I sigh. Ace. He wants to talk. He wants to make friends. Let’s be pen pals.
‘I’ve been to Pompeii, Milan, Taormina.’
Probably shouldn’t mention Taormina . . .
‘How wonderful. I love Sicily. And where have you been in Rome?’
I stifle a yawn. I wish he’d shut up. I want to catch up on some sleep.
‘The Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the River Tiber . . .’
‘You must visit the Vatican City. It’s the most beautiful place in Rome.’
‘It’s not in Rome,’ I say. ‘It’s a city state surrounded by Rome.’ You’d think a Catholic priest would know that.
‘I’m going there now; I’ll take you,’ he says. ‘I just got changed for work.’
We drive through the dusty streets. I try my best to fall asleep, but the priest carries on talking. After a really, really long time we arrive at the Vatican City.
‘This is me,’ says the priest. ‘That’s St Peter’s Basilica. It’s going to be busy today. We’re just in time for mass.’
I sigh and get out of the car. I didn’t want to come here at all, I wanted to go to Trastevere. Hundreds of people file into a piazza. There’s an obelisk in the centre. I recognize it from Angels & Demons; that’s where the helicopter was. I liked it when the sky exploded. That was an awesome scene.
He bleeps his key and the lights flash once to show that the Lancia’s locked.
‘And you won’t tell anyone about this?’ He fixes his eyes on mine and bites his bottom lip.
‘Who am I gonna tell? The pope?’
I don’t even know his name.
He nods. He seems relieved. Convinced. He lets out a sigh.
‘Since you saved my life,’ he says. ‘I’m going to do you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I say. ‘What’s that then? Save me?’ I don’t want to be baptized . . .
‘I’ll sneak you inside past the queue. You need to see St Peter’s.’
‘No. It’s fine. Really. I’m Jewish.’
‘I absolutely insist.’
Chapter Twenty
St Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City
We wander on to something called the Piazza di San Pietro. I take an obligatory selfie, but my heart’s not really in it. The square is round and circular. I guess it’s not really a square (it’s a circle). Long, straight, geometric lines dissect the tiled floor. Standing at one end of the square is a massive show-off church. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. It’s a ‘basilica’. The dome is tall and wide and round and towers over everything. Along the top of the facade are dozens of life-like statues. Perhaps they’re saints or favourite popes? I can’t tell from down here. I follow the priest across the piazza and towards St Peter’s.
I’m knackered from a crap night’s sleep in that Oompa-Loompa car. My sunburn stings. I’m dehydrated. I accidentally killed a nun. I’m no closer to finding Nino. This whole thing’s a fucking mess. I look around at all the people. Tourists everywhere. What am I even doing here? I feel like lying on the ground and bawling my eyes out. I want to crawl into a corner and die. But there aren’t any corners in this square, because it’s a fucking circle.
A friendly-looking nun passes by. It’s not the same one as before (not the dead one, obviously, or the other one from the convent). She smiles at me for no reason. What is her problem? What does she want? Why is she so happy?
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
I learnt that the hard way from Nino.
I follow the priest up a flight of steps and through an enormous bronze door.
‘You’re going to love it,’ he says.
Inside, St Peter’s is filling up. It smells of incense and tourists, and thousands of tiny candles burn in rows on metal tables. The air is cool and damp and I shiver. I wish I had a cape like that priest. Capes are big this season in Rome. It must be a hot new trend. I look up at the man standing at the altar. Who is that? The pope? He is also wearing a cape and long flowing robes like Gandalf. I should have got a leather cape the other day in Prada. I’ll have to go back and buy one soon. I need a new bag anyway.
‘So, what do you think? Magnificent?’
‘Yeah. Shalom. Mazel tov.’
I crane my neck and stare up at the ceiling. Dazzling shafts of light shine down in columns of pure bright white. Everything’s covered in glittering gold. There are sculptures of cherubs and Jesus. I’m blinded by something behind the altar: a majestic, golden sun. The enormous church is crowded and bustling with hundreds, no thousands, of people. The pope (?) is saying mass in Italian. Or possibly Latin. I don’t know.
