I hugged her back. ‘Yep.’ We moved to the stairs, only to be interrupted by a little meep from behind us. I turned. Gramsci stared up at us. ‘I don’t suppose we could bring—’
‘Don’t push it.’
I sighed. I grabbed the card again and held it up in front of his face. ‘Okay buddy, if you see someone like this,’ I pointed to the cloaked figure with the scythe, ‘you make your own call okay? Take him down if you think you can, but it’s okay to go and hide if you want.’
I locked up, and ten minutes later we were on the boat to the Lido. My personal opening view lay ahead of me.
Chapter 28
‘Are you coming to bed?’ said Federica.
I flopped down on to the sofa. ‘Not yet. I think I’ll stay up for a bit. I just need to clear my head.’
‘Okay. Shall I stay up with you?’
I was prepared for this. ‘That’d be great. I brought Theatre of Blood with me. I thought we might watch it again.’
‘Are you mad? How is that going to make you feel better?’
‘Trust me, it just will.’
She shook her head. ‘You really are mad. Would it surprise you if I said I don’t need to see it a second time?’ I made a sad little face. ‘Just keep all the doors closed, okay? I don’t want all that screaming waking me up.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve got any cigarettes?’
She sighed, and reached into her handbag. ‘Here you go. But not indoors.’
‘I promise. You’re a star.’
‘I know.’ Then she smiled, and bent over to kiss the top of my head. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I will be. Promise. I’ll be through in a bit.’
I gave her thirty minutes, before I padded over to the bedroom door. I could hear gentle snoring from inside. Then I crept over to the front door, pulled on my shoes, and let myself out as gently as I could. If she heard anything, she’d just assume I was going for a smoke and go back to sleep. Hopefully. Lazzaretto Vecchio was perhaps five minutes’ walk from Fede’s apartment on the Riva di Corinto. With a bit of luck she’d never know I’d been gone.
I made my way downstairs and through the garden of the condominio . As soon as I left the main gate, I could see the shadow of the island in the lagoon. A clear night, a moonlit night. I made my way along the street, empty of traffic at this hour. The shape of the island became clearer as my eyes adjusted. Then, out of the silence, from behind, came a great roar and two voices shrieking hysterically.
I jumped, and spun around. Two kids flashed past on a motorino , laughing and shouting. I bent over, placing my hands on my knees for support, and breathed deeply. Then I smiled. Daft kids, coming back from a late-night party. And riding way too fast. I hoped they’d make it home safely. I also hoped that the noise hadn’t woken Federica.
I walked along the riva , staring out at the island more in hope than expectation of actually seeing something. Beyond the Lazzaretto, I could see the silhouette of Venice in the moonlight, a city of domes and spires. Silence now, occasionally broken by the sound of far-off traffic. Out on the lagoon, I could see tiny dots of light marking late-night water traffic.
I stood and stared out at Lazzaretto Vecchio. Directly beneath me, a temporary bridge – installed for the duration of the Biennale – led from the shores of the Lido to the island. I walked along the riva until I found a set of steps leading down to the shore.
My feet crunched on the shingle, breaking the stillness of the night as I made my way across the rocky beach. The bridge was closed with a low gate. I tested it with my hand. Locked, but it was a simple matter to clamber over.
I stopped halfway across, and looked back. Federica would be worried if she woke up to find me gone. And there’d be merry hell to pay if she ever found out I’d been telling her a pack of lies. So this was, almost certainly, an incredibly stupid thing to do. The postcard, I was convinced, was just Francesco playing head games with me. In fact, I’d probably given him the idea during our conversation the previous day. The invite was another matter. I’d given Paul 150 euros, following which he’d disappeared. What if he really had gone and done something stupid? Didn’t I have some responsibility for that? There was, I thought, no choice but to go on.
The bridge led to a small landing stage, where visitors’ boats could moor in the daytime. I made my way across some scrubby grassland, until I came to a rickety wooden bridge that led through a gap in the great brick walls and into the Lazzaretto itself. It seemed darker and quieter once I had crossed the bridge, an effect of the surrounding walls.
