See? I’m an asset to this operation. I’m learning on the job. Being helpful. Being proactive. That’s a first.
I watch as Salvatore whips off his shirt and tight blue jeans, then bends down low to dress Ambrogio. I check out his bum. I take a sharp breath; even in this darkness, I can tell he looks hot. His broad chest, his muscular back. He has the build of a star rugby player: one of the All Blacks; he’s as tall as a lock. He must work out at least twice a day. I picture Salvatore naked, fantasize about windswept, cliffside sex. It’s very distracting; we’re supposed to be disposing of a corpse.
“Help me,” he says, “pick up his legs.”
We pull on the jeans and then the shirt. The clothes are a little too big for Ambrogio; Salvatore’s probably the next size up, a large not a medium (or an XXL?), but they’ll have to do. We don’t exactly have much choice.
“What about shoes?” I ask, looking at Salvatore’s trainers. I think they’re Air Jordans. They look really cool. He probably wants to keep them. I know I would.
“Shoes can fall off,” he says. That’s true. “And we’re different sizes. . . .”
If the cops find a corpse wearing the wrong sized shoes, then I guess that would look pretty odd. I look down at Salvatore’s feet: they’re huge, like flippers. I bet he’s a good swimmer. I wonder if it’s true what they say about big feet? I hope I get to find out.
Salvatore reaches down and grabs hold of Ambrogio’s ankles. I bend over and feel for his wrists. I find his shoulders and grab him under the armpits.
“Ready?” he says.
“One, two, three . . .” We heave him up and stagger over toward the cliff. Shit, now that I’m here, standing right at the edge, I can see it’s a fucking long way down. I can just about make out the white spray of the waves as they crash against the rocks far below us. That’s good, there are rocks. If anyone finds him, it will look like he hit his head as he fell. When somebody finds him. I guess it’s inevitable, just a waiting game . . . anything else is just wishful thinking. This is Europe, Alvina, not La La Land.
I don’t want to stand any closer to the edge; I’m scared of heights and I don’t want to fall. I’m already dizzy. Slightly queasy. Am I swaying, or is it the sea? We have to stand right here on the verge, to throw him off or he’ll never go over. We shuffle toward the edge of the cliff, inch by inch. I daren’t look over. The body hangs like a hammock between us. I feel my palms begin to slip; we need to chuck him; I’m going to drop him! I wish we could just hurry up.
“Wait a second,” says Salvatore.
Wait? What now?
“Why? What’s the matter?”
We drop the body down on the ground. I’m panting, sweating. I want to get this over with. We need to get rid of this corpse.
“Beth, I need to ask you something.”
Now? Are you serious? We’re kind of in the middle of something. What if a car comes? The fucking police?
“Sure,” I say. “What is it?” Let’s chat. Let’s play that party game: Have you ever . . . ?
I look into his eyes, but it’s dark; I can’t read them. What’s going on? He looks away. Oh my God, is he still cross? Is he going to throw me off the cliff too? What the fuck does he know?
“Beth, after this, will you stop acting crazy? This whole past week . . . it’s just been too much. First all that stuff about your sister and now all this? I just . . . don’t feel like I know you anymore. You’re not acting yourself.”
“I promise. I promise. No more crazy. No more mad. I’ll just be me.” Whatever you want. Whatever you say. I try a reassuring smile.
What does he mean about my sister? I don’t understand. It must be something to do with their fight. I need to know what she was up to. Perhaps Salvo can fill me in?
Salvo doesn’t move a muscle. He doesn’t say another word. I hope he’s convinced. I hope he believes me. I look down at Ambrogio’s body on the ground in the dirt. He looks pretty harmless lying down there like that, not the terrifying monster I’d seen earlier, not the bloodthirsty man I’d been running from.
We pick up the body and hurl it over the edge of the cliff.
◆
Riserva Naturale Orientata Fiumedinisi e Monte Scuderi,
Messina Province, Sicily
Back in the Bimmer, we don’t speak. I want to light one of Salvo’s smokes; there’s a pack down there by the gearstick, but I’m still being Beth and I don’t want to explain. Plus I guess it’s too windy. I look over at Salvatore, his profile silhouetted against the road. Fuck, he’s sexy: Roman nose, heavy jaw, a body like an action hero. He could be a stunt double for Jason Bourne. Or maybe Thor? My sister had good taste in men, I’ll give her that.
