Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘America?’ she repeated. ‘But you say you are Eengleesh.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Marian assured her, ‘but . . .’ She searched her mind for ways to explain, but they all seemed hopelessly complicated. In the end she said that her sister was in New York on business and that she had promised to call to let her know when she was returning to England.

  Apparently satisfied with the explanation, Signora Giacomi resumed her cheerful manner, and with a beckoning finger told Marian to follow.

  She took Marian into a cosy sitting-room at the rear of the café which Marian assumed to be the family’s private quarters. ‘You like to make call in your room?’ the old woman offered.

  ‘Yes, if I can,’ Marian answered doubtfully, and then she watched in amazement as the Signora unplugged a modern telephone, carried it upstairs and plugged it into a socket beneath Marian’s window.

  Marian laughed at her own stupidity. The village might be ancient, the couple old, but nevertheless both were approaching the end of the nineteen eighties along with the rest of the world, so why shouldn’t they have modern technology? It was just that it seemed so out of place here.

  After the Signora had gone she sat in the window seat, curling her legs under her, and picked up the receiver – Stephanie and Matthew were probably just getting up, so she should catch them now. After she had dialled the number she rubbed a circle into the steamy window and gazed out at the mountains, not for a moment expecting to make the connection. There was little to see; thick clouds were now swirling about the village and floating in wisps through the dense foliage that lined the steeply sloping banks of the valley. The village seemed to be even higher up than she had realised, which would account for the sudden drop in temperature. Then, to her astonishment, a voice came over the line announcing the Dorset Hotel. Impressed and amused, Marian gave the number of Stephanie’s room, but the phone rang and rang until the operator intercepted and asked if she could take a message. Marian read out the number on the dial, then spelt Paesetto di Pittore, and hung up, wondering if it would be as easy to call into the village as it was to call out. Well, it doesn’t really matter, she told herself, I can always ring them again later. Then she dashed the tears angrily from her eyes, wondering what in heaven’s name she was crying about – yet knowing the answer, too.

  She rested her head on the hard stone wall behind her and closed her eyes. ‘I just wanted to hear his voice,’ she whispered aloud.

  ‘Whose voice, cariad?’

  As she jumped, the phone fell from her lap and clattered to the floor.

  ‘Oh, no one’s,’ she answered quickly, stooping to retrieve the phone. ‘I was just . . . I was just . . .’ She couldn’t think of anything to say and knew she was in grave danger of bursting into tears.

  ‘It’s OK, I understand,’ Bronwen smiled. ‘Like I told you before, it sometimes takes a long time to get over a broken heart, and being in a place like this makes you just yearn for the one you love, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian said, on a laugh. Obviously Bronwen thought she’d been talking about Paul. ‘Anyway, what are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘I just came in to see if you’d managed to speak to Stephanie or Matthew yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. But I’ll keep trying.’

  ‘Good girl.’ She sat down on Marian’s bed and wrapped her arms round one of the corner-posts. ‘Have you mentioned anything to the Giacomis about Olivia yet?’ she asked.

  Marian shook her head. ‘No. To be honest, I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

  ‘That’s what my instincts are saying.’

  ‘I made the mistake of mentioning America just now, and the old woman looked at me as if I were the devil incarnate.’

  ‘Did she? Well, I suppose they must be pretty fed up with people coming round asking questions about Olivia, it must have been going on for years.’

  They both thought about that for a while, then Bronwen said, ‘What are you going to do for the rest of the day?’

  Marian turned to look out of the window again. ‘Not a lot I can do, really, with the weather like this. I’ve typed up everything from yesterday, I suppose I could go over it again, but I’m still reading the last book in Dorothy Dunnett’s Lymond saga, so I might as well curl up with that.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Bronwen said, as she got to her feet. ‘Francis Crawford did things to me no other character in literature ever has. Just wait until you get to the end.’ She sighed rapturously. ‘I think I might read it again one of these days.’

  Laughing, Marian said, ‘He reminds me of Matthew in a way.’

