Where's There's Hope, There's Life by Teaching English Ideas by Laura Pritchard

A Novel

Where There’s Life, There’s Hope

July 1988 1

July 1988 2

HOPE 30 YEARS LATER- TUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 3pm

Caterina Tallarico -14th August 2018

The Lorry - Tuesday 14th August 2018 – 3.30pm

Sant’Antonino

Alessandro - 12 hours before - 3am the morning of Tuesday 14th August 2018 20

Aurora - 3am in the morning - of the 14t14th August 2018 Tuesday 23

AURORA & THE LETTER

OPENING THE LETTER

Pino 2 days later - Thursday 16th August 2018 5.50 am

THE ENTICEMENT - Thursday 16th August - 7am

GRAZIA ROSA - Thursday 16th august 7am

CATS & Gabriele - Thursday 16th august 7.30am

A Funeral in Sant’Antonino: Thursday 16th August

THE SILENT ANGEL - Thursday 16th August 8am

The Exhumers - Thursday 16th august - 7.30 am

The Woman In Red

Pino gets told of body found by dustman - Thursday 16th august morning - 47

Hope’s Breakfast at the Bar - Thursday 16th august 8am - The Day after ferragosto 49

Outside the chapel Gabry rings Pino.

Pino asks HOPE to come to chapel Thursday August 16th 8.30am

Gabriele takes hope to body

AT The Chapel.

Hope in the chapel - THURSDAY 16th AUGUST 8.30 am

Pino In the Chapel

Grazia rosa arrives

at the scene - 8.00 am

Eddie 1 - Life in the piazza Thursday 16th august morning 8.30

Eddie 2 - Thursday 16th august morning 8.30

Giovanna - Thursday 16th August - 8.30 am

Rita & MARIO

THE DEBATE : Hope & Caterina in the garden

Grazia Rosa wakes up screaming. - Thursday 16th august - 8.pm

Aurora’s perspective

Alessandro waiting - Wednesday 15th agosto ferragosto

Hope and Caterina on beach at Bogliasco Thursday afternoon? Flash back to THE APERITIVO - Wednesday 15th august - ferragosto 8:00 pm 88

Mauro The Watcher - 1 am Wednesday 15th August

Hope Can’t Sleep - 3 am in the morning - of Wednesday 14th August 2018 100

Luca the jogger - Friday 17th early morning

102

The Pharmacy - Friday 17th August- Morning

107

HOPE & CAT DISCUSS DEPRESSION

111

Nonna Jenna 1

113

Via San Lorenzo - Friday 17th august - 4:00 pm

116

Doctor Sergio Mantero

119

At Pino’s Station COMMAND

121

Gianni De Luca - Friday 17th August evening

125

Red Lipstick - Friday 17th August- early evening

130

Pino and Nando

133

Boccadasse - Friday 17th August evening

137

Carmine the Receptionist - Saturday 18th August -8.30 am -The morning of the funeral - 146

The Funeral - the - the pantheon - Saturday 18th august

153

The Priest

159

The Fight

160

Aurora’s Flat

164

The Nurse

168

HOPE AND CATERINA ARGUE

170

ANNA CLARA SPEAKS TO HOPE

175

GIOVANNA SPEAKS -Sunday 19th August 10 am

178

HOPE ATTACKS GABRY & MEETS PARODI

181

Giorgio Parodi

189

PHONE CALL FROM PINO

192

Passeggiata di Nervi - SUNDAY AUGUST 7.30 PM

194

HOPE TALKS TO EDDIE - MONDAY morning 20th August - 8.00

198

Paolo Martini SPOF funeral director’s MONDAY 20TH AUGUST 10 AM 205

THE BOSCHETTO

211

Under a Tree - MONDAY 20th August

214

Gabriele FLASHBACK- Tuesday 14th August Morning 6 am -

220

HOPE sees GRAZIA ROSA MONDAY - she tells them about Francesco the guardian on Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto 224

ENTER AURORA’S APARTMENT AGAIN

230

NONNA JENNA 2

230

THE BICYCLE RIDE - MONDAY 20TH EVENING

230

THE WAREHOUSE

232

Francesco - The Night Guardian

235

HOPE WORRIED 1

238

The Pomegranate SEED - TUESDAY 21ST August 4.00 pm

239

Ferdinando’s jewellery shop

242

Bar del Porto - TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 7.00 pm

248

Hope & Cat discuss the bead

252

VIA DEL CAMPO TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 10.00 PM

253

Mario

258

THE ALLERGY TEST - WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST 10 AM

261

Alessandro in Pharmacy- (Flashback to Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto) 263

The Angel Gabriel - Wednesday 22nd August Morning

267

HOPE SPEAKS TO RITA

268

GABRIELE AND THE BRIEFCASE - WEDNESDAY 22ND August

270

HOPE WAITING FOR GABRIELE

272

THE NOTE

273

FRAMURA

276

THE CHASE

281

ALESSANDRO’S FUNERAL

285

Hope speaks to Pino about Gianni

287

THE GUN

291

THE KEY

293

Pino wakes up and can’t find his gun nor hope

297

THE BASEMENT

298

Hope and Gabry together in Basement

304

THE BAR BRAWL

305

HOPE SAYS GOODBYE 9am.

307

AT THE AIRPORT

311

ON THE PLANE HOME

315

The Guild Meeting

316

GIANNI CALLS PINO

325

A Novel

Where Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Life, Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Hope Zoe Scott Hope Springs Eternal Live in Hope Hold out Hope Cross my heart and Hope to die Glimmer of Hope ray of Hope Shatter Hopes Not a Hope in hell Hope for the best Hope to see you again

PREMISE A charming Italian hamlet, overlooking the city of Genoa, finds Hope Hunter-Smith seeking repose after a tragic incident at work caused her to have a traumatic breakdown. The body of a young woman is found in the nearby cemetery, and even in her fragile state of mind, Hope is convinced that the suicide is suspicious. Thrown into an investigation that leads her to discover far more than she bargains for, Hope discovers some of the historic city’s deepest secrets. Will she be able to regain the courage and strength she needs to overcome her ultimate fears and will she successfully traverse the obstacles that resist her enquiries? "One of the gravestones in the cemetery near the earliest church has an anchor on it and an hourglass, and the words In Hope.In Hope. Why did they put that above a dead person? Was it the corpse hoping, or those still alive?” - Margaret Atwood

July 1988 1 The girl hated her name. One day, when she was old enough, she would change it.

As she slipped on her dress, red like the midsummer sun, she admired herself in the mirror in her bedroom. As red as her new bikini she wore underneath and how she liked the contrast of the bright colour on her fair skin.

Yes. She would be a Giulia or a Maria or even a Caterina. Have a normal name like her friends. Speranza. Speranza Cacciatore. It wasn’t the Cacciatore she couldn’t stand. That was the okay part. It was the Speranza. How naﬀ was that.. It was so not cool.

The bells of the church began to chime the eleventh hour. Hell. She was going to be late. She grabbed her rucksack and charged into the kitchen where she found the panino Nonna Jenna had left her in the fridge. Prosciutto and mozzarella. Her favourite. What would she do without her Nonna Jenna?

“Ciao, Nonna,” she shouted.

“Ciao, amore,” Grandma Jenna shouted back from the bathroom she was cleaning. “Be careful, love and don’t walk through those arches. Promise me. I don’t like you going there. It’s dangerous. Take the main road, will you love, but stay on the pavement.”

“Yes, Nonna.” Speranza rolled her eyes. “I’m not little any more. I’m fifteen now. Don’t worry!”

She glanced at her new wrist watch, a birthday present from her dad. “This should stop you from always being late,” he had said when he handed her the beautifully wrapped packet tied with a golden ribbon. It was waterproof too so she needn’t take it oﬀ in the sea. And the red strap. Perfect.

Bellin, she was running late. Bellin, bellin, bellin. She loved saying the word. She wasn’t supposed to, but everyone in Genoa used it. All the time. She wasn’t sure what it meant, only that it was a bit rude. Bellin, she had ten minutes to get to the bus stop.

She skipped out of the apartment where she had lived with her mamma, papa’ and nonna Jenna since she was born and jumped down the stairs feeling the rush of excitement in her belly. She was meeting her three best friends for a day on the beach. First time alone. Well, she was now fifteen and allowed to. But before anything else, she had to get to the bus stop in front of the mini market where Giulia, Maria and Caterina would be waiting for her. Destination Priaruggia beach. Bus number 680, Change at Brignole train station for the 607. Get oﬀ just past the Monumento at Quarto. Nonna Jenna had written it down for them.

Monumento ai Mille, the bronze statue erected in 1905, a few steps away from the rock where Garibaldi and his one thousand men set sail in 1860 to conquer the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies that was, at the time, ruled by the House of Bourbon. A successful expedition and last territorial conquest before the creation of the Kingdom of Italy on the seventeenth of March 1861. Yes, she had studied it at school and got an eight in the test. She had deserved a nine but had hesitated with the dates. Prof Carenza never gave nines anyway.

Bellin, she was going to miss the bus. She had no choice. She’d have to take the way through the arches. She crossed the main road and ran down the steps that led to the ‘scorciatoia”, the shortcut and smiled at Nonna Jenna’s silly words. What a worrier. But she was about to make the greatest mistake of her young life.

July 1988 2

“It was much easier to explain the veil than to answer questions about the wounds.”

― Pawan Mishra, Coinman: An Untold Conspiracy

She screamed. But not for long.

A fat hand held her mouth shut.

She whipped her head from side to side but the hand pushed down hard, thick fingers gripping her cheeks. They reeked of tobacco.

She gasped for breath through a jarring ache in her jaws and she flayed her legs, but the giant crushed down onto her like a lead weight and pushed her open with his thighs.

On the hard wooden table, the girl lay pinned helpless like an animal in an iron trap, as another hand of steel pushed heavily into her shoulder. Then the leering, pot-marked face lowered onto hers. It closed in, suﬀocating the life from her soul. His breath sour.

She screamed again but the sound she gave was useless. Muﬄed. The hand let go of her mouth and smacked her face. The raw sting silenced her as her head lashed to one side by the force of the slap. She tasted the metallic blood that drizzled into her mouth, her upper lip, split by the ring on his middle finger.

The man yanked her red skirt to her waist. Grappling. Then he ripped open her virginity.

The last thing she saw before she passed out were his eyes. Staring black pools, glazed with lust.

“Wake up bitch.”

He slapped her again.

For a second she came to, then her strength ebbed beneath him.

“For fuck’s sake, wake up bitch. Christ, she’s no good to me like this… Wanna go Sergio? You try ‘er. See if you can get any sense outta her.”

Another pair of hands turned her over roughly, like a slab of meat and dragged her to the edge of the wooden table.

Grunting.

Almost out cold, she could still hear the scraping wings of crickets vibrating to the agonising rhythm of his thrusting.

Then that thud.

Sounds they would always remember from that hot, stifling summer afternoon. The three tenyear-olds boys who stared through the twisted branches of the olive tree, their faces contorted in horrified fascination, witnessing the despoilment and molestation of a girl not much older than themselves.

*********

Under the arbour in the garden of the abandoned Italian church in Via Mogadiscio, you were hidden from view. It was a great place. A great place to shoot up. A great place for a quick shag. And just after lunch, when most bellies were filled with large plates of ‘pastasciuta’, there was no one about. Of course not - it was siesta time.

In the alcoves on the other side of the church wall, Kids happily rummaged through the hordes of metal pipes, wing mirrors, bumpers, tyres and doors, dumped and discarded here, in Via Mogadiscio’s no man's land. A great place to discover precious accessories ripped from stolen cars. A safe place, where no polizia would dare enter and no one would witness anything. The rest took a blind eye?

To the children, the alcoves were caves filled with treasure. But today, the spirit of scavenge had left them, as they watched aghast through the olive trees, holding their breath, trying not to make a sound. Witnesses to a rape that would alter the course of all their lives.

*********

“Merda. It’s Gianni! But who’s the girl?”

"Porco cane! Can’t see her face, But shut the fuck up, Gabry. If he sees us, he’ll kill us.”

Thud.

The leather ball landed in the grass near the low wall.

“Christ, Pino, and what the hell’s Mauro doing there?”

“Shit! He’s gone to get the ball, the idiot.”

The boys were rooted like the ancient tree they clung to. They watched helpless. How his glasses fell to the ground as a big man scooped him up like a football.

The wind in Mauro’s little ribcage whistled out of his mouth from the force of the hairy arm that grabbed around his chest. Long fingers held his mouth tight and Mauro’s legs dangled like those of a shot rabbit’s held by the ears in the hunter’s firm/strong/aggressive grip.

Forced to watch, terror pumped through his body and drained the blood from his face.

A wet patch spread wider and wider around the crotch of his football shorts. A trickle, down his leg.

When the grunting stopped, The big man threw Mauro to the ground. Thump! Like a bag of potatoes.

He whimpered.

On all fours he made a frantic search for his glasses, and as his hands scrambled about him, he felt something soft. A ribbon. Silky and smooth and red like blood. He clasped it in his hand as if it would save him with its magical powers.

The big men cracked up with spiteful laughter and picked up their bottles of beer. Mauro yelped. Stabbing pain. The kick to his lower back flattened him.

“We’ll deal with the little runt later, ay Renzo?” snorted Gianni who punched his mates in playful jest, as the three of them sauntered away, no sign of remorse in their jaunty strides.

The girl, sobbing and whimpering like the animal she felt, pulled down her red skirt and rolled onto her side into a foetal position. She pushed her hands between her thighs and lay as still as death, for it was death she wished for now.

“Leave me alone!”

The children heard her cry, beaten and lifeless.

Mauro was there. By her side. And he had placed his little hand gently on her arm like a puppy’s paw.

“Get oﬀ me!” she shouted and jerked violently.

Mauro stood motionless and watched her just for a moment before he limped away and the boys hiding in the olive trees were relieved to see him go. They didn’t yet know what they would find later that evening.

The girl pushed her head back and stared through the twining vine. In the tree, Gabriele gasped. Had she seen him? She had. She had seen him. He had caught her eye, bulging, pleading, just

for a second. But who was she? He looked down and lost his grip. He fell out of the tree. His knees grazed sore on the stony ground.

