‘I’ll bring it back when I’m done,’ I say.
I stick it in second gear. The engine growls an angry growl, but the car doesn’t seem to go any faster. It’s like trying to ride a clockwork mouse. I’m doing 15 mph. It would have been quicker to walk. My heartbeat’s faster than this car. At last the man goes ‘ARGH,’ and lets go of the door. He stumbles after me for a while, waving his arms and shouting, ‘TORNA INDIETRO’. I watch his figure fade away in the rear-view mirror. He’s huffing and puffing and waving his fist. It’s amazing he tried to run at all; he doesn’t look very fit.
Where am I going? Maybe back to that club? Rain said Mafia types hang around there. I’ll go back and ask around. Surely someone will know Dynamite?
I grab the newspaper from the back seat as I chug down a dusty back street, and start leafing through the pages. I check the news for any developments on my sister’s case. I’m looking for ‘Alvina Knightly’ or ‘Elizabeth Caruso’. I check the headlines, but there’s nothing. Scan the pics, but they’re not of me. I chuck the paper in the back. Glance up through the windscreen.
Ooh, look, what’s that?
There’s a gladiator on a Segway. He’s wheeling along the street at about three miles an hour. Holy fuck. This guy is fit. Is it Russell Crowe? No, it’s not. Naked torso, sculpted pecs, a deep, dark tan from the summer sun. He’s wearing a silver helmet with a bright red feather. A glinting shield and shiny sword. Serious six-pack. Leather skirt. Awesome flowing cape. Old-fashioned sandals lace up his legs and over his bronzed and bulging calves. Oh God, I love Italian men, especially ancient Romans. I watch his bum glide by. I know, I know. I’ve sworn off men. But I’d make an exception for this guy. I want to take him home with me and keep him as a sex slave. I’d chain him to the bed and . . . No, no, no. I can’t do that. Just look at the size of him; he’d be too expensive to feed. The gladiator turns the corner. I crane my neck and watch his perfect ass go by. His little skirt barely covers his bits; it waves and flaps in the wind. I could at least follow him?
No. Dynamite.
I look up to see a nun. Where the hell did she come from? God, it’s like Piccadilly Circus. She’s trying to cross the road. I honk the horn, but she’s still in my path. She’s in the middle of the street, walking slowly and unsteadily. Her back is bent and all hunched up. She leans on a walking stick. She looks a bit like Mother Teresa, but dressed all in black, just like Darth Vader, Marilyn Manson or Simon Cowell. It’s cool. I like her look.
I wind the window down and shout, ‘Move. Get out of the way.’
I’m not slowing down. Not now. I can’t. It took me this long to speed up. I’m doing twenty-six miles an hour; any second now . . . I’ll be able to get it in third.
‘Move. Move.’
I honk the horn and try to swerve the car.
BANG. WHACK.
‘Damn.’
Chapter Eighteen
It’s not my fault. She came out of nowhere. It’s like she had a death wish.
My eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror. I see her lying on the ground. There she is, like a hit-and-run bird, sprawled out in the middle of the road. Fuck, fuck. This wasn’t the plan. I can’t just leave her there. What if she’s hurt? She’s definitely hurt. Oh shit, what if I’ve killed her? I know I want to be an assassin. But not like this. Not now.
I should go, but she might have seen me. What if she has a photographic memory and remembers my face or the licence plate? Oh man, this is the last thing I need. At least this isn’t my car.
I scan the street. There’s no one else here. I slam on the brakes.
I leave the Cinquecento running; the engine chug, chug, chugs. The door swings open and I jump out and run over to the nun. I watch as her chest rises and falls. Good. She is still alive. I bend down and study her face. She’s old; I’d guess eighty-five? The skin on her cheek looks wrinkled and soft. It’s fine like crêpe de Chine. She smells clean, just like fresh laundry. But now her wimple’s creased and dirty, soiled from the fall. She’s bleeding from the side of her head and blood snakes down in a line to her neck. Shit, I didn’t mean to hit her. What am I going to do? She opens her eyes and looks up at me. They’re pale blue, like Rain’s. I cup her chin. Her eyelids flicker and she peers into my face. We share some kind of intimate moment . . .
