He’d had a brief conversation with Giorgio in Italian, who’d agreed he needed the biggest posse available to help him confront his dad. His view was they should stick with the strange British woman.
‘We’re with you. Which hotel?’
Sam had got her phone out.
‘Hotel Altavilla. It’s the priciest, which means it’s the most likely to be open out of season.’
She’d then given Giorgio instructions as he drove and they were outside the hotel ten minutes later. They’d booked in (Lord knows what the woman at the front desk had thought) - Sam had paid in cash. After eating, showering, a short exertion with Giorgio when Sam was out shopping - mmm! - they’d left the hotel and headed for a coffee shop Sam had found earlier.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Gareth asked when their coffees and patisseries had arrived.
Sam, who was carrying a new backpack and wearing pretty much exactly the same clothes she’d worn first thing, except newer and without a rip in the jeans, answered the question with a question.
‘How did you get over the fence? Did Giorgio let you in?’
Gareth finished his pastry.
‘I vaulted over the gate. Banged my shoulder and my head, which isn’t in the best shape, as you know.’
‘Good drills. Well done. Are you OK now?’
‘Sore, but fine. You? Your leg looked really cut up.’
‘I bought a needle and thread. I stitched it up after my shower. It should hold.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Who are you meant to be marrying, Giorgio?’
‘A girl from the village. She’s nice, but she doesn’t want to marry me. It’s not fair.’
‘Does she know you’re gay?’ Gareth asked.
Giorgio laughed.
‘Look at me.’ He used both hands to point to himself. ‘Everyone knows I’m gay. That the marriage is a sham.’ Giorgio shook his head, hiding more tears.
Gareth felt the lump in his throat grow. If it grew any bigger he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
This is shit.
He placed a hand on Giorgio’s cheek and wiped a forming tear from his eye.
‘OK. Enough. The plan.’ The strange woman was back on message. She was obviously embarrassed when people showed their emotions.
Sam turned to Giorgio.
‘How does the wedding work?’
Giorgio outlined the celebrations. There was a family get together tonight. He was expected. And then the church service was at 11.00 am tomorrow in the villa’s chapel with a reception for over 150 guests in the garden straight after.
Your dad’s place has its own chapel?
‘It sounds like a big place?’
Giorgio smiled.
‘About five times as big as the Villa Feradina. It has large gardens. We have a massive tent and lots of flowers. It’s a yellow and white wedding.’
‘Will it be easy to get into the grounds?’ Sam continued.
‘Yes, providing I am there. You can come as my guests. Come for tonight’s meal?’
‘Won’t your mum and dad be surprised when we turn up unexpectedly?’ Gareth asked.
‘No. Papa may be worried about security, but there are all sorts of people in and around the house at the moment. Nobody messes with Papa. He wouldn’t expect anyone would try and get into his house. And there is always room for two more mouths. This is Italy. There will be food for a thousand. Mama will be very pleased.’
‘Won’t they recognise Gareth? They’ve hunted him down twice already.’ Sam asked.
Giorgio looked back at Gareth, he smiled and touched his leg playfully.
‘We should cut and dye your hair. Maybe dress you a little different?’
‘We don’t have time for any of that.’ Sam cut through the bonhomie. Gareth sensed irritation in Sam’s voice.
That stopped the conversation. Giorgio looked at his coffee cup. Gareth tried to wrap his head round the enormity of what Sam was suggesting they do.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t come, or if I do, I come incognito. The swelling in the back of my skull is telling me this is not a great idea.’
Sam didn’t reply. She played with her empty coffee cup.
Eventually she asked, ‘What time is tonight’s supper, Giorgio.’
‘After seven, some time.’
‘We should all go. And you, Giorgio, must talk to your father. Tonight. It’s only fair you have that conversation with him today, so that they can call off the wedding as soon as possible.’
The blood seem to run from Giorgio’s cheeks as Sam carried on with her instructions.
