by Ian Harwood
No wonder she’s so skinny.
Although in fairness, Juliet’s on the border of being too thin and yet, she ate more than me that one time I stayed over at her flat. That was probably one of the few times in my life that I woke up in a good mood. A rare commodity for me. Deep down, I’m a rebellious teenager. Always refusing to wake up until the last minute, before literally having to fling myself out of bed to ensure that I do actually get up and don’t sink back into sleep.
Brigida appears with a thin, bone china mug on a tray and a selection of papers. She places the tray at my side and asks, “Coffee, signor?”
“Please. Black.”
“Sugar?” she asks, hand hovering over a silver bowl loaded with sugar cubes.
“I can manage myself. Thank you.”
She shrugs and hands me the bowl. “Would you like something hot for breakfast? An omelette?”
“Please. An omelette with grilled tomatoes.”
She nods and leaves the tray with the papers before departing herself.
“Odd woman, that,” Cass murmurs as she glances at the housekeeper’s retreating back.
“In what way?” From what I can tell, she’s no odder than anyone else around here.
“Her eyes.” Cass shrugs. “They see and yet, they don’t.”
“It’s no wonder you reached the position you’re in thanks to observations like that!” With a roll of my own eyes, I ask, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that something is not right with our housekeeper.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve been thinking. You were right. They were a bit too heavy-handed last night.”
“Who? The escorts.”
Cass sighs. “Yes. And she’s dodgy as well.” She jerks her head towards the kitchen.
“Woman’s intuition?”
“Maybe. Or common sense.”
As she spoke, Marco appears. Safe to say the stench of manure also popped on to the scene. In fact, that was the only way I recognized him. The guy must roll around under the rose bushes to stink so badly. In comparison to his wife who has the faint tang of bleach about her, he’s night and she day. How she could bear to be anywhere near him with that pong, I’ll never know.
He looks as bad as he smells. Having glimpsed him in the half shadows, I didn’t really get a good picture of the man, but now, I can say he certainly lives up to that odour! Ratty hair, the black curls streaked with salt and pepper, but shining with the wad of grease matting the bird’s nest. His skin is olive and marked by the sun; his eyes and mouth are lined and heavily wrinkled as are his cheeks. As he mumbles something to Cass, I can see the stain of nicotine on his teeth and fingers. His clothes look as though they’ve never been washed; with huge stains on them of substances I’ll rather leave to my imagination. Ragged trousers with holes at the knees, a shirt that is sun-bleached and already damp with sweat.
It’s quite amusing to see Cass’ nostrils quiver with revulsion, something that only deteriorates as he steps beside her and hands her a rather ragged box, about the size of a shoebox. At close proximity, the perfume of manure must have been overwhelming, but I’ll hand it to her. She doesn’t throw a hissy fit or demand that he sod off, merely accepts the box graciously with a nasal “grazie.”
Marco was on the brink of trudging off, when Brigida appeared with my omelette in her hand. The instant she set eyes on him, I could see there was no love lost. Immediately, a flood of voluble Italian spewed out of her mouth. It was the most uncontrolled I’d ever seen her; not that I’ve seen much of her, but she’s one of those people who controls everything about their person and their world. She’s a type; one I’ve come across on a frequent basis.
The burst of Italian holds none of the passion or musical qualities that the language is renowned for; it’s bitter; harsh. Spat out with a real dislike. Marco flushes. His dirt and nicotine stained fingers curling into his palms; beneath the filth, I can see the whitening of his knuckles as he takes his wife’s anger on the chin. Regardless of that slight show of aggression, I can also see the lack of bruises and realize that Marco isn’t to blame for his wife’s shiner.
So, that begs the question, who was?
My eyes dart to Cass who is watching the argument with a strained look on her face; something that comes as a shock. Bernard has a temper. I’d have thought, with their close relationship, that she’d be accustomed to the sound of yelling. And that was the source of her tension. It’s evident to anyone with eyes – and, I’m not the most perceptive of people, but even I can sense that!
