Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

Holding the iron poker he had picked up from the grate downstairs, Gaspare rounded the bend on the landing and paused.

He listened.

There was the noise again.

Footsteps overhead.

From the attics.

Yes, the sound was coming from above. From the place where he had hidden the Titian. True to his word, the man had broken in and was now searching among the grimy eaves of the old convent roof.

Tightening his grip on the poker, Gaspare took the next flight. His steps were noiseless, but when he reached the bottom of the flight which led to the attic, the footsteps overhead suddenly stopped.

Holding his breath, Gaspare looked up.

There was a faint light showing at the head of the narrow attic steps, a torchlight flickering in the dimness. For an instant Gaspare paused and looked back, then, remembering that the phone line was cut, ascended the first stair. If he had wanted he could have left the house, run away, sought help. But Gaspare did what the intruder had never expected – he stayed.

And kept climbing.

One, two, three steps. Four, five, six. The light wasn’t moving any longer – it was static, as though the intruder had put a torch down while they looked at something. Pushing back the door of the attic, Gaspare peered in. A man had his back towards him. He was squatting on his haunches in front of the Titian painting, the torch on a box beside him. He was so engrossed that he didn’t hear the old man coming up behind him. So mesmerised by the image of Angelico Vespucci that he never felt the poker coming down on the back of his skull.

Venice, 1555

Angelico Vespucci is leaving now. Look, there he goes. And here runs Aretino, off to meet his friend. They do much business. The bulk of him seems all the more coarse for Vespucci’s elegance, his bear’s arm slipped proprietorially through the merchant’s. I imagine the friendship will cost both of them more than either can afford. Certainly Titian will suffer. I know that, but it is beyond me to intervene. I will, in time, but for now I watch, compelled to wait on tragedy.

We are deep in winter. The water is grey as a merle, the lamps at the edge of the quay flickering nervously in the wind. From the Jewish Quarter comes the muffled sound of singing, then the echo of someone running. In these bitter days and nights there are always running feet. They say the Devil has his workers out; that the wooden piles which help keep Venice above the water are shaken nightly by the kicking of their cloven hooves. They say the aborted foetuses of a thousand courtesans are come back as vicious water sprites.

It may be true. We live in a city where men like Aretino and Vespucci reign like potentates. Where a man might kill and mutilate his wife and suffer nothing more than stares. And among the vulgar whispers there is always one question: where does Vespucci keep his precious hide? His own Bartholomew? Where does he lock away the skin that once he stroked and kissed? Is it dried out like the meat in the summer? Is it laid out, stiff and macabre, on what was once their marriage bed? Does he look at what once covered his dead wife and witch her back in his dreams?

14

Jerking awake in her chair, Jean stood up as Sally walked in. She was wavering on her feet, obviously drunk, her skirt creased, her make-up worn off. Once a month Jean babysat for Sally Egan’s father, giving her a chance to go out. It was usually a Friday, and usually she came back slightly the worse for wear. But this Friday Sally was drunk, unable to focus, and Jean was out of patience.

‘It’s half past one in the morning!’

‘Sssh!’ Sally hushed her. ‘You’ll wake Dad up.’

‘Fat lot you care about your father or you wouldn’t be making all this noise coming in at this time!’ Jean retorted. ‘You said you’d be back at midnight. I had to ring my husband twice to let him know what was going on. It’s not fair.’

Waving her hand impatiently, Sally slumped into a chair, her legs splayed out in front of her. Of course Eddie Gilmore hadn’t rung. Of course not. She shouldn’t have expected it. She’d been a mug, sleeping with him and thinking he gave a shit. And then she’d seen him in the pub and he’d blanked her. Blanked her. Christ, she hadn’t known where to look … And now here was Jean, moaning about having to call her husband. At least she had a bloody husband. At least she had someone who gave a fuck about where she was.

‘You promised—’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Sally snapped, the booze making her aggressive, unlike herself. ‘It’s only once—’

‘It’s not once,’ Jean countered. ‘It’s three times now. Three times I’ve had to wait for you to roll home. And always drunk.’

‘ I’m not drunk! ’ she hissed, running her hands through her matted hair. ‘I just need to get out and have some fun. Christ, I’m entitled to that, aren’t I?’ Her voice turned into a wail, as she became increasingly maudlin. ‘It’s all the life I get. And some fucking life it is!’

Miserable, she rested her head on the arm of the chair. Jean sat down on the sofa beside her. She cared for Sally, always had, knowing the pressure she was under. But lately she was getting worried. It wasn’t just the drinking – Sally wasn’t taking the same care of her appearance and her usual good nature was foundering. It wasn’t unusual – the strain of looking after a parent with Alzheimer’s was hard for anyone. Especially alone.

But seeing her drunk again Jean’s sympathy was becoming exhausted, anxiety getting the upper hand.

‘You should look after yourself more.’

‘Hah!’

‘Walking home in this state. Why didn’t you take a taxi?’

‘They cost money!’ Sally snapped, attempting to pull off her jacket and giving up. Slumping back in the seat, she tried to focus on the woman in front of her. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, living like this. I love my dad, but … You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘You’re drinking too much, love,’ Jean said gently. ‘That never helps anyone.’

‘I only drink when I go out! God Almighty, maybe I should never go out again, sit in with my father day and night and accept the fact that I’ll die single. Some dried-out old cow without a family of her own.’ She leaned towards the other woman drunkenly. ‘Would you like that, Jean? Is that how you see me ending up?’

‘I’m not arguing with you—’

‘ You are! ’ Sally snapped back, staggering to her feet and fighting to keep her balance. ‘You’re like everyone else, trying to stop me having any fun. Well, I need a man, and I need sex, and I need it however I get it. Understand?’

Embarrassed, Jean walked to the door.

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when you’ve sobered up,’ she said firmly. ‘Your father’s asleep, so you don’t have to worry about him—’

‘ Worry about him! ’

‘Get some coffee down you – you can’t do anything the state you’re in,’ Jean replied, her tone disgusted. ‘What if your dad wakes up and needs some help?’

‘ What about me? ’ Sally roared. ‘Who worries about me?’ Drunkenly she pushed Jean towards the door, shoving her out of the house. ‘ Go on, get out! Get out! This is my house! I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone!’

‘Sally—’

‘Get out!’ she repeated, slamming the door in Jean’s face.

Furious, Jean walked to the end of the road and rang her husband on her mobile, waiting in the cold for him to pick her up. When he arrived three minutes later, Jean got into the car and told him – word for word – what had happened. And she said that she would never work for Sally Egan again.