Adam Foulds - In the Wolf's Mouth

‘The murderers.’

‘The murderers.’

‘Maybe it’s true. How many people are there in this town? Not everywhere will be seen by someone at all times.’

‘Maybe so but you get an instinct. They don’t want to talk. Have you not noticed that generally? These people aren’t at all how I’d imagined Italians, all mamma mia mamma mia and waving their arms about. They’re surly bastards round here.’

‘They are.’ Will sighed through his nose, looking down at the blood dried in the sun. ‘Will I get a report on this?’

‘I think so. I can get it to you, if you like, try and expedite it to you.’

‘Do. And the two men, Fascists?’

‘No clear indication of that. I’ve sent a request to ask some of the prisoners about them. People I’ve spoken to here, some said yes, others devoutly of the other opinion.’

‘I see. Well, I want someone banged up for this. We can’t have this sort of thing going on under our noses. We’re the authority here. The war is over.’

‘I agree with all of that,’ Whelan said. ‘Can’t have vendettas breaking out all over. In the end it’s not England, though, and you have to take that into account.’

‘We rule over a vast empire, sergeant. I think it’s realistic for us to do so here as well.’

‘Very good. Well, I’ll keep you informed.’

Wheeling his motorcycle out of the square, Will saw a familiar face in the shadow of an awning. Albanese was sitting at a café table with an old, beaky-faced man, another man and a youth. They had in front of them the tiny cups from which they drank their fierce little coffees. Each was smoking a cigarette.

‘Oh, hello,’ Will said.

‘Good afternoon, officer,’ Albanese replied in his New York accent, sounding exactly like a gangster in an American film. ‘You here because of what happened to those two men? It’s terrible. I don’t like to see it. The war is finished. I want justice not dirty business.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’

‘You know who this is, officer?’ Cirò jerked a thumb at the old man. ‘This is the new mayor of Montebianco. You get the message from Palermo yet?’

‘No.’ Will blinked. ‘No. But it’s probably waiting for me when I get back. So no doubt we will be meeting very soon.’

The old man didn’t appear to understand. He leaned to Albanese who whispered in his ear. Then the old man raised a hand in greeting. He wore a quite enviably beautiful suit of brown pinstriped cloth and sharply sculpted shoes with a swirl and gleam in the leather that made them resemble polished wood. Glancing down at them, Will saw also his thin, knobby ankles filmed by fine yellow silk socks.

‘And this is my son, Mattia.’

‘Your son? From America?’ Will didn’t know that Albanese had brought a son with him.

Albanese smiled, saying nothing. He stayed that way long enough for it to be incumbent upon Will to speak again. Albanese did not introduce the third man and he did not look up. He kept his chin tucked down into his neck, a hand raised with his cigarette in front of his face, his fingertips resting on his temple. Will was left to guess who he was.

Finally, Will said, ‘So, I’ll see you back in Sant’Attilio.’ He climbed, self-consciously, onto his motorcycle and kicked it awake. The engine hacked and rattled, blue smoke stuttered behind, and Will pushed himself away, lifting his feet.

Mattia envied the machine. When he was older he would have one of his own. He liked particularly the shape of the fuel tank at the front, a glinting teardrop or the thorax of a wasp. The machine had a look of agile power. He pictured himself with one that was black and highly polished. He would ride it wearing sunglasses and a wristwatch. People would hear him coming.

Alvaro Zuffo was telling them about seeing his witch for the first time in years. She had shown no surprise when he walked through the door. She said, ‘I knew it would be today. You’ve been buried at the bottom of the sea all this time. Now you will breathe air again.’

‘Mattia.’

‘What?’

‘Listen to what Mr Zuffo is saying. You know who this man is?’

‘Cirò, it’s okay.’

‘He has to know. Mattia, you understand? You pay him respect.’

‘I will. I do. I’m listening.’

‘The boy understands, Cirò. He’s learning. He’s learned from the events here this morning, haven’t you, boy? You understand.’

‘Yes I do. I do. I understand.’

Ray awoke from a deep, black sleep that had been devoid of dreams. Every muscle in his body was completely relaxed. He was a dead weight pressing onto the floor, heavy as a rock. For this moment, Ray was free, completely hidden. A moment later, when he noticed this unusual state, he uncovered himself. He remembered all that he had forgotten. His thoughts began their marauding. His heart started up.

His body was too tired to jerk upright so he rolled onto his side to look around. Nothing had changed so he was probably still safe. From one of the windows, burning towards him across the floorboards, was the light of the sun. He looked into it, blinding himself, and crushed his eyes shut, a shape of hot molten metal floating inside.

Ray sat up, blinking. Still in this place. It was so large and a whole night had passed. Anything could have happened. He pulled off the blanket and got on all fours, crawling one way to check for signs. There was something in here, he remembered. Where was it? Oh, that. The rocking horse, poised, perfectly still on its painted hooves. He started towards it because he wanted to touch the choppy carving of its mane and the smooth swell of its flank. His long shadow stretched towards it. Every time he lifted his hand, the shadow fled up the wall. Every time he set it down, his hand and its shadow connected. But what was he thinking? He hadn’t checked the place yet. He looked along the crack between the floorboards in front of him for any triggering devices.

There was a noise at the door. He kept his eyes shut and waited. Three. Two. One. Nothing. Three. Two.

‘Good morning.’ A woman’s voice. ‘What are you doing?’

It was the woman, the same one. Of course it was.

‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m okay. No one’s been up here, right?’

‘No one’s been up here. If someone came up here, you would know. There would be a big problem.’

Ray, still on all fours, hanging his head, looked at the woman through the gap of his armpit. Her feet were in the shooting sunlight: small shoes with shiny buckles.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

‘Did you sleep well?’ Luisa shook her head after that question, at the absurdity of inquiring after this man like a guest at a house party.

‘I slept okay. I woke up.’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’

‘Okay. Okay, I will.’ Ray instructed his muscles to move, to let go. They wouldn’t until suddenly, like an avalanche, they did. He arranged himself against the wall by the spot with the bird’s nest, his knees drawn up. He rubbed his face with his hands, groaned, opened his eyes wide. ‘So who are you?’

‘Who am I? My name is Luisa.’

‘Luisa. Luisa.’ Ray mused on this for a moment. ‘Okay, but that’s just a name. I mean, who are you? I mean, where am I?’

‘You’re in my house, in my father’s house, Prince Adriano.’

‘Prince Adriano?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like, he’s a prince?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what are you?’

‘I’m a princess.’

‘You’re fucking with me. You’re not serious.’

‘No. I am serious. There are plenty of us in Sicily. Don’t be too impressed.’

‘It is a big house.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘And only you two?’