The Ballad of Mila

by Matteo Strukul

  That bloody redhead moved like a cat. As the shot was fired she jumped to one side, pressed with her hands and legs on the wall and somersaulted over Xan’s head like a circus acrobat.

  Mila landed behind him and swiped his legs from under him with a low kick. The Chinaman went down, powerless, and when he was close enough to kiss the floor, Mila unsheathed her katana and sliced upwards, left to right.

  Xan’s head, perfectly separated from the rest of his body, flew through the air in a series of purple, grim rotations and ended up next to Zhang, who was nearly drowned in the blood that was still flowing from his severed wrists.

  A second thud.

  Preceded by a shot muffled by the silencer.

  Wu was frozen.

  That girl was awesome, a real professional killer. She had planned every detail: she had deceived them; she had waited for them; she was killing them one after the other. And they had completely missed the whole set up. They'd walked into her house like flies into a spider’s web. A black widow.

  Wu couldn’t think; thick, salty beads of perspiration on his forehead. He noticed four video cameras in the four corners of the room, clearly closed-circuit.

  Why the hell were those there?

  What the hell was he doing here anyway, in what looked like a movie set but with real blood instead of tomato juice?

  He was here to kill a redhead who knew how to hold her own in a fight and he needed to be watchful of her.

  His eyes focussed again on Mila.

  The girl was staring at him with an amused and somehow pitying expression.

  “Forget it,” she said.

  She is gorgeous, thought Wu. But she is also too quick, strong, unpredictable.

  He was never going to make it.

  He tried anyway.

  Raised his HK P7.

  Shot.

  The bullet hit the wall: Mila had taken to the air like the Angel of Death and, face to face with Wu, hit him really hard in the stomach.

  Wu understood that it was over, and he had not started yet. A single punch like that one shouldn’t have been hurting so bad. But it had taken his breath away and now he was on all fours, his face only inches from the floor.

  With the heel of her boot Mila crushed the hand holding the gun then kicked the weapon away. Then she stepped on his other hand, crushing it as well. Finally she unsheathed her katana and slashed at him from above.

  Wu’s head left his body at an impossible angle, then hit the floor.

  Wu’s corpse fell down with a dull thud.

  Three.

  Mila watched the blood gush from the beheaded body.

  Luckily she had thought of the plastic sheet.

  She took her specs off and made sure that the minicams in the frame had recorded the three scenes.

  She opened the glass door of the drinks cupboard. Pressed the “stop” button and ejected the disc from the console which controlled the closed-circuit cameras around the house.

  Very good. She even had some panning shots.

  She needed to cauterize Zhang's wounds as soon as possible to make sure he didn’t die of blood loss. If he died, all that evening's work would be for nothing.

  She lifted the unconscious young man’s body and dragged it to the kitchen. Then she turned on the cooker, the biggest flame burning as high as possible.

  Zhang was starting to recover. But when he opened his eyes he could see only the girl and the blue-orange flame.

  Mila didn’t waste any time. She sealed his mouth with a large square of duct tape, grabbed his arms and placed them in the flame.

  Zhang tried to scream, but his voice bounced off the duct tape and fell back into his throat.

  “Don’t move,” she said, “or you'll bleed to death.”

  The smell of burned flesh thickened the air in the kitchen. Mila struggled to avoid retching.

  When it was done, she applied a snow-white bandage on the stumps. Then she tightened two leather laces under his armpits and over his shoulders: his arms would be dead flesh by now anyway, but trussed up like this he would survive for the moment – as long as she needed him to.

  “Stand up and walk. To the bedroom.”

  Zhang stared at her, silent, completely motionless.

  “Lie down on the bed and spread your legs.”

  Mila bound his right leg with duct tape to the bar at the bottom of the bed. Then did the same to his left. Then she repeated the drill with his arms or what was left of them, fastening them to the headboard. Then she went to the garden and took a burlap sack from the shed.

  She went back to the living room.

