Christobel Kent - Dead Season

The woman clicked her tongue in disgust. ‘Not him,’ she said impatiently, ‘not him. The other one, of course. That boy.’

*

Ma , thought Roxana as she felt his arm close around her shoulder. Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid .

She’d had that same thought submitting to her first kiss. Was that why she’d never had a proper boyfriend, not one she’d trusted?

In the alley he was fumbling with the lock now, turning his face to smile at her, one hand still holding tight to hers. Roxana felt only anxiety. Was it that there was something wrong with her? Physical contact a problem?

But there were so many things wrong. This alley, to begin with.

Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid .

In the bank, Roxana had looked up from the computer screen to Val’s face as he appeared in the door, then back at the screen, trying to make sense of it. He’d beamed at her, his face alive with excitement, and bemused, she’d smiled back.

‘How did I know you’d be here?’ he’d said, smiling, and she was confused. Holding out his hand to her. He hadn’t been wearing the bike helmet, or the leathers, but grown-up clothes. A fine striped shirt, a sports jacket, loafers. Maybe he really had sold the bike, then, just as Marisa said.

Now he turned to her in triumph as the door opened in the alley and a cavernous, cool gust of air billowed from the dark interior of the cinema. ‘After you,’ he said, and manoeuvred her in front of him. She could feel his arm, his arm strong from rowing, skiing with his wealthy friends, brooking no resistance. The door closed behind them.

How did he know she’d be there? He couldn’t have known.

He’d come to where she sat at Claudio’s desk, from the little kitchen. Had he known she’d left her phone behind? Impossible. So what had he been looking for in there?

‘Listen,’ she’d said urgently, ‘there’s something wrong here. Did you know old Mrs Martelli owned that place? The Carnevale. She must have been Josef’s employer.’

Something had flickered across his face. ‘Know?’ he’d said. ‘Of course I knew. She’s my mother’s cousin. Second cousin, actually.’ He had tapped the side of his nose. ‘Of course,’ he’d gone on, ‘it’s not something they talk about. Not a particularly pretty business.’

Roxana had glanced down at the screen, aware of his hand still held out to her. ‘They borrowed money,’ she’d said. ‘She borrowed money against the Carnevale last year. The letter — this letter says it was discharged on Friday. It was paid back on Friday.’ She had looked up.

Valentino’s eyes had still been bright, trusting, wide. ‘Come on,’ he’d said, almost laughing now. ‘I’ve found out all about it. I’ll show you.’ Like a boy, like the friend she hadn’t had since Maria Grazia left, actually not really since scuola superiore . And she’d got to her feet and taken his hand.

‘Hold on,’ she’d said, almost laughing herself, ‘I came here for my phone. Let me get my bag.’ He’d bowed, a little impatiently. She’d got the bag.

Ma .

On the street they’d passed a woman going the other way. A pale, sharp-chinned and skinny girl-woman with spiky reddish hair who gave them a fierce look. Did Roxana know her? From the neighbourhood, for sure. There’d been something about that blazing look she’d given them, like, how dare they? And she had pushed past, hurrying somewhere. Looking for someone. That had been when she’d started to get anxious herself, that was when the weight of Val’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her in against him, had started to get uncomfortable.

‘So, what have you found out?’ she’d said as they locked up the bank behind them, Val giving the Guardia’s pasted sign a contemptuous glance. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

‘Surprise,’ he’d replied, with that unwavering smile.

But now, as he closed the door behind them in the cinema and they were in the clammy dark, she didn’t feel surprised. She felt a kind of awful certainty. He turned to face her, her back to the door. She could smell his aftershave, and knew it was expensive.

‘Val,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know.’ His voice was soft: Roxana wanted to put her hands to her ears. She struggled to stay steady, feeling herself unbalanced by his proximity.

‘Where are we?’ she said, trying to sound normal. ‘Where have we come in?’

And then abruptly he moved back from her, pushing his back to the door. ‘You want to see?’ he said. ‘We’re round the back: this passage leads to the private rooms. Not much use for them these days, business hasn’t been any good at all, really. Josef wasn’t even covering what she paid him, showing old stock to five old men a day.’

Instinctively Roxana put a hand to her abdomen, feeling it clench. It was so hot in here suddenly, as though the air had been shut off somewhere.

‘And there’s Josef’s palatial apartments, obviously. Could give you the guided tour.’

‘He’s got a fidanzata,’ she heard herself saying. ‘They’re having a baby.’

Valentino made a soft, disgusted sound. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That bloody fidanzata of his was the cause of all the trouble, really, getting pregnant. Without her he’d have kept his nose out, done what he was told, I could have kept him quiet.’

‘Quiet?’

‘I didn’t even think he knew enough Italian to understand, it was months ago. Galeotti and I discussing business after Tyrrhenian Properties’ first visit, the division of monies, if you see what I mean? A certain price offered, a certain compensation, you know? And old Auntie Margherita none the wiser.’

He thought Josef wasn’t even human, thought Roxana. You could say anything in front of him.

‘He heard us. And when she got pregnant he started dropping hints. All that stuff about needing an apartment. We strung him along.’ Turned his head towards her, but his face was dark. He was sweating, under the aftershave, the strong reek of him overcoming the sweet, expensive scent, an undertow of something else too. ‘So. You want to see?’

He put a hand to the wall and she heard the empty click of a light switch. Nothing happened.

He clicked his tongue. ‘Damn,’ he said carelessly. ‘Forgot about that, no lights. Still. This stuff we can manage in the dark.’

Roxana edged sideways, her hand moving out towards the door, feeling for the handle. ‘What stuff?’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

And Val just tilted his head so she could see he was watching, in the almost dark, where her hand was going: he didn’t move, just watched.

‘You want to leave?’ he said softly. ‘Come on, Roxi. We’re waiting for someone — they’ll be here soon. Once I have his woman, he’ll come.’ He nodded, almost reasonable. ‘However long it takes.’

‘Once you have her? Have who? Who will come?’

Val’s eyes gleamed in the dark, and she knew that whatever plan he’d hatched, it was not a sane one.

‘I sent her the message, you see,’ he said. ‘From his phone, telling her to come here. Someone will tell him.’ He shifted in the dark, evasive. ‘He’s still here only because of her, and that child of his. He’ll find out she’s come here, someone will tell him, and sooner or later he’ll come to me.’ His voice was fervent with lunatic self-belief, or something stronger.

Sooner or later? Roxana knew in that moment that they would never leave, she and Val locked in the dark together forever. He was nuts enough to keep her here for as long as it took.

‘And while we wait — there are things we can do. Don’t you want to see? You do.’