Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  I finish off the ice cream and then lick out the tub. I throw the plastic spoon on the grave. I don’t have any flowers. The pink spoon is kind of pretty. A pop of neon in the sun. The only colour among the greens and browns and greys and blacks.

  I’m going to focus on the killing. I’ll make a career of that. I google ‘Dark Web’ on my phone, but it’s not that easy. I have to download something called Tor. It takes a couple of minutes. When I get on I have a browse. I search ‘Hitman to hire’. There are hundreds, no thousands, of contract killers offering their services. All you need is a website and some software so people can pay. I don’t need a ‘boss’. Don’t need a partner. I can work freelance for myself. I’ll have to get paid in something called bitcoins, but I’m all right with that. I click into a couple of hitman websites. One them offers to ‘neutralize’ your ex, but where’s the fun in that? No, I’m going to do it myself. That’s far more satisfying. I channel my inner Emmeline Pankhurst or Mary Wollstonecraft. I am an independent woman. Hear that, Nino? Just watch.

  The going rate for a single hit is about $10,000. Not bad, I guess. (I’d do it for free. I’d do it for the rush.) One site boasts that they always make the victims’ deaths look like suicides. Ha ha. No way. Not me. No chance. I’m going to have some kind of symbol. A calling card, like a spray-paint tag. I want the world to recognize me. I don’t want to be anonymous. What’s the fucking point in that? They’ll never catch me – I’ll make sure of that – but I’ll go down in history. I’ll be fucking infamous. I’ll star in real-life crime documentaries. Be the subject of non-fiction books. Now what would be an awesome tag? Something to get me noticed? Perhaps a smiley face drawn in lipstick on the victims’ chests? Or maybe I’ll paint their nails lime green. No one else would think of that . . .

  I click on a few more sites (they’re all ‘hitmen’, there are no ‘hitwomen’). They all seem to feature a blacked-out model posing with a gun. Some of them have rules, I see: ‘No kids’, ‘No politicians’. Otherwise, anyone’s game. Oh my God. I can’t wait to get started. It’s going to be SO MUCH FUN. I’ll create a super-fancy website on Wordpress or something. Then I’ll type up my CV and upload it, then wait for the phone to ring.

  Curriculum Vitae

  Name: Miss. Alvina Knightly

  Name: Mrs Elizabeth Knightly Caruso

  Name: TBC

  Email: Just tweet me @AlvinaKnightly69

  I am a highly motivated and talented killer, looking for a breakthrough role as a professional hitwoman (a bit like Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith).

  Qualifications:

  None

  Experience:

  Murdering my twin sister

  Bludgeoning her husband to death (in self-defence)

  Killing a really old and annoying priest in cold blood

  Chopping up fish at a discount Japanese sushi restaurant

  Shooting two three several Mafia hitmen

  Classified advertising sales representative

  Massacring a mugger

  I did three days’ work experience with an experienced assassin from the Cosa Nostra this summer He didn’t think I was very good, though. He thought I was a natural-born killer

  Hobbies:

  Tweeting Channing, Taylor and Miley

  Mr Dick (eleven-inch vibrating dildo)

  Coke, speed, weed, hash, ketamine, ecstasy, MDMA

  Martini, Pinot Grigio, grappa, WKD Blue, Bloody Marys, Malibu, gin (either straight up or with tonic. I don’t care which kind of tonic, but definitely not slimline), Absolut vodka, Smirnoff vodka, Grey Goose vodka (if it’s on offer in Tesco’s)

  Watching a wide variety of international porn

  Writing haikus

  Skills:

  I can speak English quite well really well fucking exceptionally

  Basic Italian (swear words from watching the aforementioned foreign porn from absorbing the rich language and culture while living in Sicily)

  Killing

  I know 326 different sexual positions

  References:

  Giannino Maria Brusca (Nino). Address: no idea (If you find him, tell him I’m coming for him)

  Ping.

  It’s my burner phone.

  I click into the message.

  Ooh, it’s from Domenico.

