It was a crazy thought and, even crazier, it was the first time it had occurred to Frankie. He’d been so busy focusing on his mum, and whether it really was her who’d sent this card, that he’d not stopped to consider how he fitted into the jigsaw himself. He wished again he’d said something to that Giovanni about the woman in the photo being his mum, but he hadn’t got the chance.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘But if you’re wrong . . . about the card being from her, about her having a connection to this place . . . then you going there to his home, this is bad. Perhaps bad for me too. Did you tell him that I told you where he was? Where to find him?’
‘No.’
‘Good. That is one thing, at least. But you should not be here. It is dangerous. Particularly dangerous now.’
‘Why now?’
She lowered her voice. ‘Because of her . . . that woman there . . .’
‘The old one?’
‘Yes. She is his . . . mother . . . the mother of Señor Vaccaro. She comes here every Sunday to eat, and often Señor Vaccaro, he will come here also . . .’
But Frankie wasn’t listening. He was already up.
‘No, wait, Frankie,’ Isabella said.
But he was already halfway to the old lady’s table.
‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, but this woman,’ he said. He took the crumpled photo of his mother from his pocket and held it out to her. ‘Do you know her?’
Her companion was already up, staring in horror at Frankie’s bloodstained shirt and bruised face. ‘No, you must leave. You are not permitted to beg in here,’ she said, pushing the photo away, out of the old lady’s line of sight.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Frankie. ‘I’m not begging. I –’
But the old woman’s companion wasn’t listening. She shouted to the waiters behind the bar. Frankie moved past, snaking his way round her while she was distracted. He shoved the photo into the old woman’s hands.
‘Qué pasa?’ a gruff voice said.
Frankie felt a firm hand grabbing his shoulder. Don’t. He just about managed to stop himself from instinctively lashing out.
‘Listen, mate, I just need her to –’ he said instead, starting to turn round.
‘Frankie – it’s you,’ the gruff voice then said and Frankie found himself staring into Isabella’s brother’s eyes.
It all kicked off then with Isabella, her brother and the old lady’s companion all talking at once. Then more voices came, followed by more movement, suddenly behind Frankie.
Bollocks. Frankie spotted Señor Mustachio at the exact same time he spotted him. He wasn’t alone either, flanked by three other big lumps in suits, none of which Frankie recognized from this afternoon. So what now? Frankie had a quick look round. Running was out of the question, there was nowhere to go apart from out through the kitchen. And already half a dozen cooks were there, leering out and blocking his way.
It looked like there was nothing else for it. He was just going to have to defend himself as best he could. Giovanni’s eyes were already blazing with fury as he marched towards him. He didn’t look like he was afraid of getting his own hands dirty, this one.
‘I’m sorry,’ Frankie mouthed at Isabella. He meant it. The poor girl looked distraught and it was all his bloody fault. He pulled her quickly behind him, to make sure she didn’t get hurt.
Another shout came from the oncoming pack of lads, ushering the old woman’s companion and Isabella’s brother out the way. Right then, here we bleedin’ go. Frankie squared up to Giovanni quick – clearly he wasn’t here to talk, so Frankie didn’t waste his time trying. He gritted his teeth instead, the best way in his experience to stop yourself from biting off your tongue when you got hit. The least he could do was plant this bastard on his arse and teach him a lesson for ruining his suit.
He ducked the first punch, a right old haymaker, nice and easy. Good news there, then, this prick was just a street fighter. He wasn’t balanced or trained and Frankie brought his knee high and hard into his gut. Then he stepped back just in time to avoid another bunch of fives thrown by the next lad in line.
All four of them were on him then, but he was sober this time and ready. Not like last night in Ibiza. Bring it on. He caught he first fellah square on the jaw, a straight right, so hard he heard the crack. Then he turned, blocked a hit from the lad to his right and a follow-up kick too. Shit, this lad knew what he was about and the bad news was the others were learning too.
