by Ewan, Chris
‘And now?’
‘Things change, no? I think so.’
I thought so too. Things had certainly changed for me. Throughout this entire mess, I’d been clinging to the hope that I might somehow get my book back, and now I realised that couldn’t possibly happen. It was gone, and I was the fool who’d destroyed it. Just a few hours ago I’d been planning my escape from Venice. Now, I was beginning to fear I might never leave.
Thank heavens for cigarettes. I wasn’t sure I could have coped without one, and I thought the same might be true of Graziella.
Freeing a cigarette from the carton, I placed it on the opposite side of the table from me, along with my lighter. ‘Your hand is trembling,’ I said, struggling to kill the quaver in my voice as I drew on my own cigarette. ‘And if you’re planning to shoot me, I’d rather you get it right first time. I’d prefer not to know too much about it.’
I watched her weigh my words, along with the pistol. She eyed the cigarette, twisting her lips in contemplation, before considering the smoke escaping my nostrils. Finally, after checking that I wasn’t about to pounce from the other side of the table, she stepped across and popped the cigarette into her mouth, gathering up the lighter. The flame sparked and she raised it towards the end of the cigarette, inhaling instinctively. And that’s when everything shifted.
Her eyes contracted, then widened with alarm, searching me for an explanation. A whiff of vapour escaped her open mouth. The unlit cigarette fell from her lips, bringing a cascade of white powder with it, as if she’d sucked on a bag of icing sugar. She dropped the gun to the floor and raised her hand to her throat, clawing at her skin and making a dreadful croaking noise. Stumbling backwards, she crashed into a kitchen unit, then groped at the taps above the sink, turning the water on fast and cupping it greedily to her mouth.
Now seemed like an opportune moment to stand up and claim the gun for myself, so I did just that, grinding my cigarette into the floor.
Graziella turned at the sink, her face a plummy colour, a powder-and-water paste running down her chin. She heaved air desperately, her legs giving way from beneath her, her eyes imploring me for some kind of explanation.
‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘Breathe through your nose. It’s a temporary thing. A muscle spasm, triggered by a chemical reaction. The sooner you relax, the quicker it’ll pass.’
She didn’t look as if she believed me and I don’t suppose I could blame her for that. After all, I didn’t know if what I’d said was true. The cigarette I’d provided her with was one of the trick gaspers from Victoria’s weapons case, a last-second selection I’d made back in Alfred’s hotel room. It could be it was deadly, but I seriously doubted it. The rest of Victoria’s equipment had been designed to incapacitate an assailant, not kill them, and I’d been willing to bet it was the same with the cigarettes.
Mind you, I had no idea how long the effects would last, and now didn’t strike me as the time to hang around and find out. Seizing her slackened arm, I pressed the gun into her palm, making sure the contact was good and firm. I curled her index finger around the trigger, jerked her arm sideways and pointed it towards the far end of the room. Compressing her finger with the gloved digits of my left hand, I pumped two rounds into the futon cushions, the muzzle flashes throwing everything into bright relief as a plume of feathers rose up towards the ceiling. Then I yanked the gun free and wrapped it in the tea towel, aware of the heat coming through the cloth as she flopped down onto the floor.
Another time, I might have knelt and stroked her hair until the fear passed, offering words of comfort and consolation. Not tonight. I gathered up the briefcase from beneath the table and paced away without a backwards glance, the soggy gargling of her fraught breaths chasing me away along the hall.
THIRTY-NINE
My route back to the Dorsoduro was second nature to me by now, and I seemed to have crossed the Accademia Bridge in no time at all. The Fondamenta Venier was suspended in a dim, pre-dawn stillness. The pavement was empty, the canal water a hard green enamel, and the neighbourhood I’d called home muffled in silence and gauzy fog. I hadn’t wanted to go back. I knew it was a risk. But I also knew I might not get another chance.
