They’d almost reached the top of the gangway, Sandro half-turning to help Luisa, when the handrail he was leaning on, its wood rotted beyond repair by the damp, gave way with an awful soft, splintering sound, and he swore. Luisa clutched at him, half to steady him, half to shut him up, but it was too late. The crying had stopped.
‘Quick,’ said Sandro, and they ran along right under the roof, heedless now of the noise they were making as it rang around the huge space below them, through a door at the end of the high walkway.
They were in the bar. The semi-circle of its fancy panoramic window curved away from them and through what was left of the glass the moonlight shone on a shambles of broken bottles and smashed-up furniture. The bar itself had been ripped apart and looted long ago; in the moonlight it all looked black and white like an old photograph, and there was no sound. But as Luisa looked, feeling strangely calm now, she saw something. Not a person but an impression, something about a collection of shapes in the corner furthest from where they were standing that stood out from the chaos. Without hesitation she crossed the room, Sandro now the one hurrying to keep up. She stopped.
Four sections of the bar’s squat, wide leatherette seating had been pulled together here, a small table had been dragged across and set at one end, and a nylon sleeping bag had been unzipped and spread across the seats. Luisa saw what it was straight away, an attempt at constructing a bedroom, complete with bedcover and sidetable. A marital bed, room for two. Luisa turned to Sandro.
‘She must be here somewhere,’ she said. ‘This is where she’s been living. This is her home.’ And as she said it, suddenly from somewhere far below them a door slammed, a sound heedlessly, shockingly violent, and a man began to shout.
Celia stared at her mobile phone, willing it to ring. ‘We know where to find you,’ the policeman had said kindly as she thrust the number at him. ‘As soon as there’s any news, of course we’ll call, straight away. You stay with him. Keep him calm.’ Emma, Emma, don’t be frightened, she prayed silently. They’ll find you. Celia’s neck was rigid with tension, her jaw stiff; she felt like screaming but she didn’t even dare make a call. There were signs everywhere telling her to turn the phone off but she couldn’t do that, because what if they called?
A nurse told Celia she should go and get a coffee. Lucas was stable now, out of danger; he would be coming round before too long and Celia should take her chance now. She spoke kindly and Celia just looked at her blankly for a moment, barely able to understand. The silent room with its machines and its shiny grey walls was like a flotation tank, a place of sensory deprivation, and she felt disoriented, as though she’d been there for hours. Then she nodded, yes, thank you, I will, and the nurse went out again.
Celia stared at the screen beside Lucas’s bed; the green line spiked and blipped across it, persistent and indefatigable and regular now, Lucas’s body reasserting its right to survival even while he lay there motionless on the bed. Then under hers his cool hand fluttered, and Celia sat bolt upright, holding her breath. On the screen the hiccups quickened a fraction, and the numbers on a quartz display beside it ran on, changing incomprehensibly. But no alarms sounded, and no nurse ran in; Celia let out a cautious breath, watching him. His eyes opened, a hand lifted and fell back to his side, and he turned his head to look at her.
The nurse bustled in then, alerted perhaps by some external machine, and Celia moved back as she leaned over Lucas, murmuring a gentle question, soothing. She heard his voice, hoarse from underuse, but she couldn’t make out what he was trying to say, nor even whether he was speaking in English or Italian. Nor, apparendy, could the nurse, who turned to Celia with an expression of helpless impatience on her round, kind face.
‘You talk to him,’ she said sternly, seeing that Celia had not gone for her coffee, as instructed. ‘Reassure him. Then let him rest.’ She turned back to her patient and with infinite care she detached the oxygen mask from his face, giving him a little pat on the arm as she left.
Reassure him. Celia felt herself begin to panic, because what on earth could she say to reassure him? But she stopped herself, right there; you’ll think of something. She took his hand and waited for him to speak again.
‘Hello,’ he said, and perhaps it was whatever drug they’d given him but to Celia his voice sounded extraordinarily changed. To begin with as he looked at her all that vigilance, that guardedness she’d seen in him before had disappeared and instead there seemed to be a kind of exhausted quiet; it was as though something inside him that had been wound tight had loosened.
