“Oh, wow! What is that?”
There’s something there on Nino’s back. I haven’t noticed it before; he had his top on when we fucked. I hold his shoulders and turn him around. There on his back is a life-size tattoo of the Virgin Mary. Her face is beautiful; her hair is covered with a delicate veil. A single tear slides down her cheek toward rosebud lips. Her hands in prayer. It looks striking in the moonlight, the raindrops adding to her tears. She looks a bit like Beth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” says Nino.
I’m standing and staring.
“Your tattoo, it’s amazing.”
“Is now the time?”
“I’ve always wanted a tattoo. Maybe not that one . . . But something cool.”
He doesn’t look impressed.
“Did you get it done around here?”
He doesn’t answer.
I pull my shirt underneath his arm, loop it around, and tie it in a knot.
“Aaargh,” says Nino. “Puttanaccia.”
“Hey!” I say. You do a guy a favor. . . .
He takes a deep breath and then nods at the men. “They fucking dead?”
I turn toward them. “I’m out of bullets.”
“Get my gun.”
I pick up Nino’s gun from the ground. It’s wet from the rain. Will it still work? I’m not sure gunpowder’s supposed to get soggy. Oh, well, I don’t exactly have much choice. My bullet is gone. What if Nino’s gun doesn’t work? I creep through the pouring rain over to the men lying by the front door. They both have gunshot wounds to the head and are bleeding all over the doormat. I wish I had my mobile. I want to take a picture. The bodies look awesome lying there in the rain. I’ll take one later when Nino’s not here. . . .
“They look pretty dead.” I laugh.
“We gotta look in the back of the van,” Nino says weakly.
Nino slumps on the roof of the van and I stand next to him by the back doors. I aim his gun at the door.
“Open it!” he says.
I pull the handle and throw the door open. It’s dark, but I can see that the van is empty. There’s no one inside. Nino runs his fingers through wet hair. He looks stressed-out. Rain pelts his face and his cheeks glisten white in the light from the moon.
“Betta,” he says. “We leave tonight.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Let’s take the Lambo; there’ll be room for the suitcase in the boot.”
“Oh, great idea: a red Lamborghini. No one will notice us in that.”
“The Lambo’s fast.” I shrug. “Plus, I like it. I don’t want to leave it here. It’s a waste.” I wonder how much you’d get for a classic Miura? Ambrogio had said 1972; that’s old school.
“We take my car,” Nino says, clasping paper towels to the top of his arm to stop the bleeding. It’s the pricey kind with absorbent pockets that they advertise all the time on TV. The paper’s good for mopping up wine, coffee, gin, and spilled milk. Apparently it’s not so great with blood. I look at the mess all over his arm; black and shiny and wet. I sigh; he’s not going to be much use like that.
“Where’re we even going?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Naples?” Nino says.
I’m racking up a couple of lines. One for Nino to help with the “pain” (it’s a very effective anesthetic) and one for me. Just because. I use Nino’s credit card to neaten them up on the low glass coffee table. I roll up a bank note and give it to Nino.
He snorts his line with his good hand.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I need a saw,” he says.
“Naples is too close. They’ll find us. It’s easy. Let’s drive to London instead.”
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, there’s a little bit of blood running down from his nostril, drip, drip, drip, drip. . . . He doesn’t even seem to notice. I hope his nose doesn’t fall off like that singer, Stevie Nicks. That would make his mustache look odd.
“Can you get me a saw?” he says.
I snort my line, throw my head back, and close my eyes. Mmm. Cocaine. It feels safe, warm, and cozy, like being hugged, like being in the womb. But better because Beth isn’t there. I light up two cigarettes, one for me and one for Nino. I stick one in his mouth. Oh my God, it’s like being a carer. I’m not sure I have the patience to be a full-time nurse. I don’t think I have the aptitude.
Beth, Beth, Beth. Life’s so much better without her . . . now that I am her. I wonder how Beth would have dealt with all this? She’d have probably run screaming or cried in the corner. Hidden under the table. Behind the sofa. She wasn’t cut out for this world, not like I am. She wanted to kill me! Ha! I’m still here! And where is she? Long gone. No, my sister wasn’t a killer. That’s why she was leaving; she’d never have coped. I, on the other hand, am a duck to water. I was made for this shit. I’m a natural. I was born for this life. If I hadn’t killed Beth, hadn’t murdered Ambrogio, then they’d have killed me. I got in first. I had no choice. Betrayed by my very own flesh and blood. Now I am the one with all the power. I am the one in control. I am the one with the suitcase full of cash. I am the one with the gun.
