The Rome Prophecy ts-2

by Jon Tracy

  ‘No, not at all. Some are to God the Father, some to angels, some to the Holy Ghost. There are different prayers, for different bodies and different purposes.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘It’s an intense one. One said personally and directly to Jesus at desperate times. When perhaps life is in peril or a big problem is being faced. It’s really a cry for faith to be fortified, and a declaration of repentance and devotion.’ Tom repeats its words in his head, then translates the end of the prayer: ‘With deep affection and grief, I reflect upon Thy five wounds, having before my eyes that which Thy prophet David spoke about Thee, O good Jesus: They have pierced my hands and feet, they have counted all my bones. Amen.’

  The two women say nothing.

  To Louisa, a proud atheist, the words are meaningless, while Valentina’s police training inevitably directs her beyond the elements of devotion, supplication and sacrifice and instead focuses on the key words pierced hands, five wounds and bones.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ continues Tom, thoughtfully, ‘this should be said kneeling down in front of a crucifix. The prayer begins, “Behold, O good and most sweet Jesus, I fall upon my knees before Thee…” I guess if she hadn’t been so weak after the sedation and surgery, she’d have got out of bed and knelt.’

  Valentina shakes her head. ‘It’s not that. Remember her apartment? All the crucifixes were on the ceiling, not the walls.’ She realises the full implication of her own thoughts and adds speculatively, ‘I think this is something that she would recite over and over in bed. I can easily imagine her lying there every night in the dark in that freaky bible bed, looking up at the shadows of the hanging rosary beads and repeating this until she eventually falls asleep.’

  Louisa’s still playing catch-up. ‘She was hoping this prayer would keep her safe throughout her sleep?’

  ‘She was banking on it,’ answers Tom. ‘But safe from what? The Virgin Mary? That just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘In my experience, DID patients often don’t.’

  ‘She didn’t say Virgin Mary,’ observes Valentina. ‘She said Holy Mother. Is there a difference?’

  Tom has to think. ‘Theologically – and pedantically – maybe. Mary was a virgin before she was chosen by God to carry Jesus. At this point she would not have been a mother.’

  Louisa interrupts them. ‘I think you’re chasing down the wrong alleyway, or should I say church aisle.’

  They look to her to elaborate.

  ‘I think she meant holy in a sarcastic way. As in her own mother – a mother so holy she’s always right and never does any wrong.’

  Valentina sees her point. ‘Could be. You’re thinking she’s traumatised by parental abuse?’

  ‘It would fit the pattern for dissociative identity disorder.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Long story. Let me try to explain. Briefly, one day Anna gets abused by her mother.’

  ‘Physically or sexually?’ asks Valentina.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Certainly not for the sake of this example. Anyway, she’s shocked and hurt by the abuse. Mother starts to make the abuse routine; this stresses Anna, who develops a mechanism to cope with it. So next time Mother comes seeking her kicks, Anna dissociates.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She imagines that she’s somewhere else and that whatever horrible thing her mother is doing is not happening to her. It’s happening to some other kid. Someone tough enough to take it.’

  Distressing as it sounds, Valentina can see the logic. ‘Go on.’

  Louisa does. ‘So, when Mother turns up to routinely abuse Anna, Anna routinely sends out her alter – Anna, a stronger and more detached side of her, to cope with the abuse. The longer this goes on, the more permanent the alter-Anna, probably Little Suzie Fratelli, as we’ve come to know her, becomes.’

  ‘How do you explain the others?’ asks Tom. ‘Cassandra, the Roman victim; Suzanna Grecoraci, the mother of two children; and Claudia from the Sabines.’

  ‘Sometimes a second or third abuser – or different levels of abuse – enters the dimension, and therefore a second or third alter is needed. As layers of trauma are added, more layers of alters – protection – are necessary.’

  Tom hasn’t bought totally into the theory. ‘I know child abuse is one of the horrors of our modern-day world, but isn’t it usually the father, not the mother, who’s the offender? And isn’t it highly unusual for a mother to sexually abuse her own daughter?’