Salvatore’s hair, thick and black in this light, rather than its usual dirty blond, streams behind him in the wind. I study the stubble on his face; it doesn’t look like he’s shaved for a week. He has a look that screams I am an artist! I don’t give a fuck. It’s incredibly sexy.
Salvatore is taking a different route back from the cliffs and I don’t know why.
“Where are we?”
“In a park.”
“This isn’t the way we came.”
“I know.”
We drive through dense woodland. He pulls onto a path that’s more dirt track than road and suddenly stops the car. The forest smells of rotting leaves and damp earth. It’s deadly silent. The hour is darkest just before dawn—I heard that somewhere, but it’s only now that I realize it’s true. It never really got dark in central London. It never got this quiet. The only sound comes from the birds chirruping in the trees that surround us. The wood is starting to wake up. Why have we stopped here? I’m beginning to freak out. In my experience, Sicilian woodland is a place for burying dead women. Women who look exactly like me. There’s a strange expression on Salvatore’s face. . . . He’ll either kiss me or kill me. Fuck.
We’re both dirty and sweaty and splattered with blood. I’m wearing a torn summer dress and no shoes or underwear. He’s wearing nothing but trainers and Calvin Klein underpants. If anyone sees us, we’ll look more than suspicious. It wouldn’t take a genius to link us to that body washing up on the rocks by the cliff. I’m still bleeding from my knee and that cut on my thigh. My broken toe is starting to throb. I can hear myself breathing, short and shallow. If he tries to attack me, I’d have no chance out here, not on my own, not with his muscles. I’ve got no weapon. No Swiss Army knife. Not even a rock. Why didn’t I hang on to that gun? It’s dark, but I can just about see the thick curve of his biceps; he’s as strong as an ox.
“Salvatore?” I whisper.
I can’t get Beth’s bruises out of my head. Black and purple and blue and green. On both of Beth’s arms. First one, and then two. She’d tried to deny it. She’d tried to cover them up with concealer. I scrunch up my eyes and hold my breath. Every muscle in my body tenses. My heart pounds my chest like it’s trying to escape. What am I doing here in the dead of the night? In the middle of the woods? I want to go home.
Salvatore turns and kisses me hard on the mouth—of course he does, he thinks I’m Beth—and before I know it, I’m kissing him back. He grabs the hair at the back of my head, his fingers digging into my skull, and pulls me in for a desperate kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my mouth, “I couldn’t wait any longer. I want you so bad.”
And I go along with it. Of course I do. I guess Beth was really having an affair! I don’t know why. It’s just not like my sister. Even if Salvo is hotter than hot. Perhaps she was using him to help her get away. Using him like she used me. That’s the only thing that makes sense! I play my part and, do you know what, I really want him. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s fucking sexy: Channing hot. Suddenly all my fear has gone. My skin feels alive, almost too sensitive. My heart is racing far too fast. He reaches for my dress and rips it off, the straps digging into
my arms and my neck. His strong hands pulling me closer, squeezing me into him. And I’m kissing him back. His hot, smooth skin, his sculpted shoulders. I’m already wet; I’m aching for him. It’s the most turned on I’ve ever been. He’s kissing my neck, biting me, licking me. I can feel him stiff through the front of his boxers: throbbing, erect. I slide my fingers down his shorts and grasp his hard cock in my hand; it’s smooth and sleek like Mr. Dick. It’s absolutely enormous.
He throws me down on the passenger seat and thrusts my chair back all the way. He pulls a lever at the side of my seat and I lie back. He’s done that before . . . with my sister? He climbs on top. I’m lying here, dirty, naked, covered in blood. I’m sure I look a total mess. But I’m hot for him and he’s hot for me too. I want him inside me, I’m begging him, silently. I just want to come.
I rip down his boxers and they get caught on his leg; there isn’t much room. Fuck, he’s huge; it’s true about the feet. I take him, strong and throbbing, in my hands, then in my mouth: sweet, delicious: a perfect dick. I love the taste of him; I want to eat him up. I suck him, deep and strong, moving my head up and down the shaft, he’s smooth against the tip of my tongue. Salvatore groans.
