David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

“Don’t cry, son,” Neri said, then brought his head down hard on the table, slamming it onto the old wood, ignoring his screams.

He pulled out the tape and wound it first round his mouth then his eyes. He bound Mickey’s wrists, kicked his feet from under him so he landed roughly in the nearest chair and tied him tightly to the back, circling the rope around his chest.

“Plenty of time for crying later.”

Emilio Neri looked at his handiwork.

“ Hear that, Adele ?” he roared into the darkness. “Just so much time for that later. You listening?”

TWO TIMES MERGE NOW, and in each he’s leading the way, looking, staying close to the walls, in the shadows, Miranda behind, whispering, whispering. Nothing stands between her words and the images in his head. There is a light in one of the side chambers. They steal to the door, peer inside. Something flashes at the back of his imagination. The pictures he saw in Leo Falcone’s office rise again in his muddled head, real this time, rolling past his eyes. A fat, white naked shape rolls around on the bed lunging at something only dimly seen beneath him. The air reeks of dope. A spent needle sits by the table. On the floor lies the girl’s sackcloth shift and the garlands of flowers, discarded like an old skin, shed for her becoming. The man grunts like a pig. The girl beneath him squeals: pain, he thinks, revulsion. Is this the first time? In a dank underground chamber reeking of stagnant water and mould? In the sweating arms of a middle-aged man who comes bearing flowers and oblivion in a syringe?

Can you see who she is ? Miranda asks.

No, he says, not looking.

You have to know, Nic .

He walks on, knowing she’s behind, talking, talking, and here is another chamber, deeper into the pulsing vein of rock, the light a little brighter inside. More cries of pain, a young girl’s voice, sobbing.

Look , she says.

Costa leans against the dusty wall. His breath comes in snatches. His body feels like a lumpen machine beyond his control. He’s stiffening, ashamed of the fact. She sees this, touches him there.

We’re only beasts sometimes .

No , he answers. Only if we allow it .

Then the old voice sounds, deeper, impossible to ignore, chanting, Look, you fucker, look and learn .

The shape in the shadows is pumping from behind at a girl who straddles the back of a big armchair, face upturned towards them. His arms hold her legs and the memory of a childhood game— wheelbarrow, wheelbarrow, an act so innocent the memory hurts —races into his head.

There are tears in Eleanor Jamieson’s eyes. The girl looks at them from across the years, pleading. Two voices burn in Nic Costa’s head, one young and innocent, one old and knowledgeable.

The man cranks up his grinding a gear, forcing himself into her with a brutal, punishing force. She screams from the agony. She begs for his intervention.

This is just a dream, kid, no one gets to change the past , grunts the old voice.

Then he hears her screaming… I’ll tell I’ll tell I’ll tell .

Nothing changes, not even a break in the rhythm of the panting man behind.

The figure forces himself harder into her. The chair leaps forward propelled by his momentum. A face emerges into the light, distorted, ugly. It wears the mask, grunting, grunting.

He tries not to watch but the mask is staring at him, something alive behind those dead black eyes, the old voice rising, laughing, Look, you fucker, look .

And in the corner, in the darkness, something else. Another pair of bright young eyes, hidden, terrified.

ADELE NERI WALKED out into Cerchi the way she had come, through the main entrance, straight to where Neri had left his men. She blinked at the sunlight then brushed down the cobwebs and crap from her black cashmere coat. Bruno Bucci and his men were standing in the shadows next to a “Keep Out” sign that lay half askew behind some barbed wire marking the site.

She smiled and walked over to him. Bucci nodded.

“Mrs. Neri,” he said carefully. The other men watched him like a hawk. “Is your husband OK in there? I’m a little concerned, if you want to know the truth.”

She put a slim hand on his arm. “Of course he’s OK, Bruno. You know him.” She stared at the men, not letting go until they dropped their eyes to the ground. “You all know him.”

Bucci was trying to make some private contact with his eyes. She didn’t play ball. She just lit a cigarette and stared down the big, busy road, watching the traffic.

“He told you what to do, didn’t he?” she asked without looking at him. “Mickey couldn’t hurt his old man.”

A taxi drew up a little way along from them. They watched a tall, dark figure get out. He was carrying a leather bag.

“It’s not Mickey I’m worried about,” Bucci grumbled.

They watched Vergil Wallis walk slowly towards them, swinging the bag, whistling some old tune, face expressionless, eyes never leaving the mouth of the cave. He came to stand between them, raised his arms high up in the air and said to Bucci, “Well—?”

A couple of strong hands undid the leather overcoat and went up and down Wallis’s chest, then down to his belt, down his trousers. Bucci swore, put a hand around the man’s left ankle and came up with a gleaming silver hunting knife. He held the blade up in front of Wallis’s face.

“Forget something?” Bucci asked.

“Guess so,” Wallis replied nonchalantly. “It’s these early mornings. I’m getting too old for them.”

Bucci looked at the knife then passed it to one of his minions. “This has gone far enough, Mr. Wallis. Why don’t you just walk away? We can pass on the money. We can pass on any messages too. You can count on me to get what you’re buying. This… disagreement needs to stop now.”

Wallis laughed in his face. “Wow. I knew Neri was losing it. But so soon? Are you making the decisions already, Bruno?”

The big Italian hood fought to control his temper. “I’m just trying to draw a line under all this shit.”

Wallis patted him hard on the shoulder. “Don’t bother. You’re still new to all this, man.” He nodded towards the rock. “You don’t want to step out of line now, not with him still around. Mr. Neri wants to see me. I want to see him. That’s all there is to it.”

Bucci shook his head and reached for the leather bag.

Adele got there first and said, “I can do this.”

She lifted it up to her chest, ran open the big bronze zip and rummaged thoroughly through the contents with her right hand. It took a good minute or more. Then she smiled at Vergil Wallis.

“You got a lot of money there,” she said. “I hope you think it’s worth it.”

“I hope so too,” he murmured and caught the bag as she flung it at him.

Vergil Wallis walked into the darkness. They listened to him whistling and then the sound died altogether.

Adele leaned close to Bruno Bucci, looked up into his big, impassive face and ran a finger down his arm.

“Bruno?” she asked. “Do you boys really want to hang around here all day?”

BY THE TIME Teresa Lupo arrived, the door to Miranda Julius’s apartment was down, torn from its hinges by the entry team. Men were swarming everywhere, opening drawers, scattering their contents on the floor, looking for anything.

She walked straight into Suzi’s room. They hadn’t reached there yet. She was glad. It gave her time to think.

There was a sound from the corridor, a gentle cough. She turned to face it and Falcone stood in the doorway looking as grateful as he could manage.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Why am I here?”