‘How are you feeling?’ she said cautiously.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘like I’ve been kicked by a horse. Not bad.’ He fell silent then but she could tell he was preparing himself to speak again. ‘Where’s Emma?’ he said and he struggled to raise himself, but his eyes were clouded, confused and she could see he couldn’t remember what had happened. ‘We – we were – were we having dinner?’
‘You hadn’t got that far,’ said Celia, gently lowering him back to the bed, and with a sureness that took her by surprise she told the lie. ‘Emma’s fine. They’re looking after her, keeping an eye on blood pressure. You gave us all a shock, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Lucas vaguely, his eyes wandering as he thought back. He laid his head on the pillow. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘You mustn’t worry about it,’ said Celia, trying to lead him away from the moment when he’d said that before, in the wrecked dining room. ‘Really. Emma’s not upset, they’re just checking on her. You’ll be able to see her soon.’ She felt her face stiffen with the lie, forced her mouth into a smile.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said, frowning. ‘I – did I tell you? You know, don’t you, I remember, we went outside. It was very cold.’
‘About your daughter,’ said Celia. ‘Yes. I know, and Emma knows. It’s all all right.’
‘Emily,’ he said. ‘She’s called Emily.’ He spoke the name so quietly it was barely audible. ‘It seems a long time ago,’ Lucas said after a while, and his voice was far away. ‘I couldn’t let myself picture her face, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to go on if I did. My wife died, you know.’
She waited for him to go on, not wanting to interrupt; she barely dared take a breath.
‘I badgered Sandro Cellini, the policeman, I made him send me everything, every last piece of paper. I had a filing cabinet. I suppose it kept me busy. And then one day I realized I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her face any more, even if I wanted to.’ His voice was hollow. Celia thought of the picture he kept in his desk drawer, the photograph of a girl he’d told Emma was his god-daughter.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, wanting to cry, and she lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘It’ll be all right.’
He parked as far from the light as he could, round the side of Bartolo’s place. The air was fresher, wetter when he climbed out and he could tell the snow would be gone by morning. Just as well, too. Snow might make everything look pretty but he didn’t want anyone following his tracks. And it always turned to slush and scum, in the end, his feet were wet with it already. He opened the boot.
Alive, then. She looked up at him with her bruised face from over the dirty rag he’d tied around her mouth and he felt anger stir in his belly. She was scared, that was for sure, but there was some fight left in her too. He wanted her more than scared, though, he wanted her terrified into total submission, he’d seen them like that, like she was under hypnosis, and he could see from her eyes that she hadn’t got there yet. Bloody women, bloody women hanging on beyond all reason, clinging to life, clinging to him, don’t they know when to give up? He shut the boot again and lit a cigarette, leaning against it. That’ll teach her. Stay in there a bit longer. He felt in his pocket, mobile phone, knife. He took out the knife and fingered it, running a thumb down the short, lethal blade.
He’d have liked a gun. He’d had one once, at the beginning, bou
ght it in Odessa for hard cash. Liked feeling the weight of it in his pocket, cool and solid, he would place it against his cheek. He’d never used it, but he could have done. And that idiot Piotr had got drunk and started firing at cans out by the airport, drawing attention to them, so he’d had to ditch the gun. That was why it was better to be on his own. He didn’t fuck up, Jonas never fucked up. He looked up and down the quiet cul-de-sac; no one. The villa opposite was empty, they’d gone away for the holidays, that was a piece of luck. He turned and looked at Bartolo’s place. It occurred to him he could take her in there, it was that bit closer, after all, but then he saw a piece of striped police tape fluttering from the gate and thought, maybe not. It was one thing to park the car under their noses, a laugh, but he didn’t fancy being holed up in that place, you’d be trapped for sure if they came back for another look. And it gave him the creeps, he couldn’t help thinking of the old guy, mumbling to himself in the back of the car as they drove off to Le Cascine. The stink of him.