‘It’s …’, she checked her watch, ‘... two-fifteen. That gives us, three hours? I reckon it’s no more than an hour to your dad’s place from here. Is that right, Giorgio?’
Giorgio nodded. It seemed that words were failing him at the moment.
‘Let’s aim to get there for 6.00 pm. And let’s do as you suggested, Giorgio. You have two hours to find some dye and colour Gareth’s hair. I need to go and get a posh frock and I’ll find Gareth some different clothes - something less fashionable, more conventional. We’ll assume your father has been leaving his minions to do his dirty work, and maybe hasn’t seen a photo of Gareth. Even if he has, you’re going to need him close by when you have that difficult conversation with your father. There’s no point pretending he doesn’t exist.’
Giorgio put his hand on top of Gareth’s and squeezed. He smiled a thin smile.
‘Giorgio?’ Sam wanted his attention. Giorgio hadn’t reacted, he was staring intently into Gareth’s eyes.
‘Giorgio!’ Sam barked. Giorgio’s head snapped in Sam’s direction.
‘Phone your mother. Tell her she’s got an additional two mouths to feed this evening. If she asks who we are, say we’re a couple you met … I don’t know where, make it up. I guess not in Naples as your father might put two and two together. Anyhow, phone her. It’s only polite.’
La Poste, Passage Bruyas, Montpellier, France
Jeanne pushed on the pedal of her yellow La Poste electric bike. The little motor kicked in immediately. The power was set at its lowest level but it still gave the wheels a boost. When they got their bikes a couple of months ago all of the facteurs had been asked to attend a lecture about how to use them. From what she could tell, they were to ride them as normal and only use the power when there was a hill, when it was windy or when they were tired at the end of a shift. It was all to do with wearing the battery out. Apparently it only had so many charges before it needed replacing. And at over 200 Euros each the bosses couldn’t afford to replace them too frequently.
‘Dans quel but?’ Pierre, her friend had whispered to her. ‘Nous pourrions aussi bien marcher!’
Jeanne wasn’t sure. She liked her new bike. And she certainly liked it more than walking. Pierre was old school. He didn’t like change and he always thought management was out to get them, eroding this, taking that. Jeanne was more Macron. She knew that French working practices couldn’t stay in the dark ages forever. There were only so many Euros to go round. She saw how the workforce cut corners. How they snuck in extended lunch breaks, took too many days off. The bikes were meant to make them more productive. New houses were being built everywhere in Montpellier. Old school reckoned this meant more jobs for the boys. But she knew she could reach maybe ten more streets on her round if she tried. Maybe 15 with an electric bike. She saw the point of it. Even if Pierre didn’t.
Yes, she loved her new bike.
First off was a set of businesses in Rue Baudin. She knew her route like the back of her hand. And she knew most of the shopkeepers and a lot of the residents in the apartments off the main drag. She always looked out for the older folk, even though their post boxes were in the atria on the bottom floors of the blocks.
First was Fraysinne, a specialist watch shop. Mr Bardonne. He had big eyebrows and wandering hands. But he was harmless enough.
She hopped off her bike and reached into the first of three waterproof bags that were behind he
r saddle.
Four letters. Two were brown - bills. A third was a colourful circular. And the fourth was a plain white envelope with a typed address sticker and - and she didn’t know why she checked - a stamp franked from Lyon. There were no other markings. No return address. There was nothing official about the envelope. In fact the sticker had been put on at a slight angle, almost carelessly.
Tant pis.
Mr Bardonne was behind the counter. He was serving an elderly lady who was immaculately dressed and was carrying a fluffy white dog, the size of a small handbag.
‘Post, Monsieur Bardonne.’ She placed the letters on the counter next to the elderly woman. Mr Bardonne reached for her hand, but she moved before he had time to caress it.
‘Merci, mademoiselle.’ Mr Bardonne’s eyebrows did that thing when they were excited.