  She grabbed the heads of the other two Chinamen by the hair and dumped them in the sack, then wrapped the bodies in the plastic sheet.

  Now she needed to bury them in the garden. She could wait for darkness as an extra precaution. But her house was pretty isolated and the other half of the semi-detached was empty. And caution didn’t come easily.

  She dragged the corpses of the two Chinamen to the shed and left them on the floor.

  She went back inside. Carefully folded the plastic sheet and put it in a big, black bin liner.

  Then she changed her clothes. She put on discoloured jeans, brown boots and a grey Nike tank top.

  She went back to the shed, took out a pickaxe and a shovel and started to dig a deep, wide hole to bury the two corpses.

  5.

  From Mila Zago’s journal.

  Dear Dr Chiara Berton,

  My name is Mila Zago and I am exactly what you will find out I am.

  A killer.

  Before I start I’d like to tell you that I would have liked to be different, but this is how it turned out. I'm not looking for excuses, I don’t need any. Anyway, I wouldn’t go back.

  I never met my mother. She left my father only a few days after I was born.

  Why?

  Because he was a police officer and had a hellish life and I was a mistake – they hadn’t planned me. She was very young; she didn’t have the heart to arrange an abortion but she didn’t feel strong enough to stay with us and bring me up either.

  This is how I explained her walking out to myself; I never found a better explanation. I have never been a religious woman.

  My father was almost never home. Like all the people in his business he spent the whole day, every day, working – police headquarters, reports, investigations, courts of justice. Sound familiar?

  I spent my childhood with my father’s parents, who educated me with a little discipline. Nine months every year we lived in the countryside – Reschigliano, a hamlet just outside Campodarsego. I’d go to school in the morning and spend my afternoons doing sports. We spent the summer in Enego, in the Seven Communities plateau, where grandpa owned a house.

  During the spring, especially on Saturdays or Sundays, if my dad managed to get off work, I’d bike-ride with him on the Brenta embankments. We’d bring a tartan rug, a bag with some chicken salad in a plastic box and the cookies grandma baked, and we’d just sit there watching the river rocking in its bed. Those were days without a care that lasted until the sun went down, at which point I’d climb onto the crossbar of my dad’s bicycle; on the way back I’d hear dad’s breathing get heavier when we climbed the short slopes. During autumn we’d take long, leisurely walks on the paths that separated the fields or the vines. On those occasions I’d smell the tobacco that permeated his clothes all the time.

  A simple, well organised life. Characterised by a strong sense of duty. Grandpa was a retired army general. He loved me, but he was unwavering when it came to teaching me to respect the rules and take care of my fitness. He was very important in moulding my character and body. After swimming in the early years came athletics, running, the gym.

  During the summer, in the mountains of Enego, I’d run over long stretches of pasture, faster and faster every day. “You need to gain stamina,” he kept telling me. And then the “fitness trails” and the floor exercises. Every day I’d do endless repet
itions of sit-ups and pushups.

  Year after year, I kept improving my stamina; my legs were coils ready to spring into action. All this constant, intense training happened under the gaze of grandpa’s watchful grey eyes. I never complained. I was happy to do what he told me. I didn’t want to disappoint him, I suppose. I spoke little and worked hard: it had been clear to me since day one that if I wanted to do something with my life I had to count solely on my determination.

  My hands, arms, legs, became perfectly tuned instruments.

  A few years later they would become weapons.

  And then? And then there was grandma.

  She was in charge of my domestic education. The roles of husband and wife were clearly defined in my grandparents’ life; maybe that’s why I never had any rebellious notions.

  With her I’d make gnocchi. I’d roll out the dough then I’d knead it until it became like a long snake. When I started cutting it I’d watch it lose its tail, one piece at the time, on the flour-covered table. And then I’d nick the soft little balls with a fork. It was fun.

  I would also bake lasagne and sauté edible boletus. Being in the kitchen was beautiful. I’d discover a completely different world and listen to stories my gran would tell me in her sweet voice.

