Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘Oggi, we need to speak Inglese,’ Alessandro says. ‘Signorina Knightly does not speak Italian. Va bene?’

  ‘Va bene,’ say the cops.

  This is going well.

  Alessandro sits at the head of the table in the cramped and over-bright room. A neon light flickers overhead. The three other cops are seated around us on the cheap office furniture, dressed in super-sleek blue suits. I guess they’re standard police uniforms, but they look like they’re hot off the runway of Armani’s latest show. Alessandro’s lapel has the most pins and badges. I guess that means that he’s the boss. He looks even hotter all showered and changed after our mega-sesh. He smells clean, like antiperspirant. I kick off my shoe and run my toes up and down his calf.

  ‘Signorina Knightly has kindly agreed to help us with our investigation into the murder of Rain Campbell –’

  ‘Dynamite,’ I say.

  ‘Pardon?’ He turns to me. All the other cops stare.

  ‘Dynamite?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter. That’s her mobster name.’

  ‘Miss Knightly is acquainted with the suspect, whom she informs us is named . . .’ He checks his pad. ‘Signor Giannino Maria Brusca.’

  ‘He’s called Nino,’ I interject. ‘The killer’s name is Nino . . . He’s in love with me.’

  Alessandro frowns. I smile at him. ‘OK, dear, carry on.’

  ‘The CCTV footage shows the suspect leaving La Piazza della Rotunda and walking to the Hotel Raphaël on Largo Febo. We have been surveying the exits to the building and believe he is currently inside.’

  I nod my head. This is all very serious. I do a solemn face . . . but inside I’m bursting with fireworks and sparklers; I think I’m about to ignite. Mwah ha ha. My plan is working. They are going to lead me straight to him. All I need is one minute alone; he’ll be chilli con carne, salami, pastrami, carpaccio de boeuf. It will be different to last time, when he nearly threw me in front of that train. This time I’ll have the upper hand. I’m calling the shots in this game.

  Alessandro takes something out of a bag and lays it flat on the wooden table. It’s a long black wire with a little black box and what looks like a microphone. He finds a roll of sticky tape and places it next to the black thing.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Miss Knightly,’ says the Disney prince, turning to me. ‘You will wear this wire under your clothes.’ He blushes. It’s really cute. ‘When you meet with Signor Nino you must act natural, normal. Begin a casual conversation. It’s imperative he does not suspect. You will have until 21.00 hours to elicit a confession. The suspect must admit that he fired the shots that killed Signorina Campbell. The moment the recording is complete my colleagues and I will apprehend him.’

  ‘No way. I’m not wearing that.’

  Alessandro whispers in my ear. ‘If you don’t wear it, the deal is off. You’ll be charged with illegal possession of a firearm . . .’

  ‘It’s an excellent plan,’ I say, jumping up and punching the table. ‘I love it. It’s ace.’

  ‘Why would he confess to you?’ asks one of the cops.

  ‘Like I said, he’s got a crush. He keeps on sending me red roses. Sexy texts. You know, he’s obsessed. But he’s really not my type.’ I wink at the Disney prince.

  Beth says, ‘Puh-lease. You’re obsessed.’

  ‘È chiaro?’ Alessandro asks, looking around.

  The men all nod their heads. ‘Sì, commissario.’

  My hand runs up his inner thigh. I massage him under the table. Alessandro swallows and closes his eyes. The Viagra hasn’t worn off. I reach up towards his crotch. Ooh, look, yes, here we go . . .

  I lean in and whisper in his ear. ‘If I do this, can I have my gun back?’

  ‘No.’

  I let him go.

  Alessandro picks up the wire and fiddles with a little switch. ‘Uno, due, uno, due,’ he says, testing the microphone.

  I grab the tape and pull up my top. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s do this.’

  * * *

  *

  ‘You will have ten minutes,’ Alessandro says, turning round in the front seat, ‘until we apprehend the suspect.’