When he stood up he stared into the face of his older brother Gianni and his heart galloped. Terror. Every part of him trembled.

“You two, get down ‘ere, now,” Gianni ordered.

The other two jumped from the twisted gnarled branches and had no choice but to follow Gianni dragging his little brother by the waistband into the alcoves along the wall.

With heads bowed and shoulders slouched, like defeated soldiers walking with their enemy to their prison cells, they exchanged not a word.

Today, the treasure alcoves became dark foreboding caves, which they would not return to for many years.

The consequences of spying on big Gian would be severe, consequences that they would not speak of again, but that would rip deep wounds into each of their hearts and imprison them throughout their lives.

HOPE 30 YEARS LATERTUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 3pm

“What if I fall?” - “Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?” - Erin Hanson

The plane throttled down the runway, engines roaring ferociously and Hope gripped the arm rests.

As it lifted oﬀ the ground at Gatwick Airport, her stomach twisted. She shut her eyes and counted to ten. One and two and three and …. . Then a whirring from the wings shuddered her insides.

Sitting on the aisle seat she could avoid looking out the window but now she opened one eye and glimpsed to check the aircraft still had wings.

It was the flaps. Just the flaps.

She felt out of touch with the ground and for a moment a strange feeling of empty space gripped her heart.

“Oh God, the land’s getting closer. It’s getting closer. It’s not supposed to be getting closer.”

She shut her eyes again and her chest tightened. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and continued to count.

The 737 banked to the left. Hope cringed. Then a ping overhead made her bolt her eyes upwards. Christ! Something’s wrong? A technical problem? She peeked out of the window to ensure they really weren’t hurtling to the ground.

Then she heard banging and clattering coming from the back, by the toilets. She turned to see the steward, filling the trolley with drinks and snacks. These familiar sounds distracted her. Why on God’s Earth had he chosen to make his living in a metal box thousands of feet up in the sky? She could think of nothing worse. But then why the hell had she chosen hers. And boy was she paying the consequences for that one now.

The young mother on the aisle seat opposite, jiggled her squalling baby. That’s all Hope needed. The wailing penetrated her bones. She shook her head and snatched the inflight magazine from the back of the chair in front. She gazed at the 24 hours in London ‘what-to-do’ column, could not concentrate and so flicked through the pages until at last the steward and his pretty young colleague oﬀered her sweet sustenance.

The gin and tonic slithered into her veins and all was right with the world. Even the clouds began to look fluﬀy and delightful until the mother stood up and bent towards her.

“Scuse me. I have to pee. Could you keep an eye on him? I’ll be as quick as a flash.”

Hope looked at baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling tucked comfortable on the seat and her heart plunged to the bottom of her diaphragm. She smiled with tight lips.

“Course I can. Want me to slip in next to him?”

Why did she say that? Why? Why? Why? ….she hated kids.

“Oh, could you? That would be so kind. Thank you. You know, travelling with a little one when I’m on my own is quite draining.”

I’m sure it is. You managed to quieten him though. Great job.”

“It’s called a pacifier!” She giggled and toddled up the aisle to the toilets.

Hope unfastened her seat belt, stood up cautiously and crossed the aisle where she slipped into the seat beside the baby lying on its back and suckling the blue dummy in its mouth. It wriggled its legs and arms like an astronaut in outer space and studied her with interest. Its head bald but for a light blonde covering of hair that looked so soft she wanted to touch it with her lips. Her breasts felt heavy.

Motherhood. She touched his crown. Soft like eiderdown. She touched the palm of his pink hand and his spindly spider-leg fingers curled around hers.

Motherhood. An impossible for her. Her heart heaved.

“Everything alright?”

“Perfect. He’s adorable. My turn!”

She got out of the seat and strolled along the narrow aisle, aware of those awake passengers eyeing her with interest. She was sure she looked a state. Up at five, taxi at half past. Such a goddamn unearthly hour.

Enclosed in the cubicle measuring only 36 inches wide by 27 inches long, she felt safe. No bumping or banking could touch her here.

She caught herself in the mirror and gasped. Cheeks red, eyes red, hair …. Not a red, no … a ginger…… floor mop. Christ. She could have been an extra in The Walking Dead.

She dampened a paper hand towel and wiped her face. She smoothed down her wiry mane and yawned like a lioness. Then she tried to open the door. Shit. She could not get out. She pulled and pushed and shook but it was jammed so she banged on the door. Bang Bang Bang. Help please, she called, Beads of sweat formed above her brows. Her heart thumped more loudly than the engines.

“Pull the bolt to the right madam and push the door toward me.” the steward said.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that. Not working.”

“Madam, calm yourself. To the right. Pull the bolt to the right then push the door towards me.”

Hope’s breathing quickened. Air. She needed air.

She wiped her hands on her knees. One and two and three… The door opened. James the steward stood before her.

“Alright now madam? Anything I can get you?”

Her face burned with embarrassment and she hung her head.

“A bottle of gin?.”

“I’ll see what I can do, love.” he laughed.

She had meant it.

James led her to her seat and minutes later came back with three small bottles of Prosecco and a packet of peanuts which she swallowed as she glanced out the oval window.

When the wings of the BA bird descended over the Portofino Promontory, she did not mind the soaring sensation in her belly. It made her want to reach out and sweep her hand over the Maritime Pines.

Genoa. Genova. Zena. How long had it been? Years. Life had got in the way. And she had been troubled.

With alcoholic bubbles bursting in her bloodstream, she nudged the ferret sitting next to her.

“I’m on my way home.”

He looked up from the in-flight magazine and nodded, his beady eyes imploring her to stop breaking the comfortable silence they had managed to maintain throughout the entire flight. Hope flicked her head back, and brushed her hair from her shoulders.

Always sit on the right side of the plane. That way you will see the tumbling pastel villages that perch and cling to the rocks.

“I grew up here, you know, but then …. but then I had to leave.”

The plane jolted. Hope grabbed the arm rests. They banked steeply and soared over the Mediterranean sea, deep green and in a murderous mood.

The pilot set up for descent and soon spires and steeples and Medieval domes swept under them. Suddenly the engines blasted and thundered and the plane lifted back up into the air waves. Panic prickled under Hope's skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen. You will have noticed that it's a bit hairy in the skies here in Genoa today as the wind is against us. We require a steady landing and it will be tricky – but hold on to your seats and we’ll have another go.”

The pilot’s dulcet tones were unflustered and upbeat, but Hope was not reassured. She held her breath. It was not her turn to die. Not yet.

The second time around, the containers like lego blocks piled up along the jetties as the port of Genova came into view and she sank into her seat, releasing her gripped fists like the baby had done when she pulled her finger from his grasp. She saw the 11th century lighthouse. Then the cruise liners, enormous floating palaces. The approach. Rattle. Thud. Engine thunder. Clap, clap, clap. Passengers standing. Phones on. Thank God they were down.

She picked her bag up from the floor, rummaged around in it for a mint and popped it in her mouth. Disguise her alcoholic breath. It won’t but she can try. Then she stood up and teetered, feeling light headed. She toddled down to the end of the aisle where James and the pilot stood nodding.

“Have a nice holiday.”

Although Hope smiled, when she stepped oﬀ the plane her stomach knotted and her heart fluttered. An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept through her like a thief and she wanted to turn back.

***

At Christopher Columbus Airport, she walked through the gates pulling her large purple wheelie case, counting. One and two and three and ….

It took her only a moment to spot Caterina who was engrossed in sharing the belly shaking chortle of the man with the neck and face like a turtle standing next to her.

Hope called her name. Her head swivelled and they stared at each other. Seconds? Minutes? They sized each other up.

Caterina was still attractive, and now exquisitely elegant, almost fragile. Her sleek dark hair, rolling onto her shoulders, framed a delicate oval face with button nose and baby doll lips. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans cut at the knees and a fitted T shirt that highlighted her slim figure.

Hope clasped her shoulder bag to her tummy to hide its folds.

“Speranza. Speranza. Ma che meraviglioso vederti!"

Her smile lifted Hope's spirit and she grabbed her into her arms. She held her for too long, then pushed her away, then pulled her towards her again and kissed her on both cheeks with passion.

“Be careful of that necklace. It can do damage.” She said rubbing her chest and laughing.

Hope looked down at the enormous colourful beads she wore. Caterina lifted them with her hand.

“They’re heavy too. But they go with your shirt. Lots of colour. I like that.”

Hope had not considered her outfit with much care that morning. At five o’clock, colour coordination had been the last thing on her mind.

“So, should we call you Speranza or do you prefer Hope, these days.”

“Hope, please. I haven’t called myself Speranza for a long time. My name is Hope Hunter-Smith.”

Catrina’s dark eyes highlighted with a hint of grey shadow sparkled and she giggled with delight.

“Hope.. You always did say you would change it. Hope Hunter Smith. I like that name. Well, Hope, It’s so wonderful to have you here with us again. Did you have a good flight?”

“Yeah. Great. Landing was a bit tricky though. Trust my luck to find bad weather in Genova in August.

“Bad weather? We’ve had the worst storm imaginable and something terrible’s happened. Genova will never be the same again.”

Caterina Tallarico -14th August 2018 “Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.”

• George Eliot

Three and a half hours before Hope’s flight took oﬀ from Gatwick, Caterina Tallarico looked out of her kitchen window in Sant’Antonino.

She could just make out the man in the bell tower of the church below her house, his shoulders charged with the serious sadness of his assignment.

Someone had just died.

Despite the thundering rain, the bell peeled the haunting toll of death. A single strike. Silence. Again a single strike. For three minutes.

The woman knew it was the sound of death because that silence between one chime and the next set a chill in her heart.

She envisioned the Grim Reaper sweeping his scythe to cut down another mortal with the bloodied blade, enshrouding another unlucky soul from life under the folds of his black cloak of obscurity.

a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards ….. us

She remembered the words from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol which she pulled out to read every year. She read it in English, of course. An English language middle school teacher, English literature was her passion.

But it was not Christmas yet. Far from it. Genova was in mid summer and the olive trees were still bursting with pollen despite the rain and strong wind that thundered through their branches.

"I wonder who it could be this time?" she whispered to herself furrowing her forehead.

She rested her brow on the window pane, the glass cold to her touch. She shuddered.

“La vita e’ persa in un’attimo. A single moment and life is lost,” she thought.

Someone from Sant'Antonino had died. Giuliana perhaps?

Caterina Gentile could hear in her mind the ancient lady's coarse, mad voice crying out over and over again, "Mamma, mamma! Dove sei? Where are you, mamma?" She was 92. She lived in the large yellow house opposite and was still hanging on to her life in her demented mind.

Or was it Silvano? He was 96. The old man hitched his trousers up with a piece of fraying rope and smelt of damp towels. He lived to the right of her. On his own. Old and frail and alone, he sat on his porch in silence, rarely ever smiling. He was losing his sight.

“What a lousy day to die,” she thought.

From her large kitchen window Caterina could also see the cemetery of Staglieno expanding into the tucks and grooves of the hills ahead with heavy clouds rolling over them.

At three and a half million square feet, the cemetery was vast and monumental. Below her house lay more than two million dead bodies. And every day more caskets and coﬃns were added to the ground or were placed in funerary recesses, called 'loculi' or 'cellette' as the ground filled up with their bones. And every year some were taken out of the ground and out of the recesses. The remains: skulls, femurs, pelvises, spines, scapulas, the bones of a thousand skeletons, were either burned in the large furnace that secretly spewed out its vapourless smoke over the town or were dumped in the communal ossuary to make room for more.

For all her thirty eight years, Caterina had looked out onto this extraordinary place where life met death with a pulsating energy in its grim and secret shadows.

For the cemetery of Staglieno, recognised as the largest outdoor museum in Europe, held 117,600 tombs, two hundred and ninety of which were family chapels.

Caterina picked up her phone and called Gabriele.

“Principessa,” he said in his sultry voice. She tingled.

“You fell asleep on the sofa again.”

“Yeah, I did, love. Sorry about that. Did you hear about the bridge?”

“What bridge?”

“Haven’t you been listening to the news? The bridge, The Morandi bridge. It’s collapsed.”

“The bridge to the airport? Collapsed? What do you mean?”

“The whole bloody thing broke in two. Struck by lightning. Go on Facebook and look at the video they’ve posted up. You won’t believe it.”

“But Hope’s flying in today. I’ve got to go and pick her up.”

“Well, you can’t use the motorway. They’ve closed it. You’ll have to take the bottom road but I warn you, there’ll be chaos, so leave early.”

“Were there cars on the bridge?”

“Love, of course there were. That part of the motorway is always busy. I’m on my way to see if I can give the boys in blue a hand. Watch the video.”

And Caterina thought, “So that’s why the church bells are chiming the death toll.”

The Lorry - Tuesday 14th August 2018 – 3.30pm “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.” - C.S. Lewis

A single solitary lorry stood at the edge of the gaping chasm, pinned to the broken bridge where two hundred metres of motorway had thundered into the void just seconds before its driver stomped on the brakes, struck with terror. Sick with fear. Its bright blue cabin and green container with the red 'Basko' letters on its side appeared a stain of gaudy colour on the grey, haunting scene.

On the 14th of August 2018, at 11:36 that morning, a flash of white light illuminated, for an instant, the lashing cloud of rain which hung thickly over the suspension bridge.

The driver of the Basko truck, blinded by the violent deluge, reduced his speed. The bridge shuddered. The driver slammed to a halt when the car in front of him plummeted as if sucked into the yawning mouth of a whale along with thousands of tons of concrete.

Thirty five cars and three trucks precipitated from the Morandi Bridge in that moment and fell one hundred and forty eight feet into Genova's Polcevera Valley below. Forty three men, women and children, most of them hurtled into the abyss, some working below it, all buried under the apocalyptic wreckage.

Pylons and girders crashed and crushed and pressed down upon their bones.

The Basko driver stared at the emptiness before him. Instinctively he reversed his truck. He wanted to escape the hell hole but blocked by the traﬃc behind him he abandoned his blue cabin and ran with all his might. The indicator lights flickered in the mist, clicking on and oﬀ eternally.

