by Nigel Bird
So far, every detail has been the same. The pier and the argument and me storming off like a spoilt brat.
Until now.
I need to retrace my journey. A few seconds should do the trick. Except my body won’t move. All I can do is spin my head. It does a 360 swivel like an owl. Takes in everything. And I realise what’s different.
The pavement artist.
Her blond hair covers her face as she works. She’s dressed for the summer even though it’s Baltic. Flip flop sandals and a thin dress. Her fingers are busy, shading in her art. I concentrate. Focus in on her drawing. See it immediately. Recognise Rory’s jacket and beautiful hair. Remember the flecks of red on his face and hands. Know the reason that this woman is here. Realise there’s something I can do. Obliterate her sketch and I can change the course of history. Rory and I will be able to get to settle our argument. I know I can grind him down if I try hard. If I can’t, I might grow to understand his point about us being too young. The only way to find out is to destroy the picture on the floor.
Such a simple thing to do, I can’t possibly mess up. Yet, when I try to move my legs, they weigh too much. I strain my muscles. The fibres pull for all they’re worth and still nothing. It’s the same with my arms. And now they work against me. Instead of running over to the picture, I’m back on my path towards the beach. I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.
Rory’s voice snaps me from the panic. At last I can control my body. I turn his way. See him running towards me with his arms outstretched.
A sudden pop jerks me to attention. The crack echoes around the street. Rory spins on his heels. His arms rise to his neck as he pirouettes. It’s the least graceful performance he’s ever given. I wait for him to find his balance. Instead he falls to the floor. Hits it hard.
I worry he might be hurt. Sprint to face him. Cross paths with a tall dark man in a tangerine shirt who isn’t looking where he is going. We collide and he knocks me to the side. I manage to keep my feet. Turn to watch the stranger run down the alley. He carries a gun and a leather holdall. Behind him follows another guy, half the size and age of the first.
“Bloody hell, Harry,” the smaller one shouts. “What’d you do that for?”
Harry looks back. “Didn’t mean to.” He keeps running. He’s already out of breath. “It just went off in my hand.”
I try to fix his features into my mind. I know it will be important one day. Problem is my canvas remains blank and his face has melted to nothing.
I turn back to Rory. His limbs twitch as if he wants to get up.
The bald cafe owner comes to investigate.
“Call an ambulance.” My voice is a scream. The man looks shocked at my tone. “Now!” He wipes his hands on his apron and scuttles back through the door.
A river of red pours from Rory’s throat. He grips at his wound. Wraps his fingers round so tightly he’s practically strangling himself. The flow of blood stops and then resumes as tiny streams.
I fall to my knees and pull Rory’s head to my lap. Unravel my scarf and wind it around his neck as quickly as I can.
He looks up. He’s trying to tell me something. Whatever it is, I can’t make it out through the curtain of tears that blurs my sight.
I stroke his hair. Rock him to give him comfort. Tell him it will be OK. That the medics will arrive at any moment. Try to make out the words his mouth is struggling to form. His lips seem blue as they twist into shapes I don’t understand.
I wipe my eyes. Focus on deciphering his dying wish. I’m still trying to work it out as he shivers and his eyes close.
“Stay with me,” I tell him. “They won’t be long.”
A judder of his spine and I realise that they’re already too late.
I press a kiss to his forehead. Push his fringe back into place. Shake my head at the sky and promise I’ll do anything to get one more chance to speak to him again. Whatever it takes.
The gods don’t listen. I shut my eyes and wish I were dead instead.
The medics have to prize my grip open to get me off. One of them puts her arm around me. Tells me nice things in a soothing voice. Guides me away from the corpse of my lover.
I resist. Want to get back to Rory. To stay with him forever.
A loud banging rocks my dream. It’s another thing I don’t recall.
“Natalie.” The voice is strained. Italian. Desperate. “Please.”
These words don’t belong in my sleep. I want them to go away. To leave me to my memories and my life.
