Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘I never knew you were so bad . . .’ That’s what he’d say to me.

  Perhaps I’ll strangle him in bed? Snap his neck with just my thighs like some kind of Russian Bond girl? But Nino’s strong. He’s stronger than me. I need something quick. Quick and deliberate. Something guaranteed to work. I push my fingers deep inside. I feel like blancmange. I could hide a razor in my bra? I could whip it out and slit his throat. I’m breaking out in a hot sweat. My mind’s a foggy, woozy mess. I’m panting now. I’m short of breath. It’s building, harder, stronger. Where is Nino when you need him? I want to fucking come.

  I sit up in bed and look around. Dizzy. I need something else to tip me over the edge. My favourite dildo, Mr Dick, is still in Taormina. He probably melted in that fire. But I have that new electric toothbrush. Maybe that would work? I leap up from the bed and run into the bathroom. I pull it out and switch it on. It vibrates, whirs and buzzes, the handle jumping in my palm. I can smell the Colgate spearmint toothpaste. Can really feel those batteries work. I jump back on to the bed and feel that bzzzz between my legs. Ooh, that’s fresh. Electric. Minty. The bristles chafe, but it’s OK. Alvie Knightly, you’re a genius.

  I’m going, going all the way.

  Waves of pleasure

  build

  and

  build.

  I see that man lying dead in the alley,

  but this time he has Nino’s face.

  Empty eyes.

  A strangled scream.

  ‘YES. YES. I’ve got him, the fucker.’

  My body tenses then releases as I come free as the rain.

  * * *

  *

  I roll over and snuggle down. I’m too tired to brush my teeth (plus I know where that toothbrush has been). I close my eyes and yawn. I’m just drifting off to sleep when I hear a clunking noise. A sound just like a window closing. The creak of a rusty hinge. I sit up in bed and flick on the light. My heart pounding. What the fuck? I’m on the fifth floor. No one can get up here. But perhaps there’s a fire escape? Has that sexy waiter come back? Is it . . . could it be Nino? Shit, shit. Please, God, I don’t want to die. I still don’t have a weapon. I need to find something and fast. I fling off the sheets and jump out of bed. Sprint into the hall. The window is open. I close it again. Not cool. I run through the dark.

  A knife. I’ll find a carving knife. There has to be one in the kitchen. The drawers crash and bang and metal clangs as I rifle through them all. I can’t see what the hell I’m doing, but I’m too spooked to turn on the light. I’m short of breath and not thinking straight after that codeine mixed with vodka. I don’t know how many pills I had. It’s amazing I’m thinking at all. My fingers fumble. Come on. Come on. A butter knife, a serving spoon, a wooden rolling pin. I empty the drawers. Fling open the cupboards. There’s got to be something in here. A knife or some scissors? A potato peeler? A skewer? A pestle and mortar? But no. There’s nothing. Not even a corkscrew. (I really need to get a gun. Or a roomful of guns like in The Matrix. A never-ending supply.) I really don’t have time for this. Why was the window open?

  I feel a wooden block on the sideboard; inside are five assorted knives.

  HELL YEAH.

  That’s what I’m talking about.

  Perhaps there is a god?

  I choose the longest and biggest. Perfect. That’s just what I need. Good for carving turkey or chicken or oven-roast beef. It’s heavy, solid. My heart skips a beat. I press my thumb against the tip; it draws a drop of blood.

  If he comes in here, I’m ready. I’ll get him.

  ‘He’d still win,’ says Beth.

  I cradle the knife like my long-lost son.

  The readiness is all.

  What was that? A floorboard creaking? Was that a knock at the front door? I strain my ears to hear. I need to get a guard dog or something. Or a tiger like Mike Tyson? A dragon like that little kid? I creep back down the hall to my bedroom, the knife clutched in my shaking hands. Why did I come here? What am I doing? Why did I think I could take on a mobster?

  ‘You don’t stand a chance,’ says Beth.

  ‘Fuck you, I’ll see you in hell.’

  I tiptoe back into my bedroom. I can’t see anyone in here. I walk over to the unmade bed. Where the hell has that toothbrush gone? It was here, I swear to God, right here on the sheets. Did someone take it? Is Nino here? Was he spying as I got off? (Actually, that’s kind of hot.) Is he still hiding in here? I press my back against the wall. My eyes are wide with fear. I hold my breath so I can hear.

