by Lucy Wadham
His mother had told him to stay in the square. Perhaps he had left the square without realising. Where had he been playing? His heart beat fast again as he tried to remember.
They had driven straight inside a building. He had seen the darkness through the side of the glasses and heard a heavy metal door slamming behind them. As soon as they opened the car door he could smell garage. They had held his arm so tightly it hurt, and led him to a door that he had to crawl through. Someone had gone before him and grabbed him by the wrists from the other side. It was bright in the room and he could hear the buzzing of a long light bulb like the ones they had in the canteen at school. He had hung back because he was afraid of whoever it was that held his wrists so tightly and he could feel his hands weren���t getting any blood. Then they had opened another door and thrown him into this place. When he had taken off the glasses he was in the dark.
He lay curled up and thought of his cousin Jeanne, who had been born with no thumbs. The doctor had sewn on one of her four fingers in place of the missing thumb so that she could pick things up. When he was small, her hands had scared him, but now he liked the feeling of her hand, with its missing finger, so small and soft in his.
He tried to stand up, raising his arms above him in case he bumped his head. He stretched his hand upwards but could feel nothing. He put his arms out to the side and pressed his palms flat against the two walls. Holding his hands in front of him, he stepped forward and after four steps his fingertips touched another wall.
He pressed his hands hard against the walls at his side, and then his feet, and began to climb like he did in the narrow corridor behind the kitchen in his house. It made his mother smile to see him high above her on the ceiling. She would pretend she didn���t believe he could jump from right up there. He���d say, I can, and his mother would say, No you can���t, and then he���d do it. After five hoists he hit the ceiling and found a square of small holes in the wall. Through the holes he could hear the men���s voices more clearly. Here was some light. He lifted his hand to the holes to look at his sore finger. His foot slipped and he fell back, his hands flailing against the sides of his prison, down into the darkness. He hit the floor and the air was knocked out of him, and he lay, unable to breathe or cry out. Pain ran along his spine. ���Mummy,��� he gasped, closing his eyes, and the tears came and his whole body shook with them.
*
���The kid���s crying.���
���I can hear.���
Mickey da Cruz stared at the door to the child���s prison. They had built it specially for him. They had sound-proofed the room but not the kid���s cell. He wished they had, because the noise was distressing. With his fork he speared a piece of ravioli in tomato sauce and put it into his mouth. He chewed hard, glancing repeatedly in the direction of the child���s cupboard.
���Oh look,��� he said. His fork clattered on the plate. ���I���ll feed him. He���s probably hungry.��� As he stood up, his chair scraped on the cement floor and the two brothers glanced at him.
Mickey poured some ravioli, cold from the tin, on to a plate. Then he put a stocking over his head. When he opened the door he saw the boy shrink back, shielding his eyes from the light. He thrust the plate into the boy���s hands and shut the door. The crying had stopped.
���We did well to take him when we did,��� he said, peeling the stocking from his head and sitting down.
���It was unprofessional.���
Mickey looked from one brother to the other, unsure of which one had spoken. It was not the first time this had happened and it unnerved him. He believed the timing was a stroke of genius, but he did not say so. He felt inside his jacket pocket for the cold weight of his knife. Opening and shutting the blade with one hand, he watched the brothers smoking their poncy black cigarettes with gold tips.
���They���ll waste a lot of time. They won���t think it was a kidnapping, will they?��� he said, snapping his knife open and shut. He put the knife down on the table. ���The night in the hotel wasn���t planned, was it?���
���It was unprofessional.���
It was Paolo, the fatter brother. He was the one who usually spoke for them both. It was he who had negotiated the deal for the kid. Sylvano had stood just behind his shoulder, his hands in his pockets, observing Mickey���s every expression, as though that was what he had been told to do and he was going to do it, so conscientiously he wouldn���t miss a thing.
���Impromptu,��� Mickey said triumphantly. That was the word he had been looking for. The hit had been carefully planned. There had been no denying the brothers��� professionalism, but they had no flair. You just had to look at the way they ate. Mickey had fought hard to get them to agree to pick up the child there and then, while he was playing in the square. They had hesitated and nearly missed the moment. The younger child had appeared in the hotel entrance as they were driving off.
���They���ll think a pervert got him,��� Mickey said, smiling. The brothers rose to their feet. ���You going already?��� Mickey asked, watching them take their jackets from the backs of their chairs. ���Get us some fags, will you?��� They both buttoned their jackets. ���Winstons.���
Mickey watched Paolo squeeze through the door to the garage and felt a flicker of irritation. Unlike Coco they were completely without style. It was a shame to have to use the Scatti brothers, but they were his only chance for freedom. It was enough for people like Georges Rocca to be Santini���s guard dog all their lives but not him. With this deal he���d leave the island and set himself up in Cabo Verde.