He grabs my arms and pulls away, spins me around so I’m bent over the seat. It’s lucky this car’s a convertible, or there wouldn’t be space. I hear the rustle of foil from the condom. He pushes my face down into the seat and I taste leather. Oh God, I want him; I can feel him behind me; I want him to enter me all at once. He grabs my shoulders. It hurts a bit, but I don’t care. I know I’m going to come as soon as he touches me. I’m going to fucking explode. He pushes inside me; his hands grab my breasts. The seams on the seats give me friction burns.
“Oh baby, oh yeah . . .”
I’m lighter than air.
A cuckoo calls somewhere out in the forest.
◆
Taormina, Sicily
I look down at the water washing all over my swollen feet; it’s gray with dirt. I run it over my thigh and wash away blood; the water turns pink. The cut stings. I rinse my knee. Bits of gravel are stuck to the edge of the cut where it’s started to scab. I pick them off. The cut opens up and starts to bleed; the water turns red. I pick up a shower puff and scrub at my skin. I’m thinking about Salvatore, about how good it was. I can still taste him now; his hard, sweet dick, his salty skin. I close my eyes and listen to the water crashing and splashing around me. I smile.
Then I’m thinking about the body.
That was close. Ambrogio could have killed me! It’s lucky I got in there first. What the hell was Ambrogio planning? It couldn’t have been my perfect sister; I’m sure the plan was all just him. It’s driving me nuts. But my sister has gone. And so has Ambrogio. Suicide. I’ve got nothing to fear. In the morning, once I’ve had a little lie-in, I’ll get up and ask where Ambrogio’s gone. I won’t be too concerned. I’ll just get on with my day. Maybe have a relaxing massage. Get my nails done. A facial. But then, after a couple of days, when he doesn’t show up or answer his phone, when his friends have no idea where he’s gone, I’ll call the police, out of my mind with worry. Ambrogio? Yes . . . now I come to think of it . . . he was depressed. He seemed upset about something. Now I remember! He did threaten suicide. I never really listened to him. I thought it was just a figure of speech: “If your mother calls me again, I will kill myself. If Italy don’t win Eurovision, I will kill myself,” that kind of thing.
Should I kill that security guard too? Just in case? It might be safer. But I guess he helped us . . . and he might come in handy somehow down the road. I’ll have a little think about it. . . . I think he likes me. He liked Beth.
I dry myself with a fluffy towel and pull on Beth’s Armani nightdress, the one with the little pink roses embroidered along the hem. It’s super cute. I crawl into Beth and Ambrogio’s bed. It’s a supersize king, so there’s plenty of room to stretch out and yawn, roll around and get comfy. I sink down into plump and snuggly pillows, wrap myself up in soft satin sheets, and fall asleep. It’s been a tiring day.
DAY FIVE
Gluttony
“How Many Pringles
Can You Fit in Your Mouth?
My Record’s 19.”
@Alvinaknightly69
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was Beth’s fault I got arrested for shoplifting in the Woolworth’s pick-and-mix in 1999. It was Beth’s fault I started stealing.
Beth had an imaginary friend called Tallulah when we were growing up; she used to annoy the hell out of me. Only Beth could see her and only Beth could hear what she said. “Oh, Tallulah, you’re so funny,” Beth would say with a giggle. I knew they were talking about me, taking the piss. They would role-play for hours, all Beth’s favorite games: princesses, fairy princesses, mummies, and babies. I don’t know what she wanted an imaginary friend for; she already had me. I don’t know where she got her from either; I could never find one, not that I wanted one or tried. Perhaps that was why I was lonely?
Our mother encouraged it, setting a place for the imaginary friend every night at the dinner table, buying Tallulah treats from the shops, writing Tallulah her own birthday card, inviting Tallulah on holiday. “Beth, darling, will Tallulah be joining us for our trip to the theater? We’ll have to buy her a ticket!” It was fucking insane. Tallulah got more attention that I did. Tallulah was far more important than me.
