‘The property had no planning permission. The unfinished building was poorly constructed, hidden deep in the Sicilian woodland. But it was an unusual scent that alerted the attention of Antonia Ricci’s Alsatian this morning. Signora Ricci, please tell us what happened when you took your dog, Lupo, out for a walk.’
The camera pans out to reveal a woman standing at Romeo’s side. Antonia is small and anorak-clad, her golden hair a frizzy halo. Her face is long with an aquiline nose. She looks a bit like her dog, I suppose. Lupo stands, panting, between her legs, his great, pink tongue lolling floppy and wet, his ears pricked up stiff and pointy. Romeo thrusts the microphone in Antonia’s face. She looks fucking terrified.
‘Lupo . . . he sniff . . . he bark at the building. He is upset. I try to pull him . . . to pull him away, but he no move. He is a very good dog.’
Lupo barks.
‘Shh. Lupo.’
She gives him a treat.
‘He dig and dig and dig. He want to catch something under the building. Me, I think it is a topo, a . . . squeak-squeak?’
‘A mouse?’
‘A mouse. But I scared. The house, it look strano . . . strange . . . and then I discover a long blonde hair here. Here. It is here.’ She points at the ground. ‘I hear the stories. I know. I know Cosa Nostra . . . So, I call the police.’
Romeo nods and reclaims the microphone. He eyes the dog now sniffing at his crotch.
‘No. Basta,’ says Antonia, tugging hard on Lupo’s lead. ‘Mi dispiace.’
‘The police arrived at seven thirty this morning. They recognized the site as typical of the infamous Sicilian Mafia, the Cosa Nostra. They were unsurprised to find a dead body hidden within the concrete foundations.’
The camera pans out to Sicilian woodland. The dog lifts up one of its hind legs and pees on the rubble.
‘LUPO. NO.’
‘The discovery of Alvina Knightly’s body and her suspected murder call into question the apparent suicide of her brother-in-law, Ambrogio Caruso, twenty-nine, who died only three days before. The police are investigating evidence that Ambrogio Caruso was, indeed, murdered too. This is Romeo D’Alba, BBC News, live in Taormina.’
Great.
I turn off the TV with the zapper.
They’ve got my body and Ambrogio’s. It’s just a matter of time. They’ll be after Beth. Hopefully only for questioning, to see if she can shed some light. But Beth’s twin and her husband have snuffed it. Is she going to be their number-one suspect? What if they think Beth’s their guy?
Beth. Oh God, that’s me.
Unless . . . Can I be Alvie again? Even if I’ve officially croaked? URGH. This is a mess.
I stagger up and off my bath mat. The toilet flush sounds like a tsunami. I lean over the sink and run the cold water and splash some up into my face. I glance in the mirror. Bad idea. I look like the one that crawled out of a graveyard, like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill 2. Blood on my lips and smudged mascara, wet hair messy and matted and limp. My skin is kind of grey. I’m Morticia Adams or the undead. It reminds me of the state I was in a week ago back in Archway.
Awesome.
Fucking fabulous.
All the way back to square one. No money. No job. No home. No boyfriend. I needn’t have bothered in Sicily. All that time and effort wasted. Seven days of damned hard work. Why did I even go to Taormina? All I wanted was a holiday. A bit of sun to work on my tan. Beth practically begged me to get on that plane and it’s not like I had a choice. I had hit rock-fucking-bottom. There was nothing in London for me, just a deluge of debt and a scratch card habit. The threat of herpes and STDs. I lived in a vermin-infested cesspit, a natural breeding ground for scabies, while my perfect twin had married my guy and moved to the Burj Al Arab.
No, you know what? This is square minus one. I took one step forward then two steps back. Now ‘Alvie Knightly’ is counting worms and Italian cops are on my ass. What do I do? Look on the bright side? That I don’t even fucking exist? I need to find Nino and get my moolah then disappear . . . to Monaco. But how the hell am I going to find him if I’m stony broke?
I thought my life was already a train wreck, but now, I guess, it just got worse.
I peer into bloodshot eyes and sigh. Come on, Alvie. Think. What would Beyoncé do? Nino’s out there running free. He’s got the Lambo and the suitcase with the money. But I’m Gloria Gaynor: I’m a survivor. I’m going to make him pay. I’ll get my revenge, just like Hamlet. (But a girl – Hamlette? No, that sounds like omelette.) I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. Just watch me. If only he wasn’t so fit . . .
