“So, you think you’ve killed Ambrogio?” he says.
I can tell he still doesn’t believe me.
“Yes.” I nod.
“And you’re sure he’s dead?”
A wave of doubt rises. The Earth shifts suddenly beneath my feet. What if Ambrogio wasn’t dead after all? What if he got up and followed me here? My eyes dart to the front door at the end of the hall, but it’s closed; it’s dark. There’s nobody there. Salvatore checked. He looked in the garden. The automatic lights would detect any movement. I take a deep breath.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“How did you kill him?”
“With a rock.”
Even to me that sounds absurd. There’s a pause while he considers this fact.
“Minchia,” says Salvatore. “A rock.”
It’s just sunk in. He glares at me now, his blue eyes angry and accusing. What have I done? Is he going to help me? Or is he cross? Will he turn me in to the police? Salvatore paces the kitchen, his muscular arms twitching and flexing, his bare feet pounding the flagstones: six foot six of pure meat and muscle. No wonder Beth wanted him on the side. An angry gorilla. A grizzly bear. Oh my God. I suddenly get it; the bruises on Beth’s arms. They weren’t from Ambrogio. He’s a pussy. They were from him!
“Why the hell was he trying to kill you? Is it because he found out about us?”
“Yes,” I say, suddenly dizzy. I think I am about to faint. He’s going to hit me. Beat me up. Oh, why did I chuck that gun?
“How did Ambrogio find out?”
“My sister told him.” Does that sound plausible?
Salvatore pauses. “Now, why would she do that?”
“I think she wanted him all for herself. She is a bit of a cow like that.” Good: present tense. Like she’s still alive. Well done, Alvie. Thinking on your feet.
Salvatore sighs. I think he believes me. Why does he believe me? What has Beth told him about Alvina? He thinks she’s a bitch.
“So . . . where is it? The body?” he says.
“On the stage in the amphitheater.”
“In the amphitheater? What the hell is he doing up there?”
I wish I knew.
“I don’t know. He chased me,” I say, as my voice breaks. My head is spinning. My vision is blurry with tears. I’m about to wipe my cheek with my hand when I see that it’s covered in blood.
Salvatore is shaking with rage. I’ve woken him up and brought him a problem. He looks pissed-off.
“Why should I help you? After what you said?”
What the hell did I say?
“I-I-I . . .”
“I didn’t think you were speaking to me. You never wanted to see me again. If I wouldn’t help you, you didn’t want to know.”
What? Oh. The row with my sister. I remember them arguing by his car.
“I do want to see you. I’m sorry,” I say. Do I sound convincing? Is that the right amount of remorse? The tears are falling freely now; they flood my eyes and slide down my face. Real tears; I’d forgotten what they felt like. Oh my God, am I actually crying? I must be turning into Beth. He’s not going to help me. Why did I come here? He’ll beat me up or call the police.
“So, in fact, you don’t wish I was dead?”
“No.” Really? Is that what she said? I wonder what he did. It must have been bad.
“But that’s what you said. . . .”
Shit. Nice one, Beth.
“I didn’t mean it . . . not really. Please?” What would Beth do? I flutter my eyelashes. Flirting probably works best when one’s not covered in blood. “Please. Please.” I sob into my hands now. Who cares about the blood? I’m already messy. If he doesn’t help me I’m totally screwed.
“Wait here, I’ll get dressed,” he says, at last. I look up at him—Really?— blinking through tears.
“Oh! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I say. Salvatore, my savior!
He disappears through the door down the hall. Climbs the stairs with heavy feet. I hear him moving around upstairs. Floorboards creak. The lampshade wobbles. He’s a big guy. Two hundred kilos? As heavy as a prizewinning bull.
I finish the water and put the glass down in the sink. His kitchen is sleek and supermodern, bespoke, designer. BOSCH. SMEG. NESPRESSO. ALESSI. It all looks brand-new, like it’s never been used. Glossy white surfaces glisten. Minimalist appliances. Italian design. There’s a trace of blood from where I just leaned my arm on the white plastic table. I take a piece of kitchen paper, run it under the tap and wipe it off. It’s one of those kitchens where the bin is hidden; I have no idea where to look. If I touch anything else, I’ll stain it with blood. I stand in the middle of the room with the wet paper dripping pink on the white tiled floor.