  ‘Does he?’ Bronwen said, turning round in surprise. ‘What, you mean invincible, like?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, if Matthew Cornwall is anything like Francis Crawford, all I can say is, our Stephanie is one lucky woman.’ Chuckling quietly, she picked up a sheaf of notes from the chest by the door. ‘This yesterday’s stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I take it, give it a read-over?’

  ‘Of course,’ Marian answered, surprised, though pleased that she had asked. That was the best part of working for Stephanie and Bronwen, neither of them treated her as though she was a secretary. If anything, they treated her as an equal; both encouraged her to become as involved as they were in the film, and listened to her ideas with the kind of appreciation that made her want to do all the more. Which was why, during the lonely evenings in Chelsea, she had spent her time watching films on the video to get an idea of how they were made. She had watched everything Matthew had done, so many times that she now recognised his style and understood why he was so successful. So it was for him that she was throwing her heart so profoundly into the research, as well as for Stephanie and Bronwen; she wanted him to respect her – which was, she knew, the most she could ever hope for from him . . .

  It was well past midnight when she suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed. Sweat was pouring from her skin, and her heart was booming violently against her ribs. She could see nothing, all around her was total blackness, and in a panic she groped for the lamp. But the light that flooded the room did nothing to quell the furore of pounding blood that charged through her veins. The screams. She had heard them, whining, echoing, shrilling through the hills. As if paralysed, she sat listening to the wind outside, to the rain against the windows, straining her ears . . . And then it was there, piercing through the night, a blood-curdling, panic-stricken cry that seemed to surge out of the mountains, tear through the sky, then coil round the house like a lashing whip.

  She shot from the bed and ran out to the landing. Everything was in darkness, the whole house was still. She looked at Bronwen’s door, and seeing that it was ajar she pushed it open. The bed was empty.

  ‘Oh no,’ she sobbed, and in that moment she knew the true meaning of terror.

  Then, hearing voices below, she swung round. She listened, trying to make out what they were saying, but she could only hear the muted tones of Signor Giacomi. A door opened, and instinctively she shrank back into the shadows. But then, as she heard Bronwen’s voice saying ‘Grazie, grazie’, she rushed to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Bronwen!’ she cried.

  ‘Marian?’ Bronwen looked up. ‘What are you doing out of bed, cariad? It’s almost two in the morning.’ As she came further up the stairs, her face creased with concern. ‘Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I have,’ Marian gasped. ‘At least, I heard one.’

  ‘What?’ Turning back to Signor Giacomi, who was staring up at Marian with wide, curious eyes, she gabbled something in Italian, then ran the rest of the way up the stairs. ‘Come into my room,’ she said, and taking Marian’s arm she ushered her over to the bed and sat her down. ‘Here, have a sip of this, I don’t know what it is but Mr Giacomi swears by it.’

  ‘No, no,’ Marian said, pushing it away. ‘Oh God, Bronwen, it was awful.’

  ‘What was?’

 
‘The scream. I heard it, just now. Didn’t you?’

  Bronwen shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t hear anything except the wind.’

  ‘But you must have heard it, it was terrible.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, cariad, but . . .’ She laughed. ‘It’s that blasted taxi driver, putting the spooks up you. You had a nightmare, that was all. Honestly, you frightened me for a minute out there, I thought the place was haunted.’

  ‘It is,’ Marian insisted. ‘Either that, or Olivia really is out there, screaming.’

  ‘No, no,’ Bronwen soothed. ‘You had a nightmare. It’s not surprising on a night like this. I had a bit of one myself, that’s why I went downstairs to get a drink. Here, have some.’

  This time Marian took the mug, and as she sipped the warm spicy brew she felt herself beginning to relax. ‘A nightmare,’ she grinned sheepishly. ‘But, oh Bronwen, it sounded so real.’

  ‘They usually do,’ Bronwen told her, taking the mug back. ‘Now, this might seem a bit unorthodox, and heaven knows what the Giacomis will think, but would you like to sleep in here with me for the rest of the night?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Marian confessed.