  ‘DOWNSTAIRS’, it says.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The River Tiber, Rome, Italy

  An angry ape or pissed-off grizzly? A rabid, hungry man-eating zombie? Domenico looks like all your worst nightmares featuring a killer. Baddie is written all over his face. Broken, snouty nose. He is two hundred pounds of mean standing right outside my flat. And he is not alone. He’s brought two rough-looking heavies with him. I wasn’t expecting that. It suddenly occurs to me that Nino might be here as well . . . I take a step back.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Domenico says. ‘You look . . . different.’

  He holds me in a tight embrace and cracks a couple of my ribs. Now remember, Alvie, you are Beth. He thinks you’re his dead boss’s wife. I’d better dial up the blonde and dial down the bloodlust . . .

  ‘As soon as I heard that stronzo was here, I came straight away,’ he says. ‘Do you know the shit I’ve had to deal with ever since he left town? I’ve got Don Russo’s guys on my ass. Nino killed Franco Motisi.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ I say. ‘Bad day at the office.’

  Domenico shakes his hog-like head.

  ‘This is Riccardo and Giuseppe.’ He gestures to the men.

  Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, except that they are dead.

  Riccardo is tall and very thin with shaved-off hair and weird crossed eyes. Giuseppe is short and very fat. He’s either nine months pregnant with twins or has a beer belly; he’s as wide tall as he is tall. There’s a bullet-shaped scar on his left temple (someone obviously just missed). He smells of something like beef jerky. He’s missing a couple of teeth. I stare at them, then notice the bags. They aren’t exactly travelling light. There are three bulging suitcases. A violin case. A hatbox. What’s all this? A travelling circus? Are they planning on staying the night?

  I let them through and they dump the cases just inside the entrance hall.

  Then Domenico grabs my arm.

  ‘Hey, what’re you doing?’

  ‘You disappeared. You and that stronzo. And Ambrogio is dead. I want to know what the hell’s going on. Come with me,’ he says.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re taking a walk.’

  ‘Hey. Get off. Let me go.’

  He pushes me out on to the street and slams the door behind him. Riccardo takes my other arm and I freak the fuck out. I struggle and strain, but there’s no point. There are three of them and one of me. That carving knife is out of reach inside my Prada bag. Fuck, this was a bad idea. I should have listened to Beth. Riccardo and Domenico frogmarch me across the street and down some stairs to the river. We walk along the Tiber till we get to an old bridge.

  ‘Now will you let me go?’

  Nobody replies.

  We’re standing underneath the bridge. It’s dark and grimy. Dirty. The water is black and apparently deep. A damp smell. Something rotten. My guess is corpses and dead fish. I gag. It’s all I can do not to vomit. He is going to throw me in. This is it. The end.

  Domenico reaches into his jacket to reveal a gargantuan gun. His hand slides past it, further along. My eyes stay on the gun. The handle’s engraved with golden initials: ‘D. O. M’. That’s him. Oh man, that’s one mean-looking weapon. Just the kind of thing I need. I wish I could steal that one, but it’s not looking promising. Domenico pulls out a tin cigar box. He offers one to me. What’s all this? The
last cigar? Fuck it. I’ll take one. I pick a smoke and stroke its smooth and crisp tobacco shell. I breathe its loamy scent: rain-soaked earth. I can’t wait to burn it. Domenico sparks up a long match. I lean in and light it up. I roll the smoke around my mouth. I might as well enjoy it.

  ‘So, you saw him?’ Domenico says.

  He’s asking about Nino. That’s good. Must mean that he’s not here.

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘I did.’

  ‘Why are you chasing him?’ he asks.

  ‘The money . . . he stole the money,’ I say. ‘For the Caravaggio.’

  Domenico shakes his head. ‘That fucking painting. That fucking guy. You let him get away?’

  ‘He was at the Piazza di Spagna yesterday. I lost him on the underground.’

  ‘Minchia,’ growls Domenico. He glares at me.

  Hopefully he just wants to chat. I can do that. No one gets hurt. But it’s an odd place for a catch-up. And there’s no way to escape. The other two guys stand and stare without saying a single word. They don’t give the impression there’s much going on beyond those vacant rolling eyeballs. But I could be wrong. I shouldn’t judge. They could be quantum physicists with part-time jobs in the mob.

  Domenico looks up at Giuseppe then nods towards my handbag. Giuseppe snatches my Prada bag and empties it out on the ground.