‘Oh man, I’m sorry,’ I say.
She groans – her moan almost inaudible – and says something in quiet Italian. I look again, both ways down the street. It’s clear, but for how long? I am going to have to hurry. I don’t want anyone to spot me. It’s just a matter of time before those psychos track me down again. Or Nino. Or the fucking police.
I study her prostrate figure. Her long black habit has track marks on it. Now I see her eyes are closed. She seems kind of flat. I reach for her wrist to feel her pulse; her arm is frail and light. She looks so peaceful lying there . . .
Suddenly – she gasps. Her whole body spasms and she sits up.
‘ARGH,’ I scream. ‘WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?’
I jump up, trip over her legs and fall down to the ground.
Definitely not dead then.
‘Come on, get up,’ I say to the nun. ‘You can’t stay here. Come with me.’
She reaches her hands towards my throat like some evil Catholic zombie. Her fingers are cold; they grip my neck.
‘Demone,’ she says. ‘Demone.’
Her grip is weak and I shake myself free.
‘URGH. Get off. Get off me.’
I hook my hands under her arms and try to pick her up.
‘Come on, stand up. Get in the car.’
I haul her over to the Fiat, huffing and puffing and sweating and swearing. A trickle of blood trails red on the road. It looks just like wet paint. There’s nothing I can do about that. Perhaps it will rain and wash it away? It will be all right. I’ll be OK. Chop-chop. Get on with it, Alvie. There’s no time for fucking around. Someone could come at any minute. I open the door and push her inside.
‘Ospedale,’ she says.
‘Ospedale? What’s that? Hospital?’
I slam the passenger door.
I need a fucking cigarette. Or something strong to calm my nerves. I swallow the last of the painkillers I got for my new nose. I jump inside the Cinquecento and spark up a Marlboro Light. I take a deep breath. OK. That’s better. The fag hangs out of the corner of my mouth as I crank the gear into first. The motor groans, just like the nun now sitting slumped in the passenger seat. The ancient Fiat bumps and lurches and the top of my head rams into the ceiling. The wheels skid and scream. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Over the cobblestones. I wish this bra had more support. It’s not made for this rough terrain.
I do nought to ten in twenty seconds. This is ridiculous. If I had a proper car, I wouldn’t have to deal with this. A Maserati or Ferrari. None of this dicking around. I try for third. The cogs catch and grind. I floor the clutch and just shove it. Why didn’t I steal an automatic? Oh man, this is hard work.
I grip the steering wheel tight and sweat drips down my brow. I’m panting.
The nun is moaning. There’s blood on her habit and in her hair. She’s bleeding all over the passenger seat. It looks like an abattoir. There’s no way I can return the car now. Sorry not sorry, mate.
I speed off along the street at 22 mph. I look around for witnesses . . . But that gladiator’s gone. That’s when I see her coming out of a gate. Oh my God. Am I dreaming? Another nun is standing there, right on the fucking corner. Bloody hell. It’s rife out here. How many nuns are there? A sign on the walls says ‘Convento’. Oh. A convent. I guess that makes sense.
‘“Get thee to a nunnery . . . To a nunnery, go”,’ I say.
Hopefully she didn’t see anything. I’m sure she wasn’t there before. I’m going to have to just leave it now. I can’t kidnap her as well.
* * *
*
‘Ospedale,’ she says again.
‘I can’t take you to hospital. They’ll see my face. They’ll see the car. They’ll know I did this to you.’
Shit. What am I going to do?
She groans.
‘Just let me think.’
‘Bravo, Alvie,’ says my twin. ‘First a priest and now a nun. You’ve reached a whole new low.’
Goddamnit, she’s right. I don’t want to kill her. I don’t want her to die. She was just an accident. Wrong place. Wrong girl. Wrong time.
