The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  The more he probed the more the Shadowless felt like mercury escaping into the cracks. Don Zerbinati was as elusive as his brotherhood. A drunk in Mergellina claimed to have seen him two years earlier, stepping from a black-windowed limousine in Via San Biagio Dei Librai. ‘The oldest eyes I have ever seen,’ the man had insisted, again and again, the words eventually slurring into incoherence. ‘Eyes as old as a stone saint. Just as cold.’

  In an after-hours club in Forcella a sullen hostess had told him to leave the city. ‘You’ve said his name,’ she declared, too quietly for the room, almost too quietly for Winter to hear. ‘Now he has your scent.’ She had fingered the thin cross at her throat, her nails scraping at the silver. Winter had thanked her for the insight and handed over a roll of notes for her company. ‘You’re a very stupid man,’ she had called after him, in a molten Sicilian accent. ‘I never met you, OK?’

  Today’s lunch was a slice of what the Neapolitans called pizza. It had recently arrived in Britain but to Winter it was still a deeply peculiar thing. A triangle of crusted bread topped with a greasy blend of cheese and tomato and studded, improbably, with olives. It took him a moment to realise he was approaching it from the wrong end. An urchin kid in the street was still laughing.

  Wiping a smear of sauce from his lips, Winter carried on walking, heading along the Via dei Tribunali, the old Roman street that bisected Centro Storico. He felt increasingly aimless in the heat. Aimless and just a little dispirited. He couldn’t shake the feeling he had come to Naples to kill a whisper.

  It was then that he saw the church.

  It stood across the road, half in shadow, the sun barely touching the bronze skulls perched on plinths outside it. They stared at him through a parade of iron railings. Above the skulls wild green leaves sprouted from cracked gobbets of masonry. The walls of the building were a cool moon-grey. It was a still, quiet place, all the more extraordinary among the riot of the city centre. It was as if the dead had claimed it for their own.

  The sight of the church transfixed him. As he gazed at the skulls he felt a shudder in his blood. It was an ache, he realised. A longing.

  He had to get closer. His blood wanted him closer.

  Winter crossed the street, past a fruit stall, crushing the tiny Piennolo tomatoes that had tumbled into the gutter. The door of the church was ahead of him, solid mahogany garlanded with a bright fist of flowers. He pushed at the old wood and stepped into the nave. The shade of the interior took the heat of the day away.

  A woman in a violet shawl was leaving, an embroidered handkerchief clutched in her hand. As she edged out of the nave Winter caught sight of a painting, its gilt frame flanked by marble skulls. He had no idea about art but he imagined it had to be Renaissance. Bodies were ascending to Heaven, pulled into the light by angels while the Madonna and child looked on, wrapped in a swirl of blue cloth.

  A noticeboard held the name of the place he had just entered. This was the Church of Santa Maria delle Anime del Purgatorio ad Arco. The Church of Saint Mary of the Souls in Purgatory.

  There were others in the church, kneeling in prayer before the altar. Winter ignored them, his attention taken by an open trapdoor at the rear of the nave. A flutter of light escaped from it, and the sound of voices, also in prayer.

  He followed a set of stairs, down into a basement crypt. The space he found was a replica of the nave above, but it was thick with dust and its walls were cracked and unadorned. The air tasted stale as centuries.

  A twitch of candlelight lit the room. The underground chapel was littered with bones. Winter saw skulls propped in corners. Genuine human skulls, not marble or bronze. There were flowers surrounding them, some withered, some fresh. Tacky plastic trinkets hung like rosaries. Notes had been wedged next to each skull, scrawled on scraps of lined paper or written in faded ink on squares of card decorated with cats and roses.

  He glanced down. There were grilles among the flagstones. Through the gaps he saw bleached bones, piled like trash in the dark. Paupers’ graves, no doubt.

  Again he felt an ache in his blood.

  The steady murmur of prayer filled the sepulchral gloom. A man knelt in the far corner, his eyes tightly closed as he pushed his forehead against the wall. He was rocking on his haunches, telling the contents of his heart to cold stone. A skull sat above him, encircled by sepia photographs. There was a young woman in one of the pictures, smiling into bright sunlight. Winter imagined she might have been the man’s teenage sweetheart, taken by war.

