by Lucy Wadham
Santini was driving fast along the waterfront. He turned and smiled at her.
���All right?��� he asked. She stared back at him. ���Don���t go putting your trust in the wrong people any more. It wastes time.���
He pulled up in front of three cement blocks that barred the entrance to the market streets.
���You walk down that street. Take the second on the left and then first right. It���s a garage at the end. One hour,��� he said, reaching over her and opening her door, brushing her breast as he did so. She climbed out of the car and did not look back.
Alice began to run, following Santini���s directions. When she reached the garage she was out of breath. A young policeman in uniform was standing in front of the closed door. He stared impassively at her as she stood before him panting.
���Where���s Stuart?���
���Madame?���
He was burly and red-faced with a crew-cut.
���I���m the child���s mother. Where���s Stuart? It���s urgent.���
���The commissaire left a couple of hours ago.���
���Is this where they kept him?��� she asked, looking at the garage door. ���Let me in. I want to see.���
���I���m afraid I can���t do that, madame.��� He stared at her, his thumbs hooked in his belt. ���Did you say you were the mother of the victim?���
���No. Oh, for God���s sake, where���s Stuart?��� She looked round for help. The street was empty. The muffled sound of accordion music came from a restaurant a few doors down. ���You���re going to be in trouble when he finds out how slow you were.��� She could feel the weight of her gun and she wanted to use it. ���Listen to me. I have to see him. It���s important.��� She could feel his doubt. ���Hurry up!��� She spoke to him like a mother.
She followed him towards the squad car parked at the entrance to the street and watched him reach in through the driver���s door to use the radio. She heard a woman���s voice, then random noise. The sky was now dark blue and a chill breeze was blowing. She shivered.
���Someone���s coming to fetch you.���
She nodded and turned her back on him, folding her arms against the cold. She could feel him hovering behind her. She crossed over to the other side of the road to wait for Stuart. The youth walked back to his position in front of the garage door.
When the brown Datsun pulled up it was not Stuart at the wheel. The driver leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door for her. It was Paul.
���Where���s Stuart? What���s happened?���
���Nothing. It���s all right. Get in.���
He drove fast along the narrow backstreets of the old town, using his horn to make people scatter, sometimes driving along the pavement, working the gears. Alice sat in silence, pressing her foot on to an imaginary brake. They pulled up in front of the gates to the compound. Paul opened them with the remote control.
���Tell me what happened,��� she ordered.
He was chewing gum. He looked at her, interrupting his chewing for a moment; the expression in his eyes was bovine.
���You���ll have to ask Stuart,��� he said. He drove into the compound and came to such an abrupt halt, slamming his foot on the brake and releasing it again, that her head was thrown against the seat back.
Without waiting for him, she climbed out of the car. Lamps like searchlights flooded the compound with artificial daytime. She ran up the steps to the building. The door clicked open before she had time to press the intercom.
She stopped in the doorway of Stuart���s office. He was standing behind his desk. A man sitting opposite him turned in his chair and smiled at her: it was Lopez. Stuart was looking in her direction but not at her.
Paul���s voice came from just behind her: ���We found the video recorder. It was the size of a lipstick. Fabrice doesn���t think you can buy them on the island. He���s checking.���
Stuart nodded at Paul. Lopez rose to his feet and held his hand out across the desk.
���No TV, no radio,��� Lopez was saying. ���Nothing that could make a noise and alert the neighbours. Why jeopardise everything and look for another place? It was carefully chosen.��� Stuart was walking him to the door. ���Why risk moving?���
Alice stood and watched. She could hear them talking but the meaning floated somewhere in another realm, inaccessible to her. She felt suddenly overcome with the kind of desolation she had not experienced since childhood.
���There were three or four of them,��� Stuart said.
Alice watched, dazed. In her head she could hear the sound of wind in pine trees. She could not move. Then someone said her name and she reeled away from them into the room, making for the open window. Behind her the door closed. The sound of men���s voices faded in the hall. She pulled the rucksack from her shoulders and laid it on the window sill. She leaned out and looked down at the floodlit compound, feeling the breeze on her face.
���Sam,��� she whispered.
The sound of the weakness in her voice appalled her. She tilted back her head and banged her forehead as hard as she could against the edge of the shutters. For a moment she was numb. Then she felt hands gripping her shoulders and she heard a moan that was not hers, and she fell back and the room turned.
The pain in her head was considerable. She smiled in deference to it and closed her eyes.
���You made a promise,��� she said.
Stuart did not answer. He sat cupping her head in his lap, hunched low over her.