‘OK. OK. Ospedale,’ I say.
The nun doesn’t reply.
This is a massive pain in my ass. She’s wasting my time. I’m a woman on a mission. She’s really crossed the line.
I spot a sign by the side of the road: ‘Ospedale San Giovanni’.
‘See that? That’s lucky. It’s your lucky day.’
Again with the silent treatment.
I’ll just . . . drop her off. And then I’ll leg it. As fast as I can in this bag of rust. I swerve to the right and follow the signs. Pull over by the kerb. If I just roll her out of the car and leave her somewhere near the main entrance, then someone will find her in no time at all. She’ll be right as rain.
I reach into my handbag for Nino’s hat. Pull the fedora down over my face. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. OK, here we go.
I look over at the nun. She is very pale. Her head’s flopped back against the rest and her mouth hangs open.
Oh.
Her eyes have rolled back in their sockets.
I watch her chest.
It isn’t moving.
Oh God.
Not now.
Not this.
I slap her. Hard.
‘Come on. Wake up.’
I listen for her breath.
Fuck.
Why me?
Now she’s really dead.
My stomach sinks. There’s a lump in my throat. What have I done? How did this happen?
Shut up, Alvie. Deal with it. Don’t you want to be a mobster? A fucking hitwoman?
I feel sick. I don’t think I can do it. Beth was right, I am pathetic. I’m going to need therapy for this one. I’m going to have to call Lorraine, that counsellor from school.
She’ll be back to torment me. Every nun will have her face. I’ll see her in my dreams.
I floor the gas and skid the Fiat out into the busy road. The nun’s head bob-bob-bobs beside me, like one of those nodding dogs. Now what am I going to do with her? All this shit is slowing me down. Giving me grief. Cramping my style. I’m running out of time. I need to find Radio Londra. I want to get to Dynamite before Domenico does. But now I’ve got to lose this body. Everything’s going wrong.
I drive until I leave the city far, far behind me. The sun is setting on the horizon. The sky is the colour of blood. The adrenaline rush is wearing off. I drive and drive and drive. I must not fall asleep, even though I’m tired, so tired of all this shit. I stare at the road and blink, blink, blink. I stifle a sleepy yawn. The moon comes out. The stars. My eyelids are heavy and weak. I consider propping them open with toothpicks or matches or knitting needles, anything to stop them from closing. But I don’t have any of those things and they’re closing all by themselves. The road is long and straight and endless. I can see the black of the sea up ahead. I won’t stop till I get to the shore. Perhaps Nino will emerge from the water, like one of those guys in Ex on the Beach. We’ll have a screaming blazing row, and then we’ll make it up. This crazy feud will all be over. He will give me back my cash. ‘Alvie,’ he’ll say (he’ll know my name), ‘I missed you. I’m so sorry . . .’ We’ll make love right then and there on the sand. On a towel so it doesn’t get gritty. My eyes close again and my head flops down on to the steering wheel.
Ping.
A new message. I check my phone. It’s Nino. Now what does he want?
‘WANT TO HAVE PHONE SEX?’
I kind of do.
‘NO, I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU.’ I hit send.
Huh. That’s funny. It’s like he knew I was thinking about him. Dreaming about make-up sex. Perhaps we have a psychic bond? Perhaps his ears were burning?
I yawn. I need to stop the car. I rub my eyes and look around for somewhere to park. The road is surrounded by towering pine trees. I’m deep in a forest. Great. I’m lost. How the hell did I end up here? It looks haunted. Deathly quiet. It’s perfect for me, actually. It looks like a good place to hide a corpse.
I turn the steering wheel slowly and drive into the trunk of a tree. The car goes THUD – and the windscreen cracks. Then I fall asleep.
DAY FIVE:
The Hooker
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
Friday, 19 June 1998
St Basil’s Junior School,
Lower Slaughter, Gloucestershire
‘Answer the question please, Alvina.’