I pull out of the grip of the lady by my side. Run back to Rory who is lying flat with his arms by his side. The paramedic shakes his head. I throw myself onto my lover’s body and grab hold. I listen for signs of life. Wait for a flutter against his ribs or the rise and fall of his chest. There’s nothing.
My hair soaks up the warm stickiness of blood which glues us together like we were always meant to be. I press until I’m as close as I can get.
Another bang interrupts the scene. It’s not supposed to be here. I screw my eyes tight and stay exactly where I am, a cold winter’s afternoon in the north of England. It seems to work. The banging stops.
Replacing it is the scratching of nails against wood, like a rodent trying to dig its way into my mind. I press my fingers into my ears to keep it at bay.
“Help me.”
Has the heat of my body and the depth of my hope stirred Rory back to life? I look into his face. It’s the same pale mask he was wearing when I joined him. He’s as still as a Rodin study in stone. I think of The Kiss. Start to cry. Wonder what is to become of me now I’ve been separated from my other half.
“Please.”
The voice is weaker still. And it’s not coming from my dream.
My choice is clear. To cling to Rory while the medics go through formalities or to come to my senses and help the living.
I drag myself from sleep. Force my eyes open. Wonder if I’ve made the right choice.
The lamp projects an orange glow onto the stone wall of the crypt. A chill draught licks at my toes. I pull my feet under the woollen blanket and curl into a ball.
The scratching resumes. It’s so faint I can’t help picture a rat scrabbling away. The thought of its long tail carrying filth into my room makes me shudder. I want to be home. Back in Preston with my goose-feather quilt and freshly laundered sheets. Wish it was my mother at the door bringing me a steaming cup of tea.
“Nat.” I recognise Arturo’s voice. “I’m hurt.” His words land in my heart like tiny flakes of snow. As they melt, they spur me into action. I throw back the blanket and step onto the floor. The stone is cold and uneven. Next time I come to Italy, I’ll pack socks. I run to the door and freeze.
Doubt descends upon me like a shroud. What if it’s a trick? If it’s those beastly little men from the police station come to claim my soul? My pulse quickens and my skin pulls tight against my frame.
“That you Arturo?”
There’s no answer.
“Are you there?”
Still no reply.
“Jesus!” My second prayer of the week. I work the lock. Clench my fist and prepare to swing. Pull the handle and open the door.
My body stiffens as I stare into the darkness. I wait for my eyes to adjust. Find nothing that wasn’t there before. Just the iron candle holders and the foundation walls of the church. It’s like one of those Mischief Night pranks the boys down my road used to pull. Knock-a-door-run, as if we didn’t know who the footsteps fading into the distance belonged to.
All my muscles relax at once. I’m surprised I don’t fall over. Lean into the frame to keep myself straight.
Something brushes against my ankle. I think of those rats and their tails. Pull my leg back and prepare to slam the door.
I look down.
Slumped against the wooden frame is a human form.
I run back into my room. Unhook the lamp and take it over.
Arturo’s face is broken. His lip swollen and cut. The
landscape of his forehead has changed. A bump emerges from his skull like the volcano on Stromboli. His hair is untidy and blood leaks from his ear. The bridge of his nose is bruised and swollen. His lips are the colour of slate and a trail of pink saliva joins the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin.
A scream pours from my throat. It rips at my vocal cords until they’re ready to snap. And silence.
I steady myself. Need to concentrate. Shake off the feeling I’ve swapped one nightmare for another. Force myself to act.
I pick up his arm. Wrap my fingers around his wrist and push into the flesh until I find what I’m after. The tiny beat of a pulse.
“Thank you,” I say in case anyone’s listening. I pull Arturo forward and slip my arms under his. Drag him into my room and over to the bed. Use every ounce of my strength to raise him to the mattress and let him fall. Lift his legs and lay them straight. Grab my phone to call for help.
It throbs weakly like Arturo’s heart. Immediately stalls.
I try again. Same result.
