Richard House - The Kills

Finn tried not to think of where he was, and that a young man had been strung up and gutted right where he was standing. According to Massimiliano the boy would have died within four minutes, and four minutes, after waiting three days, was a long time. It’s also possible that he would have remained conscious for much of that time. Whatever the scenario, there would have been time for him to realize exactly what was happening.

It must have occurred to Massimiliano, just as it had occurred to Finn, that he could do to him whatever he liked.

A line of sweat ran down Finn’s side; he held his breath, and despite Massimiliano standing close beside him he felt utterly alone. It was more than this. He felt useless, and sad. And while he could see the logic to how he had come to this place it just didn’t make sense once he was there. What he had taken as a public phenomenon, public property, was nothing of the kind. The boy was taken from a train station, brought to a room, any room in any basement, and gutted.

Finn had never properly felt alone. He’d moved from infatuation to infatuation, falling from one kind of love into another, and he’d distracted himself with the idea of it, so that he could not remember a time when he wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts of someone else, so that a presence sat with him at all times — except now. At this moment, for the first time he could remember, Finn was not in love, and neither was he surrounded by family, and he felt alone and wretched.

Remembering his mobile phone, Finn took it out and began to take photographs, and used the activity to avoid making conversation, and as a way of concluding the visit.

TUESDAY

Finn woke in the early morning with the sun full on his face, his mouth open and dry, unsure for a moment where he was.

He waited for Rino on Corso Umberto. His chest ached. He felt seasick, out of balance, his throat unnaturally sore. He hung his head and breathed slowly, his conscience was beginning to prick. The visit to the basement had brought home exactly what he was involved in. Confronted with the room itself, he’d felt his interest to be sordid, a little shameful. He was earning money writing about the killing of a fellow American, and it seemed random to him who would be receiving the money to write the book and who would the subject of the book — as if their positions were interchangeable. However he justified his interest and motivation, he came back to this fact, he was earning money from a death, and it didn’t feel good. Last night had cost him close to five hundred euro.

Rino was late. A bad sign. While Finn couldn’t complain about the previous night, he couldn’t say either that the basement visit had happened as a result of Rino’s research. This had come out of the discussion — which was otherwise useless. Finn waited where they had agreed: Corso Umberto, beside the farmacia and opposite the Banco di Napoli. Or was it inside the farmacia?

Finn checked inside and found Rino waiting at the counter with a pack of disposable diapers in his hand and a queue of assorted women in front and behind. Rino poked his finger into the plastic wrap as he waited and left divots in the packet. The store, with its glass shelves and white boxes, seemed unnervingly antiseptic, at odds with the muddle outside. Behind the counter stood a woman, a girl, and an older man, each dressed in white clinician coats. When Rino reached the front of the queue he allowed the woman behind him to be served. When the girl became free, he again allowed another customer ahead of him, but when the man became free he stepped immediately up. While the man said nothing about this, Finn thought the pharmacist had noticed that Rino wanted to be served by him.

Finn picked through the toothbrushes while he waited, and didn’t become especially aware of any problem until he looked back at the counter and saw the pharmacist pointing at the door and heard him give Rino instructions to leave. Finn came closer to the counter, not quite sure if this was private business or something he needed to be involved in. Rino appeared to be holding his ground.

‘You have a son,’ he said, ‘what if something like this were to happen to him? What would you do if someone was not telling the truth? What would you say to this man?’

The pharmacist, clearly addled, his face white with outrage, as if unused to being challenged. The man shook his head and asked Rino to leave. ‘Go.’

‘No.’

‘Go.’

‘No.’ Rino stood firm, a little petulant but unmovable. ‘I’m not going.’ He pointed at the pack of diapers. ‘I would like to buy these.’

The pharmacist picked up the diapers, looked over his glasses at the price, sharply rang it into the till and asked Rino for the money.

Rino laid the coins one at a time into a small dish. ‘Imagine. You hold on to something for so long. Keep it inside. Is this healthy? Is this advisable? Imagine when something else comes to light, the trouble that this would cause.’ Rino buzzed his fingers at his temples to indicate confusion. ‘Imagine also the kind of father who would set such an example to his son? I have a son, and I wouldn’t want to set such an example.’

The pharmacist pushed the coins back across the counter, took the diapers and placed them behind him. There would be no sale.

‘You think you know what is good for my son, or for my family?’ The pharmacist leaned forward his voice now low and threatening. ‘If you return I will call the police.’

Rino stepped back, gave a small gesture, and lifted his arms lightly from his side as if this were of no account. The police, he seemed to indicate, would possibly also have these questions. Rino caught Finn’s eye as he turned about, then remembered, suddenly, to pick up the money.

The two of them walked out onto the street. Rino, in no apparent hurry despite the pharmacist’s threat, patted his pockets for a cigarette. The pharmacist looked after them as Finn closed the door and made a dismissive gesture to the women as if this were nothing. But the gesture, Finn thought, being too emphatic, and grumpy, seemed disingenuous — and the women, who might be expected to be curious, simply continued with their work as if this had happened before.

‘This man,’ he said, ‘his name is Dr Arturo Lanzetti. The very same Dr Lanzetti that Marek Krawiec claims came with him to the hotel in Castellammare and gave treatment to one of the brothers. Dr Lanzetti says that this did not happen. Marek Krawiec also says that Dr Lanzetti told him about the content of the book, The Kill. Dr Lanzetti says that this did not happen, although he has read the book, he says that he read it after Marek Krawiec was taken into custody. He says he knew nothing about the room, and knew Krawiec only in passing as they lived in the same building.’

Finn looked up at the sign, a small outline of a neon cross. The store windows almost empty except for posters for eyewash in which a young woman looked to a blue sky, white letters furred with beams of light as if offering a religious experience.

‘You think he’s lying? Do you believe the story about the brothers?’

‘I’ve no idea. We need to find another farmacia. Life will not be worth living if I forget this.’

* * *

Rino drove to Ercolano. He pointed out the volcano as they came out of the city and spoke about the earthquake, ‘Nineteen eighty-seven. The city was hit. Many of the buildings were weakened and later condemned, but they weren’t taken down. At the same time all of these factories were closed down, and there was a plan to build here — hotels, places to live, shops. But this never happened. Instead they made them so they could not be used. After they found the body the commune had the doors and windows closed so no one could get in.’