The house was silent. I stood there and stared into the mirror, and I breathed, I breathed, I breathed.
My first thought was to extract the unconscious Valentina from this unseemly mess. She was heavier than I expected, and I had to bend down and grab her under her arms to pull her body down the steps. I left her slouched at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. I checked on the man lying on the floor, his head was surrounded by rivulets of blood. He lay with his feet on the bathroom tiles and the rest of his body in the hall. There was no point trying to hide him. Besides, I didn’t want to touch him. Analyzing the scene, I stepped through the hall and entered the kitchen, knocking cups, glasses, plates onto the floor with my elbow. I stepped into the floral-wallpapered living room and disturbed some objects there too, knocking them over with the back of my wrist. Should I steal something? Just to make it look like a burglary? I went upstairs, entered one room after the other—bedroom, storeroom, bathroom. I picked up a small towel and used it to whack some objects around, overturned a lamp, and tugged open a bedside-table drawer. I took a watch and a pen. I was looking for valuables—cash, rings, etc., but found nothing worth stealing. I was trying to create an impression, that was all. An illusion.
Just then the doorbell rang. I froze. In one hand I held the towel, in the other, the swag. The doorbell rang again. I turned slowly and tiptoed downstairs toward the front door. I bent down and drew my switchblade out of its sheath. I heard shuffling steps outside as I approached and stood just behind the door. The bell rang again. The stranger waited on the doorstep. I breathed a few times, calmly, and raised the knife again. A note popped through the letterbox, fluttered to the floor. The footsteps on the other side pattered away. I picked up the note and read it. It was a message written by a policeman, and it went as follows:
Valentina Aurora,
Please contact us at the police station of Via Lugano. We have further information regarding your case, and require your presence.
Regards
Inspr. Fagiano
Her case? I was her case, wasn’t I? They had information on me. Was this a fair assumption? After all, she had waited all this time. Perhaps Valentina had finally set the dogs on me.
How could I get her away from here without being spotted? I shuttled up and down the hall and hunted for the car keys. I had seen a black Fiat in the driveway. Now I just had to drag her body out of the front door without being seen.
I took my time, skulking around, and peered occasionally out of the front window of the house. It seemed quiet enough. Just a few trees waving in the wind and that skinny cat tricking its way along the gutter. I stepped outside and tried the car keys. Beep. The tail lights flashed and the locks popped up. I looked both ways. Where would I put her—on the back seat? What if she woke up? The safest thing would be to hide her in the trunk. I checked the street again to see if it was clear, and it looked about as safe as it would ever be. I stepped into the car and reversed right up to the front door and returned to the hall, put my arms around Valentina and dragged her over to the trunk. I hauled her up and dropped her in among a few potatoes and wires and shopping bags. She was a heavy load and I struggled because I was weakened by the old injuries she had caused to my back and hip.
I slammed the trunk shut and sat on the ground. The ache in my back made my eyes water. My hands trembled like a drunkard’s. The tears started to flow, I’m really not sure why; I wasn’t sad or anything. It was maybe just the tiredness and having to concentrate so hard on everything, trying not to forget little details.
I rubbed my face with my hands. Pull yourself together, for godsake. Now you’ve got her. Now’s your chance. I raised myself on one knee, stood up, and moved to the front of the car, curved my height inside. The sight of my reflection in the rear-view mirror was a reminder of who I was. A man. A beast. And that was exactly what I needed to change.
I got in the car and drove off. I knew roughly where I was, on the outskirts of Catania, and it was only a short drive back home. The only problem might be my father again. I would have to wait until he was out of the way; only then could I take Valentina down into the basement and carry out the necessary transformation.
The road was narrow and the surface was broken in places. There was a cliff on my left-hand side, dropping down to the sea. The yoghurt-colored waves churned in the bay. There was room enough for two small cars to pass along the coastal road. I drove a little faster than usual, given the rush of adrenalin in my bloodstream, and did not see the truck till it appeared all of a sudden around one of the hilltop corners. It crossed into my lane at full pelt and now thundered toward me. Time slowed down to snail speed. I saw the front grill of the truck up close, the raised arm of the driver, his sunglasses, his mouth gawping, the steam and dust, as my body dragged against the seatbelt. I tried to turn the wheel to the right at the last second, but it was futile. The sound of wrenching metal must have echoed for miles. The Fiat’s windscreen exploded. The airbag slapped my lungs and face. Pain rattled through my skin and bones. I was trapped inside a torture machine that shredded my body on all sides. The hood crammed into the roadside, and the truck swung sideways over the cliff. My neck jerked forwards and backwards, sending electric shocks down my spine. I saw a thousand colors. Eventually our car scrunched to a halt, covered in hissing smoke and burning fumes. The engine spluttered and cut out.
I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw my face was bloody. I touched my nose—the blood dripped out. The pain was atrocious, horror-pain. It felt like a giant had pulled my limbs apart and was stamping on my organs. Fee-fi-fo-and-fucking-fum.
