Michael Morley - Viper

He'd been stabbed.

The smaller punk, the little bastard without the gun, had stabbed him in the ass. And the blade was still there. This was both good and bad. Bad because someone was going to have to pick the metal out of his butt, and that sounded a long way from fun. Good because he guessed the wound was so deep that if the knife had come out, then he might already be bleeding to death.

I mean, Howie asked himself, how the fuck can you put a tourniquet on your own ass? In fact, how can anyone put a tourniquet on an ass?

He steadied himself against the alley wall. Realized he was barely able to move, let alone walk. He had to think his way out of the jam.

'Are you all right?' asked a woman's voice.

Howie peered to his side. It was the dame with the big package. She'd obviously seen her attackers hightail it and come back to help.

'Sure,' he grunted through clenched teeth, 'apart from this blade in my butt, I've never been better.'

The woman looked around, and then disappeared behind him.

'No! Don't touch it! For fuck's sake, don't lay a finger on that friggin' knife.' And to make sure, he awkwardly turned himself away from her.

'You don't want me to pull it out?'

'No, no! I most definitely do not want you to pull it out.'

'Okay, okay!' she sounded panicky.

Howie could see the shock of the attack starting to roll in on her. 'Take it easy, lady. They're gone. Everything's fine. But I'm gonna need your help now. Okay?'

'Christ!' she spluttered. 'They could have killed us. I mean, they had a gun and I don't know if it was real but it sure looked real and I never even saw the knife, but God, that's real, I mean, you… they've stuck a knife in you… and you're bleeding, and…'

'Yeah, lady, I'm bleeding – like a stuck pig,' said Howie, cutting her off, 'and you think we might be able to do something about that? Like maybe call an ambulance and get a paramedic here?'

'Yes, oh yes. God, I'm sorry. That must hurt, doesn't it?' She glanced to her left and right. 'Oh my, oh no! They've taken my purse! My phone, my cell was in that bag. With my keys, my house keys and things, personal stuff and pictures, and…'

'Whoah!' shouted Howie. 'Use my phone and ring a goddamn ambulance, and please be quick!' He painfully produced his cell from his jacket.

'They could have killed me. They could have raped me, or anything.'

'Lady, the phone!' Howie held it out to her, then steadied himself against the wall again.

The woman looked as though she was in a trance. She extended her hand in slow motion and took the phone. She flipped it open and stared at the keypad, like she'd never used one before.

And then, just as Howie thought she was about to punch in 911 – she fainted.

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Rosa Novello.

Franco had seen her full name written down in his grandfather's Visitors Book. He kept suggesting they get a computer but he was told they were too expensive. A computer would be a relief for Franco. He'd had a stolen laptop for a while, bought it cheap from a Romanian gypsy staying on the camp. It had an aircard and pre-paid Internet access. But the real owner had cancelled the subscription after a few days and Franco had thrown it away in case the police traced it and caught him. For the brief time he'd used it, it had been a window on to the wider world. He'd looked in detail at his own disease, without the staring faces and probing lights of doctors around him. And he'd also tentatively explored the cyber underbelly of sex sites and chat rooms.

Rosa emerged from her caravan carrying a black sack of garbage. It was full and sharp corners of hidden trash were stretching it to bursting point. He wanted to go over and offer to carry it for her. That's what would happen in the films. That's how the hero would break the ice and get to know the girl of his dreams. Only real life wasn't like that. In real life she'd look at him and be scared. The shock would show in her eyes and she might even drop the whole sack. That's what others had done.

Rosa wore blue jeans and a red jumper. They didn't meet in the middle and her tummy showed. It stuck out like the top of a muffin, peeping above the rim of its greaseproof paper. He longed to touch her. Press his cheek against her muffin top. Smell it. Lick it.

The garbage bin was full so she dropped the sack alongside it and sashayed away. Her tight jeans showed her firm legs and what looked like the top of some tattoo on her back. Franco wondered what it was. Whether it stretched down into the crack of her bottom. What it would be like to run a finger over.

He was still thinking about the tattoo as he picked up her sack of trash and took it away. Precious treasure. He couldn't wait to be alone with it. To be able to secretly touch parts of Rosa's life.

Ristorante di Rossopomodoro, Napoli Lunch was a first for the three eleven-year-old street kids. Before today, none of the boy soldiers had ever eaten in a restaurant.

The three friends forked pasta and meatballs into their mouths, barely pausing to gasp for air. They looked at the parents and kids around them, laughing and chatting. They couldn't believe that people lived like this. Happy, full, fat. Stealing from bins at the back of the kitchens was the closest to restaurant food they'd ever been. Opposite them were their heroes, Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta. The Camorristi were not eating; they were sipping espresso and talking in hushed tones. Soon the kids would be back on the streets, running the rounds, delivering their small plastic packs of heroin and cocaine. They got no pay for their labour, just food, the hint that one day they could have a future within the System and the most valuable thing of all, respect from their peers.

'You want some wine? I think maybe I'm gonna take a glass of red.' Donatello poured himself some. He was twenty-seven and looked like a young Al Pacino with a beard.

'Not me.' Ivetta put his palm over his glass. 'I think I'll go to the gym.' He rolled up the sleeve of his black T-shirt and a tattooed male angel in chains grew in stature as he ostentatiously flexed his biceps. On the opposite arm was one of St Michael slaying a demon. Ivetta's body bore another twenty, all forms of angels and demons, ink-on-skin illustrations of his own mental struggles.

It had been a good morning. The boys had done well. Their deliveries had grossed a cool three thousand euros. Not a fortune, but the day was only half done and the kids were only one group of the six that Donatello and Ivetta ran. The boys pulled in an average of 5k per day per gang – 30k in total – and they worked six days a week. All in all, it added up to a chunky 180k a week, just short of three-quarters of a million per month. And, if the two Camorristi pushed the kids a little, they should gross almost ten mill for the year.

Running smack and charlie through a pipeline of juveniles was smart practice. If the kids got caught, they landed tiny sentences, maybe even just court warnings. But if any of the adult clan members were arrested, then they were looking at lock-ups north of five, sometimes ten years.

A waitress with blonde hair and dyed black ends cleared plates and handed out dessert cards to the boys. They were barely able to read the menus but the pictures lit up their eyes. They were still pointing and deciding when Ivetta suddenly snatched the cards from their hands and told them to get back to work.

The kids made no complaints. They grabbed their Nike rucksacks and headed for the door. The youngest doubled back to take a final gulp of his cherry Coke.

'You should have let them finish,' said the tall, dark-haired man joining them. 'I'm sure we all remember from prison that a well-fed workforce is much more willing.'