I grab the case and fling it open. Stare at the money and catch my breath. It looks so fucking beautiful, it almost doesn’t look real. Stack upon stack upon stack of perfect banknotes. They’re all magenta and pastel mauve with tiny stars in yellow and white. They look magic. They look special. I pull out a €500 note and study it carefully, check in the light for the watermark. It certainly feels real as I rub it between my fingers: smooth, crisp, legit! I take a stack of notes and start to count them.
“Five hundred, a thousand, one thousand five hundred, two thousand . . .”
“Betta!”
“Shh, Nino! I’m trying to count. Now I’ll have to start again. Five hundred, a thousand . . .”
“Will you get me a fucking saw?”
I look at Nino and roll my eyes.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m going. I’m going.”
I dump the cash back in the suitcase, crush the life out of my cigarette inside a vase. A speck of tobacco’s still burning, glowing; a plume of white smoke curls, fades, disappears.
“Hurry up. We need to leave.” He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of a bloodied hand, leaving a streak of red across his face. It looks hot, like Rambo or something. He looks like he’s fresh out of Nam.
“Salvatore had a chainsaw; I’ll run next door and get it,” I say.
I jump up from the sofa and head for the door.
Wait. Why does he need a saw?
◆
Bile rises in my throat; rancid, acid, raw. I swallow it back down. I can’t let Nino see me puke. I hold my breath and count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten . . . It doesn’t work. I still feel ill. I help him hold the leg in place, vibrating with the blade. The thigh is slippery with blood; the skin is cold and flabby. The chainsaw whirrs and hacks through bone: nails scraping down a blackboard. The shrieking of a dentist’s drill. My eyeballs water with the stench of charring flesh and burning bone: pork chops on a barbecue. A cough, a splutter from the saw; the femur’s sliced in two.
We’ve dragged the men in from outside and laid them on the carpet with the priest. Nino’s making a hell of a mess; flesh and fragments of bone splinter and splatter all over his clothes. The carpet’s drenched with blood. It smells like a slaughterhouse: iron and fear. The petrol from the chainsaw. There are three large cases and a roll of garbage bags. We’d have folded them up, but they wouldn’t have fit. Nino’s done this before. He’s pretty quick with the chainsaw with only one arm; it’s slicing through flesh like butter. We pile the body parts into the cases: the heads, the arms, and the torsos at the bottom, the legs folded up on the top; it’s human Tetris. The smell of mince before you cook it. I can taste the blood
in the air.
“Help me saw up the carpet,” says Nino.
We saw up the carpet and tuck the squares into the cases with the bodies. We shove more trash bags on top of that and zip the cases shut. I turn to Nino and study his red-flecked face; there’s blood in his mustache. Then I look down at my clothes; soggy and wet. I’ve completely ruined this bra.
“I’m going to get changed,” I say.
I climb the stairs on tiptoe—Ernie’s still sleeping, I don’t want to wake him—then creep along the corridor into Beth’s bedroom. I take off my clothes in the bathroom and wash off the blood in the sink. Little pink droplets splatter up the mirror. I rinse them off with clean water and shove the dirty clothes in a bag; we’ll dump them somewhere later on. I grab a shirt from Beth’s walk-in wardrobe, a red one so that the blood won’t show. It’s a crimson silk blouse with fluted sleeves; it’s feminine, floaty, and soft. I think I saw this on the Outnet last week. I pull it on. It fits me perfectly. I pull on the gold Prada sandals and Balenciaga hot pants as well. I know, I know, the cellulite. But you know what? Fuck it. I’m just going to wear them. They’re nice. They suit me. I like them.
I find another suitcase and throw in a few more skirts, shirts, and dresses; that Dolce & Gabbana outfit I like. A pair of Jimmy Choos. A belt by Dior. And, of course, Beth’s Roberto Cavalli. Then I run back into the bedroom and pull all the jewelry boxes off Beth’s dressing table. I throw them into the case. I put the diamond necklace back into its box and throw that in too. Do I need Mr. Dick? Not now I’ve got Nino. I leave him tucked at the bottom of a drawer. So long, lover. I check that I’ve got the passports: mine and Beth’s, then I’m ready to go. Almost.