I looked up and down the road. No eyewitnesses, not yet. I felt weary, in a state of shock, unable to think along my normal straight, clean lines. What should I do next? I tried to think of a way out, but had no time to think at all. I had to act.
I unsnapped my seatbelt, struggled out of the car and unhatched the trunk. I dragged out the unconscious Valentina and some of the wire. How far did I expect to drag her? As far as I could. I knew I had to get her away from the scene. I couldn’t leave her lying in the car—too dangerous, too much evidence against me. I hauled her across the empty road, gripped her body under her arms. Her shiny boots scraped across the tarmac.
I pulled her with back-burning effort to the edge of the road and hauled her down the escarpment. The rocks here were rough and volcanic. It was hard to carry her down. Her legs and arms rasped the rocks but her eyes stayed closed the whole time.
My first objective was to get her, and me, out of sight.
The truck was some way off down the coastline, beached like a mechanical whale. It had fallen at least a hundred feet from the coastal road. Smoke oozed from gaps in the wreckage; black plumes laced the sky. The driver was dead, no doubt. Unless he had managed to tumble free of the wreckage at the last second.
I saw an opening in the rocks, a grotto-like gap in the slope, and pulled her inside. My whole body was scorched, exhausted, and I collapsed on the ground. I sat slouched with my head between my knees and gasped for air, hawking and spitting. Valentina’s hand twitched and remained still, twitched and remained still. Tremors ran through her fingers, as though she were dreaming. I tried to catch my breath and gazed out through slits in the rock. The truck, upturned on its side, belched smoke. There was a sudden explosion, sounding like a huge clap of thunder. I raised my hand against the trigger of red. The echo boomed around the cave, and Valentina’s eyes opened slowly.
“What was that?” she whispered, her mouth hardly moving.
“The truck just exploded. We’re lucky to be alive.”
I remembered the driver’s sunglasses, his mouth opening in a shout, now silenced.
I expected the police would come to scour the scene, the remains, and I was right. The cave was my lookout and I surveyed the rescue operations while staying out of sight. I even heard the chattering blades of a helicopter flying up and down the coast like a crop-sprayer. Yellow-jacketed ambulance men circled the singed tru
ck. They managed to lever the door open and pull out something black with stiff arms. There was one man down now, for sure. An accident, not my intention, a mere collateral smash, yet the thought, the fact was ugly: a man dead.
Once things had calmed down outside—most of the policemen drifting away, the chopper buzzing off into the distance—and I had gathered enough of my strength back, I built up a nice niche for us, piling some more rocks in front of the hideout. The uniforms did not come this close as they were too busy stirring the remains of the burnt-out truck. Did they not know they were looking for two missing persons? One, at least, since the black Fiat was crunched against the hillside—driverless. I knew it wouldn’t take them long to tie the license plate to the girl, or to her boyfriend, or possibly to me. Another reason to stay out of sight.
I was aware that events had turned against me. I had lost my knife in the struggle. It must have slipped from my ankle following the crash. I was tempted to go back and search the car wreck, but was aware it posed too much of a risk. Valentina was my prisoner and yet it was impossible to perform the transformation out here in the middle of nowhere. All that was left for me to contemplate was an act of revenge, some retribution for the pain and humiliation she had caused. And then I would have to abandon her body, and cut my losses.
The circumstances were not right, Inspector.
I turned and stared at Valentina’s body. Her eyes were closed in sleep. Her face was scarred, blood-splashed, her clothes ripped, her arms gashed. I took the wire and tied her hands and feet together. If she was able to sit up, she wouldn’t be able to stand.
I bent down to take a closer look at the boots I had bought her, just one month ago. I was glad she was still wearing them. It was dark in the cave and I flicked open my lighter and cupped the flame, stooping closer to her so that I could see my reflection, warped and thin, on the black leather toecaps that were still polished to a fine sheen. I saw myself, hunched like an ogre, the flame in front of my eyes. I retreated into a huddle as I heard her gasp.
She stared at me with one eye open—a brittle look: fear.
“What are you looking at?”
“My reflection,” I said.
“In my boots?” She lifted her neck as best she could and peered down her body, as though to check if she was still clothed.
I squatted a few feet away from her.
“Is the wire too tight?” I asked.
“You gonna untie me?”
I shook my head.
“It must be damp on those stones.” I stood up. “Please, take my jacket.” I stripped off and held out the jacket.
“I feel cold,” she whispered. “It would be stupid to refuse.”
I laid it over her shoulders and stepped back a short distance.
She wriggled a little as she edged the jacket underneath her. “Won’t you help me?”
I moved forward, put my arms around her waist and slid the jacket underneath her body. I saw her dark blonde hair loose over her shoulders, her short, stubby nose, her untidy teeth. Her eyes shone in a bright, uncanny way in the semidarkness. We were face to face, and I stared at her lips, the pink creases. We kept eye-contact and it reminded me of the time in the café and the courage it took. It was easier now. As I leaned closer to her, she spat at me—the warm, gluey phlegm spurting on my cheek and trickling down my neck. I stepped back in surprise, and fished in my trouser pockets for a small paper napkin but remembered that I kept them in my jacket. Wasn’t going to ask her.