‘Au revoir.’ Jeanne made her escape.
By the time Jeanne finished her first round she’d been out for two and a half hours. It had been, like it was most days, uneventful but energetic. She loved her job. She loved being outside. She enjoyed meeting people, even if one or two of the older male shopkeepers hadn’t yet got the #metoo message. That wasn’t really fair and none of them had ever made a pass at her … and she never felt uncomfortable. They were a different generation, when French men had mistresses and that was the way it was. Thankfully, though, times were changing.
As she walked her three empty bags back to the sorting room she reminded herself it hadn’t been a completely uneventful day.
Those envelopes?
The first one to Mr Bardonne. And then six others. Same plain envelope. Same typed sticker, carelessly stuck on, as if in a rush. And all of them with a stamp franked in Lyon. Six seemingly random addresses.
Maybe they’re from a political party?
She didn’t know.
I wonder if I’ll get any more on my second round?
Villa San Francesco, Serrastretta, Calabria, Italy
Sam worked her toothbrush hard. Her mum had told her to always count to 100; only then could her teeth be anyway near clean enough. She was at 87 and white froth was escaping her bottom lip and abseiling into the sink.
95, 96, 97, 98, 99 … 100.
All done.
At least she’d managed to successfully complete one job tonight. Other than that it had been an abject failure.
They’d arrived just before seven to be met by a smothering of hugs from Giorgio’s mum, and open arms from his dad. If he suspected anything, he was either the coolest man in southern Italy, or had the arrogance of ten men. They’d been shown to their rooms. Her’s was perfect. Double-windowed, ornate but not fussy antique furniture, a huge bed with white cotton linen, an en suite larger than any family bathroom she’d ever been in, and views over the marquee and the pool. Everywhere was decorated beautifully with yellow and white flowers, dark green foliage and matching two-tone ribbons. The colours were further enhanced with the odd pair of bright red roses. It was achingly beautiful and someone had spent a lot of money and a lot of time making the place ‘just so’.
Dinner was much later than she expected, but that was so Italian. They ate outside with half of Giorgio’s family who had descended on the house earlier in the day. The food was a mountain of fabulous ‘chicken and lime’ pasta served with a tomato salad. The accompanying dressing stole the show. For afters there were more puds than there were guests. And the wine flowed a little too freely.
All of which gnawed at her.
She knew she was being lavished on the back of other people’s misfortunes. That tonight’s company, whilst welcoming and intelligent, were all soiled by their association with the Mafia. The ‘Ndràngheta were ruthless and unforgiving. Even if they weren’t involved in the NT attacks, which Sam was sure they were, they had a history of brutal violence and intimidation. Whilst Giorgio had been dyeing Gareth’s hair (he hadn’t done a bad job; Gareth now looked more ginger-Irish than jet-black Welsh, and Giorgio had cut and styled his hair so that by the time he’d finished he really didn’t look at all like Gareth) she’d asked Frank for anything he could get on the ‘Ndràngheta. The read-out painted a blacker picture than Sam had imagined.
Whilst it was commonly assumed that the ‘Ndràngheta had close links to the Sicilian Mafia, which was no more than three klicks across the Straits of Medina, it was a wholly separate organisation and now the largest crime syndicate in Italy. They excelled in drug trafficking, extortion and money laundering; the latest figures showed that in 2016 they accounted for at least three percent of Italy’s GDP. A Europol report detailed them ‘among the richest and most powerful organised crime groups at a global level’.
No wonder the wine was so good.
And the bathrooms so luxuriant.
Sam poked at her eye. The swelling had gone down. All that was left was a yellow tinge as the bruise said its last hurrah.
She sighed.
They hadn’t got very far.
For a start, Giorgio hadn’t confronted his dad.
‘Why on earth not?’ Sam had asked.
