by Nigel Bird
I look to Valentino for explanation. “Get on with it then.” He thrusts the taped photograph at me and sits on the unmade double bed.
The old man gets back to work. His whistling resumes. I recognise Puccini. Something from Turandot. He warbles like the birds might if the sun broke through the clouds. It’s a melancholy tune, though the man’s passion adds a hint of cheer. He stretches up to the ceiling. A tiny fart offers to play a duet. The smell of sweet onions and warm milk wafts my way.
He inserts his screwdriver into a hole where wall and ceiling meet. Sends a flurry of grit and sand to the floor. The particles land on a well-placed sheet of newspaper and spread colour over the black and white.
“It’ll be done in no time.” The man talks to himself. I like people who do that. “Just a bit more from here and...” He stands right on the top of the ladder. Tests it to see whether he’s balanced. Pushes up and lets it take his full weight. His other foot barely touches the platform. He grunts.
“Careful,” I tell him. “Don’t stretch yourself too far.”
He doesn’t listen. Just carries on, wobbling before me and grunting as he digs into the wall.
“It’s no good.” Valentino. “He can’t see or hear you. Remember?”
I’m not sure I can. Everything feels real and yet it’s like my dreams. I walk over to the ladder. Wrap my hand around the man’s calf. The muscle is soft, the shin thin and sharp.
“Listen, sir.” No reaction. “You don’t know who we are, but you need to pay attention. There’s no need to take chances. Come down and call a professional. You’ll thank me in the long run.”
The man ignores me and mutters something under his breath.
“Told you,” Valentino says. “We’re at work. Or supposed to be.”
I sit on the mattress and sink into the softness. Bend forward and cup my head in my palms. They block out the light and I stay in the darkness. Watch the memory of shapes and colours pass over my retina like ghosts.
Valentino nudges me hard. Passes me a box of pastels and looks at his watch. “Half an hour. It’s not long. Especially for an amateur.”
Part of me wants to take on the challenge and get it done. The rest wants to save this nice old man and let him enjoy a few more happy years on this earth.
“Arturo’s life depends upon it.” Valentino’s voice is firm. Commanding. “Draw.”
With shaking hands, I take the sections of the picture and hold them in front of me to find the exact location of the corpse. The head needs to land by the skirting board, just next to the spot where the paint has chipped away. His back foot rests in the corner and his other leg under the bed. I select a crayon and begin.
It’s not as easy as I expected. The varnish on the floor is sleek and shiny. The greys of the photograph are too flat to offer depth or detail. I have to check out the man himself. The colour of his skin, a tanned brown with a sea-green hue, will be almost impossible to recreate with what I have. I pause to check my progress. All I have is a vague outline and a splinter in my hand.
“Faster girl.” Valentino perches next to me on his haunches. “You’ll never finish at this rate.”
He’s right. I need to crack on. I decide to focus on the shirt. It’s a grubby white that shouldn’t cause problems.
My fingers find a rhythm. Smooth and relaxed. I smudge and wipe and before I know it, the shirt is done.
Valentino gives my shoulder a squeeze. He smiles for the first time in ages. Gets up from the floor and returns to the bed.
The old man descends. Steps onto my work and looks up at the crack. “Perfect,” he says and claps his hands. He wanders over to the sink in the corner and fiddles with his trousers. A stream of piss circles the porcelain and trickles down the drain. The sour odour makes me wince. He shakes himself off, lets out a sigh of contentment and puts himself in order.
Without bothering to wash his hands, he picks up a tube of filler, unscrews the cap and squirts the contents onto a board.
While he plays with the filler, I focus upon the details of his face. The scar at the side of his nose. The wrinkles fanning from his eyes. The shimmer of stubble on his chin. Now all I have to do is draw them.
My confidence has grown. The soft pastel is an extension of me. All the hours of perfecting my technique and honing my observation skills are paying off. His ear is perfect. My teachers would be proud.