Her voice was strangled: ���You should have woken me up.���
Stuart nodded, laying a hand on her cheek.
���Santini knew who had Sam,��� she said. ���You didn���t. Now someone else has got him. You don���t know who it is. You don���t know. Do you?���
He was searching her face.
���You don���t know where he is,��� she said again.
���Are you in pain?��� he asked.
Alice touched her forehead, running her fingers back and forth over the lump.
���Tell me,��� she said.
He took her hand and held it, keeping his eyes on her.
���Someone went in and shot the person who was holding Sam. His name was Mickey da Cruz. He worked for Santini.���
Alice listened. Hot tears ran down her temples into her hair.
���Mickey had two or three accomplices. They weren���t killed. They were shut in but they got out. It looks like they were Italians. Their boat was seen in the marina. Whoever took Sam left these men alive. They took the risk that they might be caught and interrogated.���
She swallowed, closing her eyes against the pain in her head. ���Sam was here. In the middle of Massaccio.��� She smiled. ���I had the money. I was going to give them what they wanted and get him back. Now he���s gone. No one knows where.��� She paused again, her mouth trembling. ���Whoever took him is a killer.���
Stuart squeezed her hand harder.
���Santini knows who took him.���
She closed her eyes again.
���What was it like?��� she asked. ���The place where they kept him?���
���He had a mattress and a duvet,��� he said.
���What was it like?���
���It was like a little flat with a kitchen unit.���
���What, was he on a mattress in the corner or something? Was he tied up?���
���No. They made a separate place for him, a small space, just big enough for his mattress. He wasn���t tied up.���
&
nbsp; ���Was he in the dark?���
Stuart hesitated.
���Did they have him in the dark?��� she asked.
���Yes.���
She stared at him, her mouth open.
He reached under her shoulders and lifted her towards him.
���I���ll find him,��� he said, talking into her neck.
He was holding her against his chest. She could feel a bone pressing into her left breast, otherwise nothing. She rested her chin on his shoulder and stared at a brown smear on the white wall.
���I���ll find him,��� he said again.
Alice wondered if the stain was blood.
He was telling her that he would drive her back to the village. She could feel his voice reverberating in her chest. She had no wish to move: all movement seemed futile.
The lights in the car park hurt her head and she closed her eyes. He led her to his car. She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. She listened to the car door slamming, the ignition, the gates opening. As they moved further away from the compound, the darkness deepened. The pain in her head was now a tight crown. She opened her eyes and looked out of her window at the same road they had taken the day Sam had disappeared: the waterfront with the containers like floating skyscrapers, the strip of shabby urban coastline, the road up into the hills. The recurring scene filled her with despair.
As if he could feel it, he pulled over. They were in a lay-by. He turned off the engine and sat staring ahead of him at a whitewashed tree trunk in his headlights.
���I can���t help you.��� He reached for the key in the ignition and held it a moment. Then he let go and leaned back against his door. ���I can���t pretend I can help you.��� He gave her a sad smile.
She found it hard to breathe. She held her mouth open, waiting to breathe like Sam���s fish. She looked at his hand gripping the handbrake. She was afraid to speak. That he might take his hand from the handbrake filled her with an inexplicable anxiety. She held still, breathing shallowly now; very careful.
He let go of the handbrake and reached for the key.
���Please.��� He looked at her. She watched his hand on the key. ���Please help me, Stuart.���
He took his hand from the key and looked out at the tree.
���Your husband hated this place?���
She nodded.
���I do too,��� he said. The quick smile came again. ���I���ve spent my whole life trying to be at home here or trying to turn it into a place where I can be at home.��� He let go of the key. ���I wanted to leave but I couldn���t. I found out there was nowhere else to go. Even though I hate it here, I can���t survive anywhere else.���
She watched his hands moving as he spoke. There were three gestures that recurred like a code.
���There was someone I admired as a child,��� he said. ���He was a kind of hero for people here. They still talk about him. His name was Titi Ciccioni and he was from Santarosa. He was the one who started the movement for independence. Santini had him killed and took over. He brought in his people and it became his mafia. The whole place became corrupted by his system.��� He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and put his hand back on the key.
���Tell me,��� she said.
He looked at her.
���You���re kind,��� he said.
���I���m not.���
He smiled.
���No.���
He took his hand from the key and folded his arms, clasping his chest closely for protection, trapping his hands.
���Go on,��� she said. She could feel his mind selecting the words and rejecting them. She had practice at mind-reading. But he shook his head. She rested her head against the seat back, staring at the blanched tree trunk in his headlights.