I tiptoe through the lounge like I’m walking on eggshells. Miniature bottles litter the carpet: Smirnoff, Glenfiddich, Jack Daniel’s, Pimm’s. Half empty, topless, sad. I down 50 ml of Bombay Sapphire, the lone survivor in the fridge. I sucked the rest of the minibar dry before passing out late last night. Hair of the dog, that’s what they say. It burns my insides just like paint stripper.
There’s a complimentary chocolate shortbread perched on a tray by the teacups and saucers. Chrome silver kettle. Sachets of Twinings. I pop the biscuit in my mouth and chew. It seems to relieve the bitter taste of betrayal, sweeten the heinous stench of treachery. Et tu, Brute? It’s like he stabbed me in the back with my own damn knife.
Nino, oh, Nino,
I’m coming for you. Nino,
Oh, Nino, you worm.
I see his black fedora hat abandoned by the armchair. I pick it up and try it on. Marlboro Reds, leather, sex – I close my eyes and breathe his scent. I remember the first time I saw him at Beth’s villa and the way the whole world seemed to stop. Nino driving his people carrier with my twin sister wasted in the trunk, Metallica blaring on the stereo. His muscular forearms inked with tats. His naked body. The chiselled abs. The perfect twelve-inch dick. I frown. No, I don’t miss Nino, just his cock.
I can see him now, the back of him anyway, speeding away in Ambrogio’s car, racing off down Piccadilly, red tail lights on the Lambo flashing. Man, I loved that ride. Screw you, Nino, you thieving dog. That car was the love of my life.
‘If you expect nothing from somebody, then you’re never disappointed . . .’ I should have listened to Sylvia Plath. I should have been a nun.
I whip off the hat and chuck it on to the sofa, catching the scent of a bouquet of roses standing tall in a vase by the door. How did they survive my late-night rampage? The raping and pillaging like a Viking. I was Keith Moon or Keith Richards or some other rock star trashing my room. I was a typhoon, a tornado: Hurricane Alvie.
It’s going to take me all week to recover. I’d kill for some coke. Or a Lemsip.
Right. I’ve had enough of this. Where the hell is Beth’s iPhone? It’s got to be here somewhere.
I search the scarlet-velvet crumpled curtains in a pile by the wall. Candelabras, crystal ornaments and copies of glossy magazines are all sprawled across the living-room floor. At least there’s no chicken. Or tiger. Or baby. I feel like I’m filming The Hangover Part IV. Man, I wish this was a movie, then I’d press pause or hit rewind. I’d go right back to the beginning and strangle that bitch in the womb.
Finally I find the phone poking out from beneath a rug. I grab it and open the app I downloaded, the one that tracks Nino’s mobile phone. That was a stroke of genius, Alvie. One of the best tricks I know. I took Nino’s phone while he was in the shower. He’d just been on it, so it was unlocked. I installed the software just in case. Man, it’s lucky I did. Somehow I knew not to trust him. Somehow I guessed he was full of shit. I could have waited for him all night downstairs in that bar drinking vodka martinis. Now Nino’s location will show up whenever he has signal. I check the app for the first time. The last place that cockwomble showed up was somewhere inside Heathrow Airport. But that was hours ago. I click refresh once, twice, three times, four. Nothing. It’s not fucking working. His GPS isn’t showi
ng up.
Right. That’s it. I’m totally screwed. I’m never going to catch him now. That app’s my only viable lead. I kick the kettle into the fireplace and throw a teacup at the door. It cracks and breaks into two pieces, like my stupid heart. How the hell am I going to find him?
That I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge.
I take another look at the screen. He could be on a plane by now. Maybe his phone’s on airplane mode. I’ll check again later. It’ll be OK. Relax, babe. Take a chill pill.
There are eight missed calls and one new email from my mum to Beth. I click into the message and read.
From: Mavis Knightly
[email protected]
To: Elizabeth Caruso
[email protected]
Date: 31 Aug 2015 at 09.05
Subject: Where are you?