  I loved nature too, and I liked going to look for mushrooms in the woods. I’d leave with grandpa on his K70 while the sun was coming out and, through hairpin bends and back roads, we’d go high up on the fringes of Mount Lisser or near Marcesina or Campomulo. Wild, mysterious names that tickled my young girl’s curiosity.

  “Check under the pines, not under the larches!” It was like a mantra. Grandpa would keep repeating it until he was blue in the face. Although I also found good mushrooms between stones and in the grass.

  Thus the years went by: in a golden cage made of rules transmitted with love.

  Until then everything was great. A simple girl with her little adventures, growing up healthy thanks to clean air and exercise.

  Then, one day, the shit hit the fan.

  The endless, constant training became a crazy rush towards revenge, a revenge that sooner or later would destroy those who were guilty.

  And they had a name.

  Pagnan.

  My father was killed during a robbery in a restaurant.

  Killed like a dog.

  You probably heard the story. It's been talked about quite a bit.

  The person behind the robbery and the slaughter that followed was Rossano Pagnan: the papers wrote about it, the TV news hinted at it. Everybody knew. But the justice machine you belong to yourself returned a not guilty verdict due to lack of evidence.

  And that was the least of it. So to speak.

  That day I was there as well. We had gone to the races. My dad didn’t bet often, only occasionally, for fun. He had a certain instinct for picking the right horse. After the races we would go to eat in a nice restaurant. Da Renzo, it was called. It’s not there any longer. After that episode, it had to close. For good.

  Dad loved that place. We went at least twice a month. It was a ritual he wanted to maintain, even though his salary was pretty low.

  From what I gathered, there was some loan-sharking going on and one day Pagnan decided to send some of his men to make the owner understand that it's always better to pay your debts.

  He also knew that his men would find my father there. My father was investigating him and had probably been breathing down his neck. It's fairly certain that Pagnan had had the place cased and thought he could kill two birds with one stone.

  It’s more than ten years ago, and I can’t remember everything clearly. I only know that at a certain point I found myself staring at my father; he was on the floor, gasping, blowing bubbles of blood and I was looking down at him, frozen to my seat. I wanted to help him but I couldn’t move a muscle. I was scared. Really scared. Pagnan’s men were screaming like devils, all wearing black balaclavas on their heads.

  They lifted me out of my chair and put a huge gun in my mouth. One of them held my face in one of his big, rough hands. My jaw hurt.

  They carried me out of the restaurant. At the door I managed to turn around and saw my father crawling on his belly, stretching his arms towards me. He couldn’t speak; he was gurgling, his spit red, and he was trailing blood. I was crying. I couldn’t do anything else. That day, I cried all my tears. All those I had been granted, a lifetime's worth.

  There were four men, all big and wearing black.

  They threw me in a car. The one at the wheel drove like a man possessed. The two in the back seat crunched mint candies. The one in the passenger seat had shiny, gelled, black hair. Smelled like lavender. His hair, I mean.

  I was dog-tired. I was terrified. Nobody was talking. There was a kind of silence that I'm not able to describe, it seemed to me to anticipate something shocking. I think I learned from them to be quiet. I understood that speaking is pointless if you're planning to hurt someone. I was afloat in that silence, but I was aware that sooner or later I would be drowning in a sea of pain.

  At a certain point the silence was broken by a question that made my skin crawl.

  “Saverio, where are we going to fuck this one?” asked one of the two men flanking me.

  “Hey, you really are a twat,” replied the guy with the hair gel. “How many times do I need to tell you not to use my fucking name?” And silence fell again in the car, sharp as ice.

  I still have those words etched in my memory. I’ll never be able to erase them, not even in the afterlife.

  We left town. Someone – I can’t remember who – said that he needed to warm up. The man with the hair gel motioned the driver to stop. They left the car and pushed me into the middle of a field. I stumbled and fell.