���I���ve forgotten what he looks like,��� she said. ���After three years I can���t picture him any more. I think that���s why I kept coming back here. I could feel him here. It���s strange that this was what he left me.���
���He left you the boys. Dan looks like him.���
He was still trapping his hands as though they might betray him if he let go of them.
���How do you know he looks like him?���
���I remember him.���
���Who?���
���Your husband.��� He paused, but did not face her. ���His aunt used to give tea parties for the village children. I went a few times.��� At last he looked at her. ���I was older than him by about five years.���
He looked happy, suddenly, and Alice smiled in marvel.
���You can help me, Stuart.���
His hand flew to the key again. The ease had vanished. Again she could feel the inner shuffling as he searched for the words.
���What is it?���
He folded his arms.
���When I was about Sam���s age something happened. I did something I can���t forgive myself for.��� There was an urgency in his tone, as though he feared she might stop him. ���My mother had died. About two years before. Me and my sister were very close. She followed me everywhere. There was this place we used to go after school, this man���s place in the hills behind the village.��� He passed his palm over his mouth.
Alice was suddenly afraid to hear what he had to say. The windows were up and it was too hot, but she held still.
���We���d go up to this man���s place. Lucien, his name was. He made knives, good ones in layered steel. People came up from Massaccio to buy them. We���d go and watch him in his workshop, slicing the steel thin as paper, folding it.��� He freed his hands, resuming his code. ���He had wood, different essences for the handles, and he let us make things. Beatrice was only small but she could carve. So he let us use his tools. Anyway, it was one Sunday, after Mass.��� He paused again, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. Alice watched, hardly daring to move. ���Me and Beatrice were round the back of the workshop. Lucien was inside and I remember the sound of the machinery. He asked me to chop some cherry logs. I did it all the time. I don���t know how it happened. All I remember is raising the axe and letting it fall and suddenly Beatrice���s hand was there. I remember looking at her and then looking at her bloody fingers lying on the block. I remember thinking they looked like giblets from a bird. I didn���t understand at first because she wasn���t making a sound. Her mouth was open for a scream but she was silent. I was screaming.���
Alice watched him swallow, his Adam���s apple rising and falling. She held still. He rubbed his eyes then began using his hands again.
���After that she fainted. Lucien carried her down to the village and I ran behind. He had her two fingers in a handkerchief. I heard him tell my dad not to be too hard on me. He said it was punishment enough what I���d done to her. But my dad shut me in the dark until the first day of school. It was the beginning of summer, so it was almost three months alone in the dark.��� He nodded his head as if he were congratulating his father for his rigour. ���Anyway, when I saw Beatrice again, everything was different. It���s never been the same between us since. Not so much because of the accident but because she wasn���t allowed to be attached to me after that.���
He looked out at the tree in his headlights. Alice studied his profile, traced it in her mind, learned it, like an object of value, worthy of respect.
���It was these two,��� he said, moving his hand back and forth like a gentle knife over his index and middle fingers. ���I���ve never mentioned it to anyone before.��� He shrugged. ���Don���t know why.���
Alice looked at his h
ands, now quiet in his lap.
���You���re telling me because of Sam. You know what it���s like for him.���
He shook his head.
���I can���t say that. It���s not the same. I���m telling you because ��� I don���t know why I���m telling you.���
Without raising her head she held out her hand, palm upwards. He put his hand on hers and she closed her fingers. She sat still, looking down at his hand in hers.
���It���s not the same,��� he said. ���Sam���s done nothing wrong.���
���Nor had you.���
She was not prepared for the look of gratitude he gave her and she let go of his hand. He seemed to return to himself in an instant. He turned on the ignition and drove. She looked at his hand on the gear lever, at the smooth dark skin, the swollen veins. She looked at his face, slashed with lines, and recognised what she felt as pity.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Coco hit her, Liliane believed it was proof that the edifice was crumbling. His ring struck her molar through her cheek and made the inside of her mouth bleed. The taste of blood had always made her sick and she went into the bathroom to throw up. She knew that if she had stayed in bed, he would not have struck her. But she had stepped in his way as he paced up and down in the bedroom and he had seen her smallness and her ugliness, and it had just made him angrier. When she still denied knowing where Nathalie was, he gave up. He had always overestimated his effect on her, in every matter, even sexual.
Liliane spat the last of her vomit into the toilet and flushed. The process that she had set in motion when she had joined the marching women was even darker and more threatening than she had imagined. She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror and give herself a ghastly smile, then went back into the bedroom and climbed into bed.