  He began to understand. This was a place where people prayed to the nameless departed. They should have been calling on saints or apostles or the Virgin but they had chosen to venerate the lost, all those abandoned, anonymous souls trapped in Purgatory. They prayed on behalf of these unburied bones to ease their passage into Heaven – and in return, he guessed, they asked for help in this life, or guarantees that their own loved ones had made it into Paradise. It seemed to be a mutually beneficial arrangement between the living and the dead.

  There was another skull on show, one that was clearly special.

  It looked almost pampered as it rested on a plump cushion. But it was broken, incomplete. The lower half was gone, leaving only the deep, concave hollows of the eyes, their shattered edges sinking into velvet. The skull wore a lace veil, just like a bride’s, and it was crowned with a tiara that sparkled fitfully in the candlelight. A shrine of photographs and flowers enclosed it.

  Two women knelt before the memorial. One was young, the other considerably older. The girl’s grandmother, perhaps. The younger woman had her head bowed and was whispering a torrent of prayer. Winter imagined she was a bride to be, petitioning the grim remains for good fortune on her wedding day.

  He took his place next to the women, the dank stone floor chilling his knees. Neither acknowledged his presence but the older one stole a glance.

  Winter met the cavernous gaze of the skull. His blood surged in response, quickening at the pulses and making his heart thud beneath his shirt. Despite the cool of the crypt he felt a prickle of sweat across his chest. It coursed through the scar tissue, stinging the skin.

  The more he stared at the skull, the more he lingered among these bones, the more he sensed something stir inside him. It felt like a kind of energy, unlocking itself. It was embedded in the relics, he realised, and he was drawing it into his body, as unconsciously as his lungs took oxygen from the air, or nicotine from a cigarette.

  Alessandra would have explained it. Karina too. He missed their knowledge, their voices, the way they had made sense of everything, decoding the madness. They had guided him through this world and lit its shadows. He realised he felt very alone without them.

  Tobias Hart had practised bone magic. That much Winter knew. And perhaps that was what he was experiencing. A muscle memory of the man he had been, nothing more. The stitch of magic that Alessandra had placed inside him was reacting to the bones. That had to be it.

  And there were so many bones in this place. Old bones, to be sure, chipped and cracked, but saturated with centuries of belief. Powerful bones, Winter assumed.

  He stared hard into the sockets, trying to imagine the eyes that had once filled them. All he saw were twin voids, retreating into the skull like infinite whorls of ink.

  He had made glass run like water, back in that hotel room. What else was he capable of?

  Winter’s breathing deepened, became heavy in his mouth. There was a sweetness in his blood now. And it unsettled him, because he knew he wanted more. He could feel it, black honey in his veins.

  He reached out. He had to touch the skull. The ache in his blood compelled him.

  The old woman gave a cry. Winter turned and saw that she had cast a gesture against him. One tiny, sun-crinkled hand was extended, the index and little finger pointing in parallel at the ground. The sign of the horns. The traditional Neapolitan hex against anyone with the evil eye.

  ‘Malocchio!’ she spat, keeping her fist firm. ‘Malocchio!’


  She had broken the hush of the basement. Now people were turning to look, the sound of prayer replaced by a murmur of disquiet. Winter saw the younger woman’s eyes. They were wide and afraid. ‘Jettatura,’ she trembled, unbelieving, as if Winter’s presence had tainted everything, her wedding day included. ‘Jettatura…’

  The crypt felt small and oppressive. There were too many eyes on him, not enough air. Winter rose and made for the exit, pushing past worshippers, his feet colliding with wooden boxes that rattled with still more human remains.

  ‘Malocchio!’ the old woman shouted, louder and braver now that he was leaving. ‘Malocchio!’

  What had she sensed inside him?

  Winter didn’t look back. He hauled himself up the stairs, through the nave and out into the heat and clamour of the street again. Naturally he reached for a cigarette.

