by Allyson Bird
“What’s with me Vince? With me? I don’t recall me doing any such thing. Let’s get back that allegory. Do you know what allegory is, Vince?” he said without taking much of a breath, “a story or description in which the characters and events symbolise some deeper underlying meaning.”
“Jesus, Milo, I can’t even think straight let alone think about God. How much hell does a man have to go through until he gets some peace?”
“An infinite amount, Vince. An infinite amount.”
“Will you damn-well stop repeating yourself man.”
“Repeating myself, Vince, repeating myself? Well I suppose I do sometimes when I’m agitated—yes.” Milo smoothed down the front of his white, buttoned jacket. The kind that dentist’s wear but never gets splashed with patient’s blood.
“Milo, do you have to hang around me? Couldn’t you just leave me alone to my own thoughts? I’d kinda like to make my way through this mess without any distractions.”
“Just as you wish. Would you like me to remove the hand?”
Vince took a deep breath and his eyes, before his mouth, answered everything.
“Of course I’d like you to remove the hand.”
Milo picked it up, held it as if making an introduction, and with a sheepish smile on his face turned to leave.
“Wait!” Vince snapped, sharper than a starving croc at an eat-as-much-as-you-want diner.
“I want her wedding ring.”
Milo put the hand on Vince’s tray and without too much disruption of the skin, managed to prise the ring off the finger.
Vince snatched the ring and put it on his wedding finger, in place of the ring he had removed after Mary’s funeral.
“I don’t know if I should let you keep that. I could put it in the safe—”
“This ring is staying on my finger until I prove I didn’t kill my wife—got that?”
“But you did dismember her?”
“Dismembering ain’t killing—got that too?”
“Yes, I have that too, Vince, but you really don’t have to shout. Now—are you going to eat your porridge?”
Vince looked at Mary’s grey hand (that was beginning to ooze something that didn’t look like blood this time.)
“No thank you, Milo. I don’t think I’m hungry enough.”
Frances St. Germaine took it upon herself to visit Vince and was granted permission quickly, as was always the case when a funeral director came to call.
After they briefly discussed the last of the details concerning his wife’s grave, Vince whispered to Frances all about Mary’s visit. Frances didn’t look surprised.
“I know. It wasn’t Mary that I buried in the casket. I just weighted it down with sand.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I wanted to keep her around and get her to tell someone else what was going on.”
“Did she?”
“No. She played dead for my brother. Wouldn’t talk. He thought I was crazy for not burying her and wanted to tell the coroner.”
“Did you stop him?”
“Yes—for now.”
“I’m telling you, Mary is here, right in this piss-poor place, and what’s more, Milo has seen her too. Well, part of her. Gladeye—Penelope Maple—is part of it.” Vince swept the hair out of his eyes. “Hey—wait a minute who did kill Mary?”
“Geoff Newbury.”
“The coroner?”
“Yes—the coroner.”
“You mean that so-called, respectable coroner?”
“Yes, Vince—the coroner. We have to stop Newbury from killing again,” Frances said.
“And just how do you stop a county coroner from doing that? Who would believe us? You never spoke out when I was arrested.”
“Would you have?”
Vince shook his head.
“Times up.” said an attendant.
“I’ll think of something, Vince.”
When Vince woke up he found himself in some sort of cellar. The hospital had many of them but not one decked out like the laboratory that belonged to Doctor Frankenstein.
The light was bright enough for him to see a morgue table, and on that table was obviously a body covered in a sheet. Geoff Newbury was hovering over the table. He didn’t look as composed as he usually did and he was wearing a smeared, rubber apron.
“You bastard—you didn’t kill her too, did you?” Vince groaned.
The door opened and Gladeye entered pulling Frances (who looked like she had been given something from the magic bag) in with her.
“Thank God,” said Vince.
“Ah, Miss Germaine. I need to explain. I hope you are not going to be too distressed by what I had to do?”
Frances looked him straight in the eye. “You’ll get caught. I know all about it. Others know too!” she threatened. “My brother, my brother will tell.”
“You mean this brother, Frances?”
The coroner pulled the sheet off the body, or what was left of the limbless body. Frances could still recognise her brother’s face and the blonde hair. She started to weep.
“Why do this—why?”
“You are asking that—in a mental institution? It’s all about you, Frances, always will be, from now on. Mary is back where she should be now. I’ll see that she doesn’t get out again.”
The door slowly opened and Milo stepped into the room. He pointed a gun at Newbury and Galadeye—mild mannered Milo smiled at Vince.
Frances walked unsteadily over to her brother. She touched him gently on the cheek and Vince pulled her away.
“There’s nothing to be done for him now, Frances.”
In shock, though still partly sedated, Frances held on tightly to Vince. He moved slowly towards the door.
“We’ll get some help Milo and we’ll come back for you.”
“I can’t leave here, Vincent. I can never leave here.”
Vince looked down at the ring on his finger, took it off and gave it to Milo. “I think that I need to move on now.”
Milo smiled at him. “I rather think that you do, Vincent. I rather think you do.”
Vince was about to catch Milo about the name again but he thought better of it. “See you around, Milo.”