‘Now remember our little secret,’ the priest says. ‘God be with you. Ciao.’
He gives me a cheery wave then heads off down the aisle.
I flop down on the nearest pew. I hold my head in my hands. Oh my God, this is beyond shit. Where did it all go so wrong? Just last week, it had all looked so promising. I was on the run with my sexy new boyfriend, a fucking Brad Pitt lookalike, and as far as I knew we were soulmates (so what if he didn’t know my name). We were on top of the world. I’d found my true calling. My dream job. We’d managed to escape the mob and hide out at the Ritz Hotel. We had diamonds and a Lamborghini, a suitcase filled with fuck-you money. But now it’s all gone and what have I got?
‘You’ve got me,’ says Beth.
Alvie, seriously, sort yourself out. Pull yourself together.
Enough of this shit. Absinthe? Hookers? Fucking forest fires? It is but foolery. Girl, you’ve got work to do. Vengeance. Nino. Come on, focus. A little discipline. I’ll go and find this Dynamite. That’s my sure-fire route to Nino. But how? It’s not a real name. It’s not like I can look him up in a directory or a phone book. And Radio Londra will be closed right now, so there’s no point going there. I’ll have to go and steal Nino’s phone from Domenico. If I can get my hands on the phone, then I can find Dynamite’s number and set up a meeting. That’s going to be easier said than done. But I’ll do it. I have to. I do. Perhaps I could steal Domenico’s gun? While I’m nicking the mobile phone. And then I’ll go and catch that stronzo. Yes, yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get my shit together.
But what if Dynamite’s a red herring? A false lead? A lame duck? How am I going to find Nino then? And how am I going to steal from a mobster with two fucking bodyguards? No, this is ridiculous. I’m beginning to give up. I have of late . . . lost all my mirth. It’s so unfair. Why me? I feel like I am on a wild-goose chase. I am running on a treadmill, but never getting there.
I scan the crowd. People are praying, hands together, eyes closed. They’re kneeling on red-leather cushions, their heads all bowed down low. They’re whispering something. You know what? I’ll give it a go. There’s a first time for everything. And I’m desperate. I need God on my side pronto. I think I can officially say that I have hit rock fucking bottom. What have I got to lose?
I grab the little leather pillow hanging from a hook on the bench. I kneel down, close my eyes and press my palms together:
Dear God, please help me:
I need to find Nino. Right
Now would be quite nice.
I wait a bit for the prayer to sink in, then open one eye and look around.
NINO? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
It’s him. Did my haiku prayer work?
Nino is praying two rows in front. I recognize the back of his head. He turns his face to the side and – yes – that’s him. (I think. Perhaps.) What the hell is he doing here? Oh yeah, he’s really religious. He has that tattoo of the Madonna inked all over his back. A picture of Jesus was taped to his dashboard. The guy’s a devoted Catholic. Of course he’s here when he’s in town. It’s bloody obvious.
I push past the people praying on my pew and sprint down the aisle towards Nino. Cheers, God, you absolute boss. I promise to be good from now on. I mean it. P
inkie promise. I reach the end of Nino’s row, but . . . he seems to have vanished. I scan the crowds for his slick black hair, his chiselled chin, his handsome face, the long, pink scar on his right cheek . . .
‘NINO. WHERE ARE YOU?’
I spot a worn black leather jacket making its way towards the door. The man turns and looks over his shoulder. Is that a horseshoe moustache? People are staring, tut-tutting at me. You’re not supposed to shout in church. Or run. Or swear.
‘Fucking hell.’
I sprint back down the crowded aisle, my body hot with perspiration, sweat beads prickling my brow. There are shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. The pope (?) stops talking and stares at me.
I swirl like a whirling dervish. ‘RAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAGGGGHHHH.’