I had never been here before, and struggled to remember what I knew about it. It was the oldest of the quarantine stations in Venice, where incoming crews would remain for the statutory forty days before being allowed to proceed into the city proper. And then, during the era of the great plagues, it served as a house for the dying. Over fifteen hundred skeletons had been unearthed here during the restoration project and hundreds, perhaps thousands more, lay beneath my feet.
I found myself within a courtyard. A vera da pozzo sat in the middle whilst, to my left, stairs led up to a loggia. Straight ahead of me lay the monumental main entrance. San Rocco and San Sebastiano stood either side of San Marco, above a doorway leading into darkness. If you had been brought here during the period of the great plagues, this would be the last you would ever see of the outside world. Abbandonate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate .
I had no idea where to go or what, if anything, I was looking for. Perhaps if I was higher up, I could get a better idea of the layout of the place. I took the stairs upwards, my shoes crunching on the crumbling stone. The entrance to the loggia itself was blocked by a padlocked iron grille. I gave it a shake, but it wouldn’t shift. Probably just as well, given the chances were it was closed for safety reasons.
I turned around, and gave a start. Down below, I could see a shadow in the courtyard. Someone standing just by the entrance. Watching me.
My throat was dry, but I managed to cry out. ‘Paul?’
The figure took a step towards me. I instinctively stepped back, and my feet slipped on the crumbling stone, sending me sliding towards the edge of the staircase. I scrabbled for purchase, desperately trying to stop myself from falling over the edge. Then my hand closed around the iron grille and I was able to pull myself upright. I fought to control my breathing, and then forced myself to look down into the courtyard once more. The figure, if it had ever been there, was gone.
I made my way down the stairs, keeping myself as close to the wall as I could. The entrance to the main gallery lay open. I could see nothing inside. I cursed myself for not bringing a torch. Did I even own a torch? The one on my phone would have to do. I made my way towards the entrance and then, for a moment, my foot slipped on a smooth surface beneath me and, as I tried to regain my balance, my feet scrunched against gravel, the noise ringing out against the silence. I looked down to see what I had slipped on. A black, polished surface reflecting the feeble light from my phone. I bent to take a closer look. The surface was semi-obscured with dirt and gravel, but I could still see some writing etched into it. I wiped away the debris and bent closer to read.
Death was here .
I stumbled back. Calm, Nathan . Presumably it was part of this year’s Biennale installation, or the remnants of one from a previous year. I moved forward again, and stopped on the threshold. The door was open, with a sign affixed with the usual list of prohibitions for a tourist site. No eating and drinking, no smoking, no dogs. Okay, that was a good sign. If visitors were allowed in then the basic structure must be safe, and I wouldn’t have to worry about the floor giving way beneath me.
I stepped inside. High windows in the walls let in the moonlight, which was of slightly more use than the dim light from my phone. I switched it off to save the battery, and paused to let my eyes become accustomed to the small amount of nat ural light. And then, in the moonlight, I saw seven motionless figures facing me. I stepped back, shaken. The figure
s repeated my motion. I stepped forward again. The seven figures did the same. My eyes sharpened, and I laughed. Seven figures to my left, seven figures to my right. The entire space was a hall of mirrors, presumably part of Considine’s exhibition. Seven by Seven , of course.
I made my way through the gallery. On the other side lay another doorway, this time leading into pitch-blackness. I stepped through, switched my phone back on, and, again, gave my eyes time to adjust.
The light helped only a modest amount and I paused every few metres just to scan the floor ahead of me for obstacles. I turned around. I could still see the entrance back to the main gallery illuminated by the moonlight. Good. As long as I could see that, I’d be able to find my way out again. I moved further into the darkness; perhaps ten or twenty metres.
There was no sound at all now. ‘Paul,’ I called. The sound echoed back at me and made me start. I counted to ten, and then called again. ‘Paul. It’s Nathan.’