A haunting cry of desperation echoed from below the broken bridge. A man videoing the aftermath suddenly realised the awful reality the screen of his smart phone revealed.

"Oh Dio mio! Oh, Dio mio! My God. My God! There are people down here. Somebody call an ambulance!”

***

When Hope’s flight landed at twenty past three that afternoon, the murderous squall had abated and vaporous heat began to rise from the tarmac as the temperature over the afternoon soared to the usual torrid swelter of August.

Genova, its fog cleared and shaking oﬀ its shock, now clearly understood the horror of what had happened that morning. It was beginning to mourn the first uncovered victims.

The Fiat Panda, motionless like the lorry on the bridge in the distance, sat in the heavy traﬃc and its passengers listened to the rich cigarette-choked voice of the local radio news reader giving way to emotion.

“The number of deceased has risen to 35 of which three are children. Among the victims, a young doctor from the Florence area, a couple from Arezzo, and a family from Genova, papà Roberto

and mamma Ersilia with their nine year old son, Samuele who are no longer with us, swallowed up by the concrete. They were on their way to the port to embark for Sardegna.

At the emergency meeting being held in the oﬃce of the Prefecture, premier Conte has declared a state of emergency. “It is a grave wound for Genova, Liguria and Italy.” he says. Conte went on to thank the emergency rescue teams who will continue to work throughout the night.

The bodies of the dead have been transported to San Martino hospital for identification. The injured have been distributed amongst San Martino, Galliera and Villa Scassi. Four persons have been extracted from the rubble alive.

Both carriageways of the bridge precipitated to the ground tens of metres below during a violent rainstorm. Several witnesses saw lightning strike the viaduct.

The Morandi Bridge was the city’s life-line to and from Milan and the north and gave access to and from Genova’s sea port, the biggest of the Mediterranean Sea. With a trade volume of 51.6 million tonnes, it is the busiest port of Italy by cargo tonnage.”

Several policemen stood amongst the metal and fumes on the road and steered the mayhem with steely expressions. Hoards of onlookers holding closed umbrellas and smartphones blocked the pavements while helicopter blades churned the sky above and sirens screamed. Yet despite the tumultuous confusion, It was as if a shocked silence permeated the atmosphere.

Caterina switched oﬀ the radio and lowered the window.

"Scusi. Do we have to turn oﬀ here? Can't we go straight on? We need to get to the other side of town.”

The oﬃcer's knee-length boots glistened in the sun as he approached her car. A gun in its white leather holster hung at the hips of his tight jodhpurs and his dark sunglasses hid the shock of the day’s tumultuous event in his eyes.

"Sorry miss. We've had our instructions. They're keeping the road ahead clear for the ambulance services.”

"Christ what a fucking nightmare! It rather puts my shit into perspective doesn't it?”

"God Speranza, you have a way with words! I've missed you my friend. Glad to have you back.”

"And I'd forgotten how hot it gets here in August! Jesus, I'm melting!”

“But you used to love it! Aaah, at last! We're finally moving.”

"So, how’s Pino?"

"Today, not so good. He'll be down there digging desperately among the rubble for survivors with his bare hands. He was one of the first on the scene, as usual. Gabriele's down there too.”

"What? Not the Angel Gabriel? Is he still sniﬃng around then?”

“Well….yes. He still … tries.”

“You don’t let him, do you?”

Caterina did not answer but she pinched her full lips into a thin line.

“She does! Good Lord, She does! And what the hell can he do down there anyway? Sweep the concrete away with his broom?”

“I see your tongue is still as sharp as a snake's. Stop it. To me that man is a hero.”

“To you, my love, to you. He's got balls though, I'll give him that.”

"I can't believe this has happened. My Genova will never be the same. The city is on its knees. We are crushed with sorrow.”

“Oh, don't be so damned melodramatic. It will all be forgotten in a few months and everyone will be back to normal, living their self-important little lives with no thought to all this mess, you wait and see.”

Caterina whipped her eyes oﬀ the road and glared at Hope.

“Well, that’s a bit rough coming from a person who hasn’t been here for years. How do you know what we feel and think anymore? Anyone of us could have been on that bridge this morning, including me. If your plane had landed at the right time…God, It’s not worth thinking about.”

As they approached the Val Polcevera, the wide torrent, leading from the backdrop of hills down to the sea, the traﬃc came to a halt.

“Look Hope. Look at that gaping hole in the motorway. Complete and utter devastation. And the families of those who fell to their deaths in their cars? I don’t think they’ll ever forget about that, do you?”

Hope sitting on the edge of the passenger seat in her friend's car stared at the two ends of the bridge in the distance, a gaping chasm between them.

“Shit, is that a lorry teetering on the edge?”

Sant’Antonino

“You can’t go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of your memory.” - John Steinbeck

Hope pulled her purple wheelie bag along the lane past the church of Sant’Antonino and beads of sweat dripped down her back. She had forgotten how humid August in Genova could be and the heavy jacket she wore over her tight jeans was totally inappropriate.

Listening to Caterina’s twittering, the scent of bygone years wafted into her nostrils. A mixture of pine, bark and steaming tarmac.

The olive trees in the grove beyond the wall were much taller now and their trunks more twisted and gnarly.

“I’ve put you in the spare room in Pino’s flat. I can’t have you sleeping on my sofa. He won’t mind. He’s hardly ever here anyway. Spends most nights at the station. Look, there’s Grazia Rosa’s house. Remember? She’s looking forward to seeing you. I said we’d pop in sometime tomorrow, if that’s alright. I don’t know how she does it, mind. You know, I’ve never liked him. Always knew he was a drunken bully. And as for that daughter, She dotes on her of course. Any mother would but that girl takes advantage. A lovely girl, make no mistake, but a real little missy. You wait till you meet her. Spoiled her rotten she has.”

Hope stopped and sat on the iron bench that encircled the cypress tree in the cobbled square, glad for a moment’s shelter under its leafy branches. Her ears were burning. Not from the sun. She could not remember Caterina being such a chatterbox and through her friend’s chirruping Hope could also hear the buzzing chirp of the grasshoppers,constant like her old friend. Their sound was a long forgotten reminder that summer had arrived in Genova.

She stroked the cold iron she sat on and pictured herself whispering with her three best friends under this same tree, while the boys showed oﬀ their football prowess in front of them. She noticed how the wooden door to the church appeared shabby, faded and much smaller than she remembered as a child.

“Not far now. Hasn’t changed much, has it?” Caterina patted her on the shoulder.

“Just seems a little tired somehow. Almost worn out but then that’s probably me, not Sant’Antonino.” Hope snorted and picked up the single red rose that lay near her feet, its head drooping and wilted.

“These days I’m feeling a bit like this rose. Not a lot of energy in me. And Nonna Jenna?”

“Not good, Speranza. I mean Hope. It won’t be long now. Will you see her this evening? I think you should.”

Hope stroked the velvet petals and they fell into her hand. She let them scatter to the ground.

Caterina stared at the broken flower. Her gut knotted and suspicious thoughts like flies buzzing round stale meat cluttered her brain. The rose in the vase on her kitchen table, single and red, still stood proud. Whoever he’s given this one to obviously hadn’t wanted it. Who? Who was it now? The man liked to flirt with danger.

Hope jumped up.

“Right. Let’s get to it. Have you got any cold Prosecco in your fridge? It was Prosecco day, yesterday, did you know?”

Caterina, flicked away the flies.

“Come on. It’s time to celebrate your return. We can still have a little fun, can’t we? Welcome back to Italy, my dear friend!"

Alessandro - 12 hours before 3am the morning of Tuesday 14th August 2018 “I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.” - Sylvia Plath

The man pulled the hood of his Galliano windbreaker jacket further over his head as the rain pelted down and broke the silence of the night.

With his car safely parked under the olive tree at the bottom of the hill, he walked up towards the eleventh century church of Sant’Antonino.

Once past the church, he sat on the bench that encircled the cypress tree in the cobbled square. Its leafy branches sheltered him.

What he was about to do rumbled in his abdomen like the thunder overhead. But he had to do it.

Startled by the church bells that struck the half hour, Alessandro De Luca jumped oﬀ the bench. One single chime. It was half past three in the morning.

He felt lightheaded. He had drunk too much Jack.

He turned to look at the view of Genova by night. The misted lights of his city rolled down to the immense horizon where the black sea met the clouded sky as if one mighty canvas of darkness. Sheet lightning electrified the night like a firework display.

He shivered and took in a deep breath of courage.

He bowed his head and hunched himself into unnoticeable, then lumbered up the lane, his trouser legs and trainers soaking in the bombarding rain.

When he passed the dustbins and arrived at the large mint green house, he saw it.

Shit, shit, shit. A silver grey Yamaha Majesty motor scooter parked against the stone wall.

No. It can’t be.

His heart pounded.

Hundreds of them about Genova. So he bent to look closer at the back frame. And there it was. The bright red sticker. The lettering altered by hand with a highlighter pen. It once read ‘I love Genoa’ but now read ‘I love Gabry’. Gabriele did not love Genoa. He was a member of the Samp Ultras.

Hot rage rushed through his veins and his ears pounded. He clenched his fist and slammed the saddle. Gabry. What the fuck. He looked up at the closed shutters of the first floor apartment. Didn’t take him long, did it, the bastard. And how the hell could she prefer such a low-life. Bitch. Liar. Christ he’d been a fool. He put his hand on his stomach and felt sick to it. His face flushed red. He looked at the word ‘Gabry again and wanted to cut him.

He took his pen knife from his trouser leg pocket. He always kept it with him. It was a useful tool. He opened it up and, gripping it with white knuckles, his jaw aching from gritted teeth, he slashed the black leather saddle.

One...two...three. Nice.

What pleasure it gave him to see the leather open up and the dark yellow padding pop out. Three long satisfying slices.

That will show him. The fucker!

He was in there with her. Lying close to her in her bed. He wanted to spit his venom at them both.

He growled in the deep of his throat and opened the iron gate that led onto the paved terrace. At the sight of the gleaming eyes, his stomach knotted. Enormous and round, they stared at him.

The five black cats, identical but for their sizes, stood on the steps under the porch looking like Egyptian sentinels. Jesus. He kicked the smallest of them. It yelped and all five scuttled oﬀ into the rain.

Alessandro went to press the intercom buzzer but hesitated. His throat dry, he was unable to swallow. His courage waned. She would hate him for it and he could not risk that. If she refused his request, and she bloody could, easily could, she was so damned volatile, it would destroy him.

He took the blue envelope from his jacket pocket and looked at her name. Aurora. God she was beautiful. Twelve months of pure fucking pleasure. A passion like no other. Not even his wife had done that to him. His wife had given him his two girls, true, but Aurora. Aurora was something else and he refused to let her go. The stupid cow. What the hell was she doing? Gabriele? For Christ’s sake.

Alessandro crouched down and slid his letter under the door. Then he dropped onto the cold ground and leant his back against it. He folded his arms and watched the rain pelt, washing away the shit on the lane.

He wished it would wash away his shit.

And where the hell was he going to get the money she wanted? If his wife found out, he’d lose his kids. Fuck.

He saw a pair of cats eyes gleam. The smaller one, despite the kick it had received, braved the steps and stroked against his thigh. Then it nestled down beside him and Alessandro fingered the fur between it’s ears. Stupid bloody cat. What he could not see was another pair of eyes looking out behind the green shutters at the window high above him.

And what was he going to do now? Well, he would wait until morning and confront them both when they came out. He could stay awake until then, no problem. He would teach them to fuck with him.

Yet, the cat’s softness soothed his turmoil. The throaty purr calmed him and his blood no longer seethed. He slowly emptied of emotion and felt his eyelids weigh heavy and his limbs relax. The desire for sleep seeped into his veins.

And did Gabriele know? Bet he didn’t. Bet she hadn’t told him, the pregnant bitch. Alessandro would tell him. In the morning. That’ll wipe the stupid grin oﬀ his face. And whose was it? It was his, Alessandro’s and he was going to make her keep it. Whatever it took. There was no way he’d let her kill it. His son. His boy. His. She wanted money for an abortion. Well, he’ll give her money alright. And she was going to keep it. His son.

Suddenly an eerie howl jerked his body awake. The hairs on his arms pricked and pulled on his skin. He had to get up and get away. Get back to his car. And what good would it do anyway. After all, like this he could risk losing her completely. She said he had no self control. He was incapable of reason. If he gave her another excuse, she’d do it, like she'd been threatening to.

Alessandro pulled himself up, scuttled out the gate and skulked back to his Mercedes Coupe with the little black cat prowling behind him.

He grabbed his key from his trouser pocket and clench-fisted, he brushed his hip along the cars parked boot to bonnet in a line along the wall opposite the church. The scraping of metal on metal sent a rush of bristly satisfaction through the veins of his arms.

He did not look back at his artwork but he knew it was good and deep.

The cat soon lost interest and stopped. It sat still and watched from afar as the shadow slipped into the front seat of the convertible.

He lowered the seat-back and closed his eyes. To the rhythm of the pummelling rain, sleep came immediately but peaceful it was not. Awkward dreams, the colour of blood red, tossed and turned in his head.

And then he was yanked awake by the roar of a motorbike engine blasting round the bend past the olive tree.

Aurora - 3am in the morning - of the 14t14th August 2018 Tuesday ‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.’ - Buddha

Aurora Rossi lay on her back, eyes wide open.

The man next to her breathed heavily and put his arm over her belly. She pushed it away. His body emanated a heat that stifled her. She had thrown oﬀ the sheet yet she could not settle.

Her skin itched from the humidity in the room and the rain pounded on the windows.

Strange such a heavy storm in mid August. And now, she heard the bells in the clock tower chime the hour of three. Three a.m. The three clangs, sounding distant in the barrage, shook her insides.

Jesus how foolish she had been. Foolish.

There was only one thing she could do, of course. She had to get rid of it. but she needed the money. She had asked him and he’d refused. Damn him. Refused! Wanted her to keep it! And the wife? Would he leave his wife? Of course not. So what the hell was he thinking?

