“Oh, I thought I might just stay here, actually.” I gesture around to the view and the theater. “I guess it must be growing on me.”
He looks at me strangely for half a second, a puzzled look on his youthful face.
“But, Elisabetta, you told me you had no choice.” His eyes dart from left to right, searching the empty amphitheater. “You stay here, you die. You and the kid.”
I wait for him to burst into laughter, for him to say it was just a joke, but he shifts on his feet in the uncomfortable silence and waits for me to reply. I don’t. I look at my watch like I’ve got a meeting and don’t want to be late.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
I turn on my heel and head for the exit.
“Elisabetta? Where are you going?”
“I’ll see you later,” I shout over my shoulder.
“Don’t go home! It isn’t safe!”
I run from the theater as fast as I can in these fucking ridiculous yellow shoes. I run down the road and down the hill gasping for breath, swerving, swaying, sprinting through alleyways, then over a fence and into a garden. Another garden. An alley. A road. Then I’m lost in the citrus orchards, trees spinning around me, caught in the branches, tripping over their roots. I run and run until my lungs are burning and I’m gasping for breath in the stifling air. Bees and wasps buzz in my face. I flap and slap at myself with my hands. I’m already covered in mosquito bites. This country is trying to eat me.
I collapse at the bottom of a gnarled old tree, lean my back against its trunk, my chest heaving, my hands shaking. I look down at my body slumped down in the dirt. It doesn’t look a bit like me. I don’t feel myself. Oranges and lemons are strewn across the orchard. “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s.” Beth and I used to sing that at school.
You had no choice, the security guard had said. You stay here, you die.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. Part of me wants to run and run and never stop. It’s an island. I’d soon reach the sea. Then I’d swim and swim until I could swim no more. Part of me wants to go back to the villa, grab my passport, and race to the airport. I have nowhere to go. No family. No friends. Even my mother thinks I’m dead. “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin’s. When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey. When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.” I fight the urge to blubber.
Pull yourself together, Alvie. For fuck’s sake, fucking sort yourself out.
I wipe my cheeks with a finger and sniff. I’m going to stay. It’s what Beth would have wanted. Ambrogio needs a wife. Ernesto needs a mum. It’s the selfless thing to do.
But why was that security guard so worried about me? Why did Beth make me swap places with her? What was wrong with her last night? Why was she crying? So upset? And why the fuck was she covered in bruises?
I have no idea what’s going on.
The only way I’ll ever find out is if I am Beth. So I’ve got to keep going. That’s the only way out. I’ll be Beth forever if I have to. I’ll keep being Beth until the day I die. I haul myself up and dust myself down. I’ve got dirt all over Beth’s nice dress. She’d kill me if she saw it like this. I check the label. Urgh: dry clean only. Great. Of course it is.
Chapter Twenty-One
Parco Dell’ Etna, Sicily
Nino looks like he’s stepped straight off the set of The Godfather. I guess that’s just the fashion in this part of Sicily. He looks cool; in the same way that Al Pacino as Michael Corleone looked cool. Horseshoe mustache. Black jacket, black tie, gray fedora with a ribbed black band. Now I remember: he’s the guy I saw sneaking out of the villa when I first arrived.
“Nice hat,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. Nino doesn’t say anything as we climb into his shiny black people carrier and speed out into the Sicilian countryside. He’s playing Metallica at eardrum-mutilating decibels (“Master of Puppets,” I like that song) and nodding his fedora to the sick, phat bass.
“Dov’è il cadavere?” shouts Ambrogio.
“Bagagliaio,” says Nino.
“Huh?” I say, turning to Ambrogio. I’m sitting in the back on my own eating cheese-and-onion Pringles.
“You want one?” I offer. Ambrogio gives me a funny look and shakes his head.
Nino and Ambrogio sit at the front. A bubblegum-scented air freshener dangles down from the rearview mirror. There’s a picture of Jesus scotch-taped to the dashboard. A wooden-bead rosary with a silver crucifix.
“Your sister’s in the trunk.”
I shiver and turn toward the back of the car, put the Pringle back into the can, and close the lid. There’s a thick, black cover pulled over the boot just behind me, so I can’t see inside.