Elizabeth, darling, where on earth have you got to? I’m out of my mind with worry. I’m here in Taormina with your son and the nanny and nobody knows a thing. The police are crawling all over the place, asking questions about your sister. There seems to be a bit of a hoo-ha because she was buried in that wood. I told them what you said on the phone about how it was an accident, but I don’t think they believed me . . .
I called my mother up last week and told her that Alvie was dead. I said she was a terrible swimmer and fell into the swimming pool, drunk. She didn’t seem at all surprised. Relieved more like . . .
Anyway, enough about that. I was so sorry to hear about Ambrogio. What a shock. You poor, poor thing. I can only imagine your suffering. He really was the most wonderful husband. The perfect son-in-law. So rich. So dashingly handsome. I’ll never forget the sight of his backside as he waited for you to walk down the aisle. I told the police, there’s no way it was suicide. A man as good-looking and wealthy as that does not go killing himself willy-nilly. I showed them a photo of you on your honeymoon, that lovely shot of you both on the beach enjoying a sunset daiquiri. ‘Ambrogio Caruso,’ I said to the officer, ‘is married to my daughter, Beth. Would you kill yourself if she was your wife?’ He agreed you were something else. He even went as far as saying you got your good looks from your mum. I didn’t deny it, I have to admit. If he had seen your father, Alvin, there wouldn’t be any doubt in his head. They’re very flirtatious, Italian men. I must say it makes a nice change. In Sydney, women of a certain age are simply invisible. But I’m still a woman. I still have needs. And I appreciate the compliment. You make an effort to look after yourself . . . the chemical peels, the regular waxing, the colonic irrigation. One tries to maintain one’s appearance. I’m not going to the knacker’s yard yet.
Anyway, do come and see me, my dear. All this stress isn’t good for my nerves and I can tell the cortisol’s interfering with the HRT.
Yours unconditionally,
Mummy xxx
PS I did try calling you on your mobile, but there seems to be some kind of technological malfunction. It just rings and rings and then goes to voicemail? Will you call me back, angel, please?
I delete the email. Shake my head. She’s unbelievable.
There’s a knock at the door.
What’s that? The police?
‘Who is it?’ I say.
I eye the window. I guess if I had to, I could climb out. What floor is this? Oh, the penthouse . . . Genius. That’s a great plan, Alvie. You’re stark bollock naked. It’s central London. Middle of the day. No one’s going to spot you up there on the roof running around in the buff.
‘Sorry, madam, midday check-out was, erm, well, at midday.’
‘Right. I see. And what time is it now?’
‘One thirty.’
Shit. ‘I’m coming.’
I’ve got to disappear before they see this suite. Nino and I have paid the bill (in cash last night with a fat wad of euros), but that covered our stay, not a full fucking refurb. I’ll have to do a runner.
But I don’t have anything to wear. Nino’s fucked off with my clothes in the suitcase. Along with all the cash. What’s he going to do with my sister’s dresses? Gucci, Lanvin and Tom Ford. I doubt they’d suit him, honestly. Ha! I want them back. And my Channing Tatum picture. I can’t believe he took that too. It isn’t like he needs it.
I grab my dirty dress from yesterday (Beth’s little black Chanel) and head into the bathroom for a shower. I step into the steaming water. Sing ‘You Oughta Know’ by Alanis at the top of my lungs. I wrap my hair up in a turban, pull on a robe and head into the suite. I light myself a cigarette and then pace up and down the room like a lion in a cage at the zoo. I need some wonga to go and find Nino: flights, hotels, vodka, etc. But all my own cards are maxed out and I can’t use Beth’s without drawing attention. What am I going to do?
I catch a glimpse of Beth’s diamond necklace sparkling round my neck. Beth’s diamond earrings. Beth’s Omega watch. I’ve still got her wedding and engagement rings on . . . They all worked a treat last week, when I was posing as my twin. I fooled almost everyone, but now I guess I don’t need them.
I wonder how much I’d get if I pawned them.
I’ll do it. Right now. I’m gone.
I’m about to open the door and run downstairs out into Mayfair when I stop – my hand on the doorknob – and freeze. What the hell am I thinking? Seriously? Poor little darling unarmed Alvie against that vicious monster Nino. He’s a professional mobster hitman. He’s got twenty years of experience. God only knows how many people he’s killed. Definitely more than me. It could be in the hundreds. Or thousands. Come on, what chance do I have? I must have lost the plot.