We need to run and we can’t take that picture.
I drag the painting out of the house and onto the patio. I’m not as careful this time; we don’t need to sell it. There’s a stainless-steel barbecue that should do the job. I need to cut it up so that it will burn, but the petrol in the chainsaw has run out after all those bodies. I leave the painting on the patio, then run into the kitchen. I rifle through the cutlery drawer and grab the sharpest knife I can find. The metal clinks; I hope it doesn’t wake Ernie. But if he can sleep through a shootout, he can sleep through this.
I run back out onto the patio and squat down on the floor by the painting. I saw through the baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary’s face, and an angel’s wings. It’s hard work; the canvas is pretty tough. The blade screeches and squeals. I turn the painting horizontally and slice through the man in the golden robes. I decapitate the Virgin Mary, cut the head off a cow. I saw the man in the green shirt and the shepherd with the beard in half. By the time I’ve finished, I’m sweating, my arm is aching. I throw the knife down to the ground, sit back, and study the painting. It’s cut into manageable chunks so it will fit in the barbecue. I hope the priest was right, or I’ve just sawn through twenty million dollars’ worth of canvas. Fuck it. It’s too late now. At least I’ve got the money.
I pile the pieces of painting onto the barbecue, then grab my cigarettes and a lighter. I light a cig with my Zippo and take a drag; ahh, that’s better. I empty the lighter fuel from my Zippo all over the canvas, throw my cigarette on the painting, and watch it burn. Slowly, slowly, the cigarette glows orange then red and crumbles to ash. A black hole burns in the fabric; its edges glowing white, then gold, then flame. The fire spreads slowly as the different-colored oil paints burn. I watch the flames change hue: bluish-white, then blue and light red, then bluish-green. It must be the elements in the paints: the copper, the lead, the tin. The fumes are pungent, toxic. The stench of burned cloth. Heat hits my cheeks and my eyes sting. Thick smoke curls and disappears. When the canvas is burning, nice and hot, I turn my back on the fire.
◆
Nino’s mopping the floor with his good hand. Luckily, the floor is laid with tiles, not floorboards. Nino says it’s impossible to get bloodstains out of wood. The blood’s almost gone. Emilia will notice that the carpet is missing, but she won’t know why. There’s something really sexy about a man mopping a floor. The intense concentration. The regular rhythm back and forth. I watch him scrubbing the tiles with blood on his hands, his arms, his face, and his shirt, he’s drenched. He shoves the mop back into the bucket.
“I need some clothes,” he says. “I’m taking a shower, then we’re out of here.” The floor is spotless. The suitcases are lined up ready by the door. He’s done a pretty good job, considering he’s only using one arm. At least he’s stopped whining about the pain—I guess the cocaine worked.
I fetch Nino some of Ambrogio’s clothes: a pair of blue jeans, a black polo shirt, and a butter-soft leather jacket. I breathe in deep and close my eyes: Ambrogio’s closet smells of Ambrogio: Armani Code Black. I remember the very first moment I met him, when he walked into Beth’s college bar. I remember us dancing that night in Oxford; he had the moves like Jagger. I shake my head and pull the doors shut. Don’t think about Ambrogio, Alvie. Ambrogio is gone. Dead as a doornail. Dodo-esque. He wasn’t who you thought he was. He wasn’t very nice.
Nino takes the clothes into the shower room and I hear a low hum as the water turns on. I sit at the desk in Elizabeth’s bedroom, my head in my hands. My skin feels dry. My forehead’s peeling. It’s all this hot weather; it’s all this stress. I slather on more of Beth’s Crème de la Mer. I steal a blob of her eye cream. I should book that facial with Cristina Hair and Beauty, but not right now. We’ve to get out of here.