  Valentina interrupts. ‘Yes, but not unheard of. And remember, it can be a stepmother as much as a mother. There’s a famous case in Britain of a serial killer who abused her daughter sexually, physically and psychologically for years. She and the girl’s father even killed her sister and buried her under a patio.’ Louisa becomes practical. ‘As I said earlier, now that we have her real name, we’ll search all the local doctors’ records for any history of physical, mental or sexual abuse.’

  ‘We’ll do the same,’ counters Valentina. ‘We’ll trace her mother and father and search for criminal records, social reports, anything that suggests incest or sexual assault from neighbours or extended family.’

  Tom says nothing. He’s lost in his thoughts. Thoughts that suggest what’s going on could be even more than child abuse.

  64

  Guilio Brygus Angelis is brought into the interview room with handcuffs around his wrists and chains around his ankles.

  Federico Assante introduces himself, sets a voice recorder whirring, reads him his rights and sits back without saying anything.

  He wants to take stock.

  This is an unusual case, with unusual victims. Now he’s face to face with an unusual suspect.

  Angelis looks slender and harmless.

  Certainly no giant.

  At a guess, he weighs in at less than eleven stone. That said, he’s not carrying any body fat, and his arms are rippling with sinewy muscles. He certainly keeps himself fit; no doubt with some form of fight training. Federico wonders if there’s even a special martial art for eunuchs, like there is for Shaolin monks.

  He studies the guy’s face.

  No eyebrows.

  Amazing how one missing feature messes up your whole appearance.

  No beard line either. It gives him a strange softness that male models have. Metrosexuality.

  The goon has the skin of a ten-year-old boy. Federico runs fingers over his own stubbly beard. It would be great not to shave again.

  But not at the price of having your nuts cut off.

  Then there are his eyes.

  Federico has seen eyes like that before.

  Many times before.

  Savage eyes.

  Criminal eyes.

  Eyes that don’t blink when a fight’s about to break out. Eyes that don’t look away when there’s blood spilling and knives flashing under the street lights.

  Now Federico’s got the measure of him.

  He’s ready to start the interview.

  ‘So, Guilio, do you feel like talking to us today? Or do we just send your silent ass for trial on charges of breaking and entering, assault and maybe even the attempted murder of Anna Fratelli?’

  Angelis is using his index finger to doodle in the dust on top of the interview table.

  He finishes a line, lifts his eyes and lets a cold stare settle on the detective’s face.

  Smug bastard.

  A hard-working cop, but not that bright.

  The fool thinks he’s much cleverer than he really is.

  Thinks he knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t have a clue. He certainly has no idea about how wrong he’s got it. Okay, he’s smart enough and energetic enough to take some prints and use them to pull a rap sheet.

  Big deal.

  Sooner or later that was always going to happen.

  And by now he’s probably also traced his home address and got some other fools to pull the place apart.

  No matter.

  They won’t find anything.
Certainly nothing that will make any sense to them.

  But they know about Anna.

  And that’s a shame.

  Anna should be invisible.

  She shouldn’t be seen by jerks like the one sitting opposite him, or that woman detective and her big thug.

  It would have been good to have spent more time with them.

  To have dealt with them properly.

  ‘What’s it to be, Guilio? We talk, maybe try to work in some mitigation to the charges, or you go straight to court and look forward to an eternity of being ass-fucked in prison?’

  Angelis lets a smug smile spread across his face. ‘I’d like a lawyer. Get me a brief within the hour and maybe I’ll be good to you when I file my own charges.’

  Federico laughs. ‘Of what?’

  He leans back and crosses his arms. ‘False arrest. Assault. Defamation of character.’

  ‘That’s funny. Ha ha. We caught you right in the middle of the apartment, Guilio. Hiding in the damned dark.’

  His arms stay crossed and his eyes remain fixed on the lieutenant’s face.

  Federico gets a bad feeling.