I fidget in the lumpy chair. The material’s all sharp and scratchy on my thighs under my skirt. The ‘counsellor’ is studying me from behind her plastic clipboard. I don’t like her and she doesn’t like me. She wants me to call her ‘Lorraine’. The window is open, but it’s still hot. The higher up you go in this building the hotter it gets. That’s ‘physics’. It’s summer now and this is a ‘heatwave’. But we’re only on the ground floor. I can see some kids messing around in the playground. I wish I was out there too. Kicking the football into the teachers. Beating them all at kiss-chase. I look at my shoes, at the scuffed black leather, at the mud that’s caked to the sides from the field. There’s a blade of grass still stuck to the inside of one of the mucky soles. I swing my legs. There’s a cut on my knee. It’s started to scab and it’s pink at the edges. I didn’t want a stupid plaster. I’m not a wuss, like Beth.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ I say, hissing like I’m spitting out feathers. ‘I want to go home.’
‘You’ve only just got here,’ the counsellor says. ‘Let’s try another question.’ She bites the top of her chewed-up pen. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
I shoot her a look. It’s my best look. A look designed to scare. I narrow my eyes. Glare through my fringe.
‘The car,’ I snap. It’s got to be that. Grown-ups always go nuts about fire. ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I didn’t burn it down.’ I know that’s not true, but it’s worth a shot. Sometimes it’s OK to lie. Sometimes, like every day. ‘Little white lies’ they’re called. They’re ace. They get you out of trouble.
‘Alvina, the head said he saw you do it.’
‘It wasn’t me, it was Beth.’ She raises an eyebrow. That’s not going to cut it. Beth is a suck-up teacher’s pet. She is Little Miss Perfect. ‘OK. Fine. So what if I did? That was last week anyway.’
I’d almost forgotten about it.
I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. It was a horrible rusty old car with peeling paint and an ugly shape. It looked like a four-year-old had built it. Nobody is going to miss it. Now he can buy a nice new one.
The counsellor sighs. She smells like soup, that gloopy stuff they serve in the canteen. I don’t trust that and I don’t trust her and I don’t eat anything green.
‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ she says.
I let out a growl like an angry cat. We’re going to be here all day. I’ll miss Round the Twist on TV. I need to plan my escape. I want to get up and run away, leave the school and never come back. Perhaps I could go and live in the playground in the village park?
‘The headmaster told me what you asked him . . .’
‘I didn’t ask him anything.’
‘He said you asked him to marry your mum. Is that why you set fire to his car?’
I hear a high-pitched humming noise: louder and louder and louder and LOUDER. It’s like a plane’s taking off in my head. I screw up my eyes
and cover my ears. But the noise is still there . . .
‘Alvina?’
I can still hear her voice. It’s smaller. Softer. It sounds like shouting underwater. Sometimes I like to hold my breath and sit down for as long as I can on the bottom of the swimming pool. The water is cold and you feel so alone. It’s like outer space. I open my eyes and shake my head. The sound’s still ringing in my ears.
‘Were you cross with the headmaster because he wouldn’t marry your mum?’
‘Mum didn’t want to marry him either.’
Urgh. He’s such a demon headmaster, just like that show on CBBC. I thought he was nice, but he’s not. I was wrong. He’s just like all the others. The caretaker. The gardener. Jenny Anthony’s step-dad . . .
‘Is everything all right at home? Do you miss your dad?’
I pick at the crusty bits that have formed round the edge of my new scab. I pull some off and feel the sting. A shiny blob of blood.
‘Let’s go back to sports day,’ she says.
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
I jump up. My hands ball into fists. I feel my heartbeat in my ears. I’m too hot in my wool cardigan. I tie it round my waist. Pull the arms in a tight knot.
‘Sit down, please. Have a biscuit,’ she says.
She pulls the lid off a metal tin that’s sitting on the coffee table. She offers me a digestive. Finally. I’m starving. I had been wondering what was in there. I thought it might be biscuits. I take three and then sit down. She puts the lid back on the tin so I can’t take any more. She pushes her glasses back up her nose and then she tries again.
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