And how could she keep it? She was only nineteen, God damn it. Had to finish University. Get her degree. If she kept it, it would bloody ruin everything. All her plans.

She could threaten to tell his wife. And then ask him for a lot more money. He could fucking aﬀord it. Wouldn’t want his precious wife to know, would he? That would blow the wind out of his sails, the idiot. He’d have no choice, then. His precious wife, and those two adoring girls of his. If they only knew what a prat of a father they had.

A sudden howl in the night broke her thoughts for a moment.

She turned to look at the face of the man by her side. His blonde hair dishevelled, his blue eyes hidden behind lids of fair lashes. Eddie. Gentle in sleep, cruel when awake.

Whose was it, anyway? She couldn’t be sure. Not really. And if Eddie found out? She had to make sure he never would.

Perhaps if she told her parents. But, she couldn’t, could she? Her father would kill her. He’d kill her mother too. Finally. He’d been trying to for years, hadn’t he? The bastard.

And then she remembered the certificate. Her certificate.

Her chest tightened. Her stomach roiled.

Aurora quietly sat up, reached to the drawer of the bedside table, gently pulled it open and rummaged inside. She felt for the envelope then slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom.

While she sat on the toilet, the certificate in her hand shook. Her certificate. She had never seen her birth certificate before. Not until she had come across it accidentally when she was hunting for a beige leather belt in her mum’s wardrobe. Her mum had some lovely belts.

At the back, behind the sock dividers, she had found a wooden box with a tiny key in its bronze gilded lock. Inside. What was inside?

Treasure.

Sparkling rings, diamonds and rubies. An amethyst, and the bracelet was beautiful. She had tried it on. She’d felt like a naughty girl trespassing on her mother’s secrets. And when she had lifted up the velvet lined divider to get to the second layer as if it were a chocolate box, there was the envelope, yellowed with time.

Staring at it again now, her heart pounded as it had the first time she saw it.

Cognome: Tallarico. Nome: Aurora

Data di nascita: February 1990

Luogo: Salita Sant’Antonino, Genova

Nationalità: Italiana

Madre: Grazia Rosa Tallarico

Padre: non conosciuto (Father: Unknown)

So if the bastard was not her real father, then who the hell was?

AURORA & THE LETTER

“A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman an agent of rude surprises.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

Aurora Rossi sat at her kitchen table smelling the fresh coﬀee that bubbled in the small silver pot on the stove.

The large opened window reflected a build-up of grey clouds and heavy rain threatened to beat against the green slatted shutters again as it had during the night like drums.

Dressed in a black satin nightdress, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the relief this fresher, cooler air gave. It blustered onto her face and blew her long chestnut hair away from her tanned shoulders.

She had not slept. Not at all. Thoughts had gusted in her brain like the wind and the pelting rain of that interminable night.

And today she had an exam to study for. She would get down to it shortly.

In her first year at the university in Genova she was studying architecture. The exam, ‘The Urban Phenomenon and its historic evolution: from ancient origins to the dawn of modernism.” was not her favourite subject and she was distracted.

She had always felt constrained by the men in her life who conditioned her, and always tried to chain her. But now she glimpsed at a chance to be free. To be financially independent. And if he

gave her enough money, she could leave this god forsaken place. This pit of small-minded provinciality. She would disappear. Go abroad to Spain. Barcelona or Madrid. Move up in the world.

Her uncle Pino had spoken to a friend of his in the Urban town planning department of the regional council. He had promised her a job. Stable. For life. The dream of every Genoese. Work for the regional council and you are laughing. A full time undetermined contract.

They could never get rid of you. Eight to six thirty. Holiday and sick pay, good pension and then you die. Christ, what a nightmare. She put a hand to her throat and squeezed. She did not want to forget how the thought strangled her.

She had two more years and then, with a degree under her belt, she would be ready. But she had to play careful. She could not risk ruining it all and she certainly did not want a kid. She couldn’t. No. She wouldn’t.

She opened her eyes to the disturbing news bulletin on the local radio, ‘Babbaleo’:

“The regional Civil Protection Oﬃce has issued an orange weather warning.

Strong and sudden gusts of wind are to be expected to reach sixty kilometres an hour.

There will be mini tornadoes over the Ligurian sea and lightning bolts will flash through the sky like a firework display.”

A motor scooter roared down the lane and chugged to a halt below her apartment window. Aurora stretched her neck and made out the Silver grey Majesty. She sighed. Then she glanced at the buttercup house in the grounds below. Her parents' house. They had allowed her, at only nineteen, to move into the flat only because it overlooked them and her mother could check on her daughter through every window of the rooms facing it.

She poured herself a cup of rich dark coﬀee and added a spoonful of sugar to ease the bitter taste that it always left in her mouth. She sipped at it and her doorbell rang.

It was Gabriele holding a blue envelope in one hand. He smiled, bowed and then pulled out a red rose from under his shirt.

“Good morning, principessa. here’s a letter for you. I found it under the door and here’s one beautiful rose for my beautiful princess,” he said.

OPENING THE LETTER “There's always a place for the angry young man with his fist in the air and his head in the sand. He's never been able to learn from mistakes, he can't understand why his heart always breaks.” Billy Joel

Back in the kitchen, Aurora stared at the light blue envelope in her hand.

Rain began to patter and then the piercing sound of a siren wailed in the distance.

She shut the window, turned oﬀ the radio and sat.

With her finger, she followed the flourished strokes and curls of her hand written name, took a deep breath and teased the envelope open. No inkling yet of its contents but caterpillars were hatching in her stomach.

“Oh, well. whatever it says, it won’t kill me!!” she thought and unfolded the light blue paper.

Her heart thudded in her chest when she saw the signature.

She skimmed over the words, holding her breath. She rubbed her eyes. She rubbed her forehead. She read the letter again to be sure she had understood.

“A letter! That’s nice. I don’t think I’ve ever received a letter from anyone in my life. People don’t send ‘em anymore! Just texts! Who’s it from, love?”

Aurora put the letter down and covered it with her hand.

Eddie, towel wrapped around his naked body gave her a kiss on the cheek. His short fair hair smelt of fresh shampoo.

“So what’s the problem, Amor? Why the long face?”

Eddie had been in Italy since he was four but still had a tweak of Eastern European in his accent.

“It’s nothing, Eddie. It’s just one of those prank chain letters.”

“Let me have a read, then.”

He snatched the letter from beneath her hand.

“Hey, that’s private!”

She jumped out of the chair and tried to grab it back but Eddie, tall and strong, lifted his arm above his head.

Aurora sat back down and began to bite the side of her cheek, a nervous habit she had picked up from her mother.

Looking at the letter, Eddie’s expression darkened. His brow creased and his nostrils flared.

“Christ!” he sputtered. “Che cazzo è questa? What the hell is this?”

She could see the vein on Eddie’s neck pumping, His face reddened and she recognised the warning signs of the thunder to come. The glare. The same noisy breathing. Elbows held wide from the body, chest thrust out. Her father. Her father to a tee.

He slammed his fists on the table and pushed his face close to hers.

“What the hell is this?” he repeated, shaking the letter.

She cowered.

An icy feeling of terror gripped her chest. She ran out of the kitchen and straight into the bathroom, locking the door.

While Eddie pummelled on it, demanding to be let in, she leant over the basin, studying her face in the mirror, and brushed away her fringe from her hazel eyes. Scared hazel eyes. She wanted to vomit.

Eventually, the knocking stopped and there was silence, until the front door slammed.

She opened the cabinet above the sink and reached onto the top shelf where she grabbed a bottle of pills that were hiding behind her face cream.

She placed one of the large white capsules into her mouth and swallowed it with the help of the water she drank straight from the tap. Then she replaced the bottle making sure it was out of view, took her clothes oﬀ and jumped into the shower, closing the rose-patterned curtain with a heavy sigh and a head reeling for the last time.

Pino 2 days later - Thursday 16th August 2018 5.50 am “A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” - Agatha Christie

Pino Tallarico awoke to the sound of his phone vibrating insistently on the bedside table.

He groaned then reached over and realised it was already morning. It was only ten to six, but rays of light were filtering through the slats of the closed Persian blinds.

Despite always keeping his bedroom windows open at night in the summer, the room was unbearably hot and he threw the single cotton sheet oﬀ his naked body in an attempt to cool himself. It was, however, an impossible task in this old stone mansard flat with no air conditioning.

"Pino, is that you? Pino? M…m…mi ascolti? C..c…can you hear me?”

The woman’s voice irked him. How he hated being disturbed at such an ungodly time in the morning!

“Grazia Rosa, it’s a bit early for a chat. Can’t you call me back later?” His own voice was thick with wake-up roughness and he cleared it with a cough.

“N..non e’ tornata.”

Pino heard her heavy breathing.

“Aurora d..d..didn’t come home last night. Her bed hasn't been slept in.” Her voice wobbled.

Pino sighed and rubbed his eyes. He still had three quarters of an hour before he needed to get up. It was the day after the summer bank holiday but this day was going to be hard and this moment he had was precious.

“Grazia, my love. Aurora is nineteen years old. She is a 'maggiorenne'. She is an adult. If she wants to spend the night with her boyfriend, she’s quite grown up enough to do so, isn’t she?”

Sarcasm twanged from his tongue but he could not help it. His sister’s obsession for her daughter was tiresome.

“But what boyfriend, Pino? She hasn't got a boyfriend. Nando makes pay to that, doesn't he? No, No. She called me and told me she'd be home; that I needn't worry.”

"Well, then I expect she changed her mind. She probably met a nice young man in the bar and went home with him as any young woman of her age should do every now and again."

He placed his middle finger onto his temple and rubbed it in circles. This was not how he had planned to start his morning.

"Pino, please. You know Aurora wouldn't do a thing like that. She's a good girl.”

"I'm only joking, my love. Look, have you called her friends. Maybe she stayed the night with one of them?”

“Well, Giovanna might know something. But …. But….”

“But what?” Pino’s patience buckled.

“Last night Nando … well …. He came home in … in … one of his moods again.”

"What the hell?" he said with his nerves edging to ‘on'.

"Aurora was wearing a new black dress. She looked so beautiful in it. Stunning she was."

"A new black dress? So she was going out somewhere special then, little sister of mine, if she was all dressed up.”

"She told me she was going out with some friends. Thank goodness she took a warm cardigan with her. She is such a ‘fredulosa'."

Pino's eyebrows raised up to the heavens and he gritted his teeth. "God, I do not need this,” he thought.

He wanted to close his eyes and continue sleeping but this disturbance had slapped the morning right into his face. His day was going to be a diﬃcult one. His men had been working most of the night searching for survivors under the rubble below the bridge.

“Grazia Rosa,” he said, trying not to raise his voice. "It sounds to me you are being a typical Italian mother. Don't you think you might be overreacting?"

Aurora, his niece, often complained to him that she was feeling suﬀocated by both her parents. He had to sound convincing.

"The poor girl,” he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say, Pino? I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, 'What colour cardigan did she take, Gra? A black one or A navy blue one?'"

Pino brushed his hand through his black curls. He knew his sister was a mother who helped her daughter with everything. For many years she would choose, the evening before, the clothes that Aurora would wear the next day and lay them carefully out on the chair at the foot of Aurora's bed. Aurora, a grown woman living in her own apartment.

His heart clamped.

“No. I told her to take her red one as it matched her shoes.” She paused and he could almost hear her brain ticking. “Oh, Pino. Don't make fun of me. I know you think I'm being hysterical but I'm really worried. Aurora would’ve called me or sent me a message if she decided not to come home. She knows how I worry.”

Pino could hear how distraught his sister was. He felt sorry for her. Her desperate inability to let her daughter go was heart wrenching.

Pino sighed.

"To be honest there's not much I can do. She’s an adult and can make choices of her own. I'm sure she’s fine. Give Giovanna a call. See if she knows anything. I can't be sticking my nose into

people's business because Aurora didn't sleep in her bed last night. People don't like me around here, love. My new position has made sure of that! And I have to play by the rules too.”

Giuseppe Tallarico, Marshall of the local Carabinieri Station, Marassi, ended the call and wondered at the sibling bond which bound him to his older sister so tightly.

He checked the time. Twenty minutes before he had to get out of bed. Could he not forget? Just for a moment?

He rolled over onto his side and wrapped himself into the warm, smooth body of the woman lying away from him. He pulled her close and breathed in the sweet scent of her long red hair.

“How old is she, Pino?”

"I thought you were still asleep. Sorry. I tried not to wake you.” He rolled over and kissed her forehead. “She's nineteen, for God’s sake.”

“Nineteen. Mmm what a wonderful age. Remember what you were doing at nineteen, Pino?” The woman snuggled into his warm body.

“Be patient with her Pino. She’s a mum and she’s Italian. Protective by default. It goes with the culture, right?”

“It’s all well and good but the umbilical cord needs to be cut sometime. It seems to me she’s hanging on to it to the death.” At the word, a sudden chill shivered through him and he clutched his arm to his chest.

He needed to forget.

He began to make circular strokes around her belly button. When his finger moved further down, she moaned luxuriously.

"Are you going to do that thing again that you did so well last night?”

"What thing? This?"

“Yes, please.” And she lost her breath in his touch.

“Now this is an alarm call I don’t mind having.”

He closed his eyes and delved into a world of pure pleasure.

THE ENTICEMENT - Thursday 16th August - 7am “If you are a crazy person who needs to have clandestine meetings, then, just like in real estate, what matters most is location, location, location.” - Holly Black

It was a hot, sticky morning and diﬃcult to imagine the destructive storm of two days earlier.

Caterina felt clammy as she made herself a cup of coﬀee in her small kitchen that overlooked the cemetery.

The uncomfortable August heat made her drip with sweat and turned her long dark hair lank and lifeless. Even at 7 o’clock, the muggy humidity oppressed her.

Holding her mug, she entered the garden and walked about it, inspecting the shrubs and climbers she and her mother had planted two springs ago. She could hear the church bells slowly, methodically, resounding. There was to be a funeral.

They had told her it was that of a young couple who had fallen from the bridge, their identity discovered from the number plate of their crushed car.