  I nod. I’m sitting in the back seat, fidgeting, wriggling. I can feel the wire and the sticky tape stuck across my chest and stomach. It’s not very comfortable. It’s tickling, pulling on my skin, catching all the fine blonde hairs. It’s going to smart like a bitch when I rip it off.

  ‘It’s long enough to get a confession.’

  ‘Hmm, yeah, well. We’ll see.’

  ‘He has to admit that it was him who shot Signorina Rain Campbell.’

  ‘All right. OK. I get it,’ I say. ‘It isn’t rocket science.’

  Anyway, I just need a second to pull the pin in my grenade. I’ll kill Nino and these cops in one fell swoop. Then I’m free. I’m gone. I’ll throw it, then run in the other direction. I don’t want to blow myself up as well. It’s a shame about killing the Disney prince, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

  We’re in a convoy of unmarked cars driving fast through central Rome. We turn a corner then pull over on the Largo Febo outside Nino’s hotel. I peer out of my tinted window. Wow. The guy has taste. The Hotel Raphaël is covered in ivy; it’s a dark and luscious jungle-green with vivid purple flowers. It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen. No wonder he came here.

  The cops kill the engine. There’s a knot in my stomach. My shoulders tense. I set my jaw and stroke the hand grenade in my pocket.

  And now I’ll do it.

  It is fucking on.

  * * *

  *

  I stop dead in my tracks. There he is at the bar with his back to me. That’s his hair, black and glossy, slick and shiny as tar. And his worn leather jacket with studs on. I remember it well: the Marlboro Red smell. The silver bits glint in the lamplight. That’s his ass, no question, his taut, tight butt, it looks great in those dark suit trousers. One hundred per cent muscle, no trace of fat. I remember his glutes, the muscles in his back. The heat that rose from his skin like a furnace . . . It feels like yesterday. He’s standing, drinking alone, a short glass tumbler in his hand. It’s filled with something like whisky; the liquid’s a dark amber-gold. No ice. No straw. I wish I had cyanide. I’d slip some in there. I wonder what his last words will be. ‘I am justly killed with mine own treachery’?

  I check the time: 20.51. I’ve got nine minutes . . . shit.

  I stand up tall and walk over.

  ‘Hey, Nino,’ I say, like we’re chill. Like we haven’t spent the past week trying to kill each other. ‘You gonna buy me a drink?’

  If Nino is surprised to see me, he doesn’t let it show. He turns to me with a slight tilt of the head. ‘Betta,’ he says. ‘Ciao.’

  Oh my God, he’s gorgeous. Even better close up like this, life-size and Technicolor, definitely real, not a ghost. Or a fantasy. Or hallucination. His skin is dark with a five o’clock shadow. His eyes glint like onyx and flame.

  I see you, Dark Prince. Yes, you, big daddy. If he was on America’s Next Top Model, he would definitely win.

  Candles flicker on the bar, shadows dancing on polished mahogany.

  How can he look like an angel when he is Lucifer?

  Death is too good for this motherfucker. I’m going to blow him to hell.

  He turns back towards the bar and sets his glass down on the wood.

  ‘Un altro whisky,’ he says to the barman. That sandpaper voice. That coarse baritone. I haven’t heard it since the metro and his answerphone.

  ‘Actually, I’ll have a Malibu. A Malibu and Coke,’ I say.

  Nino turns and gives me a look.

  ‘Fat Coke,’ I say to the barman. ‘With ice and lemon. And a straw.’

  The barman nods. �
��Sì, certo.’

  ‘Un altro whisky,’ Nino says, pushing his empty glass across the bar.

  ‘Sì, Signor Nino. Prego.’

  We glare at one another.

  He’ll be mince beef, duck-liver pâté, fucking steak tartare.

  I have sworn’t.

  Wait and see.

  Nino downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass down hard. I study his scuffed-up nails, his blood-red signet ring.

  Nino sighs then turns to me. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yeah. You finally caught me.’

  I study the furrows that crease his brow, as deep and dark as the Grand Canyon. I read his poker face.

  ‘Yeah, well, you should be impressed. You fucked off with my car. My money. My clothes. I didn’t have any knickers for nearly a week. It’s amazing I found you at all.’