I walk down the corridor to Ernie’s nursery. His night-light is on: the little moon. It casts a blue light over his sleeping face. He looks serene, like an angel. Like the infant Christ. Cuddly toys surround the baby. There’s a gorgeous mobile with fluffy white clouds. Ernie’s cute when he’s not crying. I stroke his soft cheek with the tip of my finger, brush a lock of hair from his face. I like watching him sleep; he’s so innocent, pure. We’ll start a new life: me, Ernie, and Nino. We’ll set up home somewhere nice in London. We’ll be fine once we get off this mad island. We’ll be safe and sound.
I scoop him up and set him down in his carrier. How is this going to fit in the Lambo? It’s just a two-seater. I don’t think there’s enough room. Ernie’s not going to fit in the car! I know Nino wanted to take his wheels, but there’s no way I’m leaving a classic Miura to rot on the fucking drive!
The front door slams shut. Shit. Who is that? Nino’s still upstairs in the shower. My mother? The mob? The fucking police? I peer over the banister: Emilia is standing in the entrance hall, looking lost and wet from the rain. Emilia. Great. Still inconvenient, but at least she’s not lethal. I run downstairs with Ernie in his carrier. He seems heavier than I remember. The plastic carrier knocks into my ankles, cuts into my calves, bangs against bone. I struggle downstairs. Emilia turns and watches me run, a worried look on her wrinkled face. She’s standing there in a floral nightdress; a pale blue dressing gown hangs at her sides. She’s clutching a brown leather handbag. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She has varicose veins on her legs.
“Emilia, um, is everything all right? You’re a bit . . .”
“Signora, I hear the guns! And now . . . I am . . . preoccupata!”
She looks around as though searching for gunmen, wringing her hands, biting her lip; her eyes flick left and right down the hallway. She watches me carry the baby toward her and set him down on the floor between us. I shake my arm and rub my ankle. There’s a scratch on my leg; it’s even drawn blood. My palm is sore from the weight of the handle. That thing’s fucking heavy. Emilia’s staring at my hand. Oh, shit, I’m Beth. I’m supposed to be right-handed; I used the wrong one. How could I forget? I’m not sure if she’s noticed. Not this. Not now. We’re supposed to be leaving. Seriously, I do not have the time. I’m just going to risk it. . . .
“Emilia,” I say, grabbing on to her forearm and squeezing it tight. “We are in danger. I need your help.”
Emilia gasps. She
takes a couple of baby steps back and steadies herself on the handle of the door.
“Ma perché?” she asks. “Why?”
“You heard the gunshots?”
“Sì! What happened? Is Ernesto OK?”
She leans over the carrier and peers in at the baby. He’s staring back up at us, sucking his dummy. He looks pretty happy to me.
“Ernie’s fine, but we need to get out of here. . . .”
“You need me to keep him?”
“Is that OK?”
“Of course, of course, but where do you go?” She leans over the carrier and covers the baby up with his blanket, tucks pale blue wool up beneath his chin. He hugs his cuddly sheep.
“Oh, just out of town. I won’t be gone long. But listen, Emilia, it’s very important, you can’t stay at this villa. It’s far too dangerous. My husband’s friends—”
“Mamma mia . . . I call the police!” She covers her mouth with her hands.
“No! No, don’t do that. Just stay at home. Do you understand? Go home with Ernesto. Keep him safe.”
She wraps her dressing gown around her waist and hugs herself tight, rubbing her arms. Now I feel kind of bad that I’ve scared her. Kind of, but not really.
“Don’t worry, Emilia. It’s going to be OK, but just . . . please . . . don’t call the police.”
She shakes her head.
“And don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Sì, signora.”
“No one, OK? I’ll call you later.”
“Va bene. OK.”
We look down at the baby tucked up in his blanket and Emilia sighs.
“Mamma mia, che bello,” she says. “He look just like his mamma.”
Emilia tries a reassuring smile. Bless her. She’s like the loving mother I never had. She’s like that Super Nanny on TV.
“Thank you, Emilia. I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go.”
I give her a hug and she hugs me back. I like Emilia. Beth was right: she is amazing. She’s saved my ass a hundred times. I actually wish we could take her with us. But she needs to stay here with the baby. I lean over the carrier and give Ernie a kiss on his tiny forehead. My heart breaks. He’s so soft and milky. I think he smiles, but it could just be wind. My stomach twinges, my eyes fill with tears: I may never see my baby again! I turn to go. But Emilia stops me.
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