Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

An innocent man would not have shown up for dinner. Offended by the wild accusations leveled at him, he would have snubbed Adam on his last night at Villa Docci.

Adam waited, baited his hook, and when an opportunity presented itself, made a last desperate cast. This he did in the cellar, where Maurizio had gone to select the wine for the meal, and where Adam joined him moments later.

"I'm sorry."

Maurizio turned. "Yes, you said."

"I just have one more question, though."

"Don't do this."

"What happened to the gun?"

"What gun?"

"Emilio's gun."

"My father destroyed it."

"Really?"

"That's what he said."

"Did you see him do it?"

He wasn't afraid to push; a guilty man couldn't afford to push back. And Maurizio didn't. He examined the label of a dusty bottle and made for the door. "I think we should join my mother," he said flatly.

"She knows what he did with the gun. And with the bullets he took from the body."

An innocent man would have carried on walking, not stopped and turned at the door.

"That's right, he had the bullets removed. They're behind the plaque in the chapel—Emilio's plaque—along with the gun. Your father put them there. Your mother thinks it was the act of a man losing his mind. I think he knew. I think he worked out what happened up there."

Maurizio's eyes were impossible to read, sunk in two pools of shadow cast by the bare overhead bulb.

"You say you did nothing. He did nothing. Not then. But he did leave clues. And he did leave proof—ballistic proof that Emilio was shot with his own gun." He paused. "If you don't believe me, ask your mother."

"Oh I believe you," said Maurizio evenly. "If she told you they are there, they are there. But why do I care? I don't. I only care that you leave this place."

Dinner, inevitably, was a living hell. The worst thing was the abrupt farewell with Antonella, who clearly wanted to make more of their last evening together. What could he do, though? He had no choice. The moment Maurizio excused himself and headed back to the house by the farm, he too was obliged to call it a night. It wasn't hard using his injuries as an excuse, but it was hard enacting an emotional farewell with Antonella when his mind was on other matters altogether.

They kissed by her car, resolved to write to each other, and that was it—she was gone.

HE HAS TO COME. HE HAS TO COME.

It was an annoying and persistent little mantra. He would shake it out of his head only for it to barge its way back in again a few minutes later.

After fighting it for three hours, he wasn't just bored, he was exhausted. And hurting. The aspirins were wearing off. It didn't help that he was hunched in a tight recess at the back of the altar.

He unfolded himself from his hiding place and lay flat on the stone floor, arms at his side. It struck him that he was not alone, that both Flora and Emilio lay close by, stretched out in exactly the same fashion, and it gave him comfort.

He stared at the roof, barely discernible in the faint light from the lone candle on the altar—just a dim mesh of beams and crossbeams. He imagined it being built, men high overhead on wooden scaffolds, hammering the structure into being, the blue vault of a summer sky above them.

He closed his eyes, picturing it, and felt himself drifting off to sleep. He snapped upright, shunted himself back beneath the altar, huddling on his haunches, knees against his chest.

He has to come. He has to come.

Maybe he's already been, then gone away. Maybe he saw the ladder lying on the ground against the wall of the chapel, the one pushed over by Adam after he'd clambered through the window. It had been an awkward maneuver, but a necessary one, Maurizio being unlikely to enter the chapel unless the door was locked from the outside, the key safely beneath its rock.

Christ, he wanted a cigarette. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone so many waking hours without one. There was that production of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler at the Cambridge Arts Theatre, over three hours of excruciating student overacting unbroken by an interval, although the blond girl from Newnham playing Hedda had been very easy on the eye. What was her name again? She had a brother at Corpus Christi with a claret-stain birthmark on his neck . . .

He was awakened by a rasping noise. He recognized it immediately as the mechanism of an old lock groaning in protest. He stiffened, straining his ears. He heard the creak of hinges. And then whispers.

He hadn't come alone! He'd brought someone with him. Or something. Something shuffling, scampering. A dog padding around, getting its bearings, sniffing out the dog-history of the place. Not good. Bad.

A male voice hissed a command, calling the animal to heel. But for how long? A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, making a quick sweep of the interior, casting the shadow of the altar against the back wall.

Adam cowered. He hadn't entered the chapel through the door, so there was no scent for the dog to pick up on, not unless it went wandering. He knew the dog—a collie with a bunch of other stuff thrown in, young and skittish, but hardly an attack dog. He could remember being pleasantly surprised that Maurizio and Chiara didn't feel the need for a pedigree animal.

Another sound now, off to his left. A bag of tools being laid on the ground. A hand rummaging inside. Then silence. Followed by a scraping noise. Maurizio working away at the join around the plaque. Best to wait awhile before surprising him.

The dog had other ideas.

He didn't see it until it appeared right in front of him, wagging its tail and panting. Good game, but I found you, it seemed to be saying.

He tried to push it away. It licked his hand and let out a small yelp.

"Ugo."

Definitely Maurizio's voice.

Ugo gave a couple of merry barks and the flashlight beam swung around to the altar.

Adam cut his losses and crawled out from his hiding place, squinting into the light. He turned on his own flashlight and fired it at Maurizio's face, blinding him back. After a moment's standoff, they both lowered their beams toward the floor.

Adam stroked Ugo's head, a gesture intended to give the impression that he was relaxed and in control. Maurizio's body was braced as if for a fight, his face as pale as ashes. The screwdriver in his hand looked far from innocent.

"Why are you here?" he asked darkly.

"I don't know."

"Why?" insisted Maurizio.

"I didn't have a choice. I had to find out."

Maurizio turned suddenly and used the screwdriver to prize the plaque free of the wall. His torch revealed nothing behind other than bare, raw stone. There was certainly no gun, and no bullets.

"Very clever," muttered Maurizio. "Very clever."

Instinct told Adam to keep his own confusion to himself. Where the hell was the gun?

Maurizio sat himself down on the end of a pew. There was something defeated about his body language that Adam found hard to square with the man, so he kept his distance.

"Well, now you know."

"Why?" asked Adam. "He was your brother."

"It happened. I don't have to explain to you."

"Because of all of this ... a house, some land?" He wanted to believe that something else had played a part—a clash of ideologies, anything other than simple greed.