My head started burning as I reflected on her vulgarity, her petty anger. Yet I also felt an unexpected sensation, a tingle of pleasure. I raised my hand and touched the phlegm on my cheek. I looked down at my wet finger, dipped my finger inside my mouth and sucked. I had wondered what it would taste like, her saliva. And now I knew: sea-salty, warm; a hint of her innards.
Her eyes seemed to open wider than ever before. “You fucking sicko.”
“I suppose you have every right to spit at me.”
“It’s important you know what I think of you.”
I wiped away the rest of her saliva with my shirt sleeve. “I guess you’re wondering why I came after you.”
“Because you failed the first time?”
I coughed and the sound echoed around the cave. I put my hand on my back, touching a bruised and painful area, and leaned against the rocky wall, feeling my energy starting to evaporate. “Sort of.”
“I’m trying to think,” she said, “if I’ve seen you before, I mean, before all this happened.”
“Nowhere.”
“But you must have a reason.”
I looked away. “I wish I had my knife with me.”
“Why?” Her eyes widened. “You want to kill me now?”
I thought for a while about how much I would tell her. “You’re not quite perfect, though.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re not exactly what I was looking for.”
“I’m glad.”
“But close enough.”
“Maybe you should wait for a better catch?”
I shook my head. “You would have done OK. It’s just that now … everything’s a fucking mess. We’re in the middle of nowhere. And the police are out there, looking for us.”
She nodded. “You realize we can’t stay in here forever.”
She sat up awkwardly, tilted her head back and looked up at the roof of the cave.
“It’s not an ideal place.” I sat down on the damp stones.
“The air’s bad.”
“Humid.” I nodded.
She turned to me, repeated her complaint: “We can’t stay in here forever. We need food and water. We won’t last long like this. I can barely walk, I think my ankle might be broken. Why don’t you go and get help?”
“I could carry you,” I said. “Some of the way.”
“Not that I want you to touch me. You fucking freak.”
I ignored her and turned away. My adrenalin had worn off now; I just felt trapped, sick to my stomach. I crept out of the cave and stared at the dark coastline. The night was clear with stars twitching like dust in a kaleidoscope. The moon was as bright as a child’s marble, held still, in a dark fist.
Waves milked the rocks. I heard a car engine on the road and saw the arching flash of its headlights. I looked down the beach to see the progress of the police work. There were a few orange cones, lines of bee-striped tape, two officers in uniform still patrolling the wreck of the truck and pointing flashlights into the blackened debris. One of them held a lead with a dog that sniffed around the burnt-out shell, its tail pointing up. The chopper had vanished. A police vehicle was parked on the upper road by the cliff-face, near the wreck of Valentina’s car.
I would have to be careful if I wanted to take her anywhere. How far were we from my house? Too far to walk. I could only haul her a short distance. Maybe I could come back for her later with the Alfa, when it was safer, but how long would that take? It was better to take my revenge here and now. The only problem was that I had wanted more than revenge. Back home I had everything I needed; here I could do nothing. I didn’t even have a knife, let alone a mirror. It was another failure.
I headed back to the cave, flicked on the flame of my lighter, and found my way among the rocks.
Valentina stood before me like a ghost. Her face yellow, eyes blank, arms marked with dirt, hands raised above her head. She held a rock and looked about ready to throw it. Did she think I would approach in darkness and not see her attack coming? Her eyes glistened with tears as she realized her ambush attempt had failed. The fact that her ankles were tied together meant that she found it hard to keep her balance and her legs seemed to tremble under the strain. The rock slipped from her fingers, tumbled near her feet, and she soon slumped to the ground. She started sobbing and grasped her ankle with both hands.
“It’s too…” she muttered. “I can’t…”
I flicked off the lighter but kept an eye on her. I picked up a sharp stone and squeezed it in
my palm, feeling its cool edge, thinking the weight of it would surely knock a person senseless. Yes, that’s exactly what I thought: The weight of it will surely knock a person senseless.
“You’re right,” I said. “Something has to be done. I’m going to go now, but come back and fetch you later.”
“How long will you be gone?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. A couple of hours, maybe. It’s a long walk.”
“Why not take the bus?”
“I may be recognized.”
“I doubt they’re looking for us yet. They might not even have found Enrico. If they have, I’m not sure they’d be able to trace it to you so quickly.”
I pulled the policeman’s note out of my pocket. “What the hell is this, then?”
“It’s dark,” she said, “I can’t read it.”
I lit the flame, and threw her the note. It fluttered to her feet. She reached down to pick it up, her nails scratching the stone.
She read it quickly. “Oh, that’s nothing. It’s not even about you. There was a burglary at our house last month.”
“Are you sure?”
“Would I lie to you?” she asked.
“Probably.”
She scrunched up the note and threw it back at me. It flew past my feet and ricocheted against the rocks.
I told her, “You want me to get caught, is that it? I’m not stupid and I’m taking no chances.”
The Skin Room Page 7