Cristo, she could have been on that bridge too. If Hope’s plane had come in on time. Her chest heaved as heavy concrete pressed down onto her. Falling. Falling in your car. Could you feel it? Did you know it? She shuddered. Then a miaowing distracted her.

Caterina's garden sat in an Italian hamlet up in the hills overlooking the city of Genova on the Ligurian coast. In fact, she could see the Mediterranean sea in the distance when she looked over the garden fence now entangled in purple Morning Glory, down towards the town over the rooftops.

Sant'Antonino was the name of the hamlet and her quaint one-bedroomed flat in the two storey house where Pino, her brother, lived above her, was up a steep, narrow, cobbled lane called a 'Creusa' in the Genovese dialect.

While she drank her coﬀee, Tabatha, the next door's cat, stepped delicately over her yellow margaritas and rubbed up against her leg purring loudly in time with the crickets’ persistent but strangely relaxing chirruping. It was the sound of the summer - sultry, steamy and exacting. Almost insuﬀerable.

Crickets stridulate. What a wonderful word. Caterina had looked it up on the internet. She loved words. The sound that crickets made, she learnt, was the scraping of the upper and lower surfaces of their wings which were covered with teeth-like ridges. Their wings were rough and yet the sound of crickets stridulating was sleepy and hypnotic to her. It was not at all rough and ridgelike.

Like the cricket, however, there was, she believed, always a rugged, jagged edge to every story and her life, up to now verging on the bland, was in need of some irregularity. Her friends’ visit boded well and she looked forward to a little excitement.

Suddenly her phone vibrated and its ringtone broke the rhythmic stridulating. She answered it and stood erect when she heard his voice. She trod on Tabatha's tail and the cat miaowed loudly. She spilt her coﬀee.

"Cazzo!" she mouthed silently as she listened to Gabriele's inviting suggestion.

"Meet me in the cemetery in an hour." His voice, sultry like the summer heat, echoed through the phone into her ear. "I'll pick you up in my dustcart. I want to show you something very special. What do you think? You want to don't you?”

“Something special? In the cemetery? Gabry! What are you up to?’” she asked laughing. “What is it you want to show me?”

“Now, that would be telling. Just trust me, will you? I've been working in the cemetery for over 20 years and I know every nook and cranny, right? It’s like the back of my hand, it is, and I want to show you something that will make you gasp.”

Caterina sniggered.

“Amore, you laugh at me. Don’t you want to?”

His persuasive entreaty was scraping her fancy like the ridges on the crickets' wings.

" Well, it sounds intriguing, But I can guess what it is! You men are all the same. You’ve only got one thing on your mind!”

“Yeah but what’s better than love? Love is the food of life. And if you come with me on this glorious morning, my darling, you won't regret it, I promise.”

“Love? Your romantic words don’t wash with me. I know you men only talk of love when you want something. And don’t deny it!”

“Caterina, my joy. You should not be so cynical. I am not other men. I do not know what other men feel. I know only how I feel at this moment and it is now that we live and love. You must learn to abandon yourself to it. Let me make you feel happy this morning and that will be my reward.”

Caterina laughed but she knew she was right. Nothing could persuade her to believe otherwise. Her mother always told her men were only ever after one thing and love was a false hope. She sighed.

“Alright. You’ve twisted my arm as usual. Did you say eight thirty? But where shall I meet you?”

"Meet me at the statue of the Silent Angel.”

"The Silent Angel? She will surely keep our secret then, won't she?”

“Ma certo. She certainly will.”

“I’ve never walked up as far as that Gabry. How do I get there?”

“After you enter the green gates, go straight up the tree-lined lane. About halfway on the right, there is a steep stone stairway which will take you to the top where you'll see the English war graves. I'll meet you there and take you to the angel.”

"Will I find heaven?”

"With me, amore, you will find paradise, as well you know! A tra poco, allora.”

Caterina smiled. Tabatha had been weaving in and out of her legs begging for attention. She bent down and stroked her soft white head with aﬀection.

"Don't be late,” she said.

She ended the call flustered and a little breathless."Only God knows where he’s going to take me Tabatha! There will be a reason. There always is!”

She heard the sound of shutters opening above her. She looked up and saw the man at the top window. A woman came to stand beside him. She leant onto his strong shoulder and her long rusty hair fell over his naked chest. Caterina smiled then ran into the house to get ready for her assignation.

Things were beginning to happen already.

GRAZIA ROSA - Thursday 16th august 7am “Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; who, though they cannot answer my distress, yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, for that they will not intercept my tale: when I do weep, they humbly at my feet receive my tears and seem to weep with me; and, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could aﬀord no tribune like to these.” -William Shakespeare

On that same morning, Grazia Rosa Tallarico sat on her knees, cleaning the graves in Campo 21. Although married to Ferdinando Rossi, she, like all Italian women when married, kept her maiden name. The name of the father.

She always liked to begin her work early, before the August sun became unbearable to labour under and before the gates of the cemetery were opened to the public. This morning was no exception.

At seven O'clock, the peaceful silence that emanated from the great central field of graves below, was pleasantly deafening and she was completely alone apart from the two men wearing green working overalls who were sweeping the lane near the statue of the nut seller, Caterina Campodonica, one of the symbols of the cemetery of Staglieno.

'La venditrice di nocciole’ had died in 1882. In her hands she held a long chain of hazelnuts and Canestrelli biscuits which, when alive, she sold on the streets of Genova.

The first grave on Grazia Rosa's to do list was that of Giuseppina Bruni 1934-2008, adored, revered and remembered. Her smile will live on.

She placed her blue plastic bucket containing soapy water and a scrubbing brush down on the shingles and knelt before Giuseppina's tombstone on her knee cushion that she had acquired especially for the job. Shingles were not comfortable on her ageing patella bones.

Her veiny hands trembled as she emptied the old dying flowers from the copper urn and replaced them with the fresh ones she had procured even earlier that morning from Mario and Rita's flower kiosk.

She pulled out the weeds that had sprouted from the ground. To carefully extract their spindly roots like the black stubbly hairs that she plucked from her chin every morning usually gave her great satisfaction. This morning however, her heart pounded with anxiety.

She set to scrubbing the marble stone to make sure the chiselled script was still legible for the few family members who rarely came to visit and reflect on the life of their deceased loved one. She stopped occasionally to massage her elbow. The strap she wore gave little relief.

One of her bright cerise gel finger nails broke. She tore it oﬀ with her teeth. Must call Chantal for a quick repair. A flutter of butterfly wings tightened her chest. She felt her throat squeeze and she coughed. The sense of foreboding had begun to take over her senses.

“Where is she?” she thought. “Please God, not on the bridge. Not on that bridge.”

Grazia Rosa always loved her work. It took her away from her soulless home and the striking hand of her husband. Her work filled her with moments of peace amongst the dead who could do her no harm.

The job did not give her a great deal of money. It was not lucrative at all. But no matter. She had a rather profitable sideline. Salvatore, the exhumer, had let her into his little secret. She was the fetcher and all she had to do was collect the metal box from the De Andre chapel once a week and deliver it to her husband’s jewellery shop in the Old Town.

The Genovese, a proud people, buried their loved ones in their finest attire for the wake, when friends, neighbours and colleagues would pay their last respects at the open casket.

The standard contract for a plot in the cemetery expired after fifteen years. Bodies had to be pulled out to make way for the new. Space was limited in Genova. Diamond rings, gold watches, bracelets that sparkled, left on forgotten fingers and wrists made a good profit in the right hands.

Grazia Rosa pushed a strand of bleached blonde hair away from her face and saw her hand shaking.

“Where is she? Still no call. Call me my darling, please.”

As she shifted on her knees and straightened her back to ease the discomfort at the base of her spine, she recognised Gabriele standing near the nut-seller, the elderly woman with a finely chiselled shawl thrown over her shoulders and a severe face made more so by her tightly pulled back hair.

Grazia Rosa liked Gabriele. He was aﬀable and charming. She touched her sunglasses and raised a hand. He emptied one of the many bins scattered along the paths into the black bag his gloved hand clutched. His shoulder clipped a phone to his ear and he chatted on it while he waved his free hand back to her.

From where he was standing, Gabriele could see Grazia Rosa's face well and noticed her unconvincing smile. She had put on weight and it did not suit her. She appeared older and worn.

He closed his mobile phone and fingered its new cover, smiled and swelled with pride. God, how he loved the colours of his football team logo. Then he fetched his broom and began to sweep with slow, precise, movements to the rhythm of the U.C. Sampdoria anthem. “Il cielo è sempre più blu! Forza Samp!”

He laughed at himself feeling observed. The eyes of Caterina Campodonica, the nut-seller, were fixed on him.

A flock of excited parakeets suddenly squawked overhead and startled the peace. Both Grazia Rosa and Gabriele looked up to the sky and watched the bright green birds swoop overhead to alight on the telephone wire. They perched with a triumphant cacophony, pointed tails all in a row.

The cell phone in her handbag began to ring. She sat upright and grabbed the old orange and yellow tote then scrambled for it amongst the rubble of her things.

The parakeets flapped frantic up into the sky as quickly as they had landed.

“Was it her? God, let it be her.”

She sighed when she heard the man's Sicillian slur, just audible over a loud background noise that sounded to Grazia Rosa like the drilling of marble.

“Did you pick it up?” he asked.

Her head dropped and her shoulders drooped. She swallowed, throat dry.

”Y…yes.” She answered. "Franci h..helped me.”

“Has he looked at it?”

“All good stuﬀ, he says.”

“Of course. Let me know as soon as it’s priced."

“W…will do."

She finished the call, deleted it from her inbox and checked her messages. Nothing.

The bells chimed the half hour. It was half past seven already. She looked up and saw Gabriele jump into his dustcart and drive oﬀ. Grazia Rosa could see he was chewing one of his fingers. He looked unusually pensive.

"Where's he oﬀ to in such a hurry, the rogue?"

She clucked and checked her to do list for the number of the next grave she needed to clean.

“Keep busy,” She told herself. “She will call. Sooner or later. Pino said she would and Pino’s always right.”

Leaning on Giuseppina Bruni’s grave stone, she lifted herself up and rubbed her knees. The rattling and clanking of a wheelbarrow made her look up and she saw Pellegrini, one of Salvatore’s exhumers, chatting to a young man. Pellegrini stopped in his tracks and flexed his bicep muscles. The young lad howled.

Grazia Rosa raised her eyes to heaven and shook her head. Then she remembered the exhumations started today in Campo 21. The bodies from the year 2008.

Let them laugh, why not? Pellegrini had a lot of digging to do.

CATS & Gabriele - Thursday 16th august 7.30am “And let me touch those Curving claws of yellow ivory; and grasp the tail that like a monstrous asp coils round your heavy velvet paws.” - Oscar Wilde

When Gabriele heard the church bell peel a single chime, he checked his telephone and realised it was half past seven. If he did not hurry up, his plans for that morning would collapse.

He placed his broom into the back of his porter van, jumped in and drove oﬀ, leaving his colleague, sweeping the steps that led up to the grand Pantheon, the Temple of the ‘Suﬀragi’, an architectural spectacle that overlooked the principle field of graves and located behind the entrance to Staglieno cemetery.

He checked his watch again. He still had ten minutes before his assignation so he took a detour and drove up past the 'israelitico' gardens and into the 'Boschetto Irregolare', the irregular woods

where he made a sharp turn back on himself and arrived at the stairwell under the English War Graves.

Looking at the shape of the lump that was formed on the mattress that lay on the ground next to a gravestone, he could just make out a head of white hair, Mauro’s face being hidden from view under a sleeping bag and blankets.

Three cats approached from nowhere creeping with stealth, as if stalking prey, towards the plastic plates lined up by the wall where flies hovered, landed and spat on the dried remnants of food. Gabriele winced. Goddamn cats but Mauro loved them. He protected them.

He shuddered as he flashbacked to skinned cats dangling, nailed to a wooden beam in the den, stomachs slit and intestines hanging out. And Mauro. God, Mauro.

Gabriele waved a hand in front of his face to flick the memory away, a memory recurring more often with the passing of years. His heart heaved for the boy who had become this white bearded vagrant with no roof over his white haired head.

"I must try and find a proper bed for him. Sleeping on that damp ground won't help his rheumatism at all,” thought Gabriele.

He decided to leave his friend sleeping undisturbed and made his way out of the cemetery to procure a single red rose from Mario and Rita’s flower kiosk before arriving at his secret assignation.

The foreseeable flavours and smells of breakfast sex with the beautiful brunette who he was about to pick up in his dust cart now inebriated his imagination and he put the cats back in the past where they belonged.

Gabriele, the garbage collector, worked for Genova’s local council refuse company. He emptied the bins in the cemetery, swept its public walkways and kept his territory spanking clean. He scrubbed under his fingernails more often than a surgeon. He was not, however, charged to clear out broken electro-domestic appliances for old ladies. If he suﬀered an injury, he would not be covered by the Company’s insurance policy.

But through acts of kindness, Gabriele found a sense to his existence.

A young, fit-looking man for his forty three years, Gabriele De Luca understood his own limitations well. He knew his face was not a handsome one and yet he was often sought by women both younger and older than himself.

He was not an educated man. He had left school at fourteen to join the workforce, having lacked the necessary inclinations for study. His class professor had suggested with great emphasis that he move on to more worldly activities, suggesting that books were obviously not what motivated him. And much to the prof's relief, another one of his miscreant reprobates finally left, allowing the classroom a more tolerable environment, conducive once more to learning.

But right from an early age, twelve to be precise, he began his journey into the pleasure dome, between the legs of a sixteen year old who had shown him, with great squealing desire, the way to paradise. He had not looked back. And with little to oﬀer his catch of the season; no smart car, no grand villa overlooking the Mediterranean and no money to spend on gifts or meals in expensive restaurants, he, nevertheless, managed to charm his way with his charisma and tongue through a plethora of delightfully delicious panty hose.

With the passing of the years and the crows feet insistently digging into the corners of his eyes, he had learned to spot the easy pickings.

His prey was the newly separated woman. The one with the young child whose husband had just left her for another. She was so wonderfully vulnerable and desperately in need of the help of a man with strong biceps.