  There was the sound of music on Via dei Tribunali. It was pounding and insistent, more rhythm than melody, overpowering the transistor radios that bled from cafés and shops. Curious, and just a little dazed from his experience in the crypt, Winter began to follow it. He had no better idea of what to do just then.

  A band was playing in a nearby square, touting for coins among crumbling walls plastered with movie posters. The noise they made was driving, hypnotic, a stampede of drums and tambourines, broken by shrill whistles. A crowd had gathered around them, clapping and cheering in time.

  A high sun shone through washing strung between balconies. The clothes cast pools of coloured light, turquoise and purple and lime, spotlighting a girl dancing for money, an upturned hat at her feet.

  Winter watched her. She must have been eighteen or nineteen, so pale that he doubted she was a local, despite her Mediterranean looks. She wore a thin grey rag of a dress and there was a matching ribbon tied at her throat. As she danced the Tarantella, the spider dance, her long black hair was a storm, lashing in front of her eyes.

  Barefoot on hot paving, the girl spun and writhed, seemingly possessed by the music. The rhythm of the drums matched her, provoked her, became even more frenzied, so forceful that Winter could feel its volley in his chest. The girl appeared to be in a state of delirium. Her hair whirled and her hips shook.

  Winter’s eyes went to the ribbon at her throat. It was darkening on one side. Two distinct blooms had formed, perhaps an inch apart. It had to be blood, soaking into the fabric. She must have agitated a pair of wounds with her exertions.

  They were bite marks, he realised coldly. Someone had driven their teeth into her throat, and quite recently.

  The drums echoed and the girl was a blur of hair.

  ‘You like my sister, signore? You take her for dinner?’

  Winter looked down. A teenage boy was at his side. The kid had a cocky smile and keen, bright eyes in a face bronzed and toughened by street living.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘My sister, signore. I introduce you. A special introduction. No charge.’

  He was one of the scugnizzo, the urchins who thrived on their wits in this frantic city. There was an American naval insignia stitched to his fraying baseball jacket, no doubt a wartime souvenir that had been handed down – or, more plausibly, stolen.

  Winter smiled, in spite of himself. ‘Are you sure she’s your sister?’

  A flash of cola-stained teeth. ‘Every girl in Naples is my sister.’

  ‘I feel sorry for your mother.’

  ‘What can I say? Mama loved Papa very much.’

  The kid wasn’t going away. He dipped a hand inside his jacket, retrieving a stash of tattered postcards. They were hand-tinted nudes, surprisingly chaste. The models had Betty Grable haircuts, twenty years out of fashion.

  ‘These are the best views in Naples, signore.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  The kid switched to another pocket. He fanned another selection of postcards. This time the models were men, equally vintage. ‘Perhaps you prefer pancetta?’

  ‘I think it’s time you got lost now.’

  ‘I can get you anything. Cigarettes. Pills. Company. Whatever you need for a good time in our beautiful city. I work for the Mayor.’

  Winter nodded. ‘Is that so. Well, I’ll tell you what I do need, you little shit, and that’s my wallet back.’

  The boy was about to bolt. Winter seized him by the arm and applied just enough pressure to hurt. With a grimace the brat handed over the wallet he had so effortlessly lifted a minute earlier.

  Winter slid a clutch of notes from its leather folds. ‘One more thing I need…’

  He moved his eyes to the dancer. Breathless now, she struck an extravagant final pose as the drums smashed to a climax. The ribbon at her throat was dark as wine.

  ‘Information. I’m sure the Mayor would approve.’

  18

  The heat that had all but cremated the city finally broke, a month after Winter’s arrival.

  Tonight he was glad of his jacket, even if it was summer linen. The wind skimming the water was keen, strong enough to slap the tide against the timber posts that staked the harbourside. As the August sky darkened he watched as squat tugboats manoeuvred sturdier ships through the network of jetties and piers. International vessels filled the docks, come to collect or disgorge their cargo. Horns blared, flags stirred and wet shanks of rope smacked against rust-scarred hulls.

  This port was the engine of Naples, an ugly, functional stretch that stank of tar and salt. There was little casual conversation to be heard among these wharves. Conversation required questions and questions were inadvisable. The black economy was greased with a sense of discretion that would shame Whitehall.