“Oh, you will, Vincent—you will.”
As he helped Frances down the corridor Vince could hear Milo’s soft voice.
“What shall we do whilst we wait? I know, let’s talk about Dante’s Divine Comedy. Now—in which circle of Hell do you think you both belong? Any suggestions?”
Pompeii
“For several days before (the eruption,) the earth had been shaken, but this fact did not cause fear because it was a commonly observed feature in Campagnia.” Quote from Pliny the Younger: Eyewitness to the Vesuvius Eruption, 24-25 August, 79 A.D.
The women fought by torchlight in the hot, dusty amphitheatre in Pompeii. Stripped to the waist, heads bowed with the weight of their helmets, they faced each other warily. Each armed with a short sword, and shield made of birch and lined with felt. Achillia circled her opponent, and although she could not see the other woman’s face, she knew her by her diminutive stature and black hair, cropped to reach just below the helmet. This was the first time Achillia had fought a woman, as she was used to fighting male dwarves who were easy to finish off, and whom she usually dispatched within a few minutes. This was the last woman Achillia wanted to kill, for this was her friend, Amazon.
The crowds urged the female gladiators on, for one of them to strike the first blow. Her friend lunged first and Achillia blocked it with her shield. It was followed by a second fierce thrust from Amazon and Achillia jumped back, almost losing her balance. Steadying herself, she sprang forwards and was forced backwards once more by the blow of a shield upon her arm protector. Achillia didn’t want to fight her friend—didn’t want to kill her. Amazon recovered and moved forwards again, with renewed vigour, and Achillia had no option but to muster up the aggression she needed to enter the fight with a determination to win.
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br /> Both were sweating now, with the weight of their armour and the night continued to descend over the arena like a shroud over the dead. Both women lunged and blocked blows, sidestepping as the thrusts came faster at each other. Amazon moved more quickly, but Achillia was stronger, and her louder clashes with her opponent’s armour echoed ominously in the amphitheatre. Suddenly, Amazon stumbled backward and Achillia saw her chance. With all her strength she jabbed her short sword into the stomach of her friend, upwards towards the heart.
Achillia flung her helmet aside and looked down upon the covered face of the dead female gladiator. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she threw her sword aside and made her way out of the amphitheatre, over the bodies of the dead and dying who blocked her exit.
The heat of the day had corrupted the corpses. Slaves, dressed as Mercury, pulled at the rank and bloody pile of defeated gladiators. The slaves moved gracefully as if conducting the souls of the dead to the next world: heads bowed in reverence as they dragged the bodies towards the perimeter of the arena. The crowd watched as Achillia climbed over the mutilated bodies, slipping in their blood as she went. When she had reached as high as was possible, she held up her bloodied hands, to the cheers of the crowd who screamed her name.
In 2007 the summit of Mount Vesuvius, above the excavated ruins of Pompeii, looked fairly innocuous but the mayors of San Sebastiano al Vesuvio and Torre del Greco had, time and time again, pressed the government for a sensible evacuation plan. In 1984 the government evacuated forty thousand people from Campi Flegrei. Chaos had ensued to such a degree that the government turned its back on any future plans—and the conclusion was that seven-hundred thousand people on the north side of Vesuvius could become the new Pompeians when the mountain blew. It would erupt again, that was a certainty, but whether it would be within two, twenty or forty years, no one knew. Generations of Neapolitans had lived and died in the shadow of the volcano.
Neapolitans: scooter-mad and crazy to go anywhere so long as they looked good doing it. They rode their scooters and drove their cars, as if each day was their last, and presumably, if the crater did collapse they would die with a smile on their face in remembrance of things past. La Dolce Vita then, and the next minute one mad whirlwind of smoke and ashes.
Mia had her own evacuation plan. It wasn’t a great one but it was the only one she had, and she had formulated it after a visit to Pompeii a few months earlier. In the countryside there were still the preserved footprints of those who had walked away from the volcano almost two thousand years before. She could see Vesuvius through the window of her classroom where she taught history to 4C. They would be going on a school trip to Pompeii the next day.
“Remember children—those of you who are coming tomorrow. Bring a packed lunch and plenty of water. It will be very hot. Bring sun hats as we will be in the open for most of the day and there will be little shade.”
A hand shot up at the back of the class.
“Amadeo?”
“Will it be safe, Miss?”
“Of course. Would I take you anywhere that wasn’t?”
Another hand went up.
“Ciana?”
“My dad says that when that mountain goes we will all go with it.”
There was a giggle from a few in the class.
“I’m sure that won’t happen in our lifetime, Ciana. If it does we will have plenty of warning and will be able to put into operation the evacuation plan.”
Mia had little confidence in that plan, but she didn’t want to alarm the children. Also, she still wasn’t sure how they were going to react to seeing the plaster casts of the inhabitants of Pompeii and especially the dog. She knew how young children were.
“Right—be here at nine a.m. for the bus and don’t forget to bring everything with you—lunches, drinks, and hats.”
