Deadly Sins

by Laura Read

  Then she discovered a new her: the loner, alone despite a man being inside her. A sobering darkness crept around her heart; memories were tumours she wasn’t able to remove or forget. She wanted to escape, be truly alone, rinse out the tears her heart had absorbed over the years, get away from the stranger’s smothering embrace.

  The longer she lay in his arms, the longer the suspicion swelled that she would never know what it is to find someone to love. She wanted to connect with a man who owned a gaze she wouldn’t just vaguely remember but which seemed inexplicably familiar, as if his face belonged to her, he’d seen her naked before and her vulnerability didn’t matter.

  Yet the further she went with someone, the further away she got from herself. Intimacy was an assassin disguised as a friend, but she would forget this lesson the next time she chose to drink and seduce another stranger.

  The empty church provided neutral territory away from her family, the familiarity of home and the memories it conjured. Here she prayed for love, that someone was out there to offer her permanent escape from her life.

  The sound of measured footsteps on the parquet floor dispersed her thoughts. Rain rasped against the slates on the old roof, sand trickling through an hourglass. Stone columns, grey for a hint of rose, arched their backs as they leant against each other for support, looming skywards towards the united arms of wooden beams. Light pooled from dirty stained-glass windows; white candles flung their shadows across the walls. The thick taste of incense clung to the back of her throat like cigarette smoke exhaled from a lover’s kiss.

  A pristine white cloth covered the mahogany altar, the nativity scene carved across the front panel. Sightless characters surrounded the new-born babe. Above hung a golden crucifix, the tortured man with matted hair clinging to his face and crown of thorns slicing his scalp, skin bare to the elements, a ripped loin cloth hanging from his skeletal hips. His eyes conveyed deep sorrow as he wept for mankind, knowing the world had betrayed him.

  The footsteps grew louder and Angela turned to see a man stride purposefully down the aisle towards her. His face was etched with stubble and pierced by cobalt eyes, determined and focused. Raindrops laced together across his leather jacket and his scuffed boots trailed mud. With a tanned hand he brushed dark hair from his face.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ he whispered, sliding across the bench to sit next to her, staring at the crucifix in front of them. His voice was deep, calm yet firm. His question didn’t mock Angela for being in the church, but instead he seemed interested in her answer, which surprised her.

  Cautious not to reveal too much until he revealed his identity, Angela slowly turned her answer over in her mind before replying, ‘It depends on my mood.’

  The stranger smiled, turning to look at her. ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘You didn’t introduce yourself.’

  ‘Sean McBride… Detective Sergeant McBride, although you can call me Sean,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Angela froze, not through fear but shock. Her first impression was not that he held the superiority complex common amongst those in the force: to tread on those who didn’t bow down and acknowledge him as a deity dressed in blue.

  ‘I guess you already know who I am then,’ she said, scowling and not accepting his proffered hand. ‘And you’ll also know that this conversation won’t continue without my lawyer.’

  She stood up and turned to walk away from him, but he grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her back down on the bench.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think –?’

  ‘Shut up and listen to me,’ Sean said angrily.

  Angela felt anger coursing through her head. She didn’t like being ordered around and held disdain for anyone who barked out orders without showing her any kind of respect. Fury overpowering reason, she pulled her arm free from Sean’s grasp and, before he could react, punched him, aiming for where his nose met his cheek.

  Her fist connected, her aim true and hard, and Sean grunted in pain, hands flying up to clutch his bleeding nose. Again she stood to leave, in her head cursing at herself for not thinking before she hit a cop, but Sean seized her from behind and wrestled her onto the bench. He twisted one of her arms behind her back and pressed her face against the varnished wood. She felt his blood drip onto the nape of her neck.

  She started writhing, trying to get free. In response, Sean twisted her arm until she cried out in pain and stopped moving beneath him.

  She lay still to get her breath back. ‘What do you want?’ she yelled angrily.

  ‘A little cooperation might be nice,’ muttered Sean through gritted teeth, changing his position to handcuff her to the pew.

  ‘You’re arresting me?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘I’m going to sue you into the ground for police brutality.’

  ‘I’m not arresting you. I handcuffed you so you’ll stay here and listen to me.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you have to say. And if you don’t undo these cuffs I’m going to scream until someone comes and makes you.’

  Sean clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘You’re one hell of a stupid, arrogant bitch.’

  Angela began struggling again, screaming into his hand.

  ‘Jesus! Five fucking minutes? What I’ve got to say will benefit us both.’

  Angela went still, intrigue grabbing her attention. She thrust her head roughly against the force of Sean’s grip to indicate her silence if he let her go. He took his hand slowly off her mouth, palm smeared with red lipstick.

  ‘What do you want?’ Angela repeated, shrugging his hand off her shoulder and searching in her pocket for a tissue to wipe away her smeared lipstick.

  Sean sighed. ‘A man named Dominic Vittoriani used to be in charge of your family’s security. That is until he went missing, rather conveniently after the double homicide and suicide in Febrile a week ago.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me? He’s not “missing”. He’s probably lying in a gutter somewhere, drowning his sorrows because he was fired. He screwed up the security that night and was partly responsible for my brother being killed.’