He was always and unremittingly that man. So amenable and willing to service her in every way was he, that to his friends, he became known as the Angel Gabriel; the Protector.

Gabriele had not received much love and attention as a child. He was one of twelve siblings. How could he have been? His mother and father were from Calabria in the ball of Italy's foot, known as the deep south, where the traditional roles of man and wife were gripped onto so tightly that white knuckles formed on a man's fists.

Gabriele's father, a car park attendant, was rarely at home, preferring the company of a good prostitute or an even better negroni over a game of cards with his male companions in the working man's club he frequented every evening. When he was at home he ruled it with brutality. His macho ethic aﬀorded him the right to resort to physical violence in order to keep control of his wife and twelve children.

His father was a true 'Terrone', a man of the earth, with his hands and nails dirtied from generations of bigotry.

His mother, unquestionably ignorant of any possible choices she may have had, made babies.

The Catholic Church played a great hand in her almost yearly pregnancies for contraception in Italy was illegal until 1970 and the Vatican even after that time held stubbornly onto its belief that life was to be protected, never mind the consequences: poverty, deprivation and struggle.

In order to maintain the discipline, his mother used her harsh hand too, on her mewling, hungry street urchins.

She was short in height but she was robust in stature and her washer woman's knuckles were not white but red and often swollen. Her strike had been gifted to her by the guardians of Hell themselves: her mother, her numerous aunts and her two grandmothers. The frustration of generations of women who had been subjugated and oppressed by their fathers and husbands would lash out venomously through their clenched hands.

As a young teenager, Gabriele soon discovered that he could receive love through oﬀering acts of kindness.

Illumination came to him after he had protected a classmate from being bullied outside school one afternoon and the eﬀeminate boy whose questionable sexuality was unacceptable in this land of bias, had repaid Gabriele's heroism with a blow job in the public toilet that was situated in the yard behind the church in Via Mogadiscio. Gabriele was of course absolutely not gay himself but did, nevertheless, secretly enjoy the reward he was given by Elijah who had fallen to his knees before his hero’s crotch saying, “You are my angel Saviour. Let me oﬀer you the miracle of pleasure.”

Gabriele indeed became a pleasure seeker. His motto in life was ‘live now’ for death you will find sooner or later and of course, his motorbike accident had strengthened that ethos.

Working in the cemetery too, he well understood death’s colourful patterns. The caskets brought solemnly in through the green iron gates by the black limousines were a font of grim stories.

A Funeral in Sant’Antonino: Thursday 16th August "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.” - (Matthew 11:28).

These were the words that resounded from the church of Sant'Antonino. The priest's solemn voice spoke into the microphone with a slow heavy rhythm that could be heard in the piazza outside.

Caterina, walking down the 'creusa' to her smart chocolate brown Cinquecento was not surprised to see, so early in the morning, such a large crowd of bystanders milling outside the church entrance, speaking to each other in hushed undertones. There were a lot of people tightly crammed together in the doorway and spilling out onto the cobblestones of the square. There was no more room in the church.

The Italians liked a funeral.

An elegant black limousine blocked the lane. Four young men in dark suits and sunglasses were waiting patiently in the shade by the wall for the sign to collect the coﬃn from the altar and take it away, down to the cemetery for burial. Caterina could not move her car until the limousine left, so she joined the throng, recognising the familiar faces of her Sant'Antonino neighbours.

“Is it the couple they found under the bridge?" she whispered to Enrica, the lady who lived below her in the ‘creusa'.

“No. Umberto Bruzzone. The old man who lived at the end of the lane down by the 'fossato, the stream.”

“Bruzzone?” She shuddered. “I heard the bell toll a couple of days ago. It was for him then. They sounded so sombre and sorrowful.”

"Did you ever meet Umberto? He was such a lovely old man but he was in his late nineties, you know. Had a good, long stretch, didn’t he? Better to die at his age than go too young like some do.”

"Yes. How true. He was the man you could always see tending to his tomatoes in the garden at the side of the woods, right?”

“That’s the one. He died in his bed. Best way to go, I think. It was his carer that found him. Fast asleep in his bed, he was, lucky old man. I hope I go like that.”

“God, Poor girl. That must have been a bit of a shock for her.”

“I don’t think so. He’s been ill for a long time. His lungs gave out. It’s a wonder he lived so long, the amount he smoked.”

“Well, we all have to go sometime. It's the one certainty that we have and there's no escape from it. That's why we must enjoy every moment.”

With her cliches, Caterina had in mind her clandestine meeting with Gabriele in the cemetery. Gabriele. She really should stop seeing him. He was no good for her. She had tried to have a relationship with him. Really she had.

She always looked for a protector in the men she chose to hold and Gabriele was the ultimate protector. Unfortunately, not just of her but of all the attractive women he came in contact with. Trust and fidelity were uncomfortable words in his vocabulary.

She had therefore brushed his several pairs of shoes out from under the sofa in her living room where he had carelessly slung them oﬀ his feet and had put them into a plastic bag. She had left the bag by the front door. All she had said was “I need some alone time.” He neither beseeched nor entreated. He accepted his banishment without repudiation.

Four weeks later he had moved in with another, much younger and larger bosomed woman than she and when he began to call on her again, not much more than six months later, for that was always a man’s wont, it suited her. After all, as her mother always said, "Men are all the same so you might as well stick with who you know.”

The bells began to chime a solemn funereal concerto and the bereaved family exited behind the six men carrying the coﬃn, followed by the other church goers.

Caterina watched the slow procession.

To her surprise she recognised one of the De Luca brothers. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a saunter to his gait. He had that triangular nose too. And the curly hair but his had been lightened, a fashion that had taken hold recently amongst the well-to-do in Santa Margarita and Portofino.

What was Alex doing here? Probably prescribed the old man his drugs.

She shuddered and not wanting to be seen, walked quickly to her car, checking her rapidly quickening breath.

Once the men slid the casket into the back of the black limousine, the chauﬀeur drove away with sombre deliberation and Caterina too was finally able to get out of Sant’Antonino.

Worried she would arrive with the funeral party, she sped up for the five minute drive down to the cemetery.

She followed the winding road that cut into the wooded hillside, passed under the Roman aqueduct and reached the back of the cemetery.

Here, the wall loomed high and the road tapered into a narrow, single lane, which at night was unnerving to walk along alone.

She parked Poppy, her bright red, Fiat Panda alongside the wall as near to the end of the road as she could and walked to Piazza del Veilino where she entered the imposing green wrought iron gates and into the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno.

She had no idea that death was about to stare her right in the face.

THE SILENT ANGEL - Thursday 16th August 8am

"Gianni Marsano - 1897 to 1976 - take me to my resting place oh Lord for I am ready."

Caterina read aloud the epitaph that she stood before and swayed her long, loose skirt with her hands to aerate her sweating thighs.

The matching top she had chosen to wear, hugged her body tightly, showing oﬀ her slim, athletic shape but sweat was dripping down her back.

She had taken time this morning to dress in order to allure her Italian man but had not taken much heed to his warning. She must cover her legs and arms, Gabriele had ordered. There was a formidable army of mosquitoes waging war and plaguing any visitor who dared enter the cemetery without spraying themselves with repellent first.

She tried to walk gracefully, ignoring her sweaty discomfort but the blazing sun was already stifling at that time in the morning.

She pulled at her top then piled her thick chestnut hair onto her head wishing she had tied it up.

"Sarai sempre nei nostri cuori - Elena della Mura - 12th May 1943 to 14th July 2010. You will always be in our hearts.

'Ciao Mammina - 1927-2010 - Rosa Castalmagno'

'Dormono il sonno della pace - Caterina Bencini 1866-1913. They sleep the sleep of peace.”

The words on her mother’s memorial resounded in her head:

“A mother holds her children’s hands for a while, their hearts forever.”

She had entered the cemetery many times but only to visit her mother’s grave. She had never wandered any further than Campo 3. She had never wanted to, lost as she was in her grief.

As Caterina read each grave epitaph, she slowly followed the path that Gabriele had explained. She passed the mortuary on her left and sauntered casually towards the 'Viale Degli Eroi Caduti In Guerra'.

It was a large square dedicated to fallen sons while defending their Patria. The sculpture of two enormous bronze hands reaching out from the ground and holding onto the bars of a prison window unsettled her.

She passed the bus stop. She knew the cemetery was enormous but had forgotten that there was a bus route inside the grounds.

The young driver sitting in the bus smiled at her. She recognised him and gave him a gentle wave of her hand then looked away. He was a man who lived in a little house with his ageing father in Sant'Antonino near the church. "Damn," she said under her breath. "Trust my luck. Someone I know has seen me.”

She stopped at the grave of the soldiers who had gone missing in war and had never been found. Christ on the crucifix with outstretched arms and ribs protruding, hung his head low, but there was no cross onto which he was nailed. Katie wondered why then read the inscription and understood.

"Crux abest Christus adest": 'There is no cross but there is Christ' - Ai caduti Senza Croce" - To the fallen who have no cross.

There were soldiers' helmets on posts paled into overgrown grass below an infantry man dressed for winter. "Ai caduti in Russia" - For the men who fell in Russia.

The tree-lined lane ahead was inviting her to saunter along its shady path. This was the 'Viale Inferiore Veilino' which held the Hebrew quarter to her right. The cemetery was sectioned into areas based not only on year of death but also on nationality or religion too.

"Giulia Mondrini 1923 to 1946. Sleep well my love. Taken from me so young. ..."

She marvelled at the exquisite marble and bronze statues, symbols of bereavement that were oﬀering consolation and hope. The perfect life-like creations of the dead dressed in the fashions of their times displayed a disquieting realism.

"Maria Giovanna Sanna. 5-12-1889 to 18-6-1970. If mothers were flowers, we would have chosen the most beautiful".

Caterina had entered a world unaltered for nearly two hundred years. Characterised by a profound silence, she was not afraid. Rather, she felt an extreme sense of tranquility.

The sunlight played games through the leaves on the trees. Was she really about to commit an act of indecency in this sacred place, she reflected, surprised at how far her passion for Gabriele could still lead her.

About halfway up the lane she saw an elaborate wrought iron sign indicating the English war graves with a black arrow pointing up towards heaven it seemed. The stone steps leading to the top were steep and irregular. She held onto the thin iron rail that was attached to the wall so as to maintain her balance and help herself with the climb.

"The stairway to Heaven" she hummed to herself.

Up and up she went, out of breath, sweat trickling. And then unexpectedly, the staircase ended and she could go no further. There was a sheer drop below her but nothing to warn her of it, just one length of red and white plastic tape tied to bush branches that cordoned oﬀ the fall. A hand painted 'Pericolo' on a plank of wood was the only sign that warned of danger.

A sudden noise made her heart jump and she tripped. She managed to grab onto the low, ivy clad wall when a fat ginger tom pounced onto her hand, stopped, stared then leapt oﬀ, plunging into the overgrown abyss on the other side.

"God, cat! You scared the living daylights out of me!" She yelled and pulled herself up.

She looked over the edge. The cat was nowhere to be seen. But below her she could discern grave stones barely distinguishable under a rack and tangle of brambles and ivy. It was an intertwining snarling mesh.

The dirty grey marble stones, inscriptions blackened, some green with moss, stood neglected and forgotten. Something gimmered. Her eyes focused on a shopping trolly sticking out from behind one of the tombstones. Some kind of mattress lay flat on the ground.

“God, A junk yard,” she whistled.

People could be so lazy and disrespectful. They can't be bothered to dump their rubbish in the communal landfill, the 'isola ecologica', which was only a ten minute car ride from here and was free.

Even down the road from Sant’Antonino, people unloaded unwanted kitchen cabinets, beds and dressers. Yet no-one was ever caught. Sometimes Gabriele took the initiative and loaded the scrap onto his dustcart to take it to the yard himself. How it incensed her.

But before her thoughts huﬀed and fumed further, the church bell chimed the hour. Eight strikes for eight o’clock and she was on the wrong path, lost. She did not want to miss Gabriele so she turned around and retraced her steps back down.

As she reached the bottom and tumbled onto the lane, there he was, pulling up beside her in his dustcart, just as he had said he would. With a glint in both his eyes, he winked at her and gestured to her to climb in.

"Sali allora". "Jump in.”

She hitched up her skirt and revealed a bare inner thigh to the Italian dustman who devoured her greedily and who excited her with his intent. He was the finish of her, beautifully strong and deliciously unrefined. He was a bin man, a garbage collector, a sweep! Her father would be distraught at the thought!

He handed her a single red rose. "For you" he said.

“Grazie. How very romantic of you!" Yet she wondered where he had procured it from. Had he taken it from a funeral bouquet that had been laying on top of a freshly buried coﬃn? She would not have put it passed him.

Nevertheless his charm was winning and as with every rose he gave her, she fell in love with him all over again for it.

Caterina looked at him In his green uniform with the sleeves of his shirt cut at the shoulders to reveal his strong brown arms and muscular shoulders. With him she quite easily forgot where she had come from. His hard, working hands on the wheel would steer her surely to damnation in the place of the dead and yet, she would be ready.

She just could not say "NO!" to him.

Gabriele continued driving up the winding lane past more stunning monuments, marble, gothic chapels and mausoleums where generations of family laid buried in the recesses beneath.

"You know that this is really an outdoor museum. The largest in Europe, they say. And it holds the finest collection of late 19th and early 20th century Italian marble sculpture you'll ever see.”

He had read the brochure too, Caterina thought and smiled.

"I can believe it." she said.

He put his hand on her thigh and whispered "Sei bellissima.”

She held his hand with hers and thought "Now I really am lost."

The Exhumers - Thursday 16th august - 7.30 am “Your carcasses will be food to all birds of the sky and to the beasts of the earth, and there will be no one to frighten them away.” - Deuteronomy 28:26

Pietro Pellegrini, dressed in his orange overalls, pushed the wheelbarrow down the Viale superiore del Veilino towards campo 21 where the graves of those buried ten years ago were on his list for exhumation. The two spade handles, the pick axe and shovel clanged and rattled as he pushed..