  ‘Neither would I, so come on, in you jump.’ And she pulled back the sheets for Marian to get in.

  The next morning Marian felt extremely foolish when she woke to find herself in Bronwen’s bed and remembered how she’d come to be there, and she silently cursed the taxi driver for planting the screams in her mind.

  ‘Signor Giacomi has offered to drive me into Camaiore this morning,’ Bronwen informed her over breakfast. ‘I’ll see if I can pick up a hire car there, it’s a bit isolated out here so I think we need one. Besides, I think we’d better start looking round for an alternative village to shoot in, I can’t see them letting us film here, somehow, can you?’

  Marian shook her head.

  ‘And just to cap it all, it’s suddenly the time of the month for me, so I’ll have to find a chemist and apparently there’s not one here in the village. I wonder how on earth they manage. Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘I’ll go for you,’ Marian answered. ‘I mean, do you think you should be up and about? It’s still raining out there. And I can drive, though I haven’t done for ages, but the roads aren’t too busy. Besides, the general rule here seems to be, put your foot down and pretend you’re the only one on the road. I think I could manage that.’

  Bronwen laughed. ‘The Italian highway code, now there’s a mystery that makes even our own pale to insignificance. But a bit of rain won’t hurt me, it’s not as if I’ve had the flu. Mind you, it felt like it, and worse. No, I’ll go myself, cariad. I can do a bit of asking around about you-know-who as well while I’m there.’

  ‘OK,’ Marian said, helping herself to more of the delicious hot chocolate Signora Giacomi had just put on the table. ‘I think I’ll take a walk round the village, see what I can come up with here – if anything.’

  ‘Right you are, and if you hear any screams it’ll be me, flying over the edge of the road.’

  Two hours later Marian was wandering back through the main street of Paesetto di Pittore. Her wellington boots were covered in mud and grass from the mountain path she’d strolled along, and her flimsy jacket was buttoned and zipped to keep out the wet. It was mid-morning and the rain had just stopped, but from the look of the clouds it would be a brief interlude.

  Again there were no signs of life, and as she looked around she wondered where everyone could be. No one had come to the café the night before, and apart from the Giacomi family she had seen no one. It was as if the village were uninhabited. But then a door opened further down the street, and a portly man waddled out and got into a battered old Fiat. Marian pressed herself against the high wall as he drove past, a ready smile on her face, but he didn’t even glance in her direction. She shrugged. Probably hates tourists, she told herself.

  A light drizzle started up again then, and she strolled on until she reached a gap in the wall where she turned in. It was an alternative route to the café that would lead her part way down the mountain, circle round, then up onto the terrace; so, taking care on the treacherous stone steps, she made her way down them, peeking surreptitiously into the windows of the cottages whose battered doors opened onto the steps. She was toying with the idea of knocking on one of them when suddenly she slipped and sat down hard on a jagged stone. Fortunately she managed to hang on to the wooden rail that lined the steep path, and this stopped her falling any further, but she was bruised and winded, so she gave herself a few moments to regain her breath. As she sat there, massaging the ankle that had twisted, she noticed that the clouds were once again thickening menacingly overhead, and then a low rumble reverberated through the eerie silence of the village. ‘Where is everyone?’ She said it aloud in the hope that her own voice would break the ungodly spell that seemed to have invaded the air. But her only answer was the wind, moaning through the trees. ‘I don’t like this place,’ she murmured. ‘Nightmare or no nightmare, it gives me the creeps.’

  Then suddenly every nerve in her body spiked and her blood turned as cold as the rain. Something had moved in the bushes, only feet away. She sat very still, listening, then her heartbeat jarred as she heard it again. She turned slowly, on the point of screaming – then, as a chicken broke free of the bramble, fluttering its wings and clucking irritably, she all but choked on her relief. Then pulling herself up she limped on down the steps.