Salvatore runs back down the stairs. THUD. THUD. THUD. He’s changed into dark blue jeans and a smart black shirt. The shirt fits perfectly; it must be tailor-made. He stops and stares at me for a second, sees the kitchen paper in my hand. He grabs it and throws it into a bin. The bin is hidden in a cupboard under the sink. Ah, so that’s where it was. I’ll remember for next time. If there is a next time.
“We’ll need some water to clean up the mess. Some buckets and a sponge?”
“Let’s go,” he says.
◆
“Where is he?” says Salvatore.
I wish we’d brought a torch. It seems to have got even darker. A big, black cloud has swallowed the moon. I scan what I can see of the stage. Columns. Rocks. Sea. Holy shit! Oh my God, is Mount Etna erupting? I knew I couldn’t trust it. Isn’t that dangerous? The volcano’s crater sparks and flickers. Red-hot lava leaps up high: orange, yellow, gold, magenta. A cloud of smoke spews up from the summit. Lightning flashes fill the ash cloud. The faint scent of sulfur. The taste of heat. I glance at Salvatore, but he doesn’t seem bothered. Perhaps it does that all the time? I stare at the summit. It looks incredible. I guess it would be cool to survive an eruption. If we survive. Something neat to tell the grandkids?
At first I can’t see him. I think he’s gone; he’s hauled himself up and staggered away. It seems so unreal; like I made it all up: a figment of a fucked-up imagination. I look over my shoulder, perhaps he’s still here? Sneaking up on us right now with a rock or a gun? I picture a zombie from Dawn of the Dead. But at last I spot him, lying there on the stage in the place where I left him. A long black figure against gray flagstones. Silent. Still. Dead.
“There, on the stage. Look!” I say. I bite the inside of my lip so hard it bleeds.
Salvatore looks in the direction that I’m pointing; I feel him tense. He hadn’t believed it. Not till he’d seen it. Neither had I. We run downstairs to the front of the stage. We’ve brought two buckets, overflowing with water, to clean up the mess: the water in the bucket is slopping and slapping. My feet are wet, my legs all splashed. My knees are weak as I take the steps two or three or four at a time. The steps seem to stretch to infinity.
What the hell am I doing? It feels like I’m watching myself from afar: a spectator at an ancient Greek tragedy: the more blood and guts spilled the better. Everyone’s dead by the end. From out here in the auditorium, the murders seem real, but it’s just a play, a three-hour thrill, exciting, entertaining, cathartic. I know the blood is just food coloring. The intestines are those of a pig.
We reach the edge of the stage and jump up. Salvatore first, then he gives me his hand, but I just stand here and stare. I really don’t want to get any closer. I think I might throw up. He grabs my hand and hauls me up too, as though I were as light as a feather (I wish). I follow him toward the columns that form a line at the back of the stage, toward the body. I stop dead in my tracks. Ambrogio’s eyes are still wide open, shining white in the light from the moon. He’s looking back up at me. Big stupid eyes like a fish on ice at a fishmonger’s; his mouth gaping open, his tongue lolling out. Do fish
have tongues? His head is cracked; the blood trickles out. His hair is wet and black. I catch a glimpse of something pale: what is that? His skull?
Beyond the corpse: a heart-stopping view. Etna’s still erupting. I’m starting to like it. Flashes of red spark in the night. It’s stunning, awesome, epic, sublime. Now that I’ve figured it’s not death by lava, I can’t take my eyes off the fire.
“Beth? BETH? BETH!”
“What?”
“We gotta clean this shit up,” he says.
I turn back to the body, step in a bit closer. The stench of fresh blood makes me gag: blood mixed with sulfur and sea-salt air. It fills my nostrils, lines my throat: a punch in the mouth, a missing tooth, a bleeding tongue. I’m gargling blood; blood floods my mouth, my stomach, my lungs. I’m choking, drowning, sinking in blood.
