“Anywhere from two thousand euro if I’m doing a guy a favor to—”
“Two thousand euro? You’d kill a guy for two thousand euro?” He’s got to be kidding me. Although, having said that, I’d do it for free. I’d do it for the rush.
“To ten thousand. Twenty thousand if it’s a difficult job.”
The hiss of piss on ceramic. The stench of urine. There’s a puddle on the ground in the corner; thick, black mold spreads up along the wall. I cover my mouth with my hand.
“But that’s in Sicily; it’s hardly Monte Carlo. London will be different. Lucrative,” I say.
A flushing sound comes from a cubicle. I guess the toilets weren’t empty after all. We aren’t alone. We lower our voices so that no one will hear.
“Twenty thousand is the most I ever made. That was high profile: a government official.” Nino’s whisper sounds just like a snake.
“Good for your CV,” I say. “Imagine if I’m working; that’s double the money, half the time. Imagine what we’d make somewhere like London?”
Somewhere glamorous. Somewhere with style; I long to be rich somewhere obscene.
“Anyway, it’s over in Sicily. I know about the war. The Mafia are fucked.”
Nino’s finished peeing. He zips up his fly and walks over to the sink, glares at me in the mirror as he washes his hands.
“I’m fucked, thanks to you. I can never come back to Sicily.”
A man pushes open a cubicle door. He is short and skinny with a baseball cap: ROMA. Must be a tourist. The man looks at me and frowns, then looks over at Nino and does a double-take. Nino stares back, entirely still. He reminds me of a mantis, poised and ready to attack at a split second’s notice. The man bows his head and scurries out through the door like a frightened cricket. He didn’t even wash his hands. That’s disgusting. I guess Nino freaked him out. Perhaps it was the blood. His arm looks fucked. I suppose, objectively, Nino looks kind of scary. But I still think he’s hot.
“You heard of Giovanni Falcone?” he says into the mirror. “He was one of mine. Well, it wasn’t just me . . . there were some other guys . . . they all went to jail.”
“We’d make a killing,” I say.
“You ever heard of him?”
“Heard of who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
It’s hot. Sticky. Humid. It’s fucking uncomfortable. I want to go back out on deck. Get some fresh air. I come up behind him and put my hand around his waist, pull him toward me.
“Baby, baby . . . the two of us together? We’d be legendary,” I say.
I watch him splash water over his hands and reach for the soap dispenser. He pushes the nozzle, but nothing comes out. He pushes it again, harder and harder, but it’s empty. He rips it off the wall with his good hand and throws it across the room. It smashes against the wall: the crack of hard plastic.
“You kill one guy and you think you’re Al Capone.”
“It’s quality, not quantity. . . .” He doesn’t know about the others. . . . I wish I could tell him. I wish I could come clean. No secrets between us. I want to tell him that I’m not Beth.
“You’re a talented amateur, Betta. I’ve got twenty years’ experience . . . a reputation. . . .” Nino says.
“So what? It doesn’t mean anything now. You said we could never go back.”
Nino swears in Italian under his breath.
“Name one female hit man,” I say.
“A hit woman?” he says. Nino looks up, searching my eyes. It does not compute; I’ve short-circuited his brain.
“Uh-huh. You can’t.”
“There’s a reason,” he says. He pushes me away and walks over to the hand dryer, but it doesn’t work. He pulls a lever on the towel dispenser to get a paper towel to dry his hands, but there aren’t any left.
“You know I’m good. Those were perfect shots just now in the car.”
“Who said I was hiring?” He yanks the lever up and down, up and down. Nothing. He rips the paper towel dispenser off the wall with his good hand. “Just because you’re Ambrogio’s wife you think you got a job? You got no training, no experience. And where did all of this bloodlust come from? A week ago you didn’t even like guns!”
Nino throws the paper-towel dispenser down a toilet. My head’s spinning. I need some air. The ground’s swelling, the ferry’s swaying, back and forth, to and fro. I sprint across the room, push past Nino and just miss the toilet. I throw up all over the floor.
“It’s a bad idea.”
Chapter Forty-One
Arona, Italy
Are we nearly there yet?” I ask. After hours and hours of Metallica, I’d kill for something sunnier. No one could say I have a sunny disposition or a penchant for upbeat country, but Nino’s killing me with the heavy metal. I can’t take much more thrash. Perhaps a song by Taylor Swift? “I Knew You Were Trouble”? That’s a good one.
“Nearly where?” he replies.
“I dunno. France?”
He looks at me sideways. “We haven’t even passed the Swiss border.”
“So . . . that’s a no then?”
“And there’s still the whole of Switzerland to drive through, after we leave Italy.”
“Oh,” I say. Should have looked at a map. Beth would have looked at a map and Googled for loo stops and scenic spots for a picnic.
“And your driving is giving me neck ache.”
“Neck ache? How? I’m the one with whiplash.”
“You are making me tense.”