At that moment the bell rang and her class hurried to get their books away and get through the classroom door. Some flung themselves into the arms of parents, others tentatively took hold of their childminder’s hands and some children hung back with their friends for a last minute chat before they all went their way, either across the hillside to farms or down to little white houses by the sea.
A few of the parents had objected to the Pompeii trip, saying it was better that the children didn’t know about the death and chaos that had happened so long ago. It was all in the past and would probably not happen again for a very long time; after all, they had the evacuation plan. Mia recalled the conversation with one family in particular.
“We don’t want to think about the risk, and besides, there isn’t any risk as far as we are concerned. We have farms to think about and our families have lived here for generations without anything happening. Children should not think it will happen to us.”
Mia was cautious but spoke her mind, sweeping her long red hair out of her face. “It will erupt again. Scientists have said so. Perhaps not now, but certainly your children or your grandchildren will know about it.”
“Our people will worry about it then. Until that time we prefer not to think about it.”
With a shrug on both sides the discussion ended and that parent had stormed off. Mia was confident she could look after the children and they would learn from the trip. What was the point of another generation living in the shadow of Vesuvius, not knowing what it was capable of?
Only ten children, all around nine years old, would be going on the trip to Pompeii. Fabrio, a fellow teacher, would accompany them.
The night before the visit Mia decided to make a simple pasta. She chopped some herbs and washed some tomatoes. She felt a little nauseous but carried on, beginning to chop the tomatoes, until a shaft of sunlight hit the blade of the knife—for an instant she didn’t quite know where she was. Then her vision cleared. She was in the amphitheatre in Pompeii—fighting for her life. She could hear the roar of the crowd and sweat was pouring from her brow. Another flash of light and she was back in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with the knife in her hand. Had she, almost two thousand years ago, been a female gladiator?
When she began to feel better (which took several minutes), she got up from the floor, poured a glass of wine, and steadied herself against the wooden table.
The next morning Mia felt better and she convinced herself that she had been out in the sun too long. She left her small apartment in San Sebastan and walked to school. She was, embarrassingly, a little late. Another teacher had taken the children to the bus, ready for their departure, and put the rest of Mia’s class in with her own for the remainder of the day. Aria, a dour looking teacher, had taken them from Fabrio who now sat on the steps of the bus, hat in hand, patiently waiting for Mia, his constant smile hiding many insecurities. They had been lovers a year before, but split up because—well, Mia hadn’t been quite sure why. He always seemed too close to his mother and been too immature for Mia. She still liked him, to some degree, but thought it best to keep some distance between them. Fabrio helped her onto the bus and let his hand linger on her arm, longer than was necessary and she turned to shoot him a warning glance.
Aria was not happy to have a larger class for the day and didn’t disguise that fact when she waved them off.
The bus journey was hot and uncomfortable, but the children were excited and Mia was happy to take them. The site itself was enormous, with many buildings restored or left as the archaeologists found them, complete with colourful frescoes. She had a guidebook to the excavations with transparent overlays of the archaeological sites so that the children could see the difference in what each place looked like then, and now. She sat next to Ciana and showed her a few of the pictures. Mia didn’t show her one of the frescoes of the house of Vetti, with its lewd subject matter, skipping instead to the forum, the temple of Apollo and The House of the Tragic Poet. Mia had planned their route around Pompeii: they would not be able to see everything, the site was vast, and so she had drawn up a sort of treasure hunt, where each child could tick the things she wanted them to see, off
a list. They would see the black and white mosaic of the guard dog with the words, cave canem underneath, and the statue of the Faun in the garden of Casa Del Fauno. The theatre too, the bakery (complete with millstones), and of course the plaster casts of the tragic victims of the seventy-nine A.D. volcanic eruption. The parents of the children on the trip had given permission for them to see the casts and Mia had recently shown postcards to them, so they would be prepared when they actually saw them.
Ciana pointed at one picture of the bakery. “They found loaves of bread here, didn’t they Miss?”
“That’s right, Ciana, but you would break your teeth on them now if you tried to eat them,” Mia smiled and turned the page. Paolo knelt on his seat, eager to see too.
“Hey, why is Ciana sitting next to you, Miss? It isn’t fair—I want to look at the book too.”
“Paolo, sit down. You will be seeing it for real soon. Better to see it close up. You can find the mosaic of the dog.”
The children had already made mosaic pictures of the dog in art class, using black and white gummed paper cut into little squares. They were all quite excited to see the real thing.
“Woof,” began Paolo and all the children joined in until the noise echoed all over the bus.
The bus driver gave Mia an annoyed look.
“Stop that!” She scolded Paolo, who backed down into his seat quickly, surprised at the harsh quality of her voice. Mia had stood up to reprimand him and she towered threateningly over him. The rest of the children whispered quietly to one another for a few minutes after that until they eventually returned to their good humour.
The bus driver dropped the small party off at the Piazza Marina and would pick them up four hours later at the Piazza Anfiteatro further down the road. The plan was to start at the Temple of Apollo first, and then roughly follow the suggested tour for the four hour trip. However, Mia thought that might be too long for them. She had made red sashes for the children, set against white shirts and blue check dresses so that she could spot them if one lagged behind.