  Not a sound. Not a creak. Not a footfall.

  I fling open a wardrobe and jump inside. I pull it shut and peer out through the crack between the doors. Well, this is shit. Now what do I do? For the very first time I wish that I was back in my old flat in Archway.

  DAY THREE:

  The Puppy

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  Wednesday, 19 August 2015

  Archway, London

  I give Mr Dick a peck then tuck him back inside his drawer, roll over on my futon bed and pull the duvet up. For years he has been my favourite sex toy. More than a sex toy, a lover, a friend. He was there when I needed someone to talk to or someone for an all-day shagfest in bed. He never cheated or walked away. He never said no. Never left me for dead. We developed a special bond; we were closer than twins. Sure, his batteries run out sometimes and that’s a pain, but I don’t complain. He is always a pro. Always does the job. The perfect gentleman.

  Do you remember the time when I bought you four new Duracell Plus Power batteries? You gave me that legendary multiple orgasm and I came for all of five minutes. Or the time when we stayed at the Wembley Travelodge and watched Brad Pitt movies back to back? I liked Thelma and Louise and you liked Snatch. I’ll never forget the day I found you hanging on a hook in that Soho store. It was love at first sight. You were so pink and shiny, luminous in the neon light. Eleven glorious inches of rubber. Anatomically perfect. You smelled so fresh, like a brand-new eraser. You were the very last one in the shop. I couldn’t wait to get you home and rip you out of your packaging, to let you loose between the sheets. You know the rest, the fun we had. I know you would never leave. Ha. Unlike some people . . .

  I reach inside my Primark tote and grab the pack of Marlboro Lights. Shit, there’s only one fag left. I’ll have to find some more. I rummage around for my purple Zippo. Somewhere, somewhere. Where? Where? Where? I find it underneath my purse and, finally, light up. I hold the smoke in, close my eyes, then let it out again slowly. I wait for the nicotine rush to come, like that will make it all all right. Like it’s some magic potion.

  And I can’t help myself.

  I open my purse and pull out the photograph. It’s folded up behind the old bus tickets, loyalty stamps for coffee shops and vodka bar receipts. I open it up on my lap and study the crumpled photo. The picture was taken in Lower Slaughter in December 1987. My mum and dad are standing by the church in the heart of the village. It is quintessential Cotswolds. Picture-perfect. Chocolate-box. Honey-coloured limestone cottages, bowling greens and millponds. Alvin had looked so smart on his wedding day: a black tuxedo and top hat and shiny patent brogues. He had looked so handsome, like Prince Charming. He was the ideal groom. I guess my mum looked OK too, but he was in a different league. His hair was slick and black and thick. His figure lithe and slim. It’s been twenty-five years since I saw him. Twenty-five years ago today . . . at least that’s what my mother says. I don’t remember it.

  I stub my fag out in a mug.

  You know what? Fuck it. Fuck him.

  I’ll find someone who’ll never leave. I’ll find somebody loyal.

  I rip the photo up into hundreds of tiny pieces.

  They fall through my fingers like sand.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday, 2 September 2015

  Trastevere, Rome, Italy

&n
bsp; I fall out of the wardrobe, out through the wooden doors, and crash on to the bedroom floor. The light streams in through half-drawn curtains. I drop the knife, which glints in the sun, and I rub my elbow. Ow. That’s going to bruise. I fell slap-bang on the funny bone. I crawl on my hands and knees back towards the unmade bed. Oh. There’s my electric toothbrush underneath the table. Nino didn’t steal it then. I pick it up and chuck it back on to the bed. I’ve got a terrible crick in my neck. I fell asleep in that goddamn wardrobe and slept all night sitting up. He isn’t here. I’m going out. I need some coffee. An Espresso Martini. I grab Beth’s golden Prada sandals and that’s it; I’m dressed, I guess. Still no pants, but what can I do? At least in Rome it’s hot. I shove the knife inside my bag and sprint down all five flights of stairs humming ‘Bad Blood’ by Taylor Swift.

  There’s a café on the square, on the Piazza di Santa Maria. I find a table and pull up a chair. Order some coffee and a croissant. I rub and rub at the back of my skull and roll my head from right to left. It’s windy. The wind must have opened the window. And I guess the noise was just ‘house sounds’. Old places do that sometimes.