  Winter checked his watch. He had bought it from a street vendor on Via dei Tribunali, a belated replacement for the one he had left in that hotel in Pest, the night he had met Alessandra. It was a cheap, practical thing and he was pleased to find it was still ticking.

  The hour hand teased ten o’clock. ‘Almost time.’

  The man at the water’s edge grunted. It was the most vocal he had been all evening.

  ‘The weather’s certainly changed,’ said Winter, lightly.

  Another grunt, even less engaged than the last.

  ‘It’s almost British, this weather. Could be Portsmouth.’

  The Italian known as Luca kept his eyes on the sea. Black curls, fashionably long but thinning, strayed over the collar of his leather blouson. He tried to stand like a much younger man but the paunch and the twist in his spine betrayed him. Still, Winter imagined he could hold his own in a fight. He had the grizzled aura of a fast, dirty brawler, all knuckles and temper.

  The two of them had been on lookout duty for an hour now. It was the outer circle of trust for any gang, but in the Camorra even this kind of casual employment had a gleam of prestige. Such a position was proof you had won a certain acceptance in the brotherhood. Perhaps you could graduate to hired muscle, if your face and fists found favour. The turnover was high, after all.

  Luca maintained his silence for another minute. And then, clearing his throat with a swill of phlegm, he grudgingly formed a sentence.

  ‘Sometimes they come from the sea.’

  There was a blue spark of lightning, at the far edge of the bay. It briefly illuminated the hump of Vesuvius.

  ‘Who do?’ asked Winter.

  Another flash split the clouds. The outline of Capri was momentarily defined.

  He pressed the question. ‘You mean the police?’

  Luca shook his head, watching the neon-bright twitch of light on the horizon. His next words were given as reluctantly as the last.

  ‘Not the police. This city has a different law.’

  And with that the Italian fell back into silence. To Winter it didn’t feel quite the same as before. This was heavier. This was the silence of something withheld.

  His eyes were drawn to the man’s hand. It was holding a silver chain, the links entwined around his scabbed knuckles. A skinny crucifix dangled below the palm. A moment later Luca closed his fist ar
ound it, perhaps embarrassed that it had been seen.

  The truck arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Jack Creadley would have approved. In Winter’s experience criminal activity was the most punctual in the world.

  The vehicle rolled across the quayside, headlights playing over greasy tarmac flecked with cigarette stubs. As the engine cut two men stepped from the cab, acknowledging Winter and Luca with sharp, succinct nods.

  ‘Bring the goods,’ said the shorter of the men, flexing his leather-gloved hands in a bid to shake driver’s cramp. The other man flanked him, his face partially obscured by the brim of a fisherman’s cap. Winter imagined he was the muscle, though both men had a solid physical presence that suggested the demarcation of duty might not be so clear.

  They walked to the back of the truck. There was rain in the air now, fine as thread. It picked at the oil that pooled beneath their feet, caught in the pitted tarmac. Winter glanced at the sky. The clouds had darkened against nightfall. Now they were the colour of the sea.

  The man in the gloves unlocked the rear doors with a busy clatter of keys. Winter peered into the back and saw three wooden freight containers. The lids were nailed shut and labelled with shipping instructions. The top crate had a cargo manifest attached, encased in plastic. Forged, no doubt. It was fairly obvious the truck’s contents had bypassed customs completely.

  Winter and Luca heaved the first of the crates from the pile. It was lighter than Winter was expecting, surprising his muscles. Some kind of contraband, he assumed. Cigarettes, perhaps. That would explain the weight. The thought left him with an itch for a Woodbine.

  They carried the crate to a scruffy, half-lit warehouse, set back from the edge of the quay. Winter sensed the eyes of the man in the cap scrutinising him as he walked. Luca was clearly a known quantity to the Camorra, a fixture in the city’s shadows. As a newcomer Winter was more of a risk, for all that he had played up his underworld connections in London. A manageable risk, to be sure. If the Camorra had entertained serious suspicions they would have removed him from Naples, and permanently so.