  I smooth the hand grenade in my pocket, finger the silver ring . . .

  Nino shakes his head. Shakes it off. Like Taylor Swift does in that song. Oh man, I miss her. I used to tweet her several times (at least) each day. But now I’m on the run I can’t do it. I hope she’ll remember me.

  He reaches for a pitted black olive in a little silver dish and skewers it with a cocktail stick. His hand isn’t even trembling. He’s beautiful from this angle. The angel of light. Beelzebub. Lord of the flies.

  ‘Betta,’ he says, ‘you’d have done the same thing. If you’d thought of it first.’ Yes, well, to be fair that is true. But damn it, that isn’t the point.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes you would.’

  I’m going to turn him to jam. Especially if he calls me Betta one more time. Goddamn. I am Alvie Knightly. Alvie Knightly for ever.

  He turns and looks me in the eye, calling bullshit on my lie.

  I hope he hasn’t spotted the wire underneath my clothes.

  ‘Your Malibu and Coke, signorina.’

  The barman sets my drink down on a black paper napkin. He’s served it in a Martini glass with a mini parasol. I pick up my drink and sniff it. Coconut. Cola. Bitter lemon. I take a sip through the straw.

  ‘It’s nice,’ I say. ‘You wanna try?’ He could do with sweetening up.

  ‘Un altro whisky, Signor Nino,’ the barman says, setting down his drink. ‘Con i nostri complimenti.’

  Nino nods and picks up his glass. I watch him as he swallows: his angular jaw, his Adam’s apple, the short black stubble on his throat. He reaches for another olive.

  Doesn’t he know he’s about to die?

  This is it, his last supper.

  We make eye contact for a second. He’s the first to look away.

  ‘Where’s my suitcase with my money?’ (Good to know before I kill him.)

  ‘Domenico took it. And the car.’

  ‘What?’ No way. He’s lying. ‘The money’s gone?’

  ‘Sì,’ he says.

  ‘All of it?’

  He nods.

  I am going to fuck him up.

  ‘No, I don’t believe it.’

  Nino turns and looks at me as though seeing me for the very first time.

  ‘But . . . what have you done to yourself?’

  He takes my hand and pulls me towards him, takes my face into his hands. His lips are so close I can almost taste him. I look into his eyes. He cups my chin and frowns.

  ‘I had a nose job,’ I say.

  ‘I liked you better before.’

  ‘You did?’ WTF? He’s definitely lying.

  ‘Betta, you didn’t need to do this. I like you just the way you are.’

  Nino looks hurt, almost offended.

  The way I am? Like Colin Firth/Mr Darcy? Who the hell is he? Timbaland?

  ‘I didn’t do it for you, you knob. This is my master disguise.’

  He strokes my cheek.

  I don’t care what he thinks. But – hang on a minute – maybe I do. Now that he’s touching me, I really want him. I’m getting hot just standing here. I want to take him straight to bed. I want this shit to get triple-X-rated. I’m sure everything he just said is bullshit, but you know what? He’s trying.

  I want to have one final shag before I blow his brains out.

  ‘Did you sleep with anyone?’ he says. ‘While we were on a break?’

  ‘I wasn’t on a break,’ I say.

  ‘I was.’

  What the fuck? Now he’s Ross from Friends?

  ‘Well, I was not. Did you sleep with anyone?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Did you?’

  ‘No. Maybe. A woman.’

  Alessandro doesn’t count. That was business, not pleasure.

  ‘You slept with a woman?’ he says. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Nice? Nice? She was better than nice. The one you shot. She was gorgeous.’

  I think of the cops who are listening to our final conversation. We’ve gone off on a bit of a tangent, not that I give a shit. I get a twinge of something – what is it, apprehension? regret? – deep down in my stomach. I know what it is: dread. I don’t want to kill those policemen. They haven’t done anything wrong. If anything, they have helped me. I think about the nun.

  ‘I’m glad you caught me,’ he says.

  I glare at him. He’s on thin ice . . . I grip the bomb and hold it tight.