The flagstones are dark, slippery, wet. I wring the sponge in the bucket and squeeze. Cold water splashes my shins, my feet, feels cool against my broken toe. I scrub at the stones with the sponge. It’s not coming off. Even in the dark, I can see it’s still there: slick, black blood. I scrub harder and faster, my knuckles scraping, bleeding, raw. My arms are beginning to ache. Shit, it’s not working. It’s just getting worse. Blood is a bitch to get up.
“Beth?”
“Yeah?” Oh God. What now?
“I thought you said Ambrogio had a gun?”
“He did. He did! He had a gun.”
“So where is it?” he says. “It isn’t here.”
“It must . . . he must . . . he must have dropped it.”
“It’s not on the stage. I can’t see it.”
Shit.
“It’s got to be somewhere in the theater.”
He gives me a frown and then looks all around him. The theater is dark and filled with shadows. The auditorium is huge.
“He had one. I promise. I saw it,” I say.
Salvatore sighs.
“OK. Whatever. Help me move him,” he says at last.
I shove the sponge back into the bucket. Salvatore stands at Ambrogio’s head, his hands clasped under his armpits, ready. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand: slimy, wet. I don’t want to touch him. I know his skin will be cold.
“The feet,” he says.
I stand up, wincing: my knee! My toe! I bend to grab Ambrogio’s feet, hold on to his ankles, but then:
Footsteps.
A flashlight.
A silhouette.
“Che cazzo fai?” comes a man’s voice.
A torch shines bright into my eyes. I’m blinded. I gasp. I drop the feet and stand up.
“Shit,” I say.
“Merda,” says Salvatore.
The figure approaches. The footsteps get louder. He runs down the stairs and in two seconds flat, he’s standing below us by the stage.
Messy blond hair. A uniform. The security guard. Of course. Who else?
“Betta?” he says.
Now would be a good time to cry. I sink down on my knees and sob.
“Che cazzo?”
He jumps up on the stage. I feel an arm around my shoulders.
“Oh my God! Betta? What have you done?”
“I-I-I-” I say.
“What happened? Betta? Are you OK?”
“She’s fine,” says Salvatore, his voice loud and booming on the dead-quiet stage. “Her husband attacked her, so she knocked him out. He’ll be OK.”
The security guard stands up. He shines the torch on Ambrogio’s body. It looks even worse like this in the light. A spotlight illuminates the corpse, like some kind of theatrical prop. The bile rises in my throat. I look the other way.
“Ma è morto?” says the security guard.
“Forse è morto,” Salvatore says.
“Please,” I say, at last, standing up, “Please, please, don’t tell anyone about this. I had to do it. I had to,” I say.
The security guard looks into my eyes; in the light from the torch, I can read his terror. Fucking hell; he’s going to freak out. This must be his very first body.
“Madonna mia,” he says under his breath. “Betta, you killed him? Not this guy?” He shines his torch at Salvatore. Salvatore flinches, turns away. He shields his eyes with his hands.
“I did it. I did it. Please don’t say anything.” I grasp hold of his shirt. The security guard shines his torch back at me. I close my eyes. “Please. Please.”
“Madonna mia. Are you crazy?” he says. “Are you out of your mind? Do you know what you’ve done? That’s Ambrogio Caruso! And you’re still here? You gotta get out of here! They’re going to kill you. You gotta fucking disappear!”
I look at the security guard. His eyeballs are bulging out of their sockets, like one of those goldfish with telescope eyes. He looks genuinely scared. Who’s going to kill me? Nino? Domenico? Emilia? Salvatore? I’m the only one who’s killing around here. Is that what he’s worried about?
“Shit,” he says, as though this were an afterthought. “What do I say to my boss?”
I stand up slowly, shaky, unsteady, put my arms around his neck. I wish I knew his fucking name. I pull him into a tight embrace, my hot breath wet against his ear. “Don’t worry. We . . . we’ll clear it all up. He was going to kill me, so I-I-I-” My chest heaves—heavy—as I sob. I push my breasts up into his body, rest my cheek against his cheek. My fingers run through tousled hair. If I knew his name, I’d whisper it, softly. What the hell is this guy’s name?
The security guard steps back, pulls away. He looks into my eyes; I’m begging him, pleading. I wish I were a hypnotherapist. I wish I practiced mind control.