  ‘Be careful with that. It’s new,’ I say.

  The bag falls in the mud. Bits of shit and grit on the leather. Everything spills and rolls around. Riccardo eyes my cuckoo clock. (He doesn’t know there’s money inside.) Giuseppe bends over and picks up my knife. Hands it to Domenico.

  ‘What is this?’ Domenico says.

  He turns the knife around in his hands, inspecting the serrated blade. He runs his thumb along the edge, then hurls it in the river. It disappears with a splash. There goes another weapon . . .

  Domenico spots Nino’s phone. He bends down and picks it up.

  He recognizes it.

  ‘I . . . I can explain.’

  He brushes some dirt off the cover.

  ‘I was tracking him with an app.’ I wait for that genius move to sink in. ‘But then he sent his phone to Romania with some skanky tramp. I managed to retrieve the phone . . . but Nino wasn’t there.’

  The mobsters look at one another and then burst out in violent laughter.

  ‘He sent his phone . . . ?’ Domenico says. ‘He sent his phone to Romania?’

  ‘It isn’t fucking funny.’

  Riccardo and Giuseppe are both bent double, creased with laughter.

  ‘Shut the fuck up. It’s not fucking funny.’

  I suck on my cigar. Cough. Cough. (Oh, now I remember. Just like Bill Clinton smoking pot, you’re not supposed to inhale.)

  The heavies wipe the tears from their eyes and try to resume straight faces.

  ‘I’m not laughing. We lost him,’ I say.

  I’m glad they’re entertained.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Domenico says.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ I say. ‘Can I fix my bag?’

  Nobody replies. I repack all my dirty stuff. Urgh, my bag is filthy. This is getting ridiculous. Now I’ve only got one left. Oh, why did I buy them in cream?

  Domenico turns his attention back to Nino’s mobile phone. He taps the screen.

  ‘You won’t be able to see anything. He’s locked it with a PIN.’ Domenico types in a four-digit code.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Twenty years we’ve been working together. You don’t think I know his birthday?’ he says.

  ‘Oh, when is it? Just out of interest.’

  ‘The fifth of September.’

  ‘Ace.’

  Ooh, I think that’s Saturday, isn’t it? (Not that I care. I’m not buying him a present.)

  Domenico scrolls through Nino’s phone. ‘He deleted his call history and all his messages . . . But not his contact list,’ he says. ‘Si. Si. I know this person. They are here in Rome.’

  Domenico turns the phone round to show me the details of someone.

  ‘Dynamite,’ he says.

  ‘Cool name.’ I wish I’d thought of it first. I think I might steal it.

  ‘They’re a contact of ours in Trastevere.’

  ‘So . . .’ I say. ‘Nino could be with them?’

  Domenico looks over and nods at his heavies. They grab my arms again.

  ‘Hey, not the river,’ I say.

  They march me out from under the bridge towards a rusty fence.

  ‘What the . . . ? Where are you taking me?’

  My cigar falls to the ground.

  Domenico follows close behind. He hisses something in my ear.

  ‘If I discover you are working with him, you are dead. You got that?’

  The mobsters grab the back of my head and shove it through the iron bars.

  ‘Ow. What? Why? Fuck. No. No. No. I’m not. I swear. Let me go. LET ME OUT.’

  I grip the railings in my hands. My face is wedged right through the gap. I try to pull my head back out, but my ears are stuck and it’s totally jammed. I’ve got my head trapped in the railings.

  SHIT FUCK SHIT FUCK SHIT.

  I hear the mobsters’ footsteps slowly fade, fade, fade away.

  ‘Come back. Come back. I can help you,’ I call.

  I hear them laugh.

  It’s worth a shot.

  ‘Nino, he likes me. He’s got a crush . . .’

  Silence. Nothing. They’ve gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I try to pull my head out again but the cartilage in my ears goes crack.

  ‘OW.’

  What the hell? This is so unfair. I’m going to get cauliflower ears like a beat-up rugby player. I don’t believe it. I can’t move. What am I going to do? Breathe, Alvina, breathe, breathe. If you got in, then you can get out again. It’s basic physics. A universal law. Come on, Alvie. GIRL, YOU GOT THIS. I pull again: IT HURTS. This is never going to work. I rest my chin on the wall at the bottom and whimper a little bit.