He went and stood in front of the kid���s cupboard and listened. There was not a sound. He wished there was a mirror. Sadly he had stopped growing upwards in his twelfth year. His shape was dominated by his thorax, artificially large and dense from years of weightlifting. His limbs had proved incapable of following suit. His arms, though muscular, were long and thin and would not lie flat against his sides, and his short, atrophied legs had become bowed beneath the weight of his upper body.
He stood there looking at the room he had chosen for his prison. They had decided not to let it drag on. If after three months they didn���t have the money, they would kill the child. These words, formed in his head, caused that unmistakable shrinking of his anus, part pleasure, part fear. The Scatti brothers would bring food and supplies. He would not leave the room until the ransom was paid. There were no windows, just a ventilation shaft high up in the wall that gave on to a small courtyard, invisible from the street. A delicious smell came in waves from the pizzeria on the other side of the courtyard. He had once dined there with Evelyne when Coco had stood her up. As far as he knew it had been their little secret. He liked Evelyne. She had guts. Or maybe she was just stupid. At this idea Mickey began to laugh. His laughter swelled and overcame him until he rocked back and forth on his chair, gripping his stomach. This hit was so ��� what was the word? Audacious. Santini would never believe he was capable of something like this. Mickey laughed until he was so weak he let himself slip from his chair and lay on the cold concrete floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. He remembered the child sitting there in the dark and all the money he was going to make and he stopped laughing and listened, in perfect happiness, to the faint din of the pizza-makers on the other side of the wall.
Chapter Seven
Stuart parked beneath the chestnut trees in the square where Sam had disappeared. Alice climbed out of the car and slammed the door. She heard the breeze moving the leaves and felt the tears rising in her again, so she moved away from the car and began to walk. She walked quickly towards the fountain in the centre of the square.
Too sensitive, his teacher had said of him. The child���s too solicitous.
His little hands holding her face: I love you, Mummy.
Me too, my darling. Now go to sleep. You���re tired.
Why not just I love you, you���re my whole life? Because she didn���t know it then.
When she reached the fountain she began pacing before it. Stuart walked round his car, carefully locking the doors. She watched him approach, the man who was supposed to restore Sam to her. He was small, perhaps a little shorter than her, and so slight in his clothes, they might be empty if it weren���t for the hands, which seemed to hang from his cuffs, too large and square. She had seen in his office how they shook. His face was hard and seemed to fall at rest into a frown. The brows were a dark ledge that cut across the forehead and overshadowed the eyes. The cheeks were hollow and cut with lines.
He stood beside her with his hands in his pockets, looking stupidly at the square.
���What are you going to do?��� she asked. He turned his frown on her. ���What are you planning to do?��� Her voice wavered and she put her hand on her throat. ���I haven���t seen anyone do anything useful. The gendarme ��� he just stood around all afternoon like ��� like some local celebrity.��� She threw her hand out at the deserted square. ���The whole village was here.��� She stepped away from him. ���All the time Sam was getting further away.��� She covered her mouth with her hand, gagging her tears.
There was a clatter. She turned and saw a sand-coloured dog rummaging in an upturned dustbin against the wall of the mairie.
���We���ll set up surveillance,��� he said. ���Cover everybody. There are reinforcements coming from the mainland.���
���Then what?���
���Then we watch and wait.���
���Who will you be watching?��� she said. ���The people from the Movement?���
���I don���t think the FNL would get involved in a kidnapping.���
���Why not?���
���It would be the end of them.���
���Who then?���
The dustbin rolled and the dog sprang back. It looked at the shredded plastic and orange peel on the ground and then, disheartened, turned and came towards them, haunches low, teeth bared. Alice pulled back. Stuart kicked out and shouted ���Getaah!��� The dog turned and trotted off as though there were no hard feelings.
���First thing in the morning,��� he said. ���We search the country round the village. I don���t think we���ll find anything.��� He looked ashamed.
She turned and walked a few paces to keep herself from hitting this stranger, hitting him hard on the face, because this was the person on whom she now depended.
When she turned again he was squatting, his back to her, looking at something on the ground. He rose and came towards her. He was holding out Sam���s green swimming goggles.
���Take them by the strap,��� he said.
She took them. They were dusty and scratched.
You never look after anything. I���m always tidying up after you. I���m not your slave.
Oh Mummy, don���t be cross; coaxing, a faint smile, full of gentleness and knowing.
���God. How could they have missed them?���
She stood in the square in the empty village, beneath the bright uneven moon, her heart encased, cold and heavy.
*
She handed back the goggles. Stuart took them from her because it was expected of him. They would go into a transparent plastic bag, with a seal number, an exhibit number, and his pointless initials. He would take prints but with little conviction. This woman would believe in the myth of clues, in the careful scrutiny of detail, conscientiously gathered and reassembled. But there were no such things as clues, only mistakes. Clues suggested some pattern, some internal rules for a game that, with guile and intelligence, he could win. But his job was to sit still as a lizard in the sun and wait for the fallible mechanism to spring and perhaps make a catch, perhaps not. If this woman knew how little he could do.