  Sean laughed. ‘We both know that’s not true.’

  Angela glared at him. ‘I don’t know where Dominic is. Why would I?’

  ‘Rumour has it you two got very close the last couple of months before he disappeared.’

  ‘We had sex a couple of times. It wasn’t a relationship.’

  ‘A man either follows his genes or his dick when he wants to disappear. Have you seen him at all this last week?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him since the night my brother died… You know, this little chat isn’t of any benefit to me so far.’

  ‘Well, be fucking patient. You know the reason you haven’t seen Dominic? He washed up on the riverbank yesterday morning. Or at least pieces of him, stinking, wrapped up in black bin liners. Divers found an arm, a torso, two thighs and his head. His face was mutilated, his jaw and teeth smashed in, fingertips burnt off, as were his tattoos. All so we couldn’t identify him… But can you guess how we managed to identify him in the end?’

  Angela’s face turned pale, although she remained composed, coolly replying, ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘His wife filed a missing person’s report. You know he had a wife when you were fucking him? I know you’re a cold-hearted bitch, so you probably didn’t care. In the section where you mention the identifying features your nearest and dearest has, she referred to his tattoos but also six tiny freckles on his back in the shape of a cross. Whoever tried to strip him of his identity didn’t notice the freckles. You wouldn’t unless you were close to him, would you?’

  Angela tried to recall whether Dom had any freckles on his back, wondering whether Sean was trying to trick her, but her thoughts didn’t show on her face. ‘What’s this got to do with me? I don’t want to stick around for your descriptions of Dom’s dead body and your theories about who killed him.’

  Sean shook his head at Angela’s callousness, wonderi
ng how anybody could be so cold towards someone they shared a bed with for two months. ‘Well, I got called into a meeting yesterday and found out what my next assignment would be. Turns out I’m going to be applying for a job at Febrile, I’m going to get the job, and then I’ll start working undercover so I can tap the Balanescu family and see whether they were behind the hit on Dom.’

  Angela stared at Sean then started to laugh uncontrollably. ‘This is a joke, right? Why are you telling me this? There’s no way you’ll get a job with us – you’re a cop, a fucking crazy cop!’

  ‘Look, the police are always trying to infiltrate organised crime families. No matter what the cost, they want to bring your family down and will try to find any means they can to destroy you. I am merely one of those means: a way in for them. Think of all the things I’d have overheard if I was working at the club the night Joe was killed.’

  He paused and looked at Angela for a response, but she gave nothing away. He continued, ‘Even if I don’t succeed in getting the job, they’ll just find another way to bring down your family. If you allow me to work with you, for you, we’ll mutually benefit. You’ll be able to control exactly what and how much the cops know about your family, and I won’t be in any danger from being found out and killed by your father and his men... Oh, and I’ll be charging a small fee for my services, of course.’

  Angela smirked. ‘Of course!’

  ‘So we have a deal?’

  ‘No,’ Angela stated simply. ‘It’s not up to me whether you’ll get the job, which you know already. It’s up to my father. You should know though, if I was the one to decide whether to work with you, I wouldn’t want to. I’d kill myself before I ever trusted a pig.’ She stood up and gestured at him to uncuff her.

  Sean glanced up at her from his seat, wondering why the look in her eyes felt so cold. ‘You’re not capable of trusting anyone. That’s why you’re not allowed to make decisions without consulting daddy first.’ Angela scowled at him as he stood and unfastened her handcuffs. ‘Here, take my card. Call me when your father reaches his decision.’

  ‘Trust me, when he does, he won’t let you know over the phone,’ Angela replied, taking the card and walking towards the door. She turned before exiting the church and looked at Sean. ‘And the reason I can’t make this call myself isn’t because I don’t trust anyone. It’s because my father doesn’t.’

  The cold breeze of the early evening hit Angela as she walked out of the church and past the empty schoolyard.

  4

  Burial

  Distorted shadows from the arms of bare trees interlaced across the asphalt ground. The procession followed the shimmering black road, sparse yellow grass suppressed by dead brown leaves coating the roadside.

  The cars passed thousands of headstones. Graves lay neglected, a mere few tended by the loved ones of the deceased. Over time, the vivid memories of the dead faded, or those who once visited the cemetery now too resided beneath the earth, only angels and saints upon ancient crypts to watch over them with their lifeless eyes.

  Dirt flew up in dusty clouds as the cars pulled off the road, tyres crunching over the gravelled car park. Angela looked out of the tinted window onto the barren landscape in want of escape, staring at the curled petals of dying flowers lying on row after row of graves.

  Her parents sat across from her, Leon attempting to comfort Isabella and stifle her wracking sobs. He sat awkwardly, donned in a simple black suit and starched shirt. His eyes focused on an imaginary scene wherein he might be of more use than trying to console his wife, who blamed him for their son’s death.

  The old woman’s stature crumpled with emotion. Wrinkles and tawny liver spots graced her once flawless skin. An obsidian hairpiece swept her withered grey hair back; a few strands fell across her face in the throes of grief. A thin silk shawl and black chiffon dress shrouded her body.