Turns out it’s quite a long drive from Naples to London and it’s still only twelve o’clock. The sky’s a tedious shade of blue. There’s the same old cliffs, the same old sea. The roads are so hot, they’re starting to melt: the scent of scorched tarmac. Grass so dry it could spontaneously combust. The landscape hasn’t changed for the past five hours. Mountains on the right, sea on the left. We finally stop for a break somewhere near the Italian border: a little town called Arona. There’s an enormous lake—Lago Maggiore. If I wasn’t so knackered, I’d get out and explore. The lake stretches out as far as the eye can see in both directions: a deep, inky blue. Tree-covered hills roll all around us, smart white houses with terra-cotta roofs. It looks pretty awesome, but there are too many tourists. And my legs have seized up from sitting in one position; I’ll probably fall over if I try to walk.
We pull into a quiet side street and wind up the roof on the Lambo. Lock the doors. I push back the driver’s seat and try to sleep. I can’t. The seat is uncomfortable. I’ve got a numb bum. I can feel the leather sticking to my skin from where my thighs are sweating.
I look around for something to do. Nino’s asleep with his mouth hanging open. It’s not a good look. I’m so bored, I have a flick through the Bible; I think Nino packed it so we’d have somewhere to rack up. Bibles always remind me of Adam and Eve, of how Eve was made from one of Adam’s spare ribs, like Frankenstein’s monster.
The idols of nations are silver and gold,
Made by the hands of men.
They have mouths, but they cannot speak,
Eyes, but they cannot see,
They have ears, but cannot hear,
Nor is there breath in their mouths.
Those who make them will be like them,
And so will all who trust them.
What’s wrong with gold? I’m still bored.
“There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies, and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers.”
Sounds like the Lord is pretty intolerant; he can’t have many friends. I guess he has a point though; most people are fuckers.
And now that I’m thinking about him, I can�
�t get that fucking ridiculous song out of my head: the one Beth and I used to sing at Girl Guides. It plays over and over again in my mind on an incessant loop. I want to shoot myself in the head to get rid of it, pull the trigger in my mouth so I die properly, not like Ed Norton at the end of Fight Club, who can still talk with half his head blown off and gallons of blood clogging up his throat.
Oh, you’ll never get to heaven
(Oh, you’ll never get to heaven)
In a baked bean tin
(In a baked bean tin)
’Cause a baked bean tin
(’Cause a baked bean tin)
’S got baked beans in
(’S got baked beans in)
Oh, you’ll never get to heaven in a baked bean tin ’cause a baked bean tin’s got baked beans in
I ain’t gonna grieve
My Lord no more
No more
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
No more.
Oh, you’ll never get to heaven
(Oh, you’ll never get to heaven)
On a Boy Scout’s knee
(On a Boy Scout’s knee)
’Cause a Boy Scout’s knee
(’Cause a Boy Scout’s knee)
’S too wobbly
(’S too wobbly)
Oh, you’ll never get to heaven on a Boy Scout’s knee ’cause a Boy Scout’s knee’s too wobbly
I ain’t gonna grieve
My Lord no more
No more
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord
No more.
Oh, you’ll never get to heaven . . .
“Shut the fuck up, Betta,” says Nino.
Oh. I must have been singing out loud.
◆
When we wake up it’s midafternoon. We’d just intended to have a little nap, but we’ve slept for hours. It’s not ideal. We need to get out of the country. Nino wakes up, stretches, and yawns.
“Sleep all right?”
“Hm,” he grunts. “What time is it?”
“Two.”
He turns on the car radio. Fiddles with the stations. Please, no more Metallica.
“It’s your turn to drive. I’ve had enough.”
He raises his eyebrows. “My arm?”
“So? Isn’t that better yet?”
“Do you really think I’d let you drive if I could do it myself?”
“Hey, I’m not that bad. I got us this far. . . .”
“You crashed my car.”
I’d forgotten about that. Nino’s twizzling the knob on the radio. The static is making a horrible noise.
“Urgh, turn that off.”
“Shut up, I want to hear something.”
The voice on the radio is shouting in Italian. I’d rather put some music on. I wonder if Nino likes Justin Bieber? Or something depressing by Adele?
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, Elizabeth Caruso . . .” says the voice on the radio.
“What the fuck?” I say.
“Shh,” says Nino, turning up the volume. The radio blabbers for another twenty to thirty seconds. I study Nino’s face trying to gauge his reaction.
“What? What? Tell me!” I say.
“They interviewed a security guard. Do you know a security guard? At the amphitheater? Francesco something.”
Shit. “Yeah. Why?” So his name was Francesco? Funny, he didn’t look like a Francesco. More like a Carlo or maybe a Claudio.
“He said he was worried about you. About your safety. Said you hadn’t seemed yourself recently, whatever that means. And he said you were ‘bellissima.’ Beautiful. Anyway, it’s OK,” says Nino. “The police are looking for you. They don’t know about me.”
“They’re looking for me? How is that OK?” I search his eyes for understanding.
“Because they’re not looking for me.”
“Such a dick. What did it say?”
Nino pulls out the coke and racks up a line on the Bible. He offers me the €50. I suck it up.