���I���ll take you back.���
He watched her blow her nose. Her eyes were full of tears. The vein stood out on her forehead.
���Your son needs you to be strong,��� he said. ���Your grief isn���t helpful to you, not now.��� He looked down. When he looked up again she was walking away towards the car.
They drove up the narrow road to the Colonna house. He had not seen the place since he was a child. Two stone pillars still marked the entrance to the property, but the iron gates had gone. The drive was still gravel and there was still the tall cedar on the lawn in front of the house, the lower branches now reachable for him. Beside him the woman shivered once.
He stopped in front of the main door. The date 1746 was carved in the granite lintel. All the shutters were closed. He turned off the ignition.
���He was playing,��� she said. ���He plays games by himself. He plays the goody and the baddy. Running around doing different voices. I watch him sometimes from a distance. He���s so involved; if I interrupt him, he looks ashamed, like he���s been caught naked.��� Her voice was returning. It was still hoarse, but the robotic whisper had gone. He could hear its contours now, her faint accent and the melody of her class.
He turned and reached into the back for the spare mobile.
���Take this. Keep the phone in the house free for their call.��� She took the telephone. He turned on the light above the mirror. He found an old parking ticket in the pocket of his door and wrote down three numbers. ���Here. The top one is my home number, the office, the car.���
He handed her the ticket and she looked at the three numbers. As she climbed out of the car he told himself that he was no more useless to her than the next man.
He followed her round to the side of the house and up the steps to the terrace. He noticed that her arms swung slightly as she walked. She opened the glass door at the back of the house and they stepped into the dark corridor. He recognised the smell instantly: boiled food, flagstone dust and something indeterminable, alluring but sickly, that he still associated with rich old ladies. She patted the wall for the light switch. Two pairs of wall lights came on, mock candles with little pink shades. He considered the fact that Titi had never been in the house. Titi had always refused to go to the parties. Even as a child he had possessed the obscure knowledge that you had to pay for such things. Stuart followed the woman into the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed, then flickered on. It was her house now, by inheritance.
���If I could sleep on the ground floor,��� he said.
���I���ll ask Babette to make a bed up for you in the sitting room.��� She stepped back towards the door. ���I���m going to look in on Dan.��� Then she turned and was gone.
He tried to recall the expression he had worn. He kept poor track of what his face did. He went to the sink and drank from the tap, closing his eyes and gulping. Once again a woman was asking for his help. Close by, his sister Beatrice lay asleep in their father���s house. She would mind when she discovered that he was in the village and had not visited her. But he disliked going there and sitting in silence while she fed him. He straightened up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Food, he thought, had become their only form of exchange.
He looked around the room. An old-fashioned electric clock on the wall above the sink noisily hammered out the seconds. It was the same tin percussion as the clock in his father���s kitchen. Stuart had started to believe in the process that had set in over the past year, the growing detachment. He hoped he was freeing himself of the pattern of desire, disappointment and failure. But his memory, that part of his mind which caused him the most discomfort, seemed to be resisting the shrinking process. As his attachment to the present dwindled, the past seemed to take up the deserted ground. He would encounter memories like
little pebbles in his shoes and he would have to stop and wearily bend down, retrieve the pebble and throw it away. Like his sister���s face as a child, appearing as he fell asleep ��� a colour slide behind his eyes.
Babette was standing in the doorway in her nightdress, her arms folded under her breasts. She wore a pair of slippers made out of pink teddy-bear skin, horny toes protruding from the ends.
���Madame Aron said to make a bed up for you in the sitting room.��� She stepped into the room, careful not to meet his eye. He didn���t move. ���She said to wake her if there was anything.��� She looked at him, giving in suddenly. ���It���s terrible,��� she said, appealing to him, looking for a bond in the business of sympathy, but he stared at her unhelpfully.
���When were you informed of Madame Aron���s visit?��� he asked.
Babette folded her arms more tightly and stared back at him, no doubt remembering how strongly she disliked him. ���Late May. Why?���
She could not close her mouth completely and her teeth rested on her bottom lip, leaving little dents in the flesh. Her breasts were very large. They sat on her folded arms and stared at him like two heads.
���Did you talk about their arrival in the village?���
���No. I don���t know. Maybe. I probably mentioned it. What are you saying?���
���I���m not saying anything. I���m asking questions. How often does Madame Aron come here?���
���More often since her husband���s death. She always said how much she liked it. He didn���t, though. People don���t always like being reminded where they come from, do they?��� She dropped her arms, releasing her breasts from their trap.