had found comforting. He was all right. That is what he had told her, too.

  ‘I am taking a break. I have been told to take a break, to avoid a breakdown, so that is what I am doing.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘The doctors.’

  ‘Doctors, plural?’

  ‘You always need a second opinion with those bastards. And a third.’

  ‘I am glad you are seeing someone. Listen to them.’

  ‘One of them told me I should do something that is the opposite of what I am. I had to ask him what he meant, and he said I should try to be open-minded. And to learn how to relax.’

  ‘Sounds like good advice.’

  ‘Sounds like an insult.’

  ‘Take it as a challenge.’

  ‘You can’t fucking challenge someone to relax,’ he said in what she recognized as a return to form, and the conversation had ended shortly after.

  She allowed two weeks of silence to pass, then called him again, but he was not answering his phone. So, in spite of all her promises to herself, and without quite realizing what she was doing, she had left Alessia and Elia with her mother and come all the way out here.

  The kitchen was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar. He had bought himself a 1950s-style diner stool with a red plastic cushion, but it seemed unlikely that he ever ate there, seeing as the bar top was taken up by an outsized printer and photocopier, a laptop, notebooks, stationery, and papers, arranged neatly enough. In the fridge, she found a carton of milk and smelled it. It had gone off, but only by a few days. A lump of cheese sat like an unused bar of soap on the middle shelf. Three bottles of Nastro Azzurro beer lay on their sides, which angered and dismayed her, and sent her searching through the rubbish bags to see how many empties he had left, but she found only a closed bag bulging with wastepaper and cardboard. He must have taken the bottles out with the rest of the waste before he left. Alcoholics like to hide their empties.

  She turned her attention to the paper and printouts, expecting to find case files. He would sometimes look at old files and point out mistakes that had been made, and he liked to bring home profiles of victims, perpetrators, charts showing connections between suspects. But, apart from a printout of an IKEA brochure showing different shelving solutions and, oddly enough, a Wikipedia entry on herbal teas and a colourful catalogue on Bach Flowers, there was nothing.

  She tore open the bag containing the wastepaper. It consisted mostly of pizza boxes, which he had conscientiously ripped up into small pieces, along with a few torn sheets of A4 paper printed on both sides; she took them out, spread them on the floor, and looked at them, working out their order. Two intact ones had to do with SIULP, the police union, and pension rights. Another page, stained with tomato sauce from a pizza and missing its top half, was something about a villa:

  . . . is sadly dilapidated but remains a handsome and ample building whose stone façade contains only a few faint streaks of the milk-and-lime red paint that had once made it stand out so clearly against the green garden that surrounds it.

  ‘What villa, Alec? What are you doing?’

  The gardens are now more famous than either the building or the family that once lived there, and when people talk about the ‘villa’, the gardens are what they mean. They outclassed the villa even in its heyday, as well as the three generations of the family, which failed to see that building the family mansion in the flatlands below a fortified hill town meant they could never dominate. By the time the great-grandson realized the mistake and had bought the highest house in the town, the historical centre of the town itself had become depopulated.

  The microcosmic qualities of the gardens are exceptional. This patch of ground lying flat all year under an unrelenting sun and surrounded by stinking marshes and mosquitoes manages nonetheless, thanks to the exceptionally cool underground waters, to host Alpine flowers as well as Mediterranean plants. The garden has its own icy river, rising in a deep underground spring and forming a lake before it allows the water to flow out into the brown marshes outside. The villa even has its own mountain, which is just high enough to generate a unique weather system for this blessed patch of land by causing the rising moisture from the marshes and the nearby sea to form clouds that pile up and cool down against the black slate cliff face that makes up the western prospect of the mountain, which also casts a cool shadow over one-third of the grounds and half the villa. As night falls, the clouds move up a little, burst, and water everything below.

  On top of this mountain sits the town of . . .

  She turned over the torn page, and found only a few more lines of text from the bottom half.

  The land is marshy in places, silty in others, clayey here, and acidy there. Springy turf, thick mud, soft grass, bright red dust, and fine-grained pH-perfect soil alternate so that almost any kind of plant will find perfect conditions, but no invasive species can traverse the boundaries of the soil types.

  Outside the window the hills had now turned purple and grey as the sun dipped below the horizon. The lights of the shopping centre, the IKEA car park, and the motorway were shining like beacons of distant hope, and she badly wanted to get out of this ghostly apartment block before it got dark.

  It seemed Alec Blume was taking a holiday. Well, good for him. As for her, she had two children to look after, one of them his.

  Chapter 2

  Standing in the middle of a carefully designed maze of privet and jasmine bushes, well-tended but not grown high enough to function as a labyrinth for anyone but the smallest children, Alec Blume was nonetheless disoriented. He felt his dark trousers, heavy shoes, dark blue shirt, and beige jacket were too heavy for the soft green vegetation around him. He remained still, listening for the sounds of the other people he had expected to find, but hearing only the whisper of insects flitting between the pool and the plant stalks, and the fat buzz of a bee landing on a yellow floret. Had he mistaken the day?

  One thing was certain: the villa made its own sounds. They could be mistaken for individual human sounds, for whimpers and throaty rasps and faraway cries, but not for the comfortable, generalized hubbub of visitors gathering at the beginning of a course, the sound of a teacher greeting them. Evidently he had come to the wrong part of the garden.

  Although sweating now, with the hives on his chest smarting, it made him shiver to turn his back on the empty windows of the villa, which he imagined watching him. He turned round again, and it seemed as if the whole building had shuddered and taken a lurch in his direction. Something seemed to be moving in the corner of his left eye. He turned round again, this time with more resolution, ignoring the sensation of shimmering from behind, the hints of voices and muffled curses, and the sense of danger. These were precisely the sensations that he had come here to
cure. He swallowed a Doxepin to stop the itching, and dismissed the sounds, so that even if someone in the villa had been screaming at that precise moment, he would have dismissed the sound as too faint, and he continued walking away, shoving a Lyrica pill under his tongue to calm his frayed nerves.

  With the help of directions from a gnarled gardener who had disconcertingly sprung from a bush as he was passing, he found his group on the far side of the garden, behind the gate lodge he had parked in front of, but then ignored, presuming, for no particular reason, that the villa was the appointed meeting place. They were all looking in his direction, waiting for him, and, politely, he waved and quickened his pace a little, though none of them waved back. When he drew close, a slender young woman in blue jeans and a soft yellow cotton shirt with a paisley motif, folded her arms and shook her head in what seemed an exaggeration of amazed disappointment, given that he was only a few minutes late. The others in the group seemed to be regarding both him and, oddly, the young woman with some hostility.

  ‘You didn’t get my email?’ she accused as soon as he was within earshot.

  ‘No email,’ said Blume, pausing to register his surprise and catch his breath.

  ‘Is that your car out front?’

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded.

  ‘Guest parking is down the road. You go around the corner, and then turn left. It was signposted. That courtyard is ours. It’s not for guests.’

  ‘Nothing is for guests,’ said a young man, a leather satchel slung across his body, wooden beads on his wrists, an observation which made his girlfriend giggle and a middle-aged woman stamp her foot and say, ‘Exactly.’

  Blume spread his hands seeking explanation.

  ‘You would have come round the side of the gate lodge and found us immediately in the spice garden, where we were scheduled to meet, instead of wandering around the gardens on your own like that, and getting lost. Were you at the villa?’