“They know about the shootings. Someone reported hearing gunshots. They found the two bodies in the Land Rover. The police know you’re missing and they’re worried about you.”
“So what does it mean, if they’re looking for me? Can I still leave the country?” Oh God, please, just let us get out of Italy. We’ll be OK once we’re in Switzerland. The Swiss are chilled out; just look at Roger Federer.
“I don’t know,” says Nino, opening the car door, standing up and stretching his legs.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I jump out of the car. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to buy breakfast. You want something?”
What’s he on about, breakfast? It’s two p.m.
“No. What about the border? The Italian police?”
“I’m gonna find a pizzeria. You like pepperoni? Stay with the car. Do not fucking move.” He grabs the car keys from the ignition and shoves them in his pocket.
“Hey!”
He walks down the street.
“I’m thirsty,” I shout.
“I’ll buy some beers,” he calls over his shoulder. He disappears around a corner.
“I don’t like beer! And buy me some tampons and some paracetamol. I think I’m getting my period.”
I’m feeling all crampy. It’s that or I’ve been sitting too long in this chair. Great, that’s the last thing I need, to bleed for five days. Don’t get me wrong, I do like blood, I just prefer other people’s. I flop back in my seat.
Fucking hell, this whole thing’s a nightmare. I grab my handbag, open it up. I look at the passports, mine and Beth’s. I put mine on the dashboard ready to use and throw Beth’s passport back into the bottom of the bag. I’ll have to be Alvie if they’re looking for Beth. My instincts were right in the ferry port. I suddenly feel sick. I wind down the window to get some air, let the breeze blow over my face. What if Nino notices the passport? This had better fucking work.
I look around the car. It’s a mess: polystyrene cups, greasy panini wrappers, empty packs of Marlboros. Nino’s drugs are on the dashboard. My cocaine is in the back. If we’re going to cross the border, we don’t want any trouble. We’ll have to get rid of this shit. I find my coke and then grab Nino’s; I sneak out of the car. It’s a crazy-hot day now. The cooling breeze has gone. The sun burns my shoulders, my forehead, my nose, and the skin at the back of my neck feels raw. There’s a trash can down the road, I’ll chuck it in there. Nino’s going to kill me, but I’m not taking the risk. I have one final dab with a licked little finger, then dump the coke in the bottom of the trash can. I cover it up with a copy of the Corriere della Sera. Then, on second thought, I fish out the newspaper. I have a quick flick through the headlines and pictures on the cover and the first few pages, just in case there’s something about me. About Beth. But there’s nothing. Not yet.
◆
Switzerland is bumpy and makes me feel carsick. France is boring and flat. It’s a relief when we reach the Channel Tunnel, although that does mean driving through Calais, which is a merde-hole. I’ve never understood why people like France. Beth and I went to Paris once for a weekend with Mum. Two whole days was two days too long. People think Paris is the city of love, but the streets just smell of piss and are chock-full of homeless people. Japanese folk go there and need therapy for the culture shock. Seriously. They fly there, expecting Disney castles and Coco Chanel. They queue for five hours for the Eiffel Tower, sit in a madman’s taxi honk-honk-honking around a gridlocked Arc de Triomphe, then catch gonorrhea from a man named Marcel. Someone feeds them some garlic puree, some raw cow, and a cheese with some mag
gots living in it; they passively smoke about twenty packs of Gauloises; and they’re homesick for Harajuku. Honest-to-God truth, that happens to every single one of them. Less Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, more Bridge over the River Kwai Seine.
Nino’s sleeping in the passenger’s seat, snoring like a walrus. He’s tired and grumpy now that I’ve chucked all his drugs. We pass Dijon (where the mustard comes from. I fucking hate mustard. I’m not going to eat any) and a place called Arras (isn’t that a rug in Hamlet?). These towns are nothing more than signs on the autoroute. As far as I can tell, the whole of France is just dark-gray tarmac and empty brown fields. No wonder they’re all insane. It’s so boring. All they do is fuck and eat. Actually, that’s not a bad life. Perhaps I will move here?
If I do move to France it definitely won’t be to Calais. Calais is an ugly industrial no-man’s-land of metal cooling pipes, giant turbines, and steam. I don’t know why anyone would ever want to live here. It’s pissing down with rain and all the frogs have come out. Its only redeeming feature is a supermarket selling booze for €1.99. I consider driving in and stocking up, but then I remember: I’m not poor anymore. I can pay for the overpriced alcohol in London and then some. I have money to burn. I no longer need to have a heart attack every time somebody charges me £15 for a gin and tonic. It was worth all the killing.
“Shall we get something to eat? I fancy a frog burger.”
Nino’s still snoring so I wake him up.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Let’s find a McDonald’s,” he says, rubbing his eyes.
We drive around the city through drizzle until we see the golden arches.
“I’ll order,” I say. “I know how to speak McDonald’s French from watching Pulp Fiction.”
Nino looks at me blankly. Perhaps he’s not into Tarantino. Weird.
“But you’ve got to have a quarter-pounder with cheese. I don’t know the other things,” I say.
Mad Page 32