“So you’re only allowed to be buried here for 10 years then?” said the young novice who walked beside him, his voice fresh with the enthusiasm of curious youth.

“That’s right mate. We ‘ave to dig ‘em up and make space for some other poor bugger. It used to be twenty but they ran out of places where to bury ‘em all. ” Pietro’s high pitched voice was incongruous with his beefy physique.

“So what happens to the bones? Where do they go? Do we just chuck ‘em in the bins or do we burn 'em?”

“We can’t chuck ‘em in the bins, mate. That’s against the law, that is. There are rules and regulations for this sort of thing. Families ‘ave a choice, see, depending on the state of the body.”

"What do you mean?”

“Well it’s like this, see. If the body is well decomposed, the family can choose to ‘ave the bones placed in the communal bone ossuary and that is the cheapest option. Or they can ‘ave em cremated and either chuck the ashes where they want, oﬀ the balcony, over the sea, in the park, right? Cos now the law’s changed and you can do that sort of thing, ‘ere in Genova. Mind, in some parts of Italy you can’t spread ‘em about just where you feel like, willy nilly. You know that, don’t you, lad?”

Simone did not know. In fact he was completely ignorant of the work he was about to dirty his hands with. But he needed a job desperately. He’d been looking for three years and this was the first oﬀer he had had.

“And then another option is to ‘ave the urn placed in a small cell where you can put a vase of flowers and an electric candle that shines all the time and then you can come ‘n visit it as and when, just like a grave. What do you young ‘uns say? Really cool, right? Yeah. It’s really cool.”

“What’s a family cell?”

“You don’t know what a family cell is? Blimey you are an ignoramus, aren’t you? When did they start you on this job?”

“Yesterday!”

“So, I’m working with a complete idiot, then! Look. Family cells are little compartments where the bodies are housed. The cells are blocked by a slab of marble. I’ll show you later. We’ve got to go by a few of ‘em when we finish this job.”

When they passed the imposing Protestant Temple, they turned right and followed the path towards Campo 38.

“How long does it take for a body to decompose in a coﬃn under the ground?”

“Good question, son. I can tell you’re an intelligent one. What’s yer name again? “

“Simone.”

“Simone, and you can call me Pietro cos that’s my name.” He guﬀawed then continued.

“You are with me, mate, ‘cos I’m the only one round ‘ere that knows what ee’s doin’. I can teach you all the tricks of the trade to make your life as easy as paradise. Scuse the pun.”

Pietro’s laughter echoed through the gravestones and Simone smirked, not sure if laughter was appropriate in a cemetery, especially one so monumental as Staglieno.

“Now you asked me about decomposition,” Pietro continued. “When buried six feet down, without a coffin, in ordinary soil, an unembalmed adult normally takes eight to twelve years to decompose to a skeleton. But when you place it in a coffin, the body can take many years longer, depending on the type of wood used. A solid oak coffin slows down the process. I remember once we exhumed a body that was in an oak coffin under the ground for nearly fifty years and when we opened it the body still looked fine. Had a smile on his face still, he did, the old geezer. Most of ‘is air on ‘is ‘ead, too. Now that was a shock.”

He elbowed the young man in the arm and Simone winced.

“And then there’s zinc. Did a bit of science at school, I expect, didn’t you lad? So you know, right? That If it’s zinc there’s a big diﬀerence. See, zinc is a metal, innit, and it is corrosion resistant.

Of course, a lot depends on how deep the coﬃn is buried, the state of the soil and the local water table. Etc. etc. etc. Get what I’m saying, lad?”

“Does it scare you ever to open up a coﬃn after so long? It must be pretty creepy,” asked Simone.

“Nah! It’s all in a day’s work. You’ll get used to it in no time. Seen one, seen ‘em all. Now remember son, that if the body is decomposed after the 10 years, we have to exhume it for cremation or the communal ossuary. Most of the time we take it to the crematory here in the cemetery. We ‘ave to strip it of all its possessions and then it gets burnt and the ashes are put in urns with names and numbers to distinguish one from the other. “

“So what happens if the body isn’t decomposed?”

“Then we have to close up the coﬃn again and rebury it where it stays for another few years. They have to continue paying though.”

“And what happens to all the possessions?”

“Ah now that would be telling lad. First let’s get you through the first step of your training. The digging!”

“And how do we dig the coﬃn out of the ground?”

“With spades, mate. With spades. Look at these. ” The older man flexed his arm and a huge bicep popped out totally unexpected. “Not bad for a man of my age, is it lad?” He laughed a high pitched scream of a laugh.

“Crikey! You look like Popeye!” The younger man spluttered in surprise, wondering at how such a giant of man could have a voice that squealed like a girl.

“From all the digging I’ve had to do over the years. You know how many bodies get exhumed in this place in one year?” And before he let the young lad make a guess he said, “one thousand five hundred. That’s one thousand five hundred bloody great holes I dig every year. And you know how deep those holes in the ground are, mate? “

“No idea. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“two metres deep. So that’s a hell of a lot of digging. You won’t have to worry about going to the gym, I can tell you! Save on membership fees!” And he roared at his own joke.

“Allora, today we start on campo 21. All the bodies in this section were buried ten years ago today. So we ‘ave to dig ‘em up.”

“All of them? But there must be at least 50 graves here!””

“Yep. All of ‘em. ‘I’m Popeye the sailor man toot toot!” Pietro began to sing and then attempted to wake the dead with his laughter.

“And we only have 3 days to do it in.” He continued pushing the wheelbarrow and whistling the tune until they reached grave number 1101. ‘Here lies Marco Carino - Marito e papa’ 1949- 2008. May he rest in peace for all eternity.’

“No families present today Pietro. But mind how you open that lid in any case. I don’t want it broken. Got that?”

“Got it, boss. You know me. I’ve got the gentle hands of a woman, I have. Now, Simone, watch how it’s done lad.”

The coﬃn was visible. The earth above it had been uncovered by the mini scavatore, but the neat trench around it had been dug by Pietro and Simone: two metres deep and wide enough for a man to stand in, one at each side: Pietro and Simone. Pietro carefully prized open the lid. As he unveiled the body from its death cloth, his face gave nothing away, but the vein on his neck pulsated.

“Body decomposed, boss. This one needs to come out.” As he spoke his hand fumbled about inside quickly and then he recovered the body with the gauze veil.

Simone watched closely. He had never seen a decomposed body in the flesh but he had done a little research on the internet just before he started his new job. What he saw now was not what he had seen on Google images. In the casket before him lay Marco Carino, still fully clothed and to him the body was far from being decomposed.

“But Pietro, the body’s still intact. It’s still in it’s clothes! You told me that if it’s not decomposed we have to rebury it, didn’t you?”

Before Pietro could silence Simone with the daggers that he was throwing the young man’s way, Salvatore interrupted with an oﬃcious coughing and completely ignoring the young man, spoke directly and solely to Pietro.

“Good man Pietro. Grave number 1101. Marco Carino 2008. Request cremation or ossuary. Lid back on then and pull it out lads.” He faced Pietro and added “I’ve marked the document. You can sign it for me as usual in the workshop later, when we’ve finished. “Let’s get to the next one. We’ve still got ten to do this morning.”

Salvatore turned to walk towards the next exhumation but hesitated, paused and turned back to the two men wielding spades. “This young lad needs more training. Can I rely on you, Pietro, to explain to him how things are done around here. We can’t aﬀord to have any hiccups. This is, as you know, a very delicate process. I can trust you, can’t I? You’re my best man on the job.”

“Will do, boss. I’ll have this young lad savvy by the end of the day. Don’t you worry about that, now.”

“Good man.” And Salvatore moved on towards number 1105, ‘Gina Canalis - 1962 to 2008 - in loving memory, forever in our hearts’.

Salvatore had once been the grave digger, up to his knees in mud and bones. He had seen so many skulls and sunken eye holes, rib cages and pelvises that death to him had lost its romance. It only meant decay.

He had begun working at the cemetery when he was seventeen. His father had been a grave digger, as had his grandfather before him. But Salvatore had been lucky. His great friendship with Renzo Bianchi, which had started in middle school, had helped shift his position.

Renzo was now in the local council and Salvatore had been promoted to mortuary manager with a team of five men. They were all good, loyal men whom he could trust and whom he in his turn, looked after so he could be sure they would never betray him. They would never divulge.

He paid them too well.

It was worth their while to keep quiet.

He noted down an IOU for Twenty Euro cash to be paid to Pietro for altering the verbal declaration to ‘body decomposed’. It was easy to do when the family was absent at the exhumation. This meant that they could strip the body of all its treasures.

In Genova the dead were buried with their precious possessions. Gold rings, expensive watches, jewellery that could be sold on the black market for a tidy sum. But it did not stop there. Gold and silver were commodities and so were fillings from teeth. Any kind of prosthesis in fact.

Families were advised of the exhumation six months prior but not by postal letter. The information was available on the Cemetery internet web site. The family could be present during the exhumation but, of course, this was rare.

The mound of soil above Gina Canalis was damp from the rain of the night before and the mini scavatore had little problem digging it up. Pietro was soon down in the ditch opening the coﬃn lid with his usual care.

“Cristo mio.” Pietro slammed the lid down in shock.

“Pietro, I’ll have no blaspheming here. You know the rules. We work in a place of God. And we must respect the dead at all times.”

Pietro slammed his hand over his mouth.

“Pietro? Are you alright, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the problem? Lift the lid up man and tell me what you see. Come on.”

“I … I can’t do it boss. It’s too horrible.”

“Simone, jump down there and give the old man a hand, will you.”

Simone hesitated, unsure of what to expect.

“Go on lad. What’re you afraid of?”

He did what he was told. His stomach churned.

Pietro slowly lifted the lid again, eyes bulging, watching Simone’s face now pasty pale.

“Merda. Merda ….. That’s one beautiful stiﬀ.”

He looked back at Simone and then he shrieked with laughter, A shriek that echoed around the cemetery.

“We got ‘im boss. Got ‘im well an good, we did. Look at the poor sod. Shaking in his boots he is.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” said the lad, wondering why on earth had had signed up for this job in the first place.

The Woman In Red After no more than five minutes he stopped the dustcart and got out.

"Come on. Over here. Vieni con me."

She climbed out as gracefully as she could in her white pumps, trying not to fall, and followed him.

Gabriele pointed heavenwards and Katie looked up into the cloudless blue sky. When she saw the silent angel she was hushed. It was standing on top of the domed roof of a memorial chapel with a forefinger placed over tightly closed lips.

"Keep still and quiet," she asked all those who observed her. "Be reverent and respectful of my sleeping friends. Their secrets I will carry and cherish under my wings."

Her wings, in fact, were folded behind her and her long robes seemed to be gently moving in a breeze that promised fresher, cooler air.

"Vieni con me. Voglio farti vedere qualcosa - I want to show you something."

Gabriele led the way.

Katie followed him through a small, wrought iron gate that led up to a Gothic chapel. The last chapel in the lane, It stood apart. The gate was rather rusty and diﬃcult to open.

“See. No one ever comes here, “ Gabriele said in a low voice. “Come on. Round the side.”

“Where on Earth are you taking me?” she laughed and saw the surname that was chiselled into a marble plaque above the door. It was the burial tomb of Famiglia Rossi.

“Just you wait and see!” he answered.

Statues of men and women coupled together, cloaked and hooded, their faces unseen, held their hands in prayer along the lateral wall. She followed Gabriele and picked her way through the patches of long grass and nettles, surprised at how unkempt and overgrown its grounds were.

At the back, hidden by tall, dense beech trees, Gabriele had laid and flattened down cardboard boxes onto the hard ground. It seemed to Katie that he had cut the weeds back and had tidied this part of the garden up.

“What’s all this?” She questioned him rather surprised.

"Don't you like it? Out in the open amongst the trees. I got it all ready for us this morning when the dawn was cracking. There's nobody can see us here!"

“You really are incorrigible!” she said and watched him as he sat down on the ground and held his hand out to her. She hesitated but he pulled her by his side and they laid together both looking up to the sky feeling their excitement rise.

He kissed her.

"Siediti sopra di me - come and sit on top of me," he suggested. She was reluctant to do what he told her but seeing his cheeky smile, she rolled over to straddle his legs, pulling her skirt up.

He began to kiss her again with his soft lips and she could feel his hardness. She enticed him with slow rolling movements of her hips and tried to abandon herself to him. She wanted to forget that she was with a man lying over an underworld of dead bodies.

With his trouser zip open, he stared at her face with those vague, dark eyes of his that seemed to take him far away from her. Where did he go? What was he thinking? She would not want to know.

Suddenly they heard a high-pitched scream of laughter that pierced their bones. Gabriele sat up with a start, his eyes wide and his muscles tense.

“What the hell?”

He pushed Caterina oﬀ his legs, jumped up and zipped his trousers.

“Jesus, Gabry, what is it?” asked Caterina, both hands covering her heart.

“Get up. Quick. It’s that damned Pellegrini. I can recognise his pansy voice anywhere, cazzo. If he catches me here with you, I’m in trouble.”

So she pulled down her skirt and trying to make light of this absurd situation, she followed him out of his lair.

"Come on. Come with me. We’ll be safe in here,” he said pushing open the wood door to the chapel. It’s rusty hinges squeaked.

He grabbed her hand and she followed him.

The cold inside surprised her as did the marble altar in the middle of the oval vestibule. Although an impressive example of stone masonry, it looked neglected. Its white colour now a dingy grey from layers of dust. On it sat two bronze candlesticks held together by an impressive shimmering cobweb. The fat spider sat motionless in its centre.

Below her feet was a highly decorated wrought iron grid on the ground. Looking through it, she could make out the crypt deep in the recesses below where the dead had been stored in their caskets many years before. It made her feel giddy.

A spray of sunlight shone through the stain-glass window up high in the domed ceiling and speckles of dust floated in the air around them.

There was a large plastic bin filled with dead leaves and by its side a garden broom leaning against the wall.

“Why isn’t the door kept locked? Is this were you keep your tools of the trade, Gabry?" Caterina whispered, fearful someone might hear them.

