Bad

by Chloé Esposito

‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?’ my mother says, removing her hat and handing it to me (the help?). It’s a straw hat with an unreasonably large brim and a fussy pink scarf tied round it.

  Why didn’t I kill her in Taormina? I should have waited until she arrived and popped a bullet between her eyes. Now she’ll ruin everything. Now she’ll want to talk . . .

  ‘Signora, allow me to present myself. My name is Domenico Osvaldo Mauro. I am a dear friend of your daughter’s. It is an unexpected pleasure to meet such an enchanting young lady.’ He reaches for my mother’s hand and brings it lightly to his lips. ‘Please, excuse my slovenly appearance; I have not had a chance to dress.’

  Wait a minute, young? Really?

  It looks like my mother is blushing, but it’s hard to tell under the make-up. She’s really plastered it on today; it’s like some kind of death mask.

  ‘Domenico, meet my mother, Mavis. Mavis, meet Domenico,’ I say.

  ‘Mavis? But what a beautiful name,’ Domenico says in shocked surprise.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  My mother reclaims her hand. ‘Oh? Thank you. It’s French for song thrush . . .’

  Erm, no. It isn’t.

  ‘Mum. So. It’s nice to see you. You didn’t tell me how you found me?’

  ‘No. I didn’t, did I? I must say this is most unusual. I want to know what’s going on.’

  She looks around for somewhere to sit and finds a moss-green armchair. She brushes off dust before sitting down and rearranging her skirt. She crosses her legs and looks up at me.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea? Or a glass of Champagne?’

  Her crested head is cocked to one side like an insolent cockatiel.

  ‘I don’t have any tea. Or Champagne. I’ve only just moved in,’ I say.

  ‘Well, what a way to treat a guest. Anyone would think you were raised in a barn.’

  My mother picks invisible fluff off the sleeve of her red jacket. ‘And I don’t suppose you have anything to eat. Never mind that I’m half starved.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ve just –’

  ‘And no, I don’t mean strawberry Pop-Tarts. You don’t know the hellish journey I’ve had, travelling up here from Taormina. All on my own with your orphaned nephew and no one to carry my bags. And now . . . and now . . .’ She gestures to me, then buries her face in her hands. ‘And now this.’

  I presume she means that I’m alive. She’s clearly disappointed.

  ‘Well, nobody asked you to come,’ I say. I look at Ernie dozing in my arms. ‘So . . . Mum, how did you find me?’

  ‘The police tracked your sister’s phone, of course,’ she says. (Shit, I should never have turned it on. I knew that was risky.) ‘Though why you have Elizabeth’s mobile is a mystery to me . . . The police will be here any minute. They’re just parking the car.’ She fixes me with a piercing stare. ‘You know your sister’s dead?’

  I stare back at my mum in silence.

  Domenico clears his throat. ‘We’ll . . . we’re going out,’ he says.

  Domenico walks towards the sofa. His thugs are manspreading all over it. Giuseppe’s mouth is open wide and drool dangles down from an unshaved chin. Riccardo’s half sprawled on the armchair, half on the living-room floor. Domenico kicks Riccardo in the shin. ‘Oi. Stronzo. Sveglia.’

  He smacks Giuseppe around the face. Golden rings and jagged knuckles.

  The men wake up and leap to their feet.

  ‘Che cazzo? Che cazzo?’ they say. They stand there rubbing their eyes and yawning.

  ‘Polizia,’ he says.

  Domenico turns towards my mother. ‘The pleasure, Mavis, was all mine. I hope we meet again sometime.’

  He actually fucking bows.

  I knew the cops would find me eventually. Shit, I’ve got to run. But I’ll look guilty if I leave. If they caught me, I’d be screwed. Perhaps they just want to ask me some questions? They think I can help them with the case. Those halfwits think Salvatore did it. I’m going to be OK. I’ll have to be Alvie now my mum’s here. I’ll play the part of the loyal twin. It would help if Domenico fucked off . . . One wrong word. A hint. A clue. He could blow everything up.