  ‘Have you asked Anna about me?’ Angelis pauses and reads the detective’s face. ‘I thought not. When you do, you’ll find out why I was there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She wanted me there. She asked me to be there.’ He uncrosses his arms and leans across the table. ‘I was protecting her, you idiot. Not attacking her.’

  65

  To everyone’s relief, Anna is still Anna.

  Louisa Verdetti passes out a tray of drinks. Cola Lite for Valentina and Anna, espresso doppio and water for Tom and herself.

  Valentina’s phone rings. She apologises and ducks outside the patient’s room to take the call.

  Louisa hopes she stays there.

  Getting through the layers of alters and down to the host is something of a clinical breakthrough. The chance of an uncluttered discussion with a DID sufferer is precious, and she’s scared to death that questions about crimes and investigations are going to send Anna plunging back behind the cover of one of the alternative personalities.

  ‘Do you feel okay to continue with our chat?’she asks kindly.

  ‘Of course.’ Anna sounds as sprightly as if she were being asked directions on a warm summer Sunday. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  Valentina’s sudden return interrupts them.

  She smiles apologetically, clicks the door quietly behind her and despite seeing that Louisa is in mid-conversation, addresses Anna directly. ‘Do you know a man called Guilio Angelis?’

  ‘Yes. Guilio works with me.’

  Valentina makes her way to a chair alongside Anna’s. ‘We discovered him in your apartment yesterday, before we found you. Did you invite him inside?’

  Now Anna has to think. A lot has happened since yesterday. She remembers doctors leaning over her, masked faces, blood everywhere, her blood, and before that – only blackness.

  Blackness in the wardrobe, where she was frightened. Blackness in that safe place in her own mind where she goes when terrible things start to happen.

  And before that?

  Slowly she starts to remember.

  ‘Guilio came from work to help me.’

  Valentina lets out a deep sigh. ‘You asked him into your home?’

  ‘ Si.’

  ‘How do you know this man, Anna?’

  ‘Like I said, I work with him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rosati’s, in the Piazza del Popolo.’

  ‘How long have you worked there?’

  ‘Three, four years. I started in the cafeteria and was there for – oh, maybe a year, perhaps a little more, then I’ve been in the ristorante part of it ever since.’

  ‘And Guilio?’

  Another pause. ‘About the same time. I think we even started the same week. He is a very good waiter.’

  Valentina has one more attempt to shake a story that she knows is going to result in the guy who assaulted her being released. ‘Anna, this is really important. Are you absolutely sure that you invited Guilio Angelis into your apartment yesterday and that he had the right to be there? He didn’t force himself in? He wasn’t threatening you in any way?’

  ‘No.’ She looks offended. ‘Guilio’s my friend. He’s always been my friend. Why would he want to hurt me?’

  Valentina curses softly to herself and stares into Anna’s eyes.

  The woman’s not going to change her story, that much is clear.

  She glances towards Louisa. ‘Give me a minute. I have to ring my colleague.’

  ‘Sure.’

  As Valentina leaves, Louisa hands out glasses for the drinks, pops the tab on Anna’s cola and pours it. ‘You don’t have to carry on with this session, you know. If you’re too tired, or you find talking to us distressing, we can put it off until another time.’

  Anna squeezes out a smile. ‘No, I’m fine.’ She puts her hand on her bandaged arm. ‘Apart from this.’ She turns her head towards the door where Valentina exited. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Is Guilio in trouble?’

  Louisa doesn’t know how to answer. ‘You’d best ask the capitano when she comes back.’

  Several more minutes pass until Valentina reopens the door.

  It’s clear something unpleasant has happened.

  Her cheeks are flushed and there’s no trace of a smile.

  Anna looks agitated. ‘Why were you asking me about Guilio?’

  Valentina settles back into a chair next to her. ‘We had to check that his story was the same as yours. We had to make sure he didn’t force his way into your apartment and try to harm you.’

  Anna falls silent.

  She seems to understand.