Their consigliere, Giovanni, was back up, shouting at them, with blood trickling from his nose. They spread out then and, hell, why not? They might as well take their time about it. There was no one else here on Frankie’s side and no one going to be calling the cops. Frankie took a step back, then another. Then, bollocks, he had his back against the wall. He stepped forward, feigned, drove them back a pace. Enough to give him some kick space. Right then, he had his arms up ready to block. He was planning on his first move being to the right, but, bloody hell, what was coming his way next was going to bloody hurt.
‘Lasciato!’
Frankie braced himself, thinking it was the order to attack, but no one moved.
‘Stop.’
No mistaking that one, though. Then he saw it wasn’t the consigliere who’d spoken at all. It was Isabella’s brother and with him was the old lady, the photo of Frankie’s mother shaking in her hand. She was saying something, wheezing. At first Frankie couldn’t quite catch it, but then he did.
‘Priscilla,’ she was saying.
‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s it,’ he shouted. ‘That’s her. Priscilla.’
The consigliere was staring him down with a yeah, so fucking what? look on his face. Meaning he had known who she was back there on Señor Vaccaro’s driveway.
‘She’s Priscilla James, my mother,’ Frankie said. But this time it wasn’t just a tiny flicker he saw underneath the consigliere’s right eye. It was downright shock.
The old woman started walking forward to two big lads who’d been about to introduce Frankie to the joys of Spanish hospitals.
‘Mer-ther . . .’ she said, her wrinkled old face crumpling even further.
‘Madre,’ Isabella told her, stepping in and taking her gently by the arm. ‘Il suo nome è Frankie James di Londra. His name is Frankie James from London,’ she translated for Frankie to hear. ‘E dice che questa donna è sua madre. E io lo credo. He says this woman is his mother. And I for one believe him,’ she said.
The consigliere, Giovanni, reached out then and, reluctantly, the old woman handed over the photograph. He looked from Frankie to it and back again, but, Christ, if it was similarities he was looking for, Frankie was screwed. She was blonde in the photo, whereas he was dark like his dad. She was petite, with him built like a brick shithouse.
But again Isabella came to the rescue. ‘Gli occhi,’ she said, pointing at the photo, before again translating for Frankie. ‘The eyes.’
‘I asked you before, who sent you?’ Giovanni said.
‘No one.’
‘But then . . . how?’
‘Because this . . . this was sent to me.’ Frankie pulled the postcard out of his pocket and held it out towards him, knowing he was screwed now if he signalled his boys to jump. He didn’t even have his guard up.
The consigliere nodded at one of his men, who stepped warily forward and took the postcard from Frankie, but Frankie almost changed his mind. Lose this and he had nothing. Nothing left to say she might still be alive. But he did let go. Because what choice did he have? No way could he back out now.
Giovanni examined the postcard, turning it slowly over. He looked puzzled, but probably not because of the English, because of something else. What it said?
He said something to his boys, who stayed put as he then turned his back on Frankie and walked deeper into the restaurant. Frankie heard talking. First muffled, then raised voices, and he craned his neck to see, but the men still surrounding him blocked his view. Then the men parted to allow the cons
igliere back through.
‘Very well, come,’ he said to Frankie. ‘I will take you to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘Señor Vaccaro. He’s waiting for you now.’
34
Señor Vaccaro was a worn and chiselled-looking guy in his late fifties, dressed in a crisp white cotton shirt and jeans. He looked nothing like Frankie’s mother, or Frankie either for that matter, not even his eyes.
He was sitting at the head of a long wooden table in the panelled private dining room at the back of the restaurant, with a plate of untouched food in front of him and a glass of red wine in his hand.
Frankie was deposited by two of Giovanni’s lads in the chair furthest from him at the far end of the table, nearest the door. Señora Vaccaro, his mother, was guided to his side by her companion and sat down next to her son. Already there on the table in front of them were the postcard and the photo of Frankie’s mum.
