Mad

by Chloé Esposito

  “Nino, I’m driving. Get it yourself,” I say.

  “Call that driving? If my arm wasn’t fucked then I’d show you driving. You drive like a girl.”

  “I am a girl.”

  “Right.”

  Nino grunts. I floor the accelerator. The engine roars. My head slams back against the headrest. I’ll see how fast I can go.

  “Argh!” says Nino again.

  He’s the girl. Scared of my driving. Whining about his arm. It’s not even that bad. The bullet barely grazed it.

  “When we’ve dumped these bodies, we’re getting the Lambo,” I say. “Your people carrier’s shit.”

  “It’s a Mercedes!” he says. “It was a good car until you crashed it.” He leans over and grabs the T-shirt himself, wraps it around the top of his arm. He grips one end of the T-shirt in his teeth and ties the ends tight. He wipes sweat from his forehead with his good hand.

  “Pull over,” says Nino. “We’re here.”

  I slam on the breaks.

  We stop on a bridge overlooking the water. We’re fifteen meters up, at least. It’s windy, cool. I open the car door and step out. Waves crash against the rocks below us, sending white foam spraying. I can taste the salt, the iodine. I look down through the railings at deep, black water; I wonder how many bodies are down there. It’s the perfect place to dump them. I get the feeling Nino’s been here before. We struggle with the cases, but somehow, eventually, hurl them over the railing, one by one. They plop and splash and bubble as they sink down, down, down. I turn, expecting to see Nino, but he’s already back in the car. How does he move so silently? He’s like a sexy ghost, Patrick Swayze in that film, I forget what it was called.

  I back up the car. I’m excited about driving the Lambo! I wonder how fast it can go. Ambrogio clocked 180, but I want to do more. I’ll show Nino how girls can drive. We’ll be in London by nightfall.

  ◆

  We pull out of the villa and crawl down the drive in a plume of smoke from the burning painting. Goodbye, La Perla Nera. So long. Farewell. Arrivederci. I wonder when I’ll see you again. I steer the Lambo out onto the road, but then screech to a halt.

  “Shit! I forgot! I’ll just be a minute.”

  I reverse the car back into the drive.

  “Forgot what? We don’t have a minute!”

  “I know, I know, I won’t be long. It’s just . . . hang on.”

  I jump out of the car and shut the door on Nino’s stunned face. Nino watches through the windscreen shaking his head.

  I sprint across gravel and push through the door of Elizabeth’s villa. My feet pound the stairs at lightning speed. I burst into Beth’s bedroom. Now, where did I put it? This place is a train wreck from when I just packed. Clothes everywhere. Jewelry. Shoes. It reminds me of my old place back in Archway, apart from the jewelry, obvs. I sit on the bed, my head in my hands. Think, Alvie, think. This is important. Where did you put him?

  He’s still in the pram!

  I run back downstairs, along the hallway. The pram is parked underneath the stairs. I reach inside and find the picture of Channing Tatum, rolled up tight below Ernie’s chair.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing the paper. “I’ll never leave you again.”

  ◆

  I floor the pedal and we whiz past the amphitheater, race through gardens and citrus orchards. The scent of fresh lemons cuts through the metallic stench of blood. The roof is down and the sky is pink with the first signs of gorgeous dawn. We turn the corner.

  “There!” says Nino.

  “What?”

  “In the rearview. Don’t you see it?” he shouts.

  “See what? That car? Who gives a shit?”

  “They’re following us! Merda! We shouldn’t have come here. We should have left before.” He slams his good fist down on the dashboard. I think he’s upset about the picture.

  “How do you know they’re following us?”

  “They’re getting closer. Go! Go!”

  OK, Nino, whatever you say. You want a car chase? This is going to be fun. I hit the accelerator. The wind whips my face. The Lambo lurches forward. My stomach flips. My eyes flick up to the rearview mirror: a sinister black Land Rover speeds toward us. Shit. Maybe Nino’s right?

  “It’s them, the priest’s clan! That’s Don Motisi,” Nino says, clutching his chair. We swerve around a bend and despite his efforts his arm still slams against the inside of the door. He makes a strange, small sound, like a whimper, like a kitten in a trash bag. I think he’s scared of my driving. So am I. The Land Rover tailing us picks up speed.