‘Let’s do it here,’ he’d said to the girl. Why drive him off there for Christ’s sake, I’m in charge here? There’s the place right next door, we can do it there. Do it in his own house. But she’d shaken her head, no. ‘I know him,’ she’d said. ‘He’ll scream like a pig if you make him go into the Olympia, he’s scared of the place, and you don’t want to do it in his house, on home ground. He’ll say nothing there.’ It might have been that she hadn’t wanted to go into his house herself, Jonas knew that from the way she squirmed and pulled away at the gate. He’d let her have it her way, though, she’d been right about everything else where Bartolo was concerned, after all. Had it been a piece of luck, meeting her in the bar? He wasn’t sure. But you had to be bold, take the initiative. Take a risk.
He pushed himself off the car and flicked the cigarette into the snow, a dark fleck on the white. He stretched and flexed, preparing himself; he had to do this quickly, no hesitating. There was a thump from inside the truck, and his anger flared. Now.
Over his shoulder she bucked and twisted, but she had no chance, his arm was clamped across her thighs. Jonas worked out, a hundred press-ups night and morning, ran five miles a day, pull-ups when there was a bar, and his forearms were like steel cable. You had to stay in condition. She was heavier than he’d thought, though; she only looked small with that pointed chin, the little wrists and ankles as he’d bound them, but her stomach was firm and solid against his shoulder. He was over the fence, walking without hesitation in the dark up to the back of the Olympia, shoved the piece of hardboard across the back door aside and he was in.
She was making a racket now, spitting and screaming through the rag, and unceremoniously he let her slide to the floor and stood astride her.
‘Shut up,’ he said in a soft voice. He knew English, that much, at least. Man of many talents. Then he leaned down and put his face an inch from hers and shouted as loud as he could, ‘Shut. Your. Mouth.’
Celia paced, found herself at the end of the blue corridor, lost. The nurse had scolded her to get a rest when she came in and saw her still there; what must she have looked like? She felt shaky and cold, even though she had put her coat back on and the hospital was warm around her. Perhaps it was the smell, of iodine and surgical soap – this was a place of extremity where there was no time to waste on fragrance. Her feet in the thin shoes slapped loud on the speckled marble of the floors.
‘Something to eat, at least,’ the nurse had said, eyeing her. ‘The bar’s down one floor. Surely there’s someone else can sit with him for a bit?’
That was when Celia had begun to shake at the thought of what she had said, that it would be all right and soon he would see Emma again. The nurse had looked at her trembling hands and sent her out.
‘He’s being looked after,’ she said. ‘Take an hour or two off. Go on.’
Celia arrived at a set of double doors and, pushing them open, found herself on a cold concrete landing with two lift doors and a stairwell. Celia stood in a daze, staring at the light over the lift door and trying to understand what it meant, up or down. She put her hands to her face, leaning back against the wall in the stairwell. She was tired. But she couldn’t go home, couldn’t rest; Lucas was lying there, half-way between alive and dead, and Emma was gone. Opposite her the lift pinged again and the door opened; dazed, she registered faces, one of them moving towards her and – Dan was there. She swayed, wondering if he was real, and then his arms were around her and she could feel his breath in her hair.
‘Have they found her?’ she whispered; nothing else seemed to matter suddenly. ‘Please let them have found her.’ She extracted herself from his arms, his closeness oddly distracting suddenly, and stood back, searching his face. He shook his head slowly. ‘Not yet,’ he said, and she put her hands to her face.
‘Come on, come on,’ Dan said, and Celia realized that the funny choked sound she could hear was coming from her own mouth. ‘It’s all right. It’ll be all right.’
He looked over her shoulder, through the swing doors and down the corridor that led to Lucas’s room. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s okay,’ she whispered, feeling a tiny stirring, a step out of despair; at least he was alive. One step at a time. ‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said, then stopped. ‘At least, as long as—’ And she looked up at Dan, stricken. They were a long way from it all being all right.
‘Here,’ said Dan, turning her towards the stairs. ‘The bar’s one floor down, isn’t it?’