Borelli was dead, and regardless of whether his body was found or he remained missing, I had to be a prime suspect for the crime. The police could be inside my apartment searching for clues linking me to his abduction, or they might have my building under surveillance. More to the point, it was the first place Graziella and Remi would come looking for me. I knew Graziella could get in without arousing suspicion, and I didn’t want to leave anything behind that might help them to track me down.
It wasn’t much consolation that I had no need to pick open the lock on the front door. My key still worked just fine, but right at that moment, it didn’t feel a great deal more legal than breaking in. I checked behind me as I eased the door open, but I couldn’t see anything suspicious. Maybe it would have felt less sinister if I’d spotted someone. Then again, perhaps not.
Switching on the hallway lights wasn’t an option I was willing to entertain, and I was familiar enough with the layout to be able to reach the door to my apartment without using my torch. I was a little surprised to find that my apartment was locked, but I wasn’t about to complain, especially when I stepped inside and found my holdall and my suitcase just where I’d left them.
I carried the holdall into Victoria’s room and emptied it onto the bed, then set about filling it with her things. Most of my belongings could be replaced, but I didn’t know what Victoria would consider important, so I did my best to take everything I could before adding the bound pistol as a final item. The gun was my insurance. If Borelli’s body was found before I got away, then having Graziella’s prints on the murder weapon could prove useful.
As for myself, I was only concerned to make sure that I had a change of clothes, my passports (real and stolen), my burglary tools and my laptop and writing notes. After a final skim through the apartment to make sure there was nothing I’d missed, I slung the holdall over my shoulder, lifted the briefcase in one hand and my suitcase in the other, and made for the exit.
I was at the bottom of the stairs and close to freedom when the spring lock clunked back and the front door swung open into the hall. There was no time to turn and hide, and with my hands full, I didn’t have a prayer of shoving my way past whoever was coming in. So I just stood there, loaded down with my bags, in my heavy overcoat and Borelli’s dusty, ill-fitting suit, and watched as Martin stepped into the hallway and switched on the overhead light.
He barely jumped when he saw me, his door keys jangling loosely in his hand. The skin beneath his eyes was swollen and heavily pouched, his normally immaculate hair was tangled and there was a crust of dried saliva at the corners of his mouth. The check-shirt he had on was snarled up beneath his V-neck jumper, one side of his collar raised and the other folded down, as if he’d slept in his clothes.
He cast a forlorn look from my face, to the luggage I was holding, to my stained clothing. Then he leaned to one side and took in the glazing of blood that had trickled down through my hair, behind my ear and along the back of my neck.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.
I gulped by way of response. There wasn’t a lot else I could do.
‘Time for a drink before you go?’ He brushed past me and fitted his key in the door to his apartment. ‘I could do with a scotch. Looks like you could, too.’
Even now, I’m not quite sure why I followed him, or why I stood in his living room holding my baggage in such a clueless fashion. Perhaps it was the after-effects of a concussion. From the moment Martin had peered at my head wound, it appeared to be throbbing much worse than before.
He emerged from his kitchen carrying two chipped mugs and a long-necked bottle. It could have been my imagination but he appeared sickly thin. His cheeks were scooped out, as if he hadn’t eaten a square meal in days.
‘Put your things down,’ he said.
‘And help me with this, will you?’
I looked around me for a moment, then dumped my bags beside an overstuffed armchair and clutched the mugs as he poured two generous measures.
‘Your health,’ he told me, raising his drink.
The spirit was about as welcome as the blow I’d taken to the back of my head. The last thing I needed was for my thinking to become even more muddled. I hesitated, then knocked it back. The burning at the back of my throat made me croak – an ill-timed reminder of Graziella.
‘Ah, I needed that,’ Martin said, smacking his gummy lips. ‘Been an eventful night.’
I wiped my hand across my mouth, wondering what on earth I could say. I wanted more than anything to get out of there, to leave the house and the area as soon as possible. I settled for contemplating the depths of my mug instead.
‘Just got back from the hospital,’ Martin told me. ‘Three hours of waiting. A woman Antea’s age – it’s just not civilised, is it?’