  Beth’s laughing hysterically in my head. She’s having a fucking field day.

  I try to yank my skull back through, but somehow it seems wider this way. It’s still wedged in good and proper. I hyperventilate. What if Nino sees me here? I’m an easy target. A sitting duck. I’ve got to get out. No time to lose. What I need is some kind of lube. If only I had some K-Y Jelly . . . But then I remember. In my bag. There’s that emergency bottle of Durex Play that I bought at the chemist’s. If I can just reach . . . I hook my toes through the straps and pick it up with my right foot. I lift it towards my hand. Reach inside and grab the tube. Yes. Yes. This has to work. It’s one of my brilliant ideas. I squeeze a big blob in my palm and rub it all over my ears. It’s wet and slippery. It’s perfect. I take a deep breath – one, two, three – and pull my head back through the bars.

  Yes. I’m free. At last.

  I crash down on the ground and catch my breath. Then something strange happens. A hot sensation. Holy fuck, my ears are burning. Why the hell are my ears on fire?

  Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. What is going on? I flap at the sides of my face with my hands. I need some ice. I need water. I rush over to the river, kneel down and splash water on to my burning ears. I spot the lube on the floor: it’s Durex Play Warming. Oh. Right. I forgot. It isn’t hot, just a warming sensation. I’m going to be all right.

  I lie down on the ground and scrunch up my eyes. But I’m not Beth; I’m not going to cry. I might be drenched in stinking water . . . But I’m free and I’m Alvina Knightly. I’m getting back on the fucking horse. I don’t need anyone helping me out, especially not those Cro-Magnons. I’ll find Dynamite by myself. But first I need some wheels.

  I climb the stairs up to the street then scan the road. A cab? A bus? A helicopter? Nothing. I n
eed to get a car of my own. But not a Rent-a-Car. I’m not giving Enterprise my details. I don’t have a licence anyway. There’s no way that they’d loan me a car. I need to go off the grid before those guys come back. I don’t think my ears could take any more.

  I turn the corner into a quiet street. An obese man stands by his car. The door of his Fiat Cinquecento hangs open. It’s a pretty duck-egg blue. It’s the tiniest car I’ve ever seen. It looks like an old paint can. It was probably made in the fifties or sixties with a curving bonnet and silver bumper and goggly bug-eyes. I can hear the little engine humming. I want it. It is mine. The man bends over to pull a newspaper from a dispenser on the street. Then he turns back to the car.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ I say, sprinting over.

  I grab the paper from his hands. Then shove the man out of the way and jump inside his car. I throw the paper on the back seat. Make sure the doors are locked.

  ‘No. Aspetta. Aspetta,’ he says.

  His face appears at the bottom of the window. He grabs on to the handle and pulls on the door.

  ‘Sorry, I need it. Mi dispiace.’

  Oh my God, it’s a sardine tin. Even smaller than it looks. My head’s pressed up against the ceiling. Was it built for a child? For an elf? How the hell did he fit in here? The man’s stomach is at eye level. I spot a hefty roll of flab flap over his waistband. The air inside smells stale and musty. The stench of several decades of driving fills my nose and makes me gag. The seat is lumpy and broken. Hard. A metal spring sticks up my ass. The man’s red face is now pressed up against the side window. I try to drive, but stall the car.

  He bangs hard on the roof.

  ‘Esci dalla mia macchina.’

  ‘Go away. Get another one.’

  I turn the key in the ignition. It coughs and splutters, but doesn’t start. You have got to be kidding me. What a joke. Why of all the millions of vehicles . . . ? This is the worst ever getaway car. I try again to floor the gas. The Cinquecento groans and wheezes. Chokes but doesn’t start. Oh man, it’s ancient. Broken down. I’ll try just one more time. I slam my foot down on the pedal. Twist the stupid key. Eventually it comes to life. Fucking finally. I swerve out from the kerb and hit the gas. The man’s still holding on to the door. I’m dragging him along the road, like that lady with the dachshund. Oh God, just let it go.