  “And that’s Don Rizzo! Oh, Madonna, we’re dead!”

  I see two mean-looking men in the rearview mirror.

  “What do I do?” I say.

  “Just move. Fuck. You said you could drive.”

  Do bumper cars count? I might have been lying about that. . . .

  KA-POW! KA-POW!

  Gunfire cracks as tires squeal. “Shit!” I say. I think they scraped the paintwork! Now we’ll have to get that fixed. So annoying. It’s a beautiful car.

  “Drive!” shouts Nino. Cazzo!

  I floor the accelerator. I wish I wasn’t wearing these stupid high heels; they’re digging in. I can hardly walk in them, never mind drive, but they go so well with this outfit.

  “I can’t go any faster!”

  KA-POW! KA-POW!

  I’m doing a hundred miles an hour. The road is winding, potholed, steep.

  I see a turning up ahead and slam on the brakes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going down there.”

  I spin the steering wheel and swerve around the corner onto a narrow tree-lined street. My foot slips off the pedal and I stall. Stupid shoes! The Lambo stutters. The tires screech. The acrid stench of burning rubber. We grind to a halt.

  “Move!” roars Nino.

  “It’s not my fault! It’s the shoes!” I say. “Have you ever tried driving in six-inch heels?”

  I fire it up and hit the gas; we speed down the road. Holy fuck. This is insane. In the rearview mirror I see the Land Rover approaching, getting closer, closer, closer. Shit.

  “Take a left,” says Nino. “That road leads to Taormina.”

  “Into town? Are you sure?”

  “Trust me. Go left.”

  I flick my hair up out of my eyes and do what he says. We speed through the streets and head into Taormina. The engine roars. The Land Rover is gaining on us.

  “Now right,” shouts Nino.

  It’s a fucking sharp bend. The tires scream. There’s an old brick arch over the road ahead. The road is too narrow. We’re not going to make it. I close my eyes and accelerate. The Lambo scrapes through a tiny alley, cobblestones rumble beneath. Oh my God, the paint! The car! We’ll never find this exact shade of red. I open my eyes and we’re through, into a small square. When I turn to look, I see the Land Rover enter the alley: a shower of sparks, a screech of steel on stone, and it’s motionless. Stopped dead. I see the men struggle to open their doors, but they’re stuck.

  “Yes!”

  “Sì!”

  Nino and I do a high five.

  “Yay! Go, me! Go, Alvie!” I say.

  That was pretty easy, actually. What can I say? I’m a pro.

  “Who’s Alvie?” says Nino.

  “Oh, no one,” I say. Whoops.

  I grab Nino’s gun and shoot out the back. The Land Rover’s windscreen shatters and smashes. I pop a bullet into each of their heads. Two perfect shots!

  “Awesome!” I say.

  Police sirens sound in the distance: a high-pitched, skin-pimpling NEENAW, NEENAW. Nino glares at me. He’s not smiling.

  “Fucking move!”

  He throws the guns out the car and into the sea as we drive back over the bridge.
I’m about to complain, but then I see his face: he looks heartbroken. I guess he really liked that gun. But it’s not a good idea to drive around with a murder weapon; we might get pulled over. It’s not worth the risk. I kick off my shoes and floor the accelerator. It’s easier barefoot. I love driving this car.

  Chapter Forty

  Let’s talk a little bit about self-realization. A week ago, my life was shit. I hated my job. I was clinically depressed. I got kicked out of my flat by a couple of slobs. I fucking wanted to fucking die. Now? Hello, sunshine! There are rainbows and butterflies and big pots of gold. I have found my sweet spot. I am in my element. And do you know what? It’s actually great to be alive.

  Alvie. Is. ALIVE.

  Finally, finally, I’ve found something I’m good at. Something I’m better at than Beth.

  Alvina Knightly: murderess.

  Killing: I was born

  To do it. It suits me like

  A favorite dress.

  Not that fucking fuchsia pink thing; that was so tight I couldn’t breathe. Not that violet chiffon church-girl dress. Perhaps the little black Louis Vuitton? That suited me. . . .