Cass’ head is bowed and she’s fidgeting with the package. I can see the jerky movement of her fingers as she pulls at the twine wrapping the four sides of the box and blocking out the argument, because it’s no fun if I can’t understand a bloody word of it, I watch as she grabs a knife and begins sawing at the string.
The argument disappears to the background as the strands break apart and she opens the flaps of the lid. Her face immediately blanches, before turning bright red and then reverting to pasty white. Her eyes dart to mine and they’re wide; sightless. Her entire body begins to tremble and the sound of my chair scraping backwards as I try to reach her is drowned by the sound of the plate in Brigida’s hand being hurled at Marco’s head. The plate shatters an inch away from her husband’s body and being a smart man, Marco instantly scuttles off.
Brigida was gasping with her rage by the time I’d rounded the table to get to Cass. Not that I could really see her. My entire concentration is on my colleague, but I could hear her panting breaths as her anger works its way through her.
“What up Cass?” My words are slow and astounded as I look down into the package. The so-called innocuous package. Ha! The battered and slightly rumpled carton contained a hand.
An honest to God, severed hand.
Blood had congealed around the cut; a ragged cut with blackened and purple flesh rimming it. The sight of the bone has me grimacing as does the blood that has pooled around the hand. The nails were neat, trimmed and clean, save for the blood crusting the edges. The fingers were curled, the palm open and there, in the centre of the obsolete life lines, rested a ring.
Picked out with fairly large diamonds; diamonds that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an engagement ring, the letter ‘P’ glittered. In the background, like a buzz, I can hear Brigida apologizing, but I ignore her, ignore the sounds of clattering as she picks up the remnants of the plate and my breakfast.
My appetite has disappeared anyway.
Sensing that she’s collected the pieces and is stood at my side, my head darts to look at her and I see the instant that her eyes clash with the severed hand. A curious stillness sweeps over her. Unlike the immediate blanching as had occurred with Cass, Brigida merely swallows and sucks in air between her teeth. No part of her really reacts. She doesn’t scream; nor does she jerk in panic and let the omelette and porcelain shards rain down on to the floor. She does nothing. Her eyes... not even her pupils dilate. It’s like she’s been in the deep freeze.
Another thing leaps to my attention.
With Marco’s stench rapidly escaping the room, I could smell a faint odour from the box. My stomach twists at the idea of the hand rotting and quickly, I grab the box, careful to grip it from the underside as the blood had pooled and would have weakened the carton’s tensile strength. The last thing we need is for the damned thing to drop on to the floor! Christ, there’s enough red in this room as it is!
There’s a door leading off the dining room and I can only assume it’s the kitchen. I’m right. My eyes glance off the surprisingly modern utilities and white goods, although in this case, it’s more a case of stainless steel goods. I head to the fridge and one-handed, drag out a cheeseboard and dump it on the counter. Replacing it with the box, I shut the door and seeing that Brigida has followed me, her eyes following me in that curious way that is enough to have me frowning at her with unease.
I can’t say that she’s complete
ly unaffected, because in her own way, she is. She’s frozen. No reaction whatsoever, which means she’s either a monster or something, is happening underneath the surface.
From her current stare, I can’t tell which. She’s looking at me in a perverse way; I can imagine her reaching for a knife and sinking it into my gut with little to no difficulty. It’s like a scene from a horror movie, and I don’t know why. It’s that creepy a frightening stare. That isn’t one hundred per cent proof of the fact that she’s a nutter, but it sure is unnerving! Just as I’m envisaging the slide of knife into flesh, her head tilts to the side and she asks, “I call the polizia, yes?”
“Please, Brigida,” I murmur, relieved as she walks over to the phone on the wall and makes a call. Once again, there’s none of the panic I’d expect as she recounts the details to the proper authorities.
Maybe I’ve been watching too many B-movies? I’d have expected her to scream and faint; or throw up. Some extreme reaction. While Cass did none of the latter, she at least blanched. There was some reaction! With Brigida, it was almost as though she wasn’t unaccustomed to violence.