‘If what you’re telling us is true, then we are related,’ Señor Vaccaro said. His English was every bit as flawless as his consigliere’s.
My God, Frankie could hardly believe what he was hearing. He wasn’t crazy after all, this really was the same Vaccaro family his mother had used to stay with. That postcard really was from her.
‘Yes.’
‘If . . .’ said Señor Vaccaro.
‘But what reason would I have to lie?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘I am asking the questions.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Anything,’ Frankie said. ‘Ask me anything. I swear, I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Vaccaro translated for his mother. She said nothing, nodded.
‘And the name of your brother?’
‘Jack. He’s twenty-two.’
Another quick translation, followed by another nod.
‘And your mother’s full name?’
‘Priscilla Maria Balistreri – which means archer,’ Frankie said. He still remembered how his dad had always made a big joke about this, about how she’d hit the bull’s-eye when she’d married him.
More translation but this time the old lady whispered something back. Her eyes locked on Frankie.
‘Your childhood name . . . your nickname?’ He said the word as though he was unfamiliar with it. ‘What your mother used to call you and your brother when you were young.’
Frankie smiled. In spite of it all, the fact he was here and these bastards might still be planning on giving him a shoeing if he said the wrong thing, what his mum had used to call him way back then still brought a smile to his face.
‘Laurel and Hardy,’ he said.
And this time a smile crossed the old lady’s face too. Just for a second, but enough for Frankie to know that whatever test this was, he’d just passed. Her look wasn’t lost on Señor Vaccaro either. Frankie watched his shoulders relax. But what did it all mean? My God, he glared back out through the doorway he’d been led in through. What if she was out there right now, listening? But he couldn’t see her, just Isabella and Giovanni and several of the others from next door.
‘Is she here?’ he said. ‘Please, just tell me. Please, I’ve come all this way. Whatever it is . . . why ever she came here, why ever she couldn’t come home . . . I don’t care, I’m not here to judge her. I just want . . .’
He felt his mouth go dry then. Couldn’t bring himself to say them. The kid’s words dying on his tongue. I just want my mum back . . . Please, I just want to see my mum . . .
‘She was,’ Señor Vaccaro said.
‘What do you mean?’ Frankie felt sick. ‘Has something . . . Please, has something happened to her?’ But when? She’d only sent him that postcard last week.
‘That I cannot tell you.’
Cannot or won’t? What was this? Was Vaccaro lying to him? Adrenalin burst through Frankie and he half got up out of his chair. ‘Is it you? Have you done something to her?’
‘No, I assure you. She is family and we would never. It is just that we have not heard from her for a very long time.’
‘But how? How is that possible?’ Frankie said. ‘That postcard . . . she sent it to me from here.’ He pointed at it. ‘Look, see for yourself, the picture on the front . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Señor Vaccaro. ‘But this postcard is not new. It is old. The street . . . it has changed a lot, many of these businesses are no longer here.’
‘So what?’ That didn’t mean anything, the pictures on plenty of postcards were surely out of date. Only, yeah, Frankie remembered it now. Sky’s dad at the yacht club, when he’d shown him the postcard, hadn’t he said something like that too?
‘And, look, the writing is faded,’ Señor Vaccaro went on, holding the postcard up for Frankie to see. ‘This postcard would have been written a long time ago. The postmark itself is smudged, but see here . . . the stamp, it is also old. I’m surprised it even reached you at all.’
‘No, you’re wrong. I’m telling you. I only got it last week.’
But even as he was saying it, a memory flashed into his mind. What was it Slim had said? About having had to pay extra postage when it was delivered? Christ, no. Please, no. Don’t let what Señor Vaccaro was telling him be true.
The old lady hissed something at her companion then, and she hurriedly handed her a pair of glasses. Putting them slowly on, the old lady reached out and took the postcard from her son. More whispering followed and the companion was then sent out of the room, taking the postcard with her.