Then, on our eighth birthday, I decided enough was enough; it was my special day, not Tallulah’s. Cow. I stole a Mars bar from the snack shop at school. I snuck it up the sleeve of my too-big blazer when the dinner lady wasn’t looking, my mouth watering, my heartbeat pounding my ears like a drum. The rush was insane. I kept it all day in the bottom of my schoolbag: a dark-blue Jansport backpack. It was all I could think of for the rest of the day, all through English, history, and art. Just knowing it was in there got me high. Then that afternoon, when I got home, I tucked the Mars bar under my pillow out of sight. Later that night, when I could hear Beth snoring on the bunk bed up top, I tried to bribe her “friend” to come out.
“Hello? Tallulah?” I said sweetly, “I’ve got a chocolate bar right here. If you come out, you can have it. . . .”
I waited and waited, the pillow at the ready, not because I wanted to make friends, but because I wanted to smother her to death. I waited and waited, for what seemed like hours, but she never showed up.
Eventually, I ate the Mars bar myself.
The candy tasted sweet, illicit, delicious. It was the first in a spree of clandestine confectionary that ended in Woolies in 1999. A security guard caught me, my hand in a jar full of sherbet Dip Dabs, my pockets bulging with multicolored Gobstoppers and a mouth full of pink chocolate mice. He called the police and the police called my mum. I was too young to go to jail. I expected my mum to go batshit crazy, scream the house down, have a fit. But she didn’t even bother to punish me. It was like I didn’t exist.
I wasn’t usually allowed chocolate. Mum never gave me any pocket money, said I was too naughty, I didn’t deserve it, I was fat enough already, morbidly obese. . . . Mum said I was built like a brick shithouse, that I looked like the back end of a double-decker bus. I couldn’t buy sweets like my sister and everybody else. I know, I know, Beth used to share hers, tried to sneak me a treat when our mum wasn’t looking, smuggle me half a packet of Nerds. But I wanted them all, all to myself. I wanted our mother to buy them for me.
It had been so easy to steal that Mars bar, so quick, so effortless. Mum never noticed. She had no idea. I didn’t need her stupid pocket money now that I could steal. I didn’t need anyone else.
So, that was my first time and, like I said, it was all Beth’s fault. So don’t blame me, blame her.
◆
Friday, 28th August 2015, 9:52 a.m.
Taormina, Sicily
“Mamma, Mamma!”
It’s little Ernesto. I’m awoken by E
milia with the baby in her arms.
“Good morning, signora,” she says. “How are you?”
“Mamma,” cries Ernie, his hands reach out toward me. A fat, round tear rolls down his face. Poor baby.
“Oh, good morning, Emilia,” I say, sitting up and stretching. My bones crack. My joints creak. Something’s malfunctioned. I don’t feel right. I rearrange the pillows and take the baby. Please stop crying. Please shut up. “Shh, shh, shh, shh.” I cuddle Ernesto up close to my chest, give his back a nice rub.
“He wanted his mother,” Emilia says with a shrug. “Shall I bring some caffè? It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t stop sobbing; hot tears against my skin, soggy wet snot all over my breasts. I hold him tight and stroke the hair on his tiny head. “Shh . . . shh . . . don’t cry.”
Emilia smiles, then turns her back and walks away.
“Emilia?”
“Yes?” She’s halfway through the door.
“Have you seen Ambrogio?”
“No, signora, I haven’t. Not today.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he’s gone swimming again, in the sea?”
“Perhaps, signora. No car in the drive.”
“OK. I’ll call him. Thank you,” I say.
I turn my attention to the infant hollering in my arms. Emilia leaves. Oh God! Now what? What am I supposed to do with this baby? He didn’t come with an instruction manual. I don’t recall any lessons on child-rearing at school; that would have been more helpful than fucking PE. Name me one context where lacrosse is useful? This learning curve is going to be steep.
I get out of bed, cradling Ernie in my arms, and nearly fall over. Shit, my toe! I can barely stand. Ernie’s cries hit a new high pitch and I worry the windows around us will shatter. I shush him and rock him to and fro. To and fro. Please stop crying. Please shut up. I look into his eyes and see pure panic. Can he tell I’m not his mum? Babies have an amazing sense of smell, like pigs or Alsatians. I must remember to apply some of Beth’s perfume: Miss Dior Chérie. That ought to do the trick.
Mad Page 21