  I remained face down, staring at the hard, cold ground scratching my knees.

  They raped me, the four of them, one after another.

  I felt the warm breath of the two men who had been in the back seat on my neck. It smelled of mint.

  Then it was the turn of the driver.

  The man with the gelled hair was last. He held my neck tight in his hands, whispering insults in my ears: I was just a bitch in heat, a cocksucking slut who liked a good fucking. My head was spinning like a merry-go-round gone haywire.

  They all came, one after another.

  When they were done I remained bent forward, mud on my face.

  They left me there, between the rubble and the clods of earth of a ploughed field.

  Abandoned like a bag of trash.

  I can’t remember how long I remained on my knees. It felt like forever. Then I stood up again. My legs were trembling. It felt like my stomach was trying to scream. I put my jeans back on. My thighs were covered in scratches.

  Somehow I made it back to the road and started walking along it like a robot, pretending I didn’t feel the burning sensation between my legs. I walked a long while.

  Then I saw, far ahead, the red and blue Esso sign. I got there. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I got to the toilets behind the bar. Luckily they were empty. I hugged the sink and threw up everything I'd eaten. Spaghetti, meatballs, potatoes. My mouth and chin were covered in a mixture of spit, tears and regurgitated food. A dull roar struggled to escape my lips, my way of venting the rage that had started to invade me like a giant wave.

  After having soaked and balled up a bunch of paper towels, I went into one of the stalls. I lowered my jeans, being very careful not to touch the filthy bowl with my bleeding thighs, and slowly wiped between my legs with the wet paper.

  Before going back out into the open I washed my hands and face once more. Then I looked at myself in the mirror.

  It was better now. My face was swollen, my hair wet and sticking to my face. I looked a little worse for wear, nothing more.

  I went into the bar and asked for a cup of tea. Then I called grandpa from the public phone.

  That day, I changed forever.

  I never told anyone what happened. Maybe I already knew
I would never be able to go back. I can’t explain – it was as if something had broken inside me. I felt drained. I don’t know if you ever felt anything like that. It feels a lot like being torn apart, a deep slash, so deep it scars your soul.

  A strange instinct took hold, slowly.

  A predator’s instinct.

  I didn’t talk for a whole year. I communicated with my grandparents using just my eyes. They respected my grief.

  I realised I wasn't strong enough. I intensified my training. My sessions in the gym became endless. I started training in martial arts and practiced on shooting ranges.

  Revenge became my religion. I had cut off all human contact, lost the power of speech, given up on my dreams. One after another. The meaning I looked for in life had been torn apart. By the guilty laziness of a cowardly judge, by men’s bloody, animal greed.

  They would come to me on their knees, begging for mercy.

  One day I’d strike them with a force that would make them shatter.

  Them and those like them.

  Parasites.

  Criminals.

  Roaches who left their holes to patter about on the corpses of their victims.

  I promised myself I’d kill them all, kick them all down.

  Like bowling pins.

  6.

  The pins.

  There were no pins.

  In their place, Ottorino Longhin. His mouth held shut with wire that went between his teeth and locked his jaws in a thin clasp.

  He was leaning backwards slightly, knees apart, his hands tied behind his back and his feet bound together under his buttocks by a wad of duct tape. Tears streamed down his face. He was wearing only jeans and a tank top. His face was covered in bruises and white plaster that made him look like a gothic version of Harlequin. A thick rope tied him by the neck to a beam a foot or so behind him that ensured he couldn't move without choking himself.

  He was at the far end of a bowling lane, shining in the honey hue of its wood, smooth as a billiard table.

  At the opposite end of the lane, Rossano Pagnan stared at him, smiling. His white linen shirt was open on his chest like the threadbare curtains in an old theatre. Revealing tufts of grey hair and the gold of a thick chain around his bull-like neck. Linen trousers with a skull motif in a pirate theme, and bright pink Crocs on his feet. A regular feature of Veneto fashion.