  There’s a sharp rap on the front door. Domenico goes pale. I roll my eyes and open it. Whatever. It’s too late. Two policemen stand in the hall. It’s Commissario Savastano and Commissario Grasso, the same two jokers I met in Taormina. They came to the house when Ambrogio died. I recognize them straight away.

  ‘Buongiorno, signora,’ say the cops.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ says Domenico.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ says Riccardo.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ says Giuseppe.

  ‘Chow, Chow, Chow,’ I say.

  ‘We were just leaving,’ Domenico says. He turns to the mobsters. ‘Andiamo.’

  The three of them squeeze past the policemen.

  ‘Arrivederci,’ says Domenico.

  I watch them disappear down the hall.

  The two policemen look at me.

  ‘Signora Elizabeth Caruso?’

  ‘No, it’s the other one,’ says my mum. She chokes on strangled tears. ‘Officers, this is Miss Alvina Knightly.’

  They look at me and frown.

  ‘And the body in Taormina?’ Savastano asks.

  ‘That was Elizabeth Caruso.’

  My mother sobs a noisy sob.

  Oh God, I wish I was dead.

  * * *

  *

  ‘I was in Taormina for one night only. My sister annoyed the hell out of me.’ (That bit’s true, at least.) ‘So I told her I had to go back to London. Something to do with work. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have lied, but I needed an excuse to leave. She was really, really doing my head in. My sister was a pain in the ass. Now I feel guilty, of course. I do.’ (I don’t. She was a cow.) ‘I told her I had to return to England, but instead I travelled around the island visiting all the famous sights. I even climbed to the top of Mount Etna; the views were sublime.’

  ‘Where did you sleep? In which hotels?’ asks Commissario Savastano. His pencil is poised to capture my answer on his spiral-bound pad.

  ‘I slept beneath the stars. The weather was warm and dry, so I didn’t mind.’

  My mother tuts. She totally buys it. She remembers the time I slept in that tree . . .

  ‘And then what did you do?’

  ‘I caught the ferry to the mainland on 30 August then took the train up here to Rome. I wanted to do some sightseeing before heading back to the UK. The Spanish Steps, the Vatican . . . Excuse me, but I’m very upset.’

  I hide my face in my hands. I heavy breathe a little bit. Make my shoulders heave. I peek up through a gap in my fingers. Ernie’s fussing in his cot. My mother is glaring at me. The officers sit opposite, scribbling something in their notebooks.

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ says my mother, narrowing her eyes. ‘Why do you have Elizabeth’s phone?’

  I shoot my mother a murderous look. She doesn’t seem to notice. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she and the cops were colluding to get me convicted for murder. Oh, no. Wait. They probably are.

  ‘Sì, sì. We’ll take the phone,’ says Grasso, reaching out his hand. ‘If you don’t mind, Signorina Knightly.’

  I reach into my Prada bag and retrieve my sister’s iPhone. I place it in his outstretched hand. I rack my brains. What’s on that phone? Is there anything incriminating? I think I covered my tracks pretty well. I used my new phone for texting Nino and all of those selfies in Prada.

  Commissario Savastano takes the phone and seals it in a see-through plastic bag.

  ‘My mobile broke, so Beth gave me hers. I guess she was nice sometimes . . .’

  The policemen nod. My mother frowns. She still can’t believe Beth’s the one they found.


  ‘But why did Beth call me when I was in Australia to tell me you were dead?’

  The policemen exchange puzzled glances. Shit. She’s right. Why did I do that? I didn’t want to leave loose ends and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I called my mum, pretending to be Beth, and told her that Alvie had popped her clogs. I said she’d died in the swimming pool. That bit is true, at least.

  Three pairs of eyes are fixed on me. Suddenly it’s way too hot.

  ‘Mum, I think you’ve misremembered.’ I place my hand on my mother’s hand. I make my voice go quiet. ‘Sometimes your brain plays tricks like that. It tells you what you want to believe when the truth is too . . . fucked up.’

  My mother retrieves her hand. She’s sobbing, howling now. I guess reality’s just sunk in. She’s fucking hysterical. That’s good. She looks proper mental. My story will stick.