The man walks my way. He doesn’t bother to step around me, just goes straight through. I should feel something. The quivers of being invaded, perhaps. There’s nothing.
He walks up to his job, bones and steps creaking. Resumes his operatic hum. Scoops filler onto a spatula and squishes it into the hole.
“Five minutes.” Valentino chews his nails. Oh he of little faith. Trousers and sandals and we’re there.
A clatter on the steps catches my attention. The man’s foot slides from the bar that takes his weight.
“Jesus Christ,” the man shouts. His back bends unnaturally His arms flap. The whole room wobbles in shock.
Valentino leaps up, his eyes wide.
The old man shifts his weight. Rights the wrongs of his slip. Crosses himself and whispers thanks. “No fool like an old one, eh Luca?” He giggles. Stretches up and gets back to making his repairs.
“I thought we’d failed.” Valentino looks at his watch. Taps it a couple of times. Paces up in the corridor between the wardrobe and the bed.
“I can do this,” I shout. I really can. Drawing against the clock is a buzz. I guess I can thank my adrenaline for that.
It’s easy now. The feet are simple to recreate. The sandals bland and uniform.
“There you go.” I stand. Stretch to relieve the stiffness in my neck and shoulders. Point at the drawing and invite Valentino’s critical opinion.
“We’ll know at any moment,” he says.
“You mean we have to stay and see it happen?” That was never part of the plan. “I don’t think I can.”
“It’s the only way we can be sure.”
“We don’t both need to be here. I’ll meet you in the kitchen when it’s over.”
The old man grunts above me. “Just a little more.” His voice is strained. His body is at full stretch, his fingers working filler into the far end of the crack. His shirt rides up. Reveals the saggy sack of skin of his plump belly. The ladder tilts. He adjusts his weight. This time he shifts too far.
I realise it’s too late to escape. His foot kicks at the air. His body hangs, indecisive. He falls back. Plummets head first to the ground. Crashes into the wall and rolls onto my art.
A gasp escapes his lips. He lifts his cheek from the floor. Reaches out for something that isn’t there. Whispers to someone I can’t see. Holds his shape and then crumples. A tear appears in the corner of his eye. Grows until it bursts and slides down his nose. Leaves a dark spot where it lands.
“Looks like you did good.” Valentino picks up the torn photo and the box of crayons and returns them his bag.
“Good?” The thought horrifies me. “I murder this guy and you want to congratulate me.”
“You did him a favour. Now he can meet his ancestors and all the mates he’s lost. Play cards or sing or whatever it is that gives him his kicks.”
I hear the words, but they don’t sink in. I fall to my knees next to the dying man. Stroke his hair. Try to summon some peaceful thoughts to help him through his final moments.
All I find is turmoil. The word murderer echoes around in my skull. I look down at this lovely old guy and hate myself for what I’ve done. Hurt swells in my chest. Pushes through my throat and onto my tongue. Pours out of my mouth as sobs and wails.
Valentino takes me in his arms. Holds me tight until my shuddering shoulders become still and my cries shrink to tiny sniffs.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. Get up from the floor and avert my eyes from the corpse. Know there’s only one thing that can settle me down. “I need a drink.”
“No problem.” Valentino takes my
hand and walks to the door. “I noticed plenty of booze in the kitchen.”
“I’m not staying here any longer. I’m going to a bar.”
“That may not be a good idea. Remember you’re not safe until we’re back at the church.”
“Sod that,” I scream. My foot stamps hard. Rattles the pictures on the wall. “You’ll take me to a bloody pub right now.”
He shrugs his shoulders. Nods. “But Barabbas and his gang will be out there looking for us.”
Those little imps come anywhere near me and I swear I’ll pull their heads off. “Bring it on.” I push Valentino out of the way. Stomp down the stairs. Pick up the biggest knife I can find in the kitchen and reacquaint myself with the rain.
Episode Seven
Valentino checks his mirrors for the umpteenth time as we enter the city. His body is stiff with tension. I know he won’t relax until we’re back. He should have joined me in a large gin and tonic instead of dosing up on caffeine back in the bar.