And while the shiner on her cheek is proof of that, there’s violence and there’s this. It takes some real sick bastard to chop off another person’s hand!
Turning away, I retreat to the dining room and leave Brigida to the police. Cass is shaking; shock has set in and as she raises her glass with orange juice to her lips, her hand is shuddering so badly that the liquid sloshes from side to side. Spilling more on the tablecloth than she eventually gets into her mouth.
“That was real, wasn’t it? Not just a prank,” she asks, her voice quivering like the rest of her.
“Yeah. It was real.” It’s hard for me to swallow. At the back of my eye, the memory of that severed limb with its ragged bone just popping out from the torn flesh pops up. Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that.
“Why?” She shakes her head. “Why would anyone send that to us? To me?”
“It’s a warning. Obviously.”
“A warning against what? For God’s sake, we’re bringing employment back to the town. The factory was the town’s sole source of work. They should be hugging us, not sending severed hands to our door!”
“I think we need to ask Bernard. He must know more than he’s telling.”
She huffs. “When doesn’t he? He’s probably setting us up for another damn lesson; remember Manchester? Sending us up to that bloody factory to enquire about purchasing it and finding it out it wasn’t even up for sale! Well, dealing with this kind of shit isn’t on my CV. You can tell him that, when you call.”
Pulling out my mobile from my pocket, I dial the numbers for Bernard’s private line. Within three buzzes, the call connects. “Joe? Why are you ringing so early?”
Hearing Juliet’s voice surprises me. A part of me wants to be brisk, to get her off the phone so I can talk to her father, but the sight of that hand pops back into my mind’s eye. It’s affected me more than I’d thought possible. I’m used to shiners and bruises and bloodied noses. I was in the boxing club and on the rugby team at school. The worst injury I’ve seen was a broken leg with the bone bursting through the skin.
That had made my stomach turn.
So this was a bloody nightmare.
“Juliet? Why are you at your father’s so early? He isn’t ill, is he?”
“No. He’s fine. We’ve just been talking that’s all.” There’s an intimacy to her voice, a relaxed tone that tells me her relationship with her father is on the up and up. That’s good; it might mean that Bernard will tell her himself about his marriages and relationship with Cass and that I won’t have to do the deed. But at the same time, I can tell that she wants to talk and I don’t want to upset her.
“I’m glad.” Clearing my throat, I murmur, “Juliet, would you mind if I called you later? I have to speak with your father. Urgently.”
“What’s wrong? Why do you need to talk to him?”
“You don’t want to know, honey. You don’t want to know.”
“You see that just pisses me off. If it’s important to you, then it matters to me too.”
“I appreciate that train of thought, Jules, I really do. But not at this minute. Now, if you could put him on the line?”
“Of course.” I can tell she’s irritated, as pissed off as she says; but, I think I handled her pretty well in the circumstances! I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to soothe her. I want to know what’s going on over here. Bernard always knows more than he tells us and it’s about time he levelled with me.
“Joe? What’s wrong?”
“Why was the factory so cheap, Bernard? Why does it come with a villa and designer cars?”
“The government wanted to offload it; nothing more nothing less. Why?”
“Because we’ve just received a gift in the post.”
“A gift? What kind of gift?”
“A severed hand. That’s what!”
Bernard repeats my outburst in shock and then probably regrets it, instantly! As in the background, I can hear Juliet squawk. I can also hear the sounds of squabbling over the receiver as she tries to drag it from her father.
“Tell her I’m fine. It isn’t my hand. That’s still attached, thankfully. Why did the government want to offload it?”
“You’re sure it’s a real hand? It could just be a prank,” Bernard asks, his voice urgent.
“Of course, I’m sure it’s a real hand. The skin is dying and you can’t fake blood like that.”
“They assured me that everyone had been cleared out of the district,” Bernard mutters, almost to himself.