“Really?” I shout “She’s in there?”
“Yes,” shouts Ambrogio.
“Are you sure?”
“What?” shouts Ambrogio, looking over his shoulder. “Do you want to get out and have a look? Do you think Nino forgot her? We’re going to bury a corpse, but we forgot the corpse? This guy’s a professional, aren’t you, Nino?”
“Professional,” says Nino.
I suppose I believe him; it just seems very unlikely that my sister’s dead body should be in the boot of the car. We’re driving through the streets in broad daylight, after all. Nino’s driving is worse than Ambrogio’s. It’s like he’s got a death wish. I guess everyone drives like this over here, so we shouldn’t get stopped by the police. It would look suspicious if we stuck to the speed limit. But what if they do a random stop and search? Just a routine check? Then we’re screwed. I strain my eyes and scan the road for a panda car, but I can’t see any. I slide side to side across the back seat, slamming into a door at every street corner. Perhaps this is how Beth got all those bruises? There aren’t any seat belts. It’s not very safe.
I look out the window at the tall cypress trees, tapering up toward the sky like long, green candles; at the exposed, gray rock faces staring down from the hills. The motorway to Catania snakes along the coastline and we’re never very far away from the sea. Perhaps they’ll dump her body somewhere out in the ocean? Buried at sea like Osama bin Laden. I hope she won’t float like a witch.
“Where are we going?” I ask, at last.
“Nino’s friend is building himself a country house.” Ambrogio raises his voice over the music. “Isn’t that right, Nino?” The lead singer screams, “Master! Master!” The bass line goes DOOF! DOOF! DOOF!
“Country house,” says Nino.
“Right . . .” I say. “So what?”
“You’ll see.”
We drive to a remote part of the countryside, somewhere not too far from Catania. Nino turns down a dirt track and we drive for a few minutes into a wood. The road is full of tree roots and potholes. I bounce up and down on the hard back seat. The trees are packed really tightly together so they block out the sunlight. It’s gloomy, getting darker and darker. When we come to a clearing, Nino stops the car. At first I think there’s nothing here, just a clearing in among the trees, earth on the floor and a small patch of sky peering down through the canopy. Then I notice a pile of cinder blocks, a hole in the ground, and a pickup truck. There’s a cement mixer on a truck, parked someway back behind the branches. It’s basically a building site.
“You want to get out? You can stay in the car if it’s all too much.” Ambrogio forces a smile, then jumps out of the people carrier. I flinch as he slams the door shut.
Urgh. Why did I even want to come? And now Ambrogio’s in a mood, because I caused all this trouble and didn’t follow his stupid plan. I watch the men through the tinted window: Ambrogio, Nino, and somebody else. Nino stands by the hole in the ground: silent, still. His back toward me. He doesn’t seem to be moving at all. Not even breathing. I’ve never seen anyone looking so calm. T
here’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. It suddenly feels far too hot in the car. Suffocating. Clammy. The air-con’s turned off. The bubblegum air freshener is making me gag. I need to get out; I feel sick. I can’t breathe. I open the door and step out of the car.
“Domenico, e pronto il cemento?”
“Sì, sì. E pronto. E pronto.”
A large man in dirty blue overalls sits on the back of the pickup truck smoking a Cuban cigar. I guess that must be Domenico. He looks up when he sees me—acne scars, a broken nose, hair-shaved real short like they wear it in jail. He leaves his cigar burning over the edge of the metal ledge and jumps down to the ground.
“Professore,” says Domenico, nodding at Ambrogio.
Why did he call him professore? Domenico turns to me.
“Your sister died?”
I don’t say anything. It’s fucking obvious. That’s why we’re all here. I don’t feel like doing chitchat with a total stranger, especially not someone who looks like he just dug his way out of jail: muddy black fingernails, dirt on his face, ripped-up trousers, convict hair: he’s like the ugly love child of Steve McQueen and a mole, but less attractive.
“Yeah, my brother died last week,” says Domenico. “Disemboweled.”
Fuck, that’s gross.