I release the doorknob and slump down in a heavy heap on the floor.
I could have had it all.
I was this close. This fucking close. The villa. The car. The yacht. The baby. The priceless Italian Renaissance art. I was living the life. La dolce vita. Two million euros was just the start. He took everything from me when he left me here last night. Hot tears pool and spill from my eyeballs. I blink, blink, blink them away.
What’s that smell? Miss Dior Chérie? That’s strange, even after my shower I can still smell Beth’s perfume: saccharine, sticky, sickly sweet. I must have put too much on.
My sister’s voice whispers in my ear. ‘I’ll get you for this.’
Say what? Is that Beth?
I open my eyes and sit up. I look around, but the room is empty. There’s nobody here except me.
‘You killed me.’
‘Not really. You kind of slipped.’ Do I really have to listen to this? ‘You are no longer my problem.’
‘Ha. I will be. Just wait.’
‘What the fuck? Are you threatening me? You’re dead. I saw it with my own eyes . . .’
‘I’ll get my revenge.’
I stand up and lean against the wall, a cold sweat breaking on my face, my breathing short and ragged. I turn on all the lights in the room: the glittering golden chandeliers, the standing lamp on the writing desk, the light on the coffee table. I grab an ivory letter opener.
‘I’m going to make you pay,’ she says. ‘You killed my husband in cold blood, you had my lover murdered . . .’
Damn, she’s right. I did do that. I guess that’s why she’s cross.
‘OK. Just wait. Just wait,’ I say. The ‘dagger’ quivers in my hand. My voice is faint and quiet.
‘Oh, I can wait. I’ve got nowhere to go. You stole my life, remember?’
She laughs a cruel and joyless laugh, like the nightmare clown in It. Where the fuck is it coming from? I stand in the middle of the room and turn round 360 degrees. She isn’t in here, is she?
‘Firstly, you’re dead. You’re dodo. Get it? You’re just a stupid voice in my head. Secondly, what are you going to do? Talk at me? Terrifying.’
Silence. Nothing. Not a peep. Not a laugh. Not a sigh
. Not a sneeze.
‘Beth?’ Where did she go? I creep towards the mirror. ‘Beth, it’s not funny. Are you still there?’
I step in closer, peer into my eyes. I’m so close now that my breath fogs the glass. ‘Beth? Beth. BETH?’
‘“Vengeance is mine, I will repay.”’
‘ARGH. Shut up, you zombie cunt.’
I flop back down on the floor.
‘You’re going to let Nino walk all over you, just like Ambrogio did. They fuck you, then they leave you. You can never make them stay.’
‘No. There’s no way. I am not.’
‘Look at you. You’re so pathetic. You never could get it together.’
‘I’m finding Nino if it’s the last thing I do.’
I sit up a bit taller and sniff.
I spot the bouquet of roses, laughing, taunting, mocking me. Nino never bought me flowers. Come to think of it, no one did. I spot a small white envelope tucked away inside the vase. I jump up and seize it.
OMG. They’re from him.
What does he want? What does it say?
CARISSIMA ELISABETTA, IF YOU CAN CATCH ME, WE CAN WORK TOGETHER.
That’s it. No kiss. No ‘Darling, I’m sorry’. No ‘My love, I made a mistake’, or ‘I want you back’, or ‘I’m a terrible person’. If I can catch him? If? If? There’s no fucking ‘ifs’ about it. I’m his nemesis. I’ll do more than catch him. Ha. I’ll murder him in the fucking face. Seriously? How patronizing. I don’t need to work with him. That fuckturnip ruined everything. Does he think I’m going to let it go? Roll over like a poodle and let him fuck me? Lie down flat like a welcome mat? No.
I am ALVINA KNIGHTLY.
He’d better be terrified.
O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth . . .
Revenge should have no bounds.
I grab the flowers in thick, fat handfuls, the thorns on the stems all digging in, scratching, piercing and drawing blood. I hurl the roses down on the carpet, petals flying in every direction, water spraying, my thumb dripping blood. I jump up and down in Beth’s Prada sandals, up, up and down till they’re mush.
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