The three of them had gone for a walk in the grounds after supper; out of earshot. She needed to find the house’s perimeter just in case she had to escape without using the front entrance. Gareth wobbled as they walked. He’d clearly had too much Dutch courage. She couldn’t blame him. The last time he was this close to a member of the ‘Ndràngheta, they’d been carrying a baseball bat and had used his skull as the ball.
Giorgio had stammered. ‘I just … it was … I don’t know.’
He looked deflated.
Gareth had tried to put his arm round Giorgio at that point, but Sam had stopped him.
‘Not here.’ She rasped.
They carried on walking, over the edge of an immaculately cut lawn into ankle-high grass. It was difficult to tell in the dark but she reckoned there was a tree line about a hundred metres ahead. She hoped that was the boundary. They’d get to there, turn round, and head back.
‘I can’t help you, Giorgio. Unless you want to live a lie and marry a woman who doesn’t love you, and probably never will, you’re going to have to talk to him.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just …’
‘It’s just, what?’ Gareth asked kindly.
The three of them stopped. They were still short of the treeline. A half-moon was out; it cast a mild blue light on Giorgio’s face. He was crying again.
‘I’m scared. My father has never touched me. He has always been kind. But I have heard him shout at other men … in his study. On the lawn. There is a, how do you say, viciousness in him? It is something he has never used on me. This … me, not wanting to get married … will be huge.’ Giorgio turned and faced back towards the house. ‘The tent. The flowers. The guests. He will not want to lose face. It will bring shame on my family.’
It was Sam’s turn to put her arm round Giorgio. Giving physical comfort wasn’t something she was good at, or was comfortable with, but it felt like the right thing to do. She was a couple of inches shorter than him, but that didn’t stop him resting his head on her shoulder. She awkwardly tapped his arm gently with her fingers.
‘If he really loves you, Giorgio, he will understand.’ She knew as soon as she said it, she didn’t believe it. Andrea Placido was almost certainly a ruthless murderer. Every member of the Mafia, no matter how good their breeding, had to learn the ropes. Giorgio had started by guarding a villa. For which he was given a shotgun and was expected to use it.
Giorgio pulled back. He looked at Gareth and then back at Sam.
‘You don’t mean that. It’s different here. He can love me, but still make me marry. It has never been said, but he knows that I am gay. If he loves me like you say, he wouldn’t have planned the wedding - at all. But that’s not possible here. Questa è l'Italia. La Mafia.’ He threw his arms up to strengthen his Italian.
Looking in Giorgio’s damp eyes Sam knew he was right.
Why am I bothered?
What part of this
story was she actually involved in? She was herding two grown men as though she were Oprah Winfrey. Why did she feel the need to step up to the plate?
Who did she think she was?
That question again.
And, frankly, she had much more important things to be getting on with.
She broke Giorgio’s imploring gaze and looked across at the tree line. There’d be a fence there. It would be rigged with all sorts of security paraphernalia. This wasn’t a small villa used once a year by a politician. This was the domestic empire of an Italian demigod. A man one branch down from Mafia sainthood. Yes, there was more warmth here than she’d ever experienced at first invite. But that warmth was borne from a confidence that only money and power can pay for. It was a charade. Thicker than veneer, but not as thick as a prison wall. They all deserved to be behind bars. The lot of them. And if they were behind the NT attacks, they deserved much worse.
She hated them. All of them. And just then she didn’t have a great deal of sympathy for the weepy Mafioso's son.
That’s better.
She loathed people who abused power. Big bullying small. Rich stamping all over the poor.
Bullies seeking out and attacking the weak.
As a kid she’d been picked on when she first went to secondary school; called all manner of names, mostly to do with the fact she always looked uncomfortable around other kids. ‘Zombie bitch’ was a favourite. She was pushed up and down the school’s unforgiving concrete and brick corridors - and had her locker broken into, and her books ripped apart. She was relentlessly called names both to her face and in graffiti on the toilet walls. Her first year had been a waking hell.
And then, at the beginning of Year 8, she found the solution.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 27