  ‘Hurry up, Alvie,’ says Beth in my head. ‘Pull the goddamn ring.’

  ‘I left you the diamonds. Did you get the flowers?’ Nino says, his hands round my waist.

  ‘What? Did you miss me?’ I doubt it.

  He turns away. He picks up his glass, then he puts it down again. ‘Didn’t you get my note? The card? Of course I missed you,’ he says.

  God. This guy. He’s such a head-fuck. Why do guys mess with your mind like that? He’s hot then he’s cold. It’s off then it’s on. Up then down again.

  ‘You said you wanted to work with me.’

  Oh yeah, I did say that.

  ‘I know I said it was a bad idea. But then . . . I thought about it.’

  ‘Oh, you did?’ I say.

  ‘I thought to myself, you know, this girl, she is really something. She’s got potential. Maybe it could work.’

  My heart stops beating in my chest. My lungs forget to breathe.

  What the hell is he talking about?

  ‘Like Mr and Mrs Smith?’

  ‘But you were so green; I had to test you. And, like I said, I’m impressed you caught me. I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘Test me?’

  How dare he? The fucking nerve.

  Beth laughs.

  I clench my jaw. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I am going to lose it. But then it hits me like a double-decker: ever since school, no, scratch that, kindergarten, guys act mean when they really like you. Oh my God, Nino’s in love. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I am too? (It’s a thin line between love and blowing someone up with a hand grenade.)

  Right. That’s it. I’ve been an idiot. Who am I kidding? I can’t kill him. Not now. I’ll give him a chance . . . I’ll save his life. But if he screws up one more time, he is Pedigree Chum.

  I grab my phone and check the time. It’s already 20.59. I have one minute before the cops storm in. What am I going to do? I picture them all in my mind’s eye, waiting, armed, out in the hall. Guns at the ready. Ready to shoot. They’ll come in here and arrest him. I may never see him again. We don’t have time for this conversation. Talking was never part of the plan. I was just supposed to get his confession. I was going to blow him to shreds.

  ‘What are you doing?’ says Beth. ‘Why aren’t you killing him?’

  Shut up, Beth. I know what I’m doing. Whose side are you on anyway?

  ‘Your side, Alvie. I know you killed me, but you’re still my sister. And this is it
. Your chance to get even. You have been through hell this week, but finally you did it. You’ve outsmarted him. I refuse to sit back and watch you throw it all away.’

  Oh man. What if she’s right?

  It cannot be but I am pigeon-livered and lack gall.

  Urgh. You can fuck off, Hamlet.

  No. I’m not listening to either of them. I’m going to rescue him.

  I reach up under my top and flick the switch on the wire. I hear the click as the line goes dead.

  ‘Nino,’ I say, leaning towards him. ‘Listen, do you trust me?’

  He pauses.

  ‘OK. Fine. Whatever. We can discuss that later. But right now . . . we have to go.’ I scan the bar. ‘Is there another way out of here? Apart from through that door?’

  ‘Sì. Sì. The roof terrace.’

  He gestures towards the French windows; they lead out to a rooftop bar: palm trees and wrought-iron tables. A killer view of central Rome.

  ‘OK. Great.’ I down my drink. ‘Now you come with me.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just trust me,’ I say. I lean in and kiss him. His warm lips, his hot tongue.

  All of this danger is turning me on. Fuck, I really want him.

  I take his hand and look into his eyes. ‘Ready? Follow me.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nino and I burst through the French windows and out on to the roof terrace.

  ‘The cops,’ I say. ‘We gotta run.’

  But it’s too late. They’re coming.

  I hear gunshots blast behind us. The stench of gunpowder, fear.

  KA-POW. KA-POW.

  ‘Move,’ I say.

  I grab Nino’s hand again and pull him. We fly across the patio. Jump down to a lower terrace then scale an iron fence.

  KA-POW.

  ‘BETTA, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?’

  I can’t hear him. I read his lips. The blasts are deafening. I can only hear a tinny sound like static or white noise.