Luca Veste - The Dying Place

She rang the bell, a snippet of Greensleeves emanating from within.

‘ Bambina ! Entare , entare . What is all this talk today? What is happening here in our beautiful city? You look hungry. Hai mangiato ? Never mind. You eat now.’

Laura was still standing on the doorstep, waiting for her mother to finish. It was always the same. Isabella Rossi – Mama – didn’t believe in easing into conversations.

‘I’m fine, Mama, bene ,’ Rossi said, finally being allowed to step into the house and taking her jacket off. ‘I wanted to make sure you were both okay, that’s all.’

Mama Rossi stood, her arms folded. ‘You check on us? We check on you! That is how it is. Now go through. Sit with Papa and I’ll bring food. Go. Sit.’

Rossi did as she was told, moving through into the living room where her father was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her to brush his cheek with a kiss before lighting a cigarette.

‘Come stai ?’ Alessandro Rossi said, fiddling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking his Zippo and inhaling the smoke.

‘I’m fine, Papa. You heard about what happened at the church?’

‘Of course.’

‘Looks like a bad one already.’

‘How young?’

‘Just turned eighteen,’ Rossi replied, moving back as her mama entered the room and placed a cup of tea in front of her, before hustling back out.

‘Terrible, terrible business. The whole city is changing. You should really be doing something about that,’ Mama Rossi said from the kitchen.

‘I’ll get right on that, Mama,’ Rossi replied, earning a smirk from her father.

‘He was eighteen. So an adult really, but still …’ Rossi said, lifting the china cup her mother always served tea in. Remembering why she never drank the stuff unless she was home. Not that it had been her home in a long time.

‘Bad, was it?’

‘It always is, Papa,’ Rossi replied, looking around the room.

Papa Rossi leant back in his chair. ‘You need somewhere else to go.’

‘I like coming here.’

‘No. You come here to be a child again. A bambina running into the arms of her mama. You need something else. It’ll make it easier.’

Rossi wasn’t sure about that. Even less so when her mama returned with pasta al forno , piled high on a plate. Parmesan cheese in a small bowl.

No. This was still preferable to some bloke messing up her house.

Murphy pulled into the driveway, spying Sarah through the front window watching TV. He left the car and watched her for a minute or so. She’d have heard him pull up but didn’t seem to react. He considered, not for the first time, if she enjoyed knowing he was watching her. Wondered what she was thinking, what she was so engrossed in that she didn’t turn her head and look at him through the window, breaking the reverie.

He left the car, opening the front door to the house, smiling as the blaring noise from the TV snapped off. Murphy seemed to spend most of his life asking her to turn the bloody thing down, but she always waited until he wasn’t paying attention before gently increasing the volume, complaining she couldn’t hear it properly. Thankfully, the only neighbour they had was on the other side of the semi-detached house. Not that it mattered much anyway. Mr Waters. Eighty-odd and happy to let them get on with things.

‘Hello?’

‘Did you bring food with you?’

Murphy shook his jacket off, his keys going on their own hook away from the door, so as to ward against car thieves apparently. Something about a fishing pole through the letter box.

He walked into the living room, ‘Yeah, Indian,’ he said, seeing the chair for the first time. ‘Probably not enough for you as well though.’

‘It’s okay. We’ll make it spread, won’t we, Sarah?’

Jess. Hanger-on, pain in the arse, third wheel, and his best friend. ‘Great. Don’t even be thinking about nicking all the bhajis though. Go and get plates.’

Jess left the room, not before aiming a kick at his shins.

‘She all right?’ Murphy said, listening carefully for the sound of plates being removed, keeping his voice low.

Sarah grimaced. ‘Problems with Peter again.’

‘Ah,’ Murphy replied. Murphy had known Jess over twenty years and for most of them she’d been a single parent. Murphy had chipped in over that time, even standing up for Peter as a child and becoming his godfather. Tried being a friendly uncle rather than a father figure, and failing spectacularly as Peter moved into the troubled teenage years. Murphy had fared better when he was younger, easily appeased with occasional trips to the match at the weekend or the odd trip to the picture house, usually to see some Die Hard -type of action film Murphy didn’t really enjoy.

‘She’s okay,’ Sarah whispered, ‘think she just needs a break.’

Murphy nodded, removing containers of food from the two carrier bags. He’d got lucky with Sarah. His first wife had hated the relationship he had with Jess. Couldn’t understand how a man and woman could be friends, never mind as close as Jess and he were, without any semblance of romantic feelings. Sarah had accepted the fact from the beginning. Hadn’t even batted an eyelid when he’d firmly told her how things were. Since getting back together a year earlier, it seemed like Murphy was becoming the extra person in the threesome. Sarah and Jess saw much more of each other, as his re-dedication to work became more time-consuming.

‘Didn’t get your big plate,’ Jess said, carrying plates into the room, cutlery strewn across the top of them. ‘You look like you need to lose a few more pounds before getting that back out.’

‘I’m allowed a night off. And anyway, you’ll have most of the food down your gob before I have a chance.’

‘Whatever,’ Jess replied, moving Murphy out of the way to take over removing the food. ‘Sar, you all right with sharing the masala?’

Sarah nodded, smiling at Murphy, knowing he was already relenting. ‘Korma for me,’ he said, removing a plate.

‘You’re a fucking soft git you are,’ Jess replied, tucking away the foil container holding the bhajis behind her on the coffee table.

Minutes later, there were half-full plates of curry, naan bread and poppadoms perched on their laps, and they stared at the TV in the corner. Murphy leant back in his chair.

‘What’s the matter, babe?’ Sarah asked. ‘Eyes too big for your stomach?’

‘No, just thinking is all.’

Jess mopped up the last of her sauce with a piece of naan bread. ‘New case?’

‘Yeah,’ Murphy said, attempting another forkful. ‘Eighteen-year-old in West Derby.’

‘Heard about that on the news. Found on the church steps?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Yeah, beaten and then strangled by the looks of it. Don’t think it’s religious or anything, but you know … can’t be too careful.’

Sarah dropped her fork on her plate, reaching over for the last onion bhaji. ‘Between her with her lawyer stuff,’ she said, using the bhaji to point at Jess, ‘and you with your murders and shite, it’s getting a bit dark a conversation for this time of night. Can we change the subject please?’

Murphy rolled his eyes at Jess, before lifting his plate off his lap to avoid a kick from Sarah. ‘Okay, okay. What’s going on with Peter then, Jess?’

This time it was Jess’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘Typical teenager bollocks. Seventeen years old and thinks the world owes him a favour.’

‘We were all like that once.’

‘I know,’ Jess replied, ‘but he’s just annoying me now. Hasn’t been going to college, so fuck knows how he’ll get on with his exams. More interested in going round his mate’s house. Keeps reminding me he’ll be eighteen in a few months. He’s at his dad’s tonight and I’ve had a word. See if him and the new bint can do anything to knock some sense into him.’