  I hear Mr Bubbles’s laugh echo around inside my head.

  Commissario Savastano strokes his greying stubble.

  ‘So you were at the Carusos’ villa on the night of 26 August?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You can ask Emilia. She’s their nanny,’ I say.

  The policemen nod. They’ve already quizzed her.

  ‘Just one night?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say.

  ‘And while you were staying there, did you see or hear anything suspicious? Anything that might have alerted you to the fact that your sister was in danger?’

  ‘Um, well now, let me see . . .’ I furrow my brow. Pretend to think. Search the recesses of my brain. ‘I know she was fucking her next-door neighbour – Salvatore, I think he was called. Do you think that might have had something to do with it?’

  Nailed it.

  That was awesome.

  My mother lets out a high-pitched squawk, like a strangled parrot.

  ‘Ah yes, Salvatore Bottare.’

  ‘That’s him. That’s your guy,’ I say.

  ‘And you suspect this neighbour, Signor Bottare, might be guilty of the heinous crime?’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s him. I bet he did it.’

  He sighs. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Now all you have to do is find him.’ I try a winning smile.

  Savastano clears his throat. He takes a sip of water. ‘Signore Bottaro’s body was discovered last night. He was found in a wood outside Taormina, not far from Elizabeth.’

  I stare at the cop.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Salvatore is dead.’

  All the blood drains from my face. I’d wondered where Nino and Domenico had buried him. This is not going well.

  ‘You found Salvatore’s body?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Dead in a wood?’

  Beth’s hysterical in my head.

  ‘Shut it, bitch.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.’

  My mother frowns. I sweat.

  ‘We have reason to believe that the person or persons that murdered your sister also murdered Ambrogio Caruso and Salvatore Bottaro.’

  ‘Oh. Do you really think so?’

  I squirm in my seat.

  ‘And tell me, Signorina Knightly, did you hear anything about a painting? A Caravaggio?’ asks Grasso.

  I stare at the fraying carpet. My mother kicks my shin.

  ‘Alvina, the officer asked you a question.’

  ‘You’re losing it,’ says Beth.

  Shut up shut up shut up shut up.

  ‘Come again?’ I say.

  ‘Did you hear anything about a Caravaggio while you were staying at the villa?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. I don’t know what that is.’

  My mother rolls her eyes at me. ‘A Car-a-vag-gi-o,’ she says. She looks over at the cops. ‘She failed art.’

  The policemen look at one another. Click their pens and close their books. ‘Thank you, you have been very helpful.’

  I look up and nod. A broad smile spreads on my face.

  ‘Anything I can do to aid your investigation. Really, anything at all . . .’

  They get up. We shake hands. They leave.

  Whoop! Whoop! That was easy. I’m taking it all in my fucking stride. I’m a true professional. It’s almost like I’ve got nothing to hide. I kept it cool. I stayed on track. That was worthy of an Oscar. Even when they dropped that bombshell about finding Salvo’s body, I handled it with great aplomb. I barely even flinched.

  My mother walks over to me and narrows her eyes. ‘Wherever you go, disaster follows.’

  ‘Hey, Mum, don’t blame me. Wrong time, wrong place. That’s all.’

  ‘There’s more to this than you let on.’

  I reach down to pick up Ernie and tickle him beneath the chin.

  ‘No, there isn’t. Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’

  * * *

  *

  After the police have left and Mum has made herself at home, Domenico and his heavies come back.

  ‘All good,’ I mouth. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘What did the pigs want?’ asks Domenico.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s cool.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Domenico shakes his head.

  I double lock the door.

  He clears his throat. ‘Ahem.’ I jump. It’s an explosive sound: an AK47. ‘It would be my greatest honour, ladies, to take you out for dinner this evening.’

  Oh God. Please no. I roll my eyes. ‘Domenico, really. It’s fine.’

  Domenico’s looking at my mother. My mother is looking right back.

  ‘I know a charming little place on the Piazza Navona. It is, how you say, romantic. The view of Bernini’s magnificent fountain, La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, is simply incomparable.’