Panic grips my insides.
If I don’t do something, I’m about to experience a man dying in my arms for the second time in my young life.
Episode Six
If it weren’t for the tiny movements in Arturo’s chest, I’d swear he was dead. His head is propped up on the pillow and his arm has fallen from the mattress so that his fingers almost touch the floor.
I concentrate on the way his hair fans over the bandage and onto the sheet. Try to capture the fine strands as I sketch. Attempt to bring life to the image to make up for the absence of it in his face. I guess I’m creating hope to banish my despair.
The doctor did his best under the circumstances. Patched up the holes and gave him an injection to bring sleep. Pressed a bottle of painkillers into my hand and left instructions for administration. He made a final effort to convince Valentino to take our friend to hospital. Failed. Said he’d return in twenty-four hours to check how things were, packed his small leather bag and left.
I’ve been watching ever since. Waiting for something to happen.
The door slams open behind me. I stop drawing. Lay my book down on the rug.
Valentino takes off his bag and throws it to the floor. He removes his coat and shakes it in my direction. Cold water sprays my arm and drags me to attention.
“Rain?” Either that or he’s been taking showers with his clothes on.
He doesn’t answer and walks to the bed, his wet trousers sticking to his legs. He holds his hands up to the lamp above Arturo and checks on his friend. “No change?”
“He’s barely moved since you left.”
He kicks the wall. Stares at me. “Of all the cities in Europe, you had to choose this one.” Even though his eyes are the colour of obsidian onyx, they burn with heat. “This is your fault.” He flaps his arms into the air like he’s communicating in angry sign language. “You should never have come.”
His words stab my conscience. If only I’d not been so stubborn. Stayed at home with Dee and kept my curse to myself. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He waves my apology away. Picks up his bag and rummages inside. Takes out my phone and charger. Throws them at me.
I catch the phone. The charger bounces off the stone.
“Fully charged.” He brushes his fringe to the side.
I run my fingers around the corners of the phone. Stroke the screen. Want to call Dee straight away. She’ll tell me what to do. “Thanks,” I say instead.
Valentino turns. Goes to the bed. Makes fists and bows his head. His shoulders drop as if in defeat.
“Don’t give up.” I try to sound positive. Hope my words are soothing. “The doctor will be back soon.” I go to him and rest my hand on his back. He shakes it off and steps away.
“You think so?” He’s crying. “Then check this out.” He goes to his bag again. Pulls out a large brown envelope. I understand immediately.
“Another job?”
He holds it out and I take it. Open the flap and pull out a picture. The body of a man surrounded by tools fills the frame. His limbs are twisted and his cavernous mouth tries to scream. I shut my eyes to block him out.
Valentino grabs it back. Rips it in half and drops it to the floor. Kicks the pieces under the bed. “Now Arturo will be just like everyone else. There’ll be nothing to protect him.”
I don’t understand. Say so.
“This job. It will be his third miss this year.” He shakes his head and sorts out his fringe again. “First the girl on the station and then you.” His snarling lips spit the accusation. “Now today. Three strikes and he’s out.” A new tear rolls down the side of his nose. “Literally.” He slumps to the floor. Gathers his knees to his chest, drops his head and sobs.
Arturo is oblivious. His breathing is as soft as the beats of an owl’s wings. I see peace in his face. Wonder if it might be better for him to slip away from us without understanding the pain he is putting his friend through. Shake off the thought immediately. Know that we must find a solution. First thing I need to do is to cool Valentino’s Latin blood.
I lay my fingers on his forearm. This time he doesn’t resist. “You’ve every right to be angry with me. I understand that. But we have to work together. There isn’t anybody else.”
He nods. Pushes himself up and wipes his face clean.
I sit by Arturo. Rest my hand on his forehead. Feel his calm soak through my skin and settle my nerves.
“It’s no good.” Valentino paces the room. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“There must be,” I tell him. “There’s always a way.” I sound more like my mother than myself. For once I don’t mind.