Silence. Absolute silence. I screwed my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them again I’d find myself back in bed. I opened them again. Almost complete darkness. I directed my phone at the floor, and moved forward a few metres, then swung the light to my right, and then to my left. Something on the wall. Some marks in red. I moved a little closer. Writing. Possibly in Arabic, but I couldn’t be sure. I shone the light further along the wall. The image of a figure, scratched into the stone. An angel. Scrawled there centuries ago by one of the ill-fated inhabitants.
I moved forward again. More fragments of writing, some of it intelligible. Just names, of people and ships and cities, the work of bored seamen in quarantine, wanting to leave a little record that they’d passed this way. They must have been older than the angel, from the time when the island was merely a place of quarantine, and not a house for the dying.
And then something more abstract. In red, like the other markings, but this time a long red Jackson Pollock-style spray of colour. I followed the curve with my torch until it ended in a larger, deeper patch of red. Rothko, this time, not Pollock. And then, as I moved the beam of light down, I saw a dark shape on the floor. I moved closer, holding my makeshift torch out in front of me. And then the beam illuminated the bloodied face of Francesco Nicolodi, his eyes wide open and face contorted in a terrible grin.
I screamed, and dropped my phone. There was a brief clatter of plastic upon stone, and then absolute silence. And absolute darkness.
Chapter 29
‘Francesco. It’s Nathan. Can you hear me?’
Silence.
‘Francesco, are you all right? Can you speak?’
Silence.
I felt the fear rising within me but strove to keep my voice calm. ‘Francesco, I don’t know if this is a joke. I don’t know if you’re just trying to scare me. But if you are, then well done, yes, I’m scared. Okay. But just say something. Please.’ And then it struck me. The silence was absolute. I was, perhaps, less than a metre away from him and yet there was no sound of his breathing.
I turned around. Slowly, ever so slowly. There was, I knew, a source of light at the end of the corridor. Find that, and I could find my way out again, get home and ring the police. And in the midst of the blackness I could indeed see a pale square of blue light to guide me out. Then, nightmarishly, I saw the square grow smaller and smaller and then disappear altogether. From far off, there came the faint thud of a door closing.
Absolute silence. And absolute darkness.
Calm. Keep calm. What’s the worst that can happen? Someone will be here in the morning. Just keep calm and wait. And then I was aware that the silence was not absolute. There was a scratching and a scrabbling from the walls.
Pantagane . Rats.
Perhaps it was the thud of the door closing that had disturbed them. I didn’t know. Carefully, oh so carefully, I dropped to my knees and pressed my hands to my ears to block out the sound. Rats don’t attack people, I repeated to myself. Rats don’t attack people. They’d only been stirred up by the sound of the door closing. But who had closed the door?
I removed my hands from my ears, trying to ignore the sound of the rats in the walls and listen for footsteps instead. Slowly, the scrabbling and scratching fell silent and, again, I was alone in the darkness and silence.
I fought down the panic. Keep thinking, Nathan. Francesco isn’t going to hurt you now. The rats won’t hurt you. Probably, the rats won’t hurt you. There are no footsteps, therefore no one is coming. All you need is a source of light and you can get out again. A cigarette lighter? I ran through my pockets, and swore. An image came to mind of it lying on my bedside table. The thought brought Federica to mind again, and, again, I fought down the panic and guilt.
Light. Get the lights on.
I placed my hands on the ground. I swept my right hand slowly along the surface of the floor. Not slowly enough. My fingertips sliced across something, and I snatched my fingers back. I placed them to my lips. Blood. I screwed my eyes shut, and tried not to let the tears flow. It would be easy, so easy just to start screaming. But that wouldn’t get me home.
I tried again. Slower this time. Sweeping my hand across the floor hadn’t worked. I tried moving my hand up and down and around, in a patting motion. My palm came to rest on something round, something smooth. I tightened my fingers. A handle of some kind, possibly wood. I moved my hand upwards, gently relaxing and tightening my grip all the while. The feeling of the surface changed. Not wood any longer, but smoother. Metal? I carefully moved my thumb from the centre of the surface to the left. Sharp. A blade.