  Over the years her faint blue eyes sank further into her face, little by little: desolate islands viewed through the lens of a spyglass. She seemed lost, hoping at any moment her son would show up alive and her ordeal would be over. Life was never so simple when it came to the finality of death.

  Vincent sat next to Angela in a charcoal suit, his customary silence contrasting with Isabella’s distraught state. For the moment he was Angela’s competition but she imagined soon her father would overlook her and choose Vincent to assume Joe’s old responsibilities. The same family arguments brewed beneath the surface.

  Unspoken politics, the late-day heat and Isabella’s crying made the journey from the church to the cemetery unbearable. Angela was glad to step out of the limousine into the cooler air. She walked a few paces then took off her jacket and smoothed down the crinkles in her long dress. Draping the jacket over her arm, she was glad of something into which she could claw her fingernails to express her anguish. She wanted to grieve in private, not show her vulnerability to her family and father’s friends.

  Their party made its way towards the priest standing with his head bowed beside the open grave, where Joseph and Tracy Balanescu would be buried together, a final slight against Tracy. Her crimes were blamed on her poor mental health and somewhat forgotten, as were the sins of the married couple.

  Beside her mother, clinging desperately to her arm, Angela stepped from the gravel onto the dead grass, the tips of her stilettos disappearing into the ground. Tracy’s father stood alone by his daughter’s grave, weeping into his handkerchief for the loss of his only child. Isabella edged towards the fragile man and took his hand in hers, both their hands lined, pale and shaking. Angela turned to note her father’s reaction but saw he stood in the car park deep in conversation with Vincent.

  Days had passed since she told her father about Sean approaching her in the church. At first he was angry, wanting to know why Sean contacted her, to which she didn’t have an answer. She didn’t like the idea that perhaps he perceived her as the weakest link in their family. Her father said that he would reflect on whether to employ Sean over the next couple of days and Angela didn’t know what he’d decide. She hated to be in the dark and not able to influence her father’s decision.

  Vincent agreed with her that they shouldn’t trust Sean, but he distrusted the police more than Angela. His father had been a police officer who beat Vincent’s mother so badly she died the last night she came into contact with her husband’s fists. Vincent, their only son of ten years, entered into the foster care system, and his loathing of the system and the police increased over the years. He offered to question Sean to find out why he wanted to work for the family, but there was a chance he’d take the interrogation too far, as he had done in the past.

  Intently Angela watched her father converse with Vincent, desperate to know what they discussed, wanting to know why their whispers were more important than Joe’s funeral. She was left none the wiser when they finished talking and headed towards the group for the interment.

  The priest began his address, soft words flowing over the assembly. To ignore her emotions, Angela looked over the congregation to consider their feelings instead. They couldn’t hide their thoughts, faces filled with concern and longing to be gone from the cemetery. No one expressed sorrow or sympathy. Eyes cast towards her father and his lieutenant in fear that they should meet a similar end, or towards others to determine how to behave.

  They were sheep disguised as wolves, fighting for her family and pretending to be loyal but ultimately all cowards, bound by worry, too timorous to challenge expectations of compliance. Their sins were their lone comfort in the night.

  Clots of trepidation choked her as hot tears welled in her eyes. She was afraid of showing her true feelings in front of this judgmental crowd, people who exploited weakness in the same way that she did.

  She thought of her brother and how as children they played in imaginary kingdoms ruled by creativity and boundlessness. They became lions, soldiers, doctors and explorers, adopting characters to explore new lands so as not to confront reality. Fantasy became esc
ape from the dark terrors of their father’s world.

  Each passing year eroded their imaginations until a realm cold and heart-rending replaced fantasy: adulthood. Multi-coloured phantasmagoria converted into rationale and responsibility. Real life imposed its sanctions of pragmatism, appropriateness and strangling mediocrity.

  She could no longer transport her mind into a rose-tinted wonderland of sunshine, rainbows and smiles. As an adult, she wished she could rewind time and recapture those lost years, and the memories that seemed like old photographs now: faded and marked, locked in albums, frames or drawers, almost forgotten.

  The two rosewood coffins set into the ground with austere finality and her brother was lost to her forever. Always she would wonder how she drifted apart from him, why they never understood each other after a childhood spent playing together. She remembered once staring at Joe after one of their arguments to see whether she could glimpse the playful innocence of his past, the boy she grew up with and used to know, but his youth had perished. The boy inside of him died long before the man.

  The family stood in a circle and took turns to cast white roses and dirt into the grave: their sombre and silent farewell to the boy of the past, the soulless man he turned into, and the victim who had been his wife.

  Angela climbed the marble staircase in the hallway of her family home and overlooked the mourners occupying the reception rooms. Night fell and soft lights illuminated the house like fireflies, the horde of invading people insects also: black parasites infesting their home with their presence. The hallway was cooler than the rest of the house and Angela took refuge there with her glass of wine.

  Earlier she entertained guests with a solemn face, wondering when she could break away from the pests with whom she was required to make small talk. Topics were discussed that bore little in common with Joe or Tracy, such as the buffet, fashion and interiors, politics, the current markets and business. How the couple lived and died was to be ignored at their own funeral.