The taste of juniper lingers in my mouth as we speed along by the side of the Arno. The river is swollen from the rain and keeps apace with us. My jeans stick to my legs and I can’t wait to get home to dry off and change.
The road is quiet and we’re making good progress. Over in the distance, the dome comes into view and Valentino’s shoulders soften under my grip.
Ahead, the traffic lights turn red. We come to a steady halt and he plants his feet on the road. Turns round and lifts his visor.
“Feel better?” It’s nice of him to ask.
“I think so.” The shivering is more due to the cold than shock.
“It was a good thing you did for Arturo. I won’t forget it.” He reaches down and pats my knee. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” It’s a lie, but only a small one.
“I’m sorry I was so angry this morning.”
“You were upset.”
“We’ve been friends a long time. I can’t imagine a world without him in it.”
His words have a weight that’s far heavier than friendship. I don’t know how I missed it before. “You love him don’t you?”
“Everybody does.”
“No. I mean you really love him.”
“Always have.” His smile beams. “It’s hopeless, of course. He hasn’t even noticed. And you mustn’t mention a thing.”
“I won’t.”
“Swear?”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“Not that it would matter if you did. He only has eyes for the ladies.”
“Oh?” A spike of jealousy rips through my chest. “Anyone special?”
“I don’t think so.” The lights turn green. “Not until you came along.” He opens the throttle, pulls away and shoots through the gears.
“You think he likes me?” I shout the question as loudly as I can. Get no reply. Try again. Same result. It’s infuriating, but I guess I can wait a little longer to find the answer.
We cruise along. The sun breaks through a crack in the clouds and the temperature rises. I think about what Valentino said. Replay the kiss with Arturo in my mind. Remember the softness of his touch. My stomach fizzes. The sooner I’m at his bedside holding his hand, the better.
My world fills up with hope. Not even the closing over of the clouds dampens my spirits. I rest my head on Valentino’s back. Pull my arms in and hug him tight. Close my eyes and send him positive vibes.
“Shit,” he shouts. The scooter brakes hard. Skids on the wet surface. Lurches to the left. Pulls back upright before I can react. My pulse fires like a machine gun. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
Angry red lights flare at us from the car in front as it screeches to a halt and blocks our side of the road. It’s a small green Fiat with bags of style, the kind of car the hip teachers drive to school. Two faces appear in the back window. Bald as coots and ugly as sin. Rose and Thorn.
“That’s them.” Just in case he hasn’t realised.
“Hold on.” Valentino accelerates. Swerves round the car towards the river. The wheel crunches over the kerb. Knocks my spine out of alignment. He works the throttle and somehow manages to keep us going. Gives the guys the finger and we speed along the pavement to escape.
We re-join the road. Drive across. Ignore the No Entry sign and turn up a residential street.
I look behind. The tiny car is following, smoke pouring out behind. Barabbas is leaning into the windscreen, his eyes focused on me. He’s close enough that I can see the whites of his knuckles as he grips the wheel.
“Faster,” I shout at Valentino. I doubt he hears me over the strains of the engine. I push at his arms like I’m encouraging a horse before a big jump. He responds by picking up the pace.
The Fiat closes in. Barabbas wears a baleful grin. I remember smell of his liquorice stick, sickly sweet and intense. The memory makes me want to puke. I’d rather die than have him touch me again. It’s good that I have the knife. He comes near me, he’ll regret it.
The road bends to the right. We round the curve and almost collide with a bin lorry that looms down upon us. It jerks to a halt with a hiss. We keep going. Veer right. Bump onto the path.
“What the...?” A refuse collector leaps out of the way, leaving his bin in our path. I breathe in. Try to become thinner. Valentino’s knee hits the wall. Knocks us the other way. My elbow clatters into the lorry. The scooter scrapes the bin and knocks it over. We almost go over for the umpteenth time. Find our balance and accelerate away.