The warm coffee smell enveloped her at the doorway, erasing the institutional odours of disinfectant and sickness. A long glass cabinet full of stuffed toys and boxes of chocolates ran along one wall, and a gang of ambulancemen still in their fluorescent jackets were leaning against it drinking grappa. At the bar a young, unshaven doctor, his white coat hanging open, was staring into the dregs of a coffee cup, his eyes glazed with tiredness. Celia realized she had no idea what time it was and looked around; a clock above the till said eleven-thirty. Dan went to get a ticket and she leaned against one of the small, high, round tables, barely able to stay upright herself. There was something bulky stuffed into one of her pockets; she felt it press into her thigh and, puzzled, she fished it out and set it on the table with a clatter. Lucas’s personal effects, in their plastic bag.
Celia felt guilt creep up on her, as though she’d shoplifted them. But what else could she have done? She tilted her head to one side, studying the contents of the plastic bag. Keys. Wallet. A mobile phone – no. Two mobile phones. Dan arrived at her side and set down two cups and two tumblers of some viscous white spirit, but she was still staring, puzzled, at the bag. Was one of the phones Emma’s?
‘What’s this?’ said Dan cheerfully.
‘Oh,’ said Celia, hesitating. ‘It’s—’ Could she trust Dan, with his journalist’s instincts? Was he using her? She realized that she was going to risk it. She sighed. ‘They’re Lucas’s things. They emptied his pockets, told me to look after the stuff.’
Dan’s expression turned serious. ‘Oh,’ he said thoughtfully, eyeing the bag; with that look she knew he wanted to grab it and shake out the contents, but he didn’t. He picked up his coffee and drained it, then the grappa. It occurred to Celia that she had no idea why Dan had turned up at the Palazzo Ferrigno in the middle of the Marshes’ dinner.
‘What were you doing there?’ she said. ‘Why did you come?’
27
‘Here,’ hissed Sandro. ‘Come on.’ He half-dragged Luisa across the room, stumbling ahead of her across broken furniture, behind the bar and down on to the floor. It was tacky with ancient spillage, and there was a rancid smell of sour alcohol and something nastier, more like bile, stomach acids, some disgusting bodily fluid. Beside her Sandro crouched, waiting.
They could hear him moving through the building below them. ‘Is he coming up here?’ whispered Luisa with horror, and Sandro shushed her. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Quiet.’ She felt his hand squeeze hers, though, and she thought,
We’re in this together She concentrated on keeping very still; absurdly she thought of childhood games. Murder in the dark. She heard the clang of the steel stairway beyond the door, echoing tinnily in the great space underneath them.
There’d been another voice, too, higher-pitched, frightened, after the shouting. Was it a woman? Was it Sarto? Beside her Sandro’s head was down as he concentrated on something in his lap. Luisa blinked, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the deep shadow behind the bar so that she could see what he was looking at. She put out a hand in the dark and felt something cold and metallic, then his hand on hers to stay it, and she knew what it was, the memory of it in her palm, of ridges and furrows. A gun. His police issue gun, not to be fired, never to be fired, that was what he’d once said to her. I’d never use it. And now – he’d gone AWOL, and he’d hung on to the gun – what kind of trouble could that get him into? Did he even have bullets for it? Luisa felt sick.
She heard the footsteps closer then, and different, no longer on the ringing steel of the steps but a more muffled, solid sound. He was stamping along the walkway towards them, a scuffling behind as though someone was being dragged, and then the door banged open. How are we going to get out? The thought crashed around inside Luisa’s head. On the other side of the bar where they crouched there was a moment’s silence, then a thump as something fell heavily to the floor and some swearing. Whatever he was saying in his thick, guttural accent, he was repeating over and over obscenities from another world.
As she concentrated on staying absolutely quiet Luisa saw something on her pulled-up knees. It was a thin shaft of pale light and she turned to see how it was getting through. At her shoulder a crack split the cheap wood of the bar where it had been ransacked and turning slowly, cautiously, she leaned close, pressing her eye to the opening. She could hear her own breath in the enclosed space. At first she could see nothing, squinting from the dark into the silvered moonlight, but then there was the silhouette of a man against the window. He was stubble-headed and huge in the shoulders, like a minotaur, and he was looking down at something, or someone.
A Florentine Revenge Page 30