Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

She looks at the thick red clay at his feet, expecting to find a random, gouged mess. Instead she sees a precise, deeply carved symbol. An oblong, sharply divided into three, covered with hundreds of stab marks that look like slithering snakes.

Tetia pulls herself to her knees. She knows her husband is in danger. Something deep within tells her that when he has finished whatever he's doing, his life will end.

The child.

The thought terrifies her. But the child does seem to be the only explanation. It wants him dead.

Through the flames she sees the flash of Teucer's knife. His face is twisted with pain as if every nerve in his being is burning. The god that chased the demons away is revealing himself, showing Teucer his will.

And Teucer can take no more.

The baby kicks hard. So hard Tetia screams. So violently she can't breathe. She sees Teucer stand. He staggers to his feet, puts his hands to his head and bangs his temples, as if to stop the awful visions in his head. But still the pain will not cease.

He looks down at the evil signs he has made, walks a step and pounds again at his face.

Tetia's heart goes out to him, she wants to hold him, love him, protect him.

Another kick. So vicious, she vomits. All she can do now is watch as Teucer falls to his knees. The child's movements seem almost in sync with her husband's, as though one is passing pain to the other, through Tetia.

Summoning the last of his own free will, Teucer gets to his feet. He moves towards the sacred fire like a drowning man grasping for a rope.

Sudden pressure erupts in the centre of Tetia's back, a pain she's never felt before.

Teucer staggers, as though being pulled away from the flames.

Tetia heaves for breath. The child is hurting everything now – her ribs – her stomach – even her spine.

Teucer lets out a roar.

Hands stretched to the sky and eyes wide open, he hurls himself forward into the white-hot centre of the sacred fire.

Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice Sleeping with a woman for the first time is strange. Waking beside her in the morning is even stranger.

Tom Shaman is coming to terms with this strangeness as he lies on his back staring at the ceiling in Tina Ricci's king-sized bed.

His head's a mess. A real mess.

He urgently needs fresh air and some time to work out what the hell is going on.

While Tina sleeps snugly, Tom carries his clothes to the bathroom and dresses in the light of the shaving mirror.

He takes the room key, quietly shuts the bedroom door and walks the streets for the first time since discovering Monica Vidic's body.

It's already 9 a.m. and he can't remember the last time he'd gone to bed so early and woken so late.

The morning light is as rich as honeycomb. The temperature a comfortable eighteen degrees. Everywhere he looks, couples are sharing coffee, croissants and newspapers at pavement cafes. It certainly seems as though the world was built for two.

He walks along the front of the Bacino di San Marco and doubts there is a better view of the canal in all of Venice. Crafts of every shape and size jockey for position in the waterway – gondolas, ferries, trade boats, a Carabinieri cruiser and vaporetti.

As he prepares to turn left at the Ponte dei Sospiri a funeral boat passes, slowly ploughing its way to the historic cemetery on Isola di San Michele. The flower-laden vessel jolts memories of Monica and the monster who murdered her.

It's not something he wants to dwell on.

He pilots his thoughts back to Tina. A few days ago he hadn't even known she'd existed; now she's assumed a central role in his life.

The first woman he's slept with. He's sure it would have been no big thing for her. But for Tom, it's a landmark. He struggles to define exactly what kind.

One to be proud of? Or ashamed?

He really isn't sure. Years of Catholicism do that to you. They make you uncertain about how you should feel about anything pleasurable, especially sex.

Like most priests, Tom tried hard not to think about being intimate with a woman. And like most of his colleagues, there were times when he failed.

In those moments, he'd imagined such a relationship would start off slow – a warm kind of friendship – and then gradually grow into something deeper and more passionate. He'd never dreamed that he would end up behaving like a hopeless teenager and losing his virginity in a drunken one-night stand.

But then again – if he was honest with himself – he hadn't been that drunk. Tipsy – yes. Loose and uninhibited – certainly. But so drunk that he couldn't have stopped himself? No, not at all.

And now? In the full glare of the morning light – what did he think now?

Need it be a one-night stand? Is that what she wants? What he wants?

He can't answer any of the questions. It all seems so horrendously confusing. And to think he'd spent years counselling parishioners on their marital problems. The thought brings a smile to his face. How hopelessly unqualified he was.

But Tom has no regrets. None at all. Whatever happens next, he knows it is all part of the new person he is becoming. A person who, overnight, has allowed a complete stranger into his life. And in giving her the most precious thing he'd had left, he's allowed her to become an intimate player in his new life.

But for how long?

The question haunts him as he meanders back towards the hotel.

Cosseted in a cocoon of a quilt, Tina Ricci squints sleepily at the half-open bedroom door.

Tom finishes sneaking in. 'Sorry. I was trying not to wake you.'

She struggles to speak. 'Errrm – hi. I kinda thought you'd gone.'

He moves gingerly towards the bed. 'I didn't think I was supposed to.'

'You're not.' Then in an instant she finds herself defensively adding: 'Not unless you want to, that is.'

'I don't.'

'Then come back here.' She pats the cool side of the mattress. 'Give me a chance to show you the real meaning of Morning Service.'

Tom lifts a crumpled brown bag. 'I bought coffee and croissants. A small repayment for lunch yesterday.'

'Great.' She straightens the pillows and sits up a little. 'But I warn you, I'm famished. We missed dinner – and burned off a lot of calories – so I'm gonna need more than you've got there.'

'Understood.' Tom takes out the coffees, rips open the bag of croissants and spreads the paper to catch crumbs. His face gives away that he's going to awkwardly switch subjects and say something about last night. 'Listen, I'm really new to all this, so please forgive me if I'm very awkward and say all the wrong things.' He looks embarrassed. 'Or more likely, don't say the things that I should.'

She takes a coffee from him. 'Tom, there are no rules. Just say what you want – anything you feel like saying.'

Right now, saying what he feels turns out to be harder than he ever imagined it would be. 'Okay. Then help me out here. How do you feel?'

'I think you're sweet.' She pauses, then adds, 'And special. Not because you used to be a priest and we fucked.' She looks horrified. 'Sorry! I didn't mean to say fucked, I mean-' Now she looks embarrassed. 'Listen, you're special because you're a good guy. An honest guy. A nice guy. And I think it must be quite something to get to know you – really know you.'

He looks tense. 'Thanks, I hope we get the time to do that.'

'And you?' There's a hint of mischief in her eyes. 'You don't get out of answering that easy. What do you feel?'

The sun is blazing outside the window. He can hear Italian voices laughing and chattering on the street below. The world seems perfect. 'Complete,' he finally answers. 'You make me feel wonderfully complete.'