Ambrogio shakes his head. “What the hell are you saying that for in front of a lady?” I think he means me. He squares up to Domenico.
“Yeah,” says Nino. “Who gives a fuck about your brother? He was a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t say that about family, man,” Domenico says, turning to Nino. His voice is sandpaper.
“He wasn’t my family,” Nino says. “My mother didn’t have sex with her brother. Fucking idiot. Should have killed him myself.”
“Figghiu ri buttana.”
“Minchia.”
“Stronzo.”
“Che palle,” says Ambrogio, stepping between them. They separate, growling, like dogs. “E basta. Calma! Calma!” he says.
“What happened?” I say, turning to Nino. “To his brother?”
“Ate too much pussy and went pazzo,” he says, lighting himself a Marlboro Red and flicking the match in Domenico’s face.
Oh, well. I guess that explains it.
Now I want a cigarette.
Nino and Domenico walk around to the back of the people carrier and open the trunk. I shrink back next to Ambrogio. He lights himself a cigarette. Now I really want one.
“Erm, can I have one?” I ask. I know, I know, Beth didn’t smoke, but I feel like these are exceptional circumstances. Plus, if I don’t get some nicotine, things could get ugly. I mean, even uglier. If that’s possible.
He gives me a look, but then nods. He places the cigarette between my lips, then lights one for himself. I take a deep drag. I feel a bit better. He puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight.
That’s when I see her and I gasp.
Beth’s not in a coffin or anything. She’s not even in a bag. She’s half-naked and pure, milky white. She’s still wearing that Louis Vuitton dress I stole, just about. The strap’s ripped. There’s dried blood on her face and her hair’s a mess. I don’t know why that’s so surprising. I guess it’s just that her hair’s always perfect. She’s always so well groomed.
“Oh my God,” I say. I cover my face with my hands.
Nino and Domenico carry Beth’s body by the shoulders and ankles and bring her over to the hole in the ground. Her neck is stiff and her arms seem stuck to the sides of her torso. I guess that’s rigor mortis; she looks just like that Barbie I found in the trash, but her head’s still attached.
“Uno, due, tre,” they say, and then heave her into the ditch.
Thud.
“The foundation for the building,” Ambrogio says.
Ambrogio walks over to the men and stands at the edge of the ditch. I follow him. The four of us stand by the hole in the ground and stare at Beth’s body. She’s lying facedown in the dirt. The dress has risen up and you can see her ass. She might be wearing a G-string, but if she is, it’s so small you can’t tell from this angle. To me it’s obvious that it’s Beth’s ass. Mine feels much bigger. Stretch marks. Cellulite. I glance over at Ambrogio, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Weird.
Beth’s skin is so white, it’s as though all her tan has washed off in the pool. I’ve never seen her looking so pale. I look down at my forearms. I think the fake tan has washed off in the shower, so we’re both the same color. Lucky.
Domenico walks over to the truck, gets in and starts the engine. It coughs and chokes and splutters to life. The truck makes a high-pitched bleeping sound and a light on the top of the cab flashes blue as it reverses toward the ditch. It crawls slowly, painfully fucking slowly, backward and then comes to a stop. Domenico jumps out of the cab and does something to the cement mixer. It grunts and groans and spins and tilts and thick, wet concrete slides down toward the hole in the ground. It makes a fat slap-slapping sound as it hits the freshly cut earth and covers the corpse. Her feet, her calves, her knees, her thighs. Slap, slap, slap. Her ass, her back, her shoulder blades, her head. I smell burning oil. Black smoke wafts and rises from the cement mixer. Within a few minutes, there’s no more Beth, just a rectangular hole full of pale, gray porridge.
What would Beth do if she were here at my burial? Would she be this stoic? Reserved? Relaxed? Sobbing and blubbering hysterically? I have no idea. I’ve got no benchmark for this shit. All I know is that if it wasn’t my sister down there in that hole, then it would be me. I’ll never know how close I came. Did Beth just ask me here to kill me? I shake my head. No. Not Beth. No fucking way. But maybe Ambrogio? I glance over at Ambrogio, but he’s distracted by his phone. I’ll need to keep an eye on him. I guess I should be happy that I’m still here.