I push through the door. Is this some kind of miracle? I’m sure he wasn’t here before. He appeared as if by magic. I swear I’m converting. This shit is real. It’s a revelation. I scan the circle/square below. There. Over by that fountain? I sprint across the busy piazza, zigzagging like an autumn wasp. I can’t believe God answered my prayers. I should never have doubted Her.
A guy in a black leather jacket . . .
I hurry over.
It’s not him.
But . . . Oh man, where has he gone?
‘Nino?’ I say.
I stand in the middle of the piazza, but I can’t see him. He’s disappeared. Was he real? Or an apparition brought on by stress and sleep-deprivation? Was that my ex? Am I going nuts?
I let out a blood-curdling scream. ‘I HAVE HAD ENOUGH.’
Next time, I’ll get him. I’ll get him. I will . . .
I slump down on the tiles, my head flops in my hands.
Why, what an ass am I!
Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ I look up and see a nun. ‘Did you have a religious experience?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m in ecstasy.’
‘It happens all the time.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Trastevere, Rome, Italy
‘How the fuck did you get in here?’
The mobsters are in my apartment. They’re sitting in my lounge playing cards and drinking Italian beer.
‘Elizabeth, the door was open.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
Domenico shrugs.
‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I’m not working with Nino.’
He looks up at me and glares.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I want him dead. Same as you do. See?’
I show him the tattoo on my bum.
‘Die Nemo?’ Domenico says.
‘Yeah. Well. That’s just a typo. I swear, we’re on the same team.’
I glance around my living room. Empty cans of Nastro Azzurro. An ashtray filled with cigar butts. It looks like they’ve been here a while. I guess they were waiting for me.
‘I saw Nino at the Vatican.’
Domenico frowns. ‘You sure it was him?’
‘Yes, I think so. But, actually, no. I’m not sure. Might have been.’
Domenico gets back to the card game. ‘Scopa,’ he says.
He wins.
‘I want to meet this Dynamite.’ Fuck it, perhaps we can visit together.
Domenico nods. ‘Sì.’
I spot a vase of tall red roses standing on the coffee table. They definitely weren’t there before. Oh God. What does this mean?
‘Domenico, did you buy me flowers?’
Domenico looks at the bouquet of roses. ‘No, why would I do that?’
‘I have no idea.’
I glance at Riccardo and Giuseppe. Blank faces. It wasn’t them.
‘Shit . . . I think Nino’s been here. Domenico, was the door really open?’
‘That is what I said.’
I check the vase for a note or a card, but there’s nothing. Roses. Red roses again, just like at the Ritz.
‘The flowers, I know it. They’re from him.’
Aww, bless. That’s really sweet . . .
No, Alvie, don’t fall for it. It’s only because he’s feeling guilty.
And so he should. The twat.
Or – more likely knowing him – are they intended as a threat? I study the crimson blooms. The thorns on those stems look sharp.
Domenico shakes his ugly head. ‘Why would Nino buy you flowers?’
‘I told you already. He’s got a crush . . . Shit, that means he knows where I live.’ Was he following me? Did he track my phone? But that’s impossible. ‘What if he’s still here?’
Domenico downs the rest of his beer and slams the bottle on the table. Riccardo and Giuseppe exchange glances.
I say, ‘We gotta search the flat.’
Domenico pulls out his gun and I follow just behind. I’m ready with my killer move. I’ll knee him in the balls. We burst out of the lounge and into the bedroom. I wish I had Domenico’s gun. We check the kitchen, bathroom, study. He isn’t in the guest bedroom or any of the cupboards. He isn’t hiding in the attic or underneath the bed. We search the flat from top to bottom.
‘He isn’t fucking here.’
‘Minchia,’ says Domenico.
‘Stronzo,’ I say.
Domenico sits down again. I shake my head and sigh. I’m feeling beyond gross. All sticky. Smoky from that forest fire and I’ve still got Durex Play all stuck in my hair.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I say. ‘Then let’s get out of here.’
* * *
*
I walk into the living room in my double leather. I’m washed. I’m dressed. I’m ready for action. I’m pumped. I’m fucking psyched. The mobsters are snoozing on the sofa.