‘Oi, that’s mine,’ Frankie said. ‘Where’s she going with it?’
‘This restaurant, it has been renovated recently. Please bear with us just for one moment,’ Señor Vaccaro said.
Frankie sank back into his chair and just stared at them in disbelief. Didn’t know what to say. Everything was spinning round his head. Because what if they were right?
He looked back at Isabella in the doorway, who was staring grimly back. But her eyes were far from grim. There was just concern and kindness there and she knew these people. He couldn’t believe she wouldn’t warn him if they were somehow messing him about. He stared back up the table and noticed the old lady had tears in her eyes.
‘Fui lo. Lo hice,’ a voice then said behind him.
Frankie turned to see the old lady’s companion was back. With her was another old woman, dressed in a black widow’s shawl. She held a mop in her gnarled old hands.
‘Say what?’ said Frankie.
‘She says it was her,’ Isabella translated.
The cleaner fired off another set of rapid-fire sentences, which flew straight over Frankie’s head. Señora Vaccaro hissed something at the end of the table. Turning, Frankie saw her throw her hands up in the air and cross herself, as if saying a prayer.
‘This cleaner says she found it,’ Isabella said, ‘through there on the floor after the old radiators were taken down as part of the refurbishment. She says she stuck it in the postbox on the way home, thinking someone had forgotten to post it, but now she thinks it might have got lost down one of those old radiators years ago . . . She says she is sorry to have caused any trouble, and she feels very foolish now . . .’
‘No,’ Frankie said, ‘thank her.’
But that was all he could say, as he found himself sinking even lower into his chair. Was that really what this was? He’d been chasing an illusion? A ghost? For all this time? Had the Old Man and Jack been right all along?
He wasn’t having that because what they thought was that she’d just left. That or something bad had happened to her in England, something so bad they’d never heard from her again. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? He knew that now. She’d left for a reason. And hidden here for a reason too with these people. Just because she wasn’t hiding here any more didn’t mean she wasn’t still alive and hiding somewhere else.
‘How long?’ he said, his mouth going dry. He locked eyes with Señor Vaccaro. ‘You sa
id you hadn’t heard from her for a long time. How long do you mean?’
Señor Vaccaro looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Eight years,’ he said softly. ‘I’m so sorry, Frankie. I truly am . . .’
It was the first time he’d said his name.
‘Tell me. Tell me what happened. Tell me how she came to be here,’ he said.
Señor Vaccaro nodded. ‘To begin at the beginning. Your mother, my second cousin, she used to come to stay with my family, when we still lived in Sicily, when I was a child.’
Frankie’s mind was reeling. So what did this make Señor Vaccaro to him? A second cousin once removed? And his mother? The old lady was smiling sadly at him and wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Then my family moved here at the beginning of the eighties, following some trouble at home.’
A look between him and his consigliere: Frankie knew enough people like this back home to know exactly what kind of trouble that probably was. The kind that left you needing bodyguards and Dobermans on your property. Even a decade and a half later on.
‘Your mother came here in 1988. It was my father who agreed to give her a place to stay.’
‘Eighty-eight, the year she disappeared . . . or not disappeared . . . left . . .’ Because she’d come here of her own volition. That’s what Señor Vaccaro was saying. ‘. . . when she left us without a word . . .’
Señor Vaccaro translated for his mother. The old lady whispered something back.
‘She says your mother loved you very much. Both you and your brother. And that leaving you both broke her heart. But she did it because she had no choice.’
‘But why?’ Frankie said. ‘Why did she come here?’ Why had she left him and Jack that way?
‘I do not know exactly. Only that she was terrified and needed protection and had no place to hide.’
‘But protection from what? From who?’
‘Again, I don’t know. I’m sorry, Frankie . . . she only ever spoke to my father about it.’
‘Then can’t we just –’
‘He passed away last year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Frankie said.
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