I breathe a long, deep sigh of relief, stub my smoke out and crush it into the ground. Ambrogio, Nino, and Domenico simultaneously make the sign of the cross across their chests. It’s as though it were choreographed and rehearsed, like backing dancers at a T-Swiz concert. I copy them.
We get back in the car.
I take a look at Beth’s Ladymatic: 1:42 p.m. I hope the drive home doesn’t take too long; I’ve booked an appointment with Beth’s beautician and I don’t want to be late.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Taormina, Sicily
Mamma mia, your hair grows so quickly. We put those highlights in two weeks ago and now look at your roots! Non ci credo. . . .”
The beautician, whose name is “Cristina Hair and Beauty” according to Beth’s iPhone, is standing behind me, running her fingers through my hair. Her kohl-lined eyes are wide with surprise. She shakes her glossy head.
“Hmm,” I say, flicking through Italian Vogue. Ooh, I love that dress by Valentino: beautiful, flowing ruffles and a plunging neckline. It’s very red carpet. Perhaps I’ll get it for dates with Ambrogio? Beth has some gorgeous Jimmy Choos that would go really well. Shall I go shopping in Taormina or fly to the mainland for a trip to Milan? What’s that famous fashion street called? Via Monte Napoleone? I bet all the celebs go there. . . .
“Have you been taking supplements? Or eating oysters?” asks Cristina.
I look up from the magazine that’s open on my lap. We make eye contact in the mirror. “What? No, I haven’t,” I say.
“Oysters are full of zinc. Zinc makes your hair grow.”
Well, who would have thought it? There’s a lot of zinc in semen too. Funny she didn’t ask if I’ve been giving loads of head.
“And what happen to your eyelash extensions? They fall off?”
“Yeah, they fall off. In the pool,” I say.
“Already? No problem. We do them again. . . .”
I take a sip of the Prosecco that’s chilling on the dressing table: light and fruity. Super yum. I pop a strawberry in my mouth
and start to chew. Beth’s iPhone is lying on the table; I pick it up and stare at the screen. I miss Twitter. I can’t believe Beth doesn’t have an account. What did she do all day if she wasn’t tweeting? I’m going to set one up for her. For me. For her. You’re welcome.
@TaylorSwift Hey there Taylor! My name is Elizabeth Caruso. I think you know my sister, Alvina. Anyway, I just wanted to say hey! Tweet. I bet she’ll reply to Elizabeth. She never replied to me.
Cristina runs her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. Her gel tips scrape against my skull. She pulls my hair back into foils and paints my roots with peroxide dye. It smells like bleach or Toilet Duck. It takes her an hour to cover my hair with shiny little silver packets. Cristina tells me at great length about Gina’s breakup with Matteo, her son’s trials with the local under-eleven football team, and Stefania’s wedding that she attended last weekend. She goes into minute detail about the trouble she’s been having with her new fridge-freezer, her husband’s bloated stomach (perhaps he’s allergic to eggs?), and what happened last night on the show Inspector Montalbano. I nod like I give a shit. I think I’m supposed to know these people, fictional or otherwise.
I study the classified ads at the back of the magazine. I can’t read them, but I can look at the pictures. They’re as crappy in Italy as they are back in England. I can’t say that I miss that job. I don’t really miss that basement. I certainly don’t miss Angela Merkel and I doubt she misses me.
“We have to wax your eyebrows,” says Cristina. If she could wrinkle her forehead through the Botox then she’d frown. “And you need a manicure and a pedicure. We could be here all day. . . .”
Cristina pulls an electric heater over my head to speed up the peroxide lightening my hair. Then she takes her file and works on my fingers and toes. She paints my nails the “usual” baby pink with little white tips in French manicure style (I fancy the Chanel Rouge Noir, but it’s not very Beth). It really is so much more convenient when the stylist comes to you, don’t you think? She lifts a corner to check the color, then pulls the foils off one by one. She rinses the bleach out with the shower head over the bathtub. The water feels lovely and warm. She blow dries my hair into big, loose waves, then turns her attention to my face.
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