  ‘No. No, thank you,’ I say. I widen my eyes. I give him a look, but he doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t care. He’s gazing at Mum like she’s Marilyn Monroe or Helen of fucking Troy. Urgh. My mum is gazing back. What is going on? Domenico gets down on one knee like he’s going to propose.

  ‘When the moonlight kisses the marble skins of the gods of the four rivers you will feel the presence of the Almighty Himself. It is – come si dice? – divine.’ He kisses his fingers then makes a star. The star explodes into the air.

  ‘No. Just no. Just no,’ I say.

  My mother tucks an imaginary curl behind a pearl-encrusted ear, looks down at her feet – Ferragamo sandals – and bites her bottom lip.

  Domenico leans in a little closer and lowers his voice to an intimate tone. ‘I will personally ensure your taste buds are delighted by Rome’s most sumptuous delicacies: baccalà and zucchini flowers in the lightest batter, saltimbocca di vitello wrapped in sweet prosciutto, and rigatoni carbonara so exquisite you will weep.’

  ‘No way. Seriously. We’re not going.’

  Oh sweet Jesus, I think he’s flirting. That is beyond gross.

  ‘Maritozzi with whipped cream and candied orange peel. Tiramisu steeped in the finest Marsala . . .’

  ‘Well, I want to go, Alvina,’ my mother says, smoothing her skirt and shifting in her chair. ‘I’m really quite peckish. So that’s that.’ She picks up her handbag ready to leave. ‘Thank you, Domenico. That would be very nice.’

  Domenico shoots me a puzzled look. I can read his mind: Alvina? That’s not your name, is it? That’s the girl we buried.

  I clear my throat. ‘What about Ernie? He’s sleeping. He can’t go.’

  Phew. That has distracted them. But for how long? I’m screwed.

  Ernie’s asleep in the carrycot. He is snoring softly in and out. I watch his eyelids flutter. He’s content with dreams of milky breasts (or whatever it is that babies dream of; he’s a boy, so probably breasts).

  My m
other leans over and pulls up his cover, tucking it underneath his chin. ‘What kind of restaurant is it, Domenico? Will it be all right if we take the baby?’

  Domenico looks down at Ernesto then over at Riccardo and Giuseppe. They’re passed out on the couch again. They’re more like animals than humans. Like lions, they sleep a lot.

  ‘Non si preoccupi, signora,’ Domenico says with an almost imperceptible bow. ‘My men will be delighted to care for your grandson. You can enjoy a relaxing evening, unburdened by these responsibilities.’

  ‘Stronzi,’ growls Domenico. The mobsters wake up. ‘Watch the kid.’

  These guys? No. He’s got to be kidding.

  ‘Oh,’ says my mother. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘are you sure?’

  Riccardo gets up and looks at the baby like he’s not even sure what it is. Giuseppe gets up and scratches his arse, then frowns at Domenico.

  ‘But of course,’ says Domenico. ‘Mavis, you have nothing to fear. Now please excuse me while I get dressed . . .’

  I follow him towards the bedroom. ‘What about Dynamite?’ I say.

  ‘Domani. Tomorrow. Un po di pazienza.’

  He closes the door in my face.

  * * *

  *

  Domenico emerges from the bedroom. I do a double take. Is this the same guy? The cold-blooded killer? The thick-as-pig-shit mobster? I try to remember the first time I saw him in that wood in Sicily: sitting on the back of a pick-up, smoking a Cuban cigar. Torn overalls. Beat-up face. Dirt under his fingernails. The wrong side of overweight. He poured cement all over my sister. He said his brother had been ‘disembowelled’, which seriously grossed me out. And now here he is in a three-piece suit, looking as fly as a white Chris Eubank or Daniel Craig in Casino Royal. As slick as fucking Drake. Purple paisley necktie with a matching silk kerchief. Shoes so shiny he can see up your skirt. Where the hell did he get that bowler? Oh, that’s what was in the hatbox. (What is it with mobsters and millinery?)

  The apparel oft proclaims the man, but I guess in this case it’s lying.

  My mum gawks at Domenico. She looks like she’s about to come.

  ‘Andiamo, ladies. Let’s go,’ he says and opens the front door.