There’s a knock at the door.
Oh no. Who’s that? The fucking police? Not Nino, he never knocks.
Domenico’s hand is on his gun.
‘Wait a minute,’ I say under my breath. ‘That could be anyone.’
His body tenses. His shoulders raise. There’s a grim look on his brutish face. Have the cops come to bust me for the murder of my sister? For Ambrogio? That mugger? The nun? I take a deep breath.
‘I’m coming,’ I say. ‘Just give me a sec.’
Domenico dives into the bedroom, out of sight. Good idea.
I smooth my hair down. Bite my lip. Fiddle with the double lock. The key clinks up against the metal. My hands are trembling, fingers fumbling. My palms are slippery with sweat. The door swings open to reveal . . . my mother with Ernie in his carrycot.
My jaw falls open and hits the floor. How the hell did she get here? Is this some kind of bad joke? Mum and I have always got on like a house on fire. Oh no, that’s not it . . . I want to set her house on fire. This is worse than the police. I’d rather go to jail.
‘Alvina?’ says my mother.
She covers her mouth with both her hands. Devastation all over her face. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost and, in a way, she has.
Shit, this could get really awkward. My mum’s the only one who can tell us apart. She always knew, no matter what. It’s almost as if she could smell it. Ronnie and Reggie. Jekyll and Hyde. The man in the iron mask . . . Well, I guess that settles it then. I’m going to have to be Alvie from now on. There’s no way my mum would keep this a secret. It’s written all over her face.
‘Actually, Mum, I go by Beyoncé. That’s my name these days.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ she says.
My mother has a high-pitched voice. An Australian accent. It jumps between EastEnders and Neighbours like it can’t decide where it belongs. She’s spent the last ten years in Oz, where all the poisonous creatures live. I’d hoped she might stay there for good. But, oh no, here she is. She pulls lace gloves off, finger by finger, then folds them up and pops them into her pocket. She’s wearing a stiff crimso
n skirt suit, sun hat and 15-denier tights. The kind of thing Theresa May might wear while saying something really annoying.
‘Mum? What? But how did you find me?’
‘It wasn’t that hard. You’re not a yeti.’
No, I’m the Loch Ness Monster.
‘I thought . . . I thought.’ She stifles a sob. ‘I thought Beth was alive.’
A single tear streams down her face. She wipes it away with a finger.
I look at Ernie in his cot; he’s mine. I don’t want her to have him. I pick him up and give him a hug.
‘Ma ma ma,’ he says.
‘Hello, piglet,’ I say and stroke his soft, pink, chubby cheek. Now that I’ve finally got him back, I’m not letting him go again. I look into his big blue eyes. ‘So, baby, did you miss me?’
My mum pushes past me, letting herself in. There’s a bitter stench of Elnett. She always uses too much hairspray; her head is highly flammable (useful). Coriander. Tuberose. Lashings of opoponax. A chemical bomb/Dior Poison, her signature insect repellent. She puts the carrycot on the ground and examines the mess in my new flat. She eyes the thugs sprawled on the sofa. Then she seems to see my nose for the very first time.
‘Oh,’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘You look . . . odd. Have you put on weight?’
‘It’s great to see you too.’
She spins me round and checks out my bum.
‘What on earth have you been eating?’ She shakes her head and tuts. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Pringles are not a staple diet.’
Ernie does a little burp and then spits up on me. I wipe it off with my shirt.
Riccardo and Giuseppe yawn and stretch out on the leather sofa. Muddy boots and messed-up slacks, dirty, grimy faces. My mother crinkles up her nose, then crosses her arms and waits.
For what?
We stare each other out.
Domenico reappears from out of the bedroom. He blinks and studies my mother as though she were an exotic bird. A bird of paradise, perhaps? A glossy-mantled manucode or ribbon-tailed astrapia? Only I know she’s an albatross. A bad omen. An evil curse. You’re not supposed to kill them.
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