  I reach into my wallet to find some cash so I can pay the bill. My fingers hover over the pocket where that photo used to be. I open it up, although I know too well it isn’t in there. I ripped it up and I’m glad I did. I’m over it. Over him. I can still see the photo in my mind’s eye; I didn’t need a hard copy. My father’s face on his wedding day was the picture of optimism. For the first time it crosses my mind that he looks a little bit Italian. There’s something about his face, his figure. Shit. He reminds me of Nino. That’s not gross, it’s biology. My dad could be Sicilian, with the dark eyes, the bronzed skin. Not with a name like ‘Alvin Knightly’, but still, to look at him . . .

  ‘Nino,’ comes a voice from behind me. I swivel round in my plastic chair. My knee catches the edge of the table, making the whole thing tip up. Nino? Now? Where? Here? I finger the blade in my bag.

  ‘Nino, amore, vieni qui.’

  There it is again.

  The voice belongs to a young woman. She’s sitting at the next table along, leaning over and talking to the floor. I bend over slowly to see who she’s talking to. Is Nino down there? Why?

  Oh, it’s just a dog.

  For a minute then I thought I’d found him. Right outside my new flat. But no, that would have been too easy. Of course it’s not him; it’s a sausage dog. I pop the tail end of my croissant into my mouth and chew. It’s filled with tangy marmalade: a bittersweet apricot goo. Unless Nino’s morphed into a dachshund? Like that boy in Metamorphosis, that weird novella by Franz Kafka. But that was a beetle, I suppose. Still, stranger things have happened. Nino. Nino. They have the same name, otherwise that’s it. The similarities end there. It did confuse me briefly. I’m hungover and sleep-deprived.

  ‘Bravo, Nino,’ says the woman.

  The puppy sits and extends a paw. (He’s better trained than the other Nino.) She shakes his furry hand. I watch the tiny sausage dog; his fur’s a glossy chocolate brown. His ears look so soft and silky. He wags his stringy puppy-dog tail and looks up with bright, shining eyes that could break the hardest heart. Oh my God, he’s really cute. I could eat him up. Shame, I’ve just had my breakfast. But, seriously, he’s edible.

  ‘Bravo, Nino. Bravo,’ she says and tickles him under his chin.

  ‘Alvie, no. Don’t get distracted.’

  Shut up, Beth. Get out of my head.

  ‘You don’t need a stupid dog.’

  Actually, Beth. I do. A guard dog, remember? A trusted hound. A loyal friend. Something to be my eyes and ears while I am asleep. I’ll buy this dog. He’s perfect. I’ll keep him with me at all times. He’s nice and compact. It’s an excellent plan. He’ll keep me safe and sound.

  I stub out my fag and wave at the waitress. Do the squiggly sign for the check. The woman pushes back her chair; I hear the legs go scrape. She drops some money in a silver dish, then stands ready to leave. My God, she’s tiny. Really small. Only just bigger than the dog. I’d say she’s about five-foot tall, and that’s with the patent wedges. She takes the dog’s red-leather lead and says, ‘Vieni. Andiamo.’

  ‘WOOF. WOOF. WOOF,’ says Nino, excited. Bless his cotton socks.

  He leaps up high into the air and runs round in a mad circle, chasing his little wiggly tail round and round and round. He’s nuts, this dog. He’s cool, like me. We’re made for one another. ♥

  ‘No, wait,’ I say, jumping up quickly. My plastic chair tips over. I look down at the little dog and he looks back at me. He licks his nose and blinks. Take me home, he seems to say. I want to come with you. ‘How much for your puppy?’ She looks back and frowns. ‘Your dog. I want him. How much?’

  We both look at the tiny puppy. He is no bigger than a mole. His body stretches like a spring, impossibly long, between four paws. He’d fit inside my handbag, easy. Or I could buy a new baguette? I can see him now with his head poking out, watching the world go by. Perhaps I’ll buy him a little jacket and a matching baseball cap? Tartan? Or leather? No, I know, sequins, in a Union Jack. Paris Hilton has a chihuahua, but Adele has a sausage dog. I can train him to attack and kill, just like that awesome widow did in ‘A Vendetta’ by Maupassant. (That’s another method to add to my list. Death by dachshund. Ha. As if.)