My head snapped up. ‘Is she okay?’
‘In a fashion.’ He pursed his lips. ‘She’s in pain, of course. That’s to be expected. It’s the healing process that concerns me. Venice is a damn inconvenient city for a lower limb fracture. And the collarbone can be tricky.’ His eyes bored into me. ‘Washing and dressing oneself rather goes out the window, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘How did Antea get hurt?’
He snorted. ‘You truly care?’
‘Of course.’
‘Wouldn’t rather run than hear it?’
Well, being honest, I was quite keen to take my exit. But right now didn’t seem like the time to say as much.
‘Martin, I know this doesn’t look good.’ I nudged my bags with my foot. ‘And the truth is, I can’t really explain my situation just now. But one thing I never intended was for you or Antea to come to any harm.’
Another snort. ‘You realise Antea’s very fond of you?’
No, that wasn’t something I’d devoted too much time to thinking about before now. It seemed best not to faint at the revelation.
‘Never had a child,’ he grunted. ‘Not the man for it, see? Wasn’t a decision that rested easily with Antea.’ His voice trailed off as he glanced away to the corner of the ceiling. It took him a moment to compose himself. ‘Point is,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘if it was up to me I’d have called the police while I was in the kitchen fetching the scotch.’
Christ. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t tell them much at the hospital, either. Antea’s idea. Made me promise. Damn silly if you ask me.’
I watched Martin unscrew the bottle of scotch and splash more liquid into our mugs. He tossed his back as if he was planning to gargle mouthwash. I nursed mine, swilling the liquid around.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, Martin, what exactly didn’t you tell the police?’
He swallowed, tapping a nail on the side of his mug. ‘Well, let’s see,’ he said, his voice a touch hoarse. ‘I didn’t say we heard a man yelling in distress over my recording of Brahms’ Waltz in A Flat – I simply mentioned that we’d heard a noise from what we knew to be an empty apartment, and that Antea had insisted that I go upstairs to investigate while she called the police. I didn’t say how I found that the man doing the screaming was handcuffed and bound in his underwear, and that I recognised him to be Count Frederico Borelli. I didn’t explain that when I released him with a set of keys I found, he yelled a whole lot of nonsense about my having kidnapped him, or that during our argument he kicked at a bag on the floor, from which a gun fell out – a gun that he then held on me as he dressed in clothes that obviously didn’t belong to him.’
He exhaled wearily and gazed down at his shoes until his long grey fringe covered his eyes, then shook his head in apparent wonder at his own behaviour. ‘I did say that I came across a strange man in the upstairs corridor, and that upon seeing me, the fellow ran, barging his way past my poor wife as she came upstairs with such force that she fell and fractured her ankle and her collarbone. I did say that I hadn’t got a good look at him, but that I thought it likely that he was a burglar. Oh, and I didn’t say how, as I held my wife’s hand while we waited for the emergency services to arrive, she made me agree against my better judgement to hide the salient facts from the police simply because of her damn maternal instincts and some misplaced faith in our reprobate tenant – who, I might add, had returned to his apartment late at night just a few days previously, with a set of injuries entirely consistent with those I might expect to see sustained during an explosion, of the type that had occurred at Palazzo Borelli at broadly the same time.’
I winced. ‘Martin, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, then.’ He made a growling noise deep in his throat and avoided my eyes. Apparently he didn’t know what to say, either.
‘Do you mind my asking if the police accepted your version of events?’
‘Didn’t have any reason to doubt it,’ he mumbled. ‘And once they heard it was a burglary . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Hardly exerted themselves investigating the matter.’
I released a long breath. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Really. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
But right then, just as I said those very words, it occurred to me that perhaps I did. Kneeling on the floor, I rested the briefcase on my thigh and set about working the dials, feeling for the telltale stiffness of the correct combination. I had it in under a minute, and was poised to open the lid when a flicker of doubt took hold of me.
Could there have been a switch? Had I been duped?