  Fat drops of rain dripped from the bamboo canopy over the café’s terrace. The tables looked strangely as though they had been recendy abandoned, but she knew no one had been there. She walked over to the door, but when she turned the handle she found it was locked. She was about to knock when she heard voices coming from inside. They were raised in anger, and she recognised them to be the voices of Signora Giacomi’s son and daughter-in-law.

  Naturally they spoke in Italian, so she couldn’t understand what they were saying, but nevertheless she felt uneasy at eavesdropping, and was about to turn away when she heard one of them shriek Olivia’s name. Instantly she was alert, and a sixth sense told her that the argument was not only to do with Olivia, but with her and Bronwen too. Even knowing that it was futile, she pressed her ear to a crack in the door, but several minutes went by during which neither of them said anything she understood. Then, suddenly, she knew that someone was standing behind her. Every muscle in her body tensed, froze, as an icy chill gripped her. She could hear the quiet breathing, so close it could be no more than a foot away. Slowly she started to turn, but before she had a chance to scream a hand closed over her mouth. She sprang back, hitting her head on the wall, and as she looked up at the face looming over her, her eyes dilated with terror and her knees buckled under her.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Sergio said, ‘it was not my intention to frighten you.’

  ‘No, no, I understand,’ Marian mumbled.

  They were sitting inside the café now, and Signora Giacomi was fussing around them with wine and prosciutto, and from the way she was behaving anyone would think she was in the presence of a deity.

  Sergio smiled at her, said something in Italian, and she backed out of the room, bowing and muttering, ‘Sì, signore. Sì, sì.’ Then turning back to Marian, he asked, ‘Are you all right now?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. You startled me, that was all.’

  He laughed. ‘More than the snake, you mean?’

  Marian shuddered with revulsion as she remembered seeing the tail end of it slither into the undergrowth. ‘I didn’t even know it was there,’ she said. ‘Oh God, what if it had touched me?’ She shuddered again.

  ‘They are unpleasant creatures, no?’ Sergio said, as he poured wine into two glasses. ‘But there are a lot of them here in the mountains. They are mostly harmless, though.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Marian said, ‘I hate them. I don’t even like worms.’

  ‘Worms? Ah, il verme.’ He laughed.

  Grudgingly, Marian smiled, th
en looking at him curiously, she picked up her wine. ‘If it’s not an impertinent question, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I come to see you,’ he answered. ‘I have little to do at the Accademia today, so I call your hotel to see if you would like to look at the records. Then I find you have come to Pittore, so I think, maybe I can help some more, so I come here too.’

  He was lying. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just did. And he’d been lying when he said he didn’t know the village well, for Signora Giacomi obviously knew exactly who he was. ‘Help?’ she said. ‘You mean, you have more to tell us?’

  ‘I can think of nothing specific, but if you would like to tell me what you have discovered so far, maybe it will prompt my memory.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’re the only person we’ve spoken to about Olivia since we’ve been in Italy. We’ll be going back to Florence in a few days, and hopefully talking to more people there, but as you are our only source of information so far . . .’

  ‘I see.’ He nodded thoughtfully, and helped himself to salami. ‘And New York?’ he said. ‘You have completed your research there?’

  ‘More or less,’ she said, instinctively cautious.

  Signor Giacomi came into the room then, but as he was behind her she was surprised when Sergio looked past her and spoke rapidly in Italian. ‘Perchè non mi hà fatto sapere che aveva degli ospiti?’

  ‘Ho provato, signore, ma lei non ha mat risposto al telefone.’

  ‘Gli altri ci sono?’

  ‘Sì, signore, sono già nella bottega.’

  Marian looked over her shoulder at Signor Giacomi and wondered what Sergio had just said to him to make him look so edgy.

  ‘I am telling Signor Giacomi that I am disappointed for you that the weather is not good,’ Sergio explained.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Marian smiled and turned back to the old man, but he was no longer there.

  ‘You were telling me about New York,’ Sergio reminded her, and as his curious eyes seemed to melt into hers, Marian wrested herself from the gaze and looked down at her wine. ‘The script is written for this part of their film already?’ he prompted.