“Who’s everyone?” When he didn’t reply, I bark, “Who’s everyone, Bernard? Answer me, damn it. Are we in danger here? Because if we are, we’re getting on the first flight back to the UK. Christ Almighty, putting up with death threats is not in our job descriptions, Bernard!”
“No. No, of course not. But surely it’s some kind of mistake. Why would anyone send something like that to you? They were all sent to prison. Every last one of them.”
“Stop generalizing. Who’s they? Give me specifics.”
“The factory was a mafia-front. Laundering, drug peddling, that kind of thing. The factory owner was the fall guy for the entire operation. Not one piece of documentation didn’t have his signature or his name on it. If things had gone tits up, then he would have been in the shit. No one else. The police managed to convince him to talk; to reveal names and details if they could ensure his protection. Because of him, they managed to haul about ten men to prison.”
“And you think that an operation of that nature… laundering, drug peddling, required only ten men? Are you out of your bloody mind? What the hell have you involved us in? Some kind of turf war?”
I’d had my back to Cass, had been staring at the kitchen door, and waiting to see if Brigida would come back in, but she hadn’t. I had a sneaky suspicion that she was eavesdropping though. I could have easily called her bluff, simply by leaning against the door, but I chose not to. Especially as Cass grabbed my arm and stole the phone from my hand.
“What have you done, Bernard?”
Her shriek hurts my own ears and I can see that Cass is on the brink of a panic attack. Having never seen a softer side to her, save the time I caught her with Bernard with their pants around their proverbial ankles, this is coming as a great shock.
“You bastard! How could you do this to me? How could you send me here? Send me in to danger?”
Listening to a one-sided conversation is irritating, because Cass isn’t the only one pissed off. In all honesty, I’m not frightened like she is. Shit like this is unnerving, but I’m not exactly petrified. It’s a warning. A warning against what, I don’t know. And until the police get here, we won’t know. Then, hopefully, we’ll have more answers. The ring was obviously left there so that the hand’s original owner could be easily identified. There lies the answer as to whether we’re in danger or not.
Cass, regardless of logic or not, is petrified. She’s more than angry; she’s furious because of her fear and the fact that Bernard has led her into this situation.
I can understand. If I was fucking a man, had been with him longer than some marriages lasted and he sent me into a turf war over a knicker factory, then I’d be pretty upset pissed off too!
“Don’t bullshit me, Bernard. What made you do it? All the factories in Europe and you had to pick one knee deep in gang wars and mafia territory. I’ll never forgive you for this. Never. I don’t care how many times you tell me that the police sorted the wheat from the chaff and got rid of all the criminals in the area. Joe’s right! You never get rid of all the ties. Never. If anything happens to me, if anyone harms even a hair on my bloody head, I’ll sue you for negligence. You see if I don’t!” With that, she slams the phone down on to the marble table. I try not to wince as the sound of the screen cracking penetrates the silence. That was a new phone too.
“That bastard. He knew, knew that the mafia was here. That’s why it was so bloody cheap. All of this! The government wanted it off their hands as soon as physically possible. I want to go home.” The latter’s almost a wail.
I grimace, because that’s at the forefront of my mind too and I know it’s not possible. “I know, I want that too, Cass, but we can’t. The police will want to talk to us. There will be procedure and protocol. They’ll just call us back if we leave.”
“I don’t fucking care. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
“Look, the police are on their way. Just wait, talk to them. As soon as they find out who the hand belongs to, then we’ll know if we’re in any real danger.”
“What the fucking hell are you talking about? Real danger,” she mocks. “Of course, we are. They sent that as a threat!”
“To whom, Cass? To us? To Bernard? We don’t know.”
She’s still shaking as she sat down. The bowl of half-eaten fruit has long since been ignored and now, she clears them out of the way, pushing them aside, totally uncaring if the plates crashed to the floor or if they were knocked to the side. I ignore the crashes, refusing even to wince. If it shuts her up, if the violence of the motion soothes her, then that’s fine by me. We’ll deal with the police and then be able to take our next step.