  Valentina suspects she still hasn’t got the whole story. ‘Anna, have you always lived in that apartment?’

  Tension ripples across her forehead. ‘ Si.’

  ‘It’s unusual, isn’t it?’

  She stares down at her glass of cola. ‘You mean my bedroom, don’t you?’

  Valentina nods.

  ‘It’s the only way I feel safe at night.’ She looks to Tom. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  Tom doesn’t, but he tries to give her the impression he does. ‘Help us all to understand, Anna.’ He smiles sympathetically. ‘Tell us in your own words why you do that to your room.’

  ‘God protects me. Jesus protects me. When I’m in the midst of his words, I believe in Him and I believe He will protect me.’ She closes her eyes. ‘ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.’ She opens them again. ‘I truly believe that, Father.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Anna – and you are right to.’ Tom tries to be gentle. ‘But exactly what – or who – do you need His protection from?’

  ‘I told you earlier. Mother.’

  ‘Do you mean the Holy Mother, the Virgin Mary, or your own mother?’

  Anna clenches her fists.

  She crosses her wrists and holds them like a crucifix across her breasts. ‘Don’t you know? Don’t you understand?’

  Tom can see that whatever trust she had in him is evaporating as fast as a waft of frankincense at morning Mass. ‘ I do know, Anna, but I need you to tell these other people.’ He gestures to Louisa and Valentina. ‘They won’t believe me if I tell them; it has to come from you.’

  Anna starts breathing deeply.

  Very deeply.

  Panting hard.

  Louisa wonders if she’s starting to hyperventilate.

  Anna stretches her arms wide and pulls her shoulders back, like a swan opening its wings.

  Valentina moves to the edge of her seat.

  Something’s going to happen, and this time she’s going to be prepared. There’ll be no surprise head-butting, and no bust lips.

  ‘The Mother is all we are!’ shouts Anna.

&n
bsp; Only she’s no longer Anna.

  Tom stands and takes a step towards her.

  ‘Mater, who is all, is within us.’ She tears at the bandage on her cut arm.

  Louisa jumps from her seat and tries to stop her.

  ‘ Mater, who is all, is with us every day.’ She pushes Louisa away and claws at the stitches.

  Valentina is now on her feet and has reached the bed.

  ‘From Her we are – and to Her we go!’

  She grabs Anna’s wrists and restrains her.

  ‘From Her we are – and to Her we go!’ The nonsense is no longer being shouted, it’s being screamed. ‘From Her we are – and to Her we go!’

  Only one person in the room understands what’s happening.

  Tom Shaman sits silently and listens.

  It makes perfect sense to him.

  66

  The whole place stinks.

  Federico wonders if he’s going to get ill from just being here. No way was he going to let that androgynous son-of-a-bitch loose on the streets until he’d personally been to where he lives and found out what he’s hiding.

  It’s filthier than the Black Hole of Calcutta.

  But he can’t find anything incriminating.

  No drugs. No weapons. No stolen goods.

  The search team has already tossed Guilio Angelis’s squalid apartment in the Aventine more thoroughly than a Michelin-starred salad, but Federico’s determined to shake it some more.

  He holds a handkerchief to his nose as he joins an officer in a tiny bathroom with a postage-stamp window smeared in green mould.

  The stench from the toilet makes him want to hurl.

  It’s never seen bleach.

  Correction: by the look of it, it’s never been flushed.

  ‘Show me the cistern again,’ instructs Federico. ‘Let’s make doubly sure there’s nothing bagged and hidden in the water.’

  The young officer drops the seat cover, steps up and lifts off the heavy white ceramic top of the water tank.

  Federico climbs up on the adjacent sink and cracks his head on the ceiling. ‘ Madonna porca! ’ He rubs it. Static crackles off his latex gloves and makes his hair rise. He inches forward and peers down into the brown water around the ballcock and flush lever. He grimaces as he plunges his hand into the murky soup and fishes around. ‘Why is the water here so filthy?’