  I’ll shout it out loud: I LOVE TO KILL. What can I say? That’s my thing. Killing is an art like everything else; I do it exceptionally well. I told you, didn’t I? I’m a great artist: Caravaggio. Shakespeare. Mozart. Knightly.

  I’ve blossomed into a murderous butterfly; I’m a gorgeous death’s-head hawkmoth. There is a certain beauty in death, a certain style to killing well. It feels good to realize your potential. Feels fucking great to let it go. And you know what else? This business pays. I’d have worked a century at that magazine to earn two million euro . . . and even then, do you think I’d have saved it? Not a fucking chance in hell. The money . . . the car . . . the villa . . . the diamonds . . . I feel richer than the queen. Richer than J. K. Rowling or President Putin, Richard Branson or Bill Gates. Richer than Taylor Swift or Adele.

  This is better than winning the lottery because I’ve earned it. I’ve worked hard for it. I’ve discovered my talent. Found my true calling. But you can’t go killing willy-nilly. You’ve got to be clever. Got to be smart. The trick is not to get caught.

  If only Mum and Beth could see me now. If only the whole world could! But perhaps they will? You know what, I almost want to get caught! I want to be infamous! Everyone would know my name. Everyone would fear me! Alvie? Oh yes, I’ve heard of her, they’d say. And then they’d run the other way.

  Thank you, Beth, for this opportunity. Thank you, darling Ambrogio. I think they call it synchronicity. When you’re in flow, your whole damn life falls into place. The universe or God supports you. Everything just seems to work out. Everything is great.

  ◆

  Messina Ferry Port, Sicily

  “Passaporto?”

  I hesitate. I have both Beth’s and my passports in my bag.

  “Passaporto? Carta d’identità?”

  Who am I again? I could be Beth or Alvina. It’s too hot to think and I’m starting to sweat. The sun has come up and is boring a hole in the top of my head. I’m dehydrated. My lips feel cracked and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’d kill for a vodka and iced limonata. Who the hell am I? I think the police might start looking for Beth. Alvie could have been traveling around Sicily these past few days, doing some sightseeing before heading home to London. Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing, if anyone asks. Palermo? Magnificent. Catania? Divine. Of course I climbed Mount Etna; you can’t beat that sea view at sunrise. The temples of Agrigento? Stunning examples of Magna Graecia architecture. But who’s going to ask me? No one.

  “Passaporto!”

  Oh, man . . . now he’s cross. They’re very short-tempered, these Italian men.

  I hand over my passport to the guy standing in the little plastic booth. He’s wearing a dark-blue hat with a visor, an official-looking uniform. I hope he’s not police.

  “Grazie,” he says, peering into the car. He’s been up all night too, by the looks of him. It’s been a busy night for us all. He examines Nino’s passport. Then he studies my face, looks at my passport. I hold my breath . . . what am I worried about? It looks like me. There’s no way he’ll question it. “Grazie, signora.” He slams it shut.

  I take my passport quickly, so Nino doesn’t see. I steal a glance at Nino’s passport as the man hands it back through the wound-down window. It says his name is Giannino Maria Brusca. I laugh out loud.

  “Your middle name’s Maria?”

  Nino looks at me. “So?”

  “Maria is a girl’s name!”

  He frowns. “Not in Italy.”

  “I can’t believe you have a girl’s name.”

  “Betta, shut up. Just drive the car.”

  “And your name’s not even Nino!”

  “Nino is short for Giannino. Drive, there’s a space over there.”

  “I’m going to call you Nicola,” I say, still laughing. “That’s a pretty girl’s name.” I drive the car up the ramp to the ferry.

  “In Italy, Nicola is a name for a boy.”

  “Maria’s a boy’s name and Nicola’s a boy’s name? You guys are nuts.”

  “I told you, shut up. You’re going to get yourself shot.”

  “Nancy! Is Nancy a girl’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to call you Nancy,” I say.

  Nino is sitting there, quietly seething. But I can’t help it, I’m laughing hysterically, weeping, bent double and crying with laughter.

  “I mean it, Betta, you better shut up. I killed a guy for less than that.”

  “Oh, really?” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. He’s cracking me up.