“Clean this up. Right now,” he says. “My boss will be back in an hour.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A-18 Autostrade: Messina–Catania
Salvatore helped me load Ambrogio’s corpse into the trunk of his BMW. We’re driving to a scenic cliff he knows a few miles away. It has a direct drop to the sea. I wonder if that’s where we crashed the yacht. That would be a coincidence. Salvatore’s in the Bimmer and I’m in the Lambo, following just behind. We’re going to leave Ambrogio’s car on the edge of the cliff, so it looks like he drove there. I wish I could keep it. Perhaps I can get it back later when this is all over; it’s such a beautiful car. It really does suit me. With the soft top down and the wind in my hair, I’m a poster girl for la dolce vita.
The gearstick jams and grinds and stutters. I’m not sure what all the different buttons do. Don’t know what all the dials mean. It’s not an automatic car. I only just managed to start it. We’re racing around hairpin bends as the sun slips up over the sleepy horizon. It must be about five a.m. There’s nobody else on the roads. I floor the accelerator, the adrenaline pumping. Salvatore’s driving fast and it’s dangerous. I fucking love it. I’ve almost forgotten about the corpse in the trunk. I’ve never felt more alive. Now that I know that Salvo is helping, I’m feeling a bit more chilled out. If we weren’t being secretive, undercover, I’d crank up the volume on a Taylor Swift record. Find a Miley track on the radio and scream.
The wind is blowing through my hair, whipping my face and stinging my eyes. I pull a strand out from my mouth and lick chapped lips; they’re dry from the dust in the amphitheater. Hurt a bit from when I bit them. I can still taste blood. I feel like a vampire, but now I’m Beth. I’m a hot one at least: Rosalie Hale or Bella Swan.
We turn a corner and wheels screech to a stop. I look over at Salvatore’s Bimmer; he’s pulled over and is getting out of the car. We must have arrived at wherever we’re going. I jump out of the Lambo and follow Salvatore toward the edge of a massive cliff. We stand side by side and look out at the view. The breeze is warm and cashmere-soft. A crescent of coastline stretches before us, bright lights sparkling into the distance, the long black curve of the sea. In a few minutes, Ambrogio will be down there in that a
bominable darkness, plunging through cold water, out of sight, out of mind. He’ll be sleeping with the fishes, is that what they say? In just a few minutes, the fish will come nibbling. In just a few months, there won’t be anything left. At least, that’s the plan. Do they have piranhas in the Mediterranean? Do they have great white sharks?
“Betta,” Salvatore says, throwing open the boot of the car.
He grabs hold of Ambrogio’s legs and gestures with his head for me to come over. I walk over to the Bimmer. OK, here goes . . . I take hold of Ambrogio’s arms, cold, heavy, unreal, and together we heave him out and onto the ground. THUD. Oh my God, he’s gotten even heavier. How is that possible? Shouldn’t he be lighter? They say the soul weighs twenty-one grams. I glance down the road in both directions. This would be the wrong time for a car to pass by, for a busload of tourists or the police to show up. I picture that Japanese schoolgirl waving and smiling out the window, iPhone camera at the ready: CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. Straight onto Pinterest: “My European Holiday.” Another X-rated film on fucking YouTube. Really, I could have a career; I could be Zoella’s evil twin. I swallow hard and glance at Salvatore.
“We gotta make it look like suicide,” he says into his hands, as he’s lighting a cigarette. It dangles out of the corner of his mouth, like a Wyoming cowboy circa 1954. He looks really sexy.
“Good idea,” I agree. If anyone asks, Ambrogio was depressed. Manically fucking depressed. On the verge. On the edge. He cried himself to sleep every night. I’m not surprised he topped himself. It was only a matter of time.
“If you’re gonna jump off a cliff, you don’t do it naked,” I say, touching Ambrogio’s torso with the tip of an unbroken toe. “Even if you did, somebody’s got to find your clothes.”
It’s an excellent point. Ambrogio’s nude apart from a pair of black boxers. It wouldn’t look right. I think I’m getting the hang of all this now. I’m catching on. . . .
“True,” he says.
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