The man on the floor shakes his fist and shouts. His words are wasted. The only thing they’ll get him is a red face and an early grave.
I pat Valentino on the back. Realise he must have been expecting to lose the Fiat as soon as anything came the other way. The benefit of two wheels in a cramped city like this can be huge.
Barabbas and his cronies appear on foot at the back of the lorry.
It’s my turn to send them the finger. The satisfaction of getting away melts all my worries to nought.
Rose and Thorn hold their stomachs and laugh. Unease prickles at my skin at the sight. The three share high-fives. Surely that’s all wrong.
Valentino lets out a whoop and a cheer. Punches the air and speeds towards freedom.
Flickers of movement on each side of the road catch my attention. I try and get things into focus. See nothing. Shake my head. My sight clears. Poking from doorways on each side of the alley, shiny white faces and raised arms. We race their way. I pull back on Valentino’s jacket. Try to get him to slow down.
Something new grabs my attention. A tight blue line stretching across the road blocks our way to freedom.
“Get down,” I scream. Valentino turns my way, but it’s too late.
The scooter disappears from between my legs as we jerk backwards. Valentino stops. Growls like a bear. Falls into me as we hang in the air. The scooter clatters and continues its journey without us. Slides flat over the road as we drop.
Valentino lands on my chest. He rolls away and comes to rest at the foot of a post. His head lolls to one side like it’s no longer connected to anything. Thin nylon rope coils around him like a vine. He gasps for breath like a fish pulled from the river.
I push myself up ready to help.
His mouth changes shape. Forms the word “Go!” His eyes insist.
The two imps responsible for the trick with the rope jump down from their hiding places. Their giggles heat my blood. I slip the strap from under my chin. Remove my helmet and wrap the leather around my fist. The men run at me, hands ready to grab. I swing hard and connect with the head of the first. The sound is crisp and clean, like snooker balls coming together on the baize. I knock the man from his feet and he lands on his backside.
Imp two stares at his friend. I swing the helmet like a backhand tennis shot. Catch him on the temple. He drops to his knees. Kneels for a moment and falls face first to the ground. The thud is soft and satisfying.
Further down the road, Barabbas and his crew sprint towards us. Their ti
ny limbs pump like pistons. We don’t have long.
I rush to Valentino. Try to get him to his feet. He’s a dead weight. “Come on,” I urge. “We need to leave.”
He doesn’t respond. I grab his coat. Pull him towards the side of the road out of the way of the traffic. His frame is floppy, his clothes soaked through.
I lift his head and rest it on my lap. See his throat is crushed out of shape. Move him so that the damage is out of sight.
“Arturo.” His mouth strains to form the word. It’s empty of sound. His eyes bulge. They brighten and fade. I watch the life leave his body and hold tight to his empty shell.
I bend down. Kiss his forehead and jump to my feet.
Barabbas and his gang close in. Their panting is loud and hard and their legs are slowing down. They shouldn’t be difficult to lose.
I start to run. My ankle screams in agony. I grit my teeth and press through the pain. The problem refuses to be ignored. I’ll never get away like this. Need to come up with a plan or I’m theirs for the taking.
Panic squashes my lungs like a python. Freezes my logical brain. I slow to walking and hobble on.
“Hide.” Rory’s voice is sharp and insistent. “Lose them before it’s too late.”
His words snap me to attention. I need to do what he says. Speed up and look around for somewhere I can duck into. Hope to find an alleyway or open door. Find nothing. If only there were shops and cafes on the street, I might be in with a chance.
“Down here,” Rory shouts when I reach the crossroads. I turn right. It’s just more of the same. Endless houses and locked doors.
“Under a car if there’s nowhere else.”
I only have a few seconds before Barabbas has me back in sight. I throw myself under the bonnet of a people carrier. Pull myself along on my belly until I’m completely under the chassis. My nose scrapes on the exhaust manifold. I turn my face to the side and force my breathing to stop.
Three pairs of shoes slap by. Slow down as they pass the car and come to rest not far away.