I raised my hand again and continued the patting motion and then, to my blessed relief, it landed on something that felt like plastic. I brought it to me and ran my fingers over it. The spongy feel of a cheap plastic keypad. But too light. I ran my fingers over the back. Hollow. The phone had come apart when I’d dropped it.
Okay. It was a start. I dropped my hands to the floor again, and continued the sweeping, patting motions. Somewhere in this area would be the battery. It was entirely possible, of course, that it had bounced metres away. In which case I could be here all night. I tried not to think about that.
My fingers came to rest on something soft and damp. Cloth. A jacket, a shirt? Something was clinging to my fingers. My blood? Francesco’s blood? And then my fingers encountered something solid. Rectangular, indentations at one end. The battery.
I had never, ever felt so grateful for not having a smartphone. If I’d dropped one of those on to a stone floor, I’d be spending the rest of the night in darkness. But I’d dropped my cheap thirty-euro mobile time and time again. I knew that it would break apart every time. I also knew that it could be put back together every time.
I snapped the battery in. Nothing happened. I gently prised it out again, and ran my finger around it searching for the contacts. I tried again, and was rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world as it plinged into life and the screen briefly illuminated. Long enough for me to activate the torch.
I held my breath and shone it around me. The beam was too faint for me to see down the end of the corridor, but I at least had an idea as to where the door might be. At the limits of the beam, squat black shapes skittered away into the darkness. I swung it back into my immediate vicinity, and on to my left hand. The fingertips were bleeding, sliced as if by a razor blade. I shone the beam in the direction of Francesco, and braced myself.
The face was as I remembered. The eyes open, the lips clenched in a terrible rictus grin. His hands were raised above his head, tied to each other and lashed around a spike driven into the wall perhaps just one metre off the floor. A blade protruded from his neck. Metal? No, not metal. A great curved blade had been driven through him, from one side of his neck to the other. The force of the blow had caused the blade to shear in two, and half of it lay on the ground where I had opened my fingertips on it. I forced myself to look closer. Not metal, no. Glass. A glass blade. A glass scythe.
I gagged, and turned away to vomit. And then I crawle
d away, my telephone shaking in my hand, all the way to the door. It still opened, thank God. Blown shut by the wind? And then I ran through the door, through the gallery, out of the Lazzaretto and into the clean air and shining moonlight. I ran over the bridge, vaulted the gate, and tore along the riva and back through the condominial gardens. My keys shook and rattled in my hands as I raced up the stairs, back into the apartment and back into the bedroom where I collapsed sobbing in front of an uncomprehending Federica.
Chapter 30
‘How are your fingers?’
I looked down at them, as if to check they were still there. The cuts had been clean, but I’d thought it best to swab them with surgical spirit and plaster them up. ‘They’re okay. Not painful. Going to make typing a bit difficult for a few days though.’
Vanni nodded. ‘Nathan,’ he said, ‘why the hell didn’t you call me before going over there?’
‘It just seemed,’ I fumbled for the words, ‘so pointless. What was I going to say? As far as I knew, it was just Considine wanting to talk. Wanting some help.’
‘You think he wrote those words on the flyer?’
‘I don’t know. I thought so. I gave him some money, and then he disappeared. I was starting to worry he’d fallen into his old bad habits . . . drugs, booze, whatever. And that would be my fault.’
‘And what about that card you received? The man with the scythe.’
‘I was going to call you about that in the morning. But last night it just seemed too difficult to explain.’
‘You mean you think we wouldn’t have taken it seriously?’
‘Not really, no.’
He nodded. ‘Well, to be honest, we probably wouldn’t.
Okay, let’s just run through a few things. The man in the courtyard. Can you describe him at all?’
‘Not at all. I can’t even be sure that it was a man. He was about my height. Maybe wearing a long coat, I don’t know. He was just a shadow. The only other thing was – the way he moved. He took a step towards me. Just to see what I’d do. Then I slipped. I took my eyes off him for a second, and then he was gone. It’s as if it was some kind of challenge to me.’
Vengeance in Venice Page 18