  ‘I want to buy your dog.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the woman. ‘No Inglese, mi dispiace.’ She smiles and turns away.

  ‘A hundred euro? A thousand? Ten thousand?’

  I grab a fistful of cash from my clock.

  ‘No, no. Mi dispiace.’ She pulls the lead and walks away. I stare at her glossy hair. It’s the same chocolate brown as the dog’s. ‘Andiamo, Nino. Vai.’

  I watch his diminutive legs scurry away. He scales the cobblestones like boulders. He’s surprisingly quick, like a millipede on speed. Milli? That’s a thousand, isn’t it? Centi’s a hundred and milli’s a thousand. Centipede, millipede. Is that Italian or Latin?

  ‘Milli euros? Milli? Milli?’

  I sprint after the young woman. (Oh my God, what am I doing? Chasing this woman through central Rome. This is ridiculous even for me. But I want that sausage dog.) People sitting on the terrace are pointing and whispering; there’s a real crowd over there in that bar. Everyone’s staring at me. It’s hard to run in high heels on cobbles; my stupid shoes keep getting stuck. I need to buy some more sensible footwear if I’m going to go on this man-hunting chase. Perhaps I’ll buy some nice ballerinas, some pretty flats in which I can run? You don’t see James Bond messing around in sandals. I’ve never seen Jeremy Renner in heels. No, I need some more sensible footwear to stand half a chance.

  I kick off my shoes and shove them under my arm. (The first thing I’m doing is buying some flats and a dress to replace this beat-up Chanel.) I point at the puppy. ‘Milli euros? Milli? Milli? Milli?’

  The lady stops and turns round.

  ‘Per Nino? Ma no. Non vendo il cane.’

  I’m not giving up just like that. I follow her on to another square. She quickens her pace (and so do I), but the puppy can’t keep up. He’s running, running as fast as he can. Now she’s dragging him by the collar. He’s just lying on his side with his feet in the air.

  The ancient square is almost empty; it’s still early: eight o’clock. I hear the clock tower dong-dong-donging. Then some cuckoos from my clock. A baroque church towers high above us. There’s a painting of the Virgin cradling the infant Christ. The colours are muted, weathered pastels: pinks and yellows, dusky blue. The baby reaches up for Mary. I think of Ernie back in Taormina. I really fucking want that dog.

  The woman walks towards a butcher’s. She ties him up outside the shop, his lead attached to a metal rail. She turns and glares at me. I pretend that I’m not looking, walk a few steps the other way, then turn and make for the dog. I sprint over to the store, bend down and
grab the wriggling pup. I yank his leash from where it’s tied.

  ‘It’s not my fault. I did try to buy you,’ I whisper in his ear.

  I pick him up and race away. It’s so much better with no shoes on. I sprint back across the square, past a fountain spewing water, past a man selling selfie sticks and a Peruvian pan-pipe band setting up for the new day. I race past the café, people pointing and staring.

  ‘Hey,’ shouts the waitress. ‘Your check? Your bill?’

  Oh shit. I didn’t pay her.

  ‘Later. I’ll come back later,’ I call.

  I run and run and run. I’m back on my winding side street when I hear the woman calling, ‘Nino?’

  Finally I reach my door. I scrabble around in my bag for the key, my heart pounding in my chest, the puppy wriggling in my arms. I find the key and burst through the door. I slam it closed – BANG – behind me.

  ‘I can’t believe you just stole a dachshund . . . Actually, yes, I can,’ says Beth.

  ‘WOOF. WOOF. WOOF,’ says the dog.

  * * *

  *

  The dachshund sits at one end of the bed and I sit at the other. We stare each other out. He rests his head on his tiny paws and I rest my chin on my hands. Now that I’ve got him I don’t know what to do with him. I can’t take him to Prada. He’ll pee on the floor.

  ‘Hello, Nino. My name is Alvina. I’m your new mistress,’ I say.

  He licks his nose with a long pink tongue, but he doesn’t reply.

  ‘We’re going to have lots of fun together. I’ll take you out on some crazy adventures.’

  He scratches his ear with his hind leg. I hope he doesn’t have fleas.

  ‘It’s nice to find someone who’s a good listener. It’s been pretty tough these past few days . . .’

  His ears prick up and he cocks his head. He whimpers a little bit.

  ‘But you and me, we’ll be great buddies. You can be my sidekick.’