  “Yeah. Really. I killed a guy for looking at me funny. I’d kill a girl for laughing at my name. . . .” Nino glares.

  I stop laughing. I think I believe him. He may actually kill me. Not good.

  I park the Lambo between a Maserati and a Fiat. I hate ferries, especially ferry car parks. They always stink of gasoline and make me feel sick. I miss Ambrogio’s yacht. I only got to try it once. It’s a shame we wrote it off.

  The cars are packed so tightly together, I can barely open the door. I inch sideways out of the Lambo and pull the suitcase with the money out with me; I’m not leaving two million euro in a car park. I’m not taking any risks; there are murderers, thieves, and rapists everywhere. You’re never, ever safe. Then I follow Nino up some steep little steps to the deck. When Beth’s Ladymatic says 6:30 a.m., the ferry sets sail on the Tyrrhenian Sea. Nino and I lean up against the railings and stare out at the water. This morning it’s cloudy, the water’s a gunmetal gray.

  The ferry starts swaying, left and right, up and down on the choppy water. It’s windy today. I’m already nauseous. Nino pulls a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket with his good hand, offers me a smoke. I take one and light our cigarettes. Nino shelters the flame with a scuffed-up hand. His knuckles are busted. There’s blood under his fingernails, a dark red-brown. A couple of nonsmokers standing beside us scowl and then move away down the deck. We are alone.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say, exhaling a lungful toward the horizon. I turn to face Nino, give him a winning smile. “I want to work with you.”

  “Want to what?”

  “I want to work with you. I want to be your partner.”

  Nino looks up at me squinting; the sun’s breaking through some dirty white clouds. He pulls on his sunglasses. He doesn’t seem to like daylight very much. He’s the opposite of a sunflower.

  “My partner?”

  “Your partner. I think we’d be great. What do you say?”

  I lean in toward him and look into his eyes. I can’t really see through his blackout glasses, but I look where I expect them to be. I’m wearing Beth’s Wonderbra, my cleavage positioned strategically.


  “You’re pazza,” says Nino.

  “What’s up?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  Nino stubs his cigarette out on the metal rail and then throws it out to sea. I take a drag and then throw mine out after. Nino lets the heavy metal door slam in my face as he storms inside the ferry. I push through and run after him toward the first bar we see.

  “Un caffè,” he says to the barista, his voice like gravel.

  “Due caffè,” I say. “And a water.”

  His hand shakes as he takes his cup. Nino doesn’t drink water. He’s like a cactus. Or a camel. I really don’t know how he’s still alive. We sit down on some nasty plastic chairs at a sticky plastic table. I fucking hate ferry “restaurants.” They seem to be designed to put you off your food. The coffee tastes burned. The boat tosses and turns on the angry sea. The horizon undulates through porthole windows like it’s made out of wobbly blue and green Jell-O. Now I really feel sick. We sit in silence and sip.

  “So,” says Nino at last, his forehead folded in deep ravines. “You’re unbelievable. You got me to kill Salvatore, but now you want to be a . . . a . . . an assassina?”

  He crumples his plastic coffee cup inside his fist. It makes a crack sound like a skull.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. I wish I’d done it now. I kinda liked it. . . .”

  “Liked what?”

  “Killing . . . the priest . . . and those guys.”

  He holds my gaze.

  “Beth, you’re killing me. What are you talking about? You ‘kinda liked it’?”

  I think about his question for a moment, then smile, lick my lips. “No, I fucking loved it. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Nino stands up from the table; his chair scrapes the floor. I get up, grab the suitcase, and run after him.

  “Nino! Wait. How much do you get for a job? Huh?” I ask.

  “It depends . . .” he says, walking away, his pace brisk, his back to me.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “In Sicily?”

  “In Sicily.”

  We walk down a corridor toward a door marked Uomini: the men’s. Nino pushes through. Its hinges squeal like a dying pig. I look both ways down the corridor. Fuck it. I follow after him. The toilets are empty. It stinks of vomit: someone’s thrown up and they haven’t cleaned up. There’s no ventilation or windows. I stand with my back up against the door. Cold plastic presses against the thin material of Beth’s shirt. Nino stands at the urinal and unzips his fly. I watch him pee.