He scratches his head. Steps on the rug. Notices my sketches and stops. “You did this?”
“I know. And I said I was sorry. You have to get...”
“No.” He picks up my pad. Holds it up to me like a lawyer presenting evidence in court. “This? You did this?”
In front of me is my study of Arturo. I don’t think Valentino’s impressed. I try to snatch the book from him. He pulls it away and hides it behind his back.
“I didn’t have my phone and there’s nothing else to do.”
He examines my work. Changes the angle of the page. “It’s amazing.”
I swell with pride. Go dizzy. Sense I’m blushing. “You think?”
“You ever work in chalk?”
“Pastels.”
“Virtually the same. Think you can draw this?” He dives under the bed. Retrieves the two halves of the photograph. Holds them together for me to check.
The old man’s features are simple enough. His clothes are plain. The twists of his body would present the only difficulty. “Sure. I can do that.”
“Then we can pull Arturo from the mire.”
Valentino takes Arturo by the hand. “I think we might just be able to save you.”
Arturo’s eyes flicker. He raises his arm. “Careful,” His whisper is full of crackle and pop. “Watch your back.” A smile touches his lips and fades away.
*
With the wind cutting through my jacket and the rain pounding at the visor, the romance of travel by scooter disappears. We make our way up the country roads towards the misted peaks of the hills. To either side, vineyards paint lines across the landscape. The grapes, small just now, hide under the leaves to avoid the drips of the pounding weather.
We come to the town, the streets empty of people and cars as if there’s been an unholy natural disaster. Valentino speeds through the square, swerving by puddles and holes as he goes.
He pulls up onto the pavement and stops. Kicks the stand down and turns the key to rest. The buzz of the engine is replaced by the steady plops of exploding rain. I take off my helmet and wait for instruction.
Valentino takes my arm. Sets off running and pulls me along behind. He studies the each of the houses as we pass. Stops at number thirty six. Takes out his notebook and steps under the overhanging honeysuckle f
or shelter.
“We’re here.” He returns the notebook to his pocket and tries the handle. The door doesn’t budge. He tries again. Same result. “Damn it.” His punch thuds into the wood, but doesn’t change a thing.
“What now?” I’m sure he has some magic up his sleeve. Anyone who can make themselves invisible must be able to master a lock.
“Round the back.”
We run again. The fat around my arse and hips takes on a life of its own. Even after barely eating since I got here, I’m still the size of a baby whale. I must remember to hate myself more when things return to normal. Do something about my weight so that when I arrive at Cambridge they’ll remember me for the right reasons.
“In here.” Valentino drags me into an alley and we emerge at the back of the homes. Tiny back yards filled with plants and empty tables greet us. I follow on until he stops.
A huge black cat stares at me from the branch of a tree. Its oval eyes light up and fix on mine, as if daring me to enter.
Valentino pushes at the gate. It’s damp and swollen and doesn’t want to budge. He puts his shoulder against the planks, shifts his balance and slams into it. This time the gate flies open. He stumbles through and almost falls to the ground. Keeps his feet and jogs to the door.
I enter and follow. The cat licks a paw and gets back to the business of staying dry.
“Come on.” Valentino waves me into the house. I step inside. There’s barely room for us both. “Up here.”
The staircase takes us up towards the light. We enter a long room. There’s a kitchen at one end and a living area at the other. In between, a table with rough cuts of bread and a knife upended in a jar of jam.
The wooden shutters are open, the window closed. We hurry on up the next flight of stairs, turn the corner and arrive on the second floor.
There are four doors around us, each of them ajar. I head for the sound of whistling to the right. Enter the room and spot the man immediately. He’s working at the top of his step-ladders, stretching to the ceiling and oblivious of our intrusion.
A tool slips from his hand. “You daft oaf,” he mutters to himself and totters back to the floor. He bends to pick it up and his spine cracks as he straightens. His face brushes mine. Our eyes are only inches apart and he doesn’t register a thing.