No, I didn’t think so, but just to be certain I held up a finger and hurried outside to the dark and misted canal bank before popping the clasps. My heart switched to standby and I turned my face away as I raised the lid. There was no beeping noise and no sudden burst of flames. I looked down and cracked my eyes open.
Row after row of neatly stacked banknotes were laid out before me. Lilac in colour, with the number 500 imprinted on them in deep purple, they were held together with neat paper bands bearing the legend: Casinò di Venezia. I grabbed a handful, closed the briefcase and made my way back to Martin.
He nodded his chin at a console unit as I entered his living room. My mug of scotch had been moved there. Beside it was a small bottle made of brown tinted glass and a cardboard carton.
‘Antiseptic solution and a box of butterfly stitches,’ he told me. ‘Have your ladyfriend clear you up. You may still need sutures in a day or two, but you don’t want an infection in the meantime.’
I tried passing the money to him, but his hands remained tucked beneath his armpits, his face stern. Feeling a burn creeping into my cheeks, I hooked the strap of my holdall over my shoulder and lifted my suitcase and the briefcase from the floor. Then I stepped awkwardly across the room and traded the first-aid equipment for the bank notes.
‘I owe you rent, anyway,’ I said. ‘In lieu of notice. And it sounds as if Antea may need some care. Hopefully this can go towards paying for it. Tell her I’m sorry, will you? And tell her I appreciate everything she’s done for me – from the moment I arrived until now. All of it.’
He tossed back his head, clearing his fringe from his piercing eyes. I looked down sheepishly and made for the door, then turned as I bundled my way through.
‘Listen,’ I told him, ‘for what it’s worth, I’m really not the monster you might take me for.’
He glowered back, jaw clenched. ‘Whatever it is you need to tell yourself when you look in the mirror, young man, is no concern of mine.’
FORTY
I checked myself into a one-star hotel in Cannaregio, close to the train station. The place rated itself too highly. My single bed sagged in the middle, the sheets were stiffened with age and the lock on the door to my room wasn’t worth the name. Still, I didn’t believe it was somewhere Graziella and Remi would be inclined to look for me, and even if they di
d, I’d taken the precaution of registering with one of my stolen passports. I needed rest, and plenty of it, and after tucking the attaché briefcase under my arm, I eased my head down against the lumpy pillow and fell into a deep, zombie sleep.
Hours later, feeling groggy and smelling worse, I stumbled outside in my borrowed tux as far as a shabby internet café. Once I had the information I needed, I called Victoria on her mobile to tell her my plan and then I frequented a couple of tourist outlets until I’d acquired a bottle of water, a pizza of questionable origin and a red Ferrari baseball cap to take back to my foul-smelling suite.
Time dragged. After I’d amused myself by watching the bugs crawling across the ceiling of my room, and disgusted myself by consuming two-thirds of the soggy pizza, I popped the clasps on the briefcase and counted the cash inside. I’d given Martin more than I’d realised – fifty thousand euros, to be exact – but it still left me with plenty. Four hundred and fifty thousand euros was far from shabby, I admit, though I’d gladly have traded it for the chance to go back to the life I’d been leading before Graziella showed up.
I smoked the last of my cigarettes and waited until evening before sampling the delights of the communal bathroom, where I showered beneath a dribble of cold water without soap or shampoo. There was no towel to dry myself on, so I turned the tux inside out and used that instead. Then I climbed into clean clothes, eased my new baseball hat on over the weeping sore at the back of my head, gathered together my belongings and headed out into the grey winter light.
The concrete steps outside the Santa Lucia station were clogged with backpackers and day trippers. I weaved between them, feeling conspicuous. The shiny metal briefcase didn’t exactly complement the blue sweatshirt and jeans, worn baseball shoes and bright-red Ferrari hat I had on, and I guess if I’d been sporting a three-piece suit, I might have blended in a little better. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do about that, and so I settled for keeping my head down and using the peak of the cap to cover my eyes. True, it risked making me appear even more suspicious, but the alternative was probably worse.