“It’s a useful storeroom for us at this far end of the cemetery." He explained. "The door is always open, but nobody ever comes he, kept me. Come here my beautiful lady. Stop talking and let me kiss you."

Gabriele gently took her in his arms. He placed a finger on her lips to silence her like the angel above them, softly following their outline as he skimmed over them lightly. Caterina closed her eyes and felt him push her up against the cold marble altar. He kissed her, his tongue searching for her response. Then he turned her away from him.

"You are my special love. I want you so much. Let me take you like this." he whispered.

Caterina opened her eyes and something inside her snapped. The smell of filth, the stench of death. Reluctance filled her. Panic seized her.

“No. Gabry. No. I can’t. Not like this. Not here, please.” She felt like a small bird trapped in the rough hands of a hunter. She struggled and pulled away from him. Then she saw it and screamed.

Gabriele, terrified Pellegrini would hear, placed his hand over her mouth. He didn't have much time. They would soon notice his absence. He had to get a move on. She felt so good and how he loved to take her this way.

Caterina tore his fingers from her mouth.

"Oh my god, Oh my god." It's a hand. I can see a hand. There's somebody there! Jesus. Who’s there? Gabriele. For Christ's sake stop and look. Who is it? "

Gabriele sprang away from Caterina.

"Shut up now otherwise someone will hear you…..What the hell!"

And he saw it too as he walked around the altar towards the hand which was attached to the arm of a woman in red.

Pino gets told of body found by dustman - Thursday 16th august morning - ‘Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy’ - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Pino had reluctantly left his beautiful redhead showering in his bathroom and what a surprise that had been.

A nice one too. A very nice one.

He was now sitting at his desk in the oﬃce and although it was only half past eight, he was gasping for another coﬀee.

The listed building in which his station was housed, built in the sixteenth century had been modernised and thankfully, the newly installed air conditioning provided a cooler more acceptable ambient in which to concentrate. His oﬃce was formidable. The arched ceiling boasted frescoes dating back to Renaissance Italy, the central piece representing a grandiose gathering of the gods amongst the clouds, framed in ornate ormolu.

Pino stretched his arms above his head and tilted his head back. The cut on his forearm felt sore and while he rubbed it, it was not the image of the cherubs above him he saw, but the mother being pulled away from her dead child through the broken window of the crushed Volvo estate under massive slabs of concrete. In his 24 year career he had never seen such devastation. Thank God she was dead too. Somebody will pay. Somebody has to pay for that ill-maintained suspension bridge.

His phone began to vibrate again. It was going to be another tortuous day. The name Dario Vallieri flashed on his screen and he put his closed fist into his mouth pretending to bite it - an Italian gesture of frustration and irritation. His head hurt from the three negroni's he had downed the night before and he did not appreciate being bothered by the journalist of Primo Canale, Genova’s Television news channel. He twisted the long handle-bars of his wiry moustache and his dark black eyes rolled beneath their thick brows.

"Dario, Please. Today is not a good day. I updated you yesterday evening. We’re still looking for bodies in that nightmare and we're all hands on deck. I have nothing more to say at this stage.”

The door to his oﬃce opened with a start and a young police oﬃcer peeped around it with a worried expression. Pino waved his hand and mouthed disdainfully "Not now. Not now."

"But Maraciallo, sir. There's a dead body been found in the cemetery, sir."

"What? In the cemetery? Are you joking with me Constable Griﬃni? On a day like today? Er… Sorry Dario. A dead body? No, Dario, I wasn't speaking to you. Listen. Something has come up. I'll call you as soon as I have more.”

He looked at his constable, only thirty six but already losing his hair and far too overweight. Pino smirked.

“That was good timing, Constable Griﬃni. Now tell me. What did you just say?”

“A body, sir. A dead one. Found at Staglieno sir. In the cemetery, sir."

“Is this some kind of joke Griﬃni? If it is, I’m not in the mood. I think we can safely say that there are a lot of dead bodies in the cemetery. In fact, If I am right, there must be nearly two hundred thousand of them, and do you honestly think that a joke like that is suitable after the tragedy we had yesterday morning?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes sir. Sorry sir. But this is the body of a young woman. It was found this morning in a grave."

"In a grave? Isn’t that where most dead bodies are placed Griﬃni? Unless they’re cremated."

“Yes sir, but the call came in from a dustman who works there. He kept on saying that he wanted to speak to you personally. I wouldn't let him, Sir. I didn't want to disturb you, Sir."

"A dustman, you say?" Pino's heart pounded in his chest. "Constable Griﬃni, did this dustman give you his name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“His name, damn it. His name.”

“De Luca, sir.”

“Did he give any details? ”

“No, sir.”

"What did he say, Constable Griﬃni?”

“Marasciallo Sir. Well, he did say something rather strange.”

“Spit it out for God’s sake, Griﬃni.”

"He said the girl was wearing a red dress. A red dress and matching red shoes."

"What?" Pino looked at his constable with consternation.

"The girl. The body. She was wearing a red dress, sir."

"A red dress? .... O dio mio! Porco Puttana!"

Pino's face paled and his stomach sickened.

Throwing a set of keys at his constable he said, “Go and get the car. I’ll meet you outside in five.”

He then grabbed his mobile and dialled the number of Sergio Mantero, the legal medical doctor upon whom he always relied.

"Doc. Pino here. I need you at Staglieno, now. I’ll arrange for two of my men to pick you up. They'll escort you there. I know I can count on you for all the right details, can’t I?”

"Goodness, that was quick. Ah, yes! Well, leave it to me." answered the doctor.

Outside the building Pino climbed into the passenger seat of the brand new Jeep Cherokee, beautifully oﬃcial in its full carabinieri livery; dark blue with a smart red flash on the bonnet and sides.

Constable Griﬃni pulled the jeep onto the road, and began to dart in and out of the traﬃc with the light on the roof of the car flashing red and blue to match its paintwork.

Pino trembled.

Hope’s Breakfast at the Bar Thursday 16th august 8am - The Day after ferragosto The Cemetery bells chimed eight times, marking the morning hour.

Hope Hunter-Smith, nee Speranza Cacciatore, counted them as she sat and sipped her frothy cappuccino and smoked her cigarette.

That morning she was at a table in the bar at the bottom of the hill from Catarina's house. She had only been there for ten minutes and was already sucking the smoke of her Marlborough cigarette into her lungs with infinite pleasure. She inhaled deeply and coughed. In Italy no-one frowned at her filthy habit. She could puﬀ as many as she desired.

“Fucking marvellous!” Her words exhaled from her lungs along with the alkaloid smoke.

She watched the flower sellers across the piazza over the way tending to their displays of colour and she basked in the hustle and bustle that this Italian morning had to oﬀer. When she bit into her brioche, the delicious filling of chocolate spread oozed out and dribbled down the side of her mouth. She did not care how the considerable calories would add to her very expanded waistline.

One of Hope's favourite pastimes was people watching and while she savoured her Italian breakfast, she was immensely entertained by the golden-hooped, tattooed bar lady, Francesca, who she found fascinatingly good at her job. The Italian woman saluted all her clientele with a kiss on both cheeks and a "Ciao bella" or " Come stai amore?", inviting them to a warm Nutella pastry or a piece of focaccia to dip into a creamy macchiato coﬀee.

Observing the animated hum before her, she re-lived the night she had just spent with a man she had never dreamt of, until yesterday evening. Her one rule had always been not to indulge in holiday romance. When she was a married woman she had wanted nothing of lies and deceit. Now however, her life had changed and she could feel no tinge of regret, no hint of guilt. She had abandoned herself to Italian hands and was feeling quite elated. Absolutely blissful in fact. ??????? NOT SURE HERE DO HER INABILITY TO HAVE LONG TERM RELATIONSHIPS PREFERING QUICK SEX WITH MANY CASUAL PARTNERS

Visitors began to enter the imposing cemetery gates, bunches of flowers in hand, bought from the several flower kiosks lining the cemetery wall in the square. A dustcart drove out from the entrance and stopped briefly at‘Rita Flower Garden’. It then made a U turn and Hope noticed the brown-skinned arm leaning out of the open window. The driver wore sunglasses and a cap which hid his face.

She wondered where Caterina was. Caterina, her friend. The only one she had remained in contact with. Well, they had history. And it was at Caterina’s insistence, not hers. If it had been for Hope, she’d have left it all behind. Completely.

It was a hot morning already. "And all is well with the world" Hope thought, remembering Dixon of Dock Green with his truncheon in hand as he walked the streets while evening fell, protecting the residents of London and making them feel safe to sleep in their beds again that night.

She brushed a strand of her wiry hair away from her face then took another bite of her brioche.

Hope was taking a break. And she was going to enjoy it. God, how she loved Genova. It was good to be back in Liguria, immersed in her origins. Here she could forget the children she had spent her working life protecting. Here she could just be herself.

For the last 6 years, she had been assigned to Brighton and Hove's SIU, Safeguarding and Investigation Unit in the Child Protection team as a Child Sexual Exploitation (CSE) Co-ordinator. She loved her job. She had reached the position of Detective Sergeant but it had been hard. Too hard. She had fallen into a depression which culminated into a complete breakdown.

That was a year ago now.

Of course she had been in denial up to that point but when her personal life began to suﬀer and her boss had taken control of the situation, she had had no choice but to accept his command and deal with it.

She hated the forced leave from work but this morning she felt good. She felt relaxed and happy, immersed again in the warm Italian summer sunshine and the sounds and smells of the Italian lifestyle.

She watched as a woman squeezed her motor scooter into the little space between a Fiat 500 and an orange Smart car. The woman climbed down, took her helmet oﬀ, checked her hair in the Smart’s wing mirror then lifted the young child oﬀ the back of the saddle. The child’s helmet was so big on his little head, he looked like an alien from outer space. She unclipped his and while she opened the saddle to place both helmets inside it, the child turned to look at the bar. He began to wave. Francesca waved back from behind the bar counter. The child made to run across the road, mum too concentrated to notice. Just at that moment, a dirty white van rolled into the piazza from Via del Veilino, the driver talking on his mobile.

The child stepped out. Hope slammed her cup of cappuccino down onto its saucer. Coﬀee splashed onto her floral patterned shirt. She jumped up from her chair. It crashed to the ground. She charged across the road. The van driver slammed on his breaks and all four tyres screeched. Hope grabbed the boy and pushed him to safety.

“Che cazzo fai? Sei schema? What the Hell are you doing, you bloody idiot!” the van driver hurled at Hope from a growling mouth.

The vein on his neck pulsated and although black with an inked snake coiling around it, the thick neck turned an angry red. His eyes glared at her from under a blue script that Hope could not read, her eyes too blurry with rage.

“He was running onto the road. You could’ve killed him. I’ll have you for using your phone while driving.” she screamed back, giving as good as he gave her..

The driver stuck his middle finger up. His arm was a sleeve of tattoos. He revved up the engine like a Hotspur racer and rattled his way out of the piazza and onto the main road towards the centre. The back windows were blacked out with newspaper.

“And clean that bloody plate. It’s against the law to drive with an indistinguishable plate,” she screamed, holding the boy close to her legs until the boy’s mother pulled him away and clutched him in her arms. She wiped her child’s head with her hand as if cleaning a piece of precious silver and nothing but “Grazie, grazie, grazie. Ma veramente grazie.”

Francesca the bar lady called out, “Che brava, che brava! You saved my grandson. Let me oﬀer you another cappuccino and you can choose any brioche you want. It’s on the house.”

Once emotions of gratefulness settled down and Hope sat alone to her second coﬀee, she lifted it to her mouth with a trembling hand. Her teeth chattered on the ceramic cup as if there were a chill in the air.

Impossible. The temperature was stifling. But she felt cold. She counted to ten. One and two and three and …

A siren shrieked.

Outside the chapel Gabry rings Pino. "Don't ring 112. Ring Pino. He'll know exactly what to do. Here. Use my phone."

Caterina tried to pass her phone to Gabriele but he shook his head.

"It's okay. I've got it."

He'd already pressed his ear to his own mobile. Caterina studied the concerned furrows on his forehead.

"Merda. La linea e' occupata! - The line's engaged,” he said. He wiped away the beads of sweat from above his glassy eyes with the back of his hand.

"Call his station. Speak to the first person who answers." Caterina trembled. It was 30 degrees in the sun but she felt cold to her bones.

Gabriele swallowed hard as he finished the call. He clicked his tongue in his dry mouth but if he drank water he knew he would throw up.

"We have to stay here until the police come. They'll want to talk to us." his voice brittle and edgy.

He sat down on the bank next to Caterina and rubbed his knee. His stump throbbed and he wanted to take oﬀ his prosthesis. Then he undid his shirt buttons. He needed to breathe. Shit. He could not think straight. Closing his eyes, he saw stars forming in the blackness. Then an image shot into his mind like a bullet from a gun. A girl held down on her back on a table. Red skirt on

white thighs. The sound of a slap. Screams. Grunts. The memory burned into his brain like a tattoo needle on his skin.

The heat was stifling him and he began to taste the acid vomit that was rising from his stomach. He stood up with a bolt and limped to the side of a large marble plinth where an angel lay desolate, one arm stretched over her open wing and the other hiding her eyes in grief.

He threw up.

Caterina watched him in bewilderment.

"I can't believe this is happening." she said. ”I'm going to call Hope. She's used to this sort of thing. Christ knows what she's going to say when she sees I'm here with you."

"Why? What's it to do with her?" Gabriele asked, walking slowly back towards her, wiping his mouth on his forearm.

"She can't stand you, that's why."

"Che puttana, what a bitch!." He spitted a ball of nauseous phlegm onto the ground. "I don't understand why she’s here, anyway.”

He wiped his mouth with paper towel he took from his trouser pocket.

"She dares to judge me? She knows nothing about me.She hasn’t been here for years. And anyway, she should take a good look at herself first. A fat cow who smokes and drinks too much."

"Gabry. That’s a bit strong. Hope’s my friend. She’s like my family and she's had a diﬃcult time of things lately. She’s been very unwell.”

“I’m not surprised. She must smoke two packets a day easily! I wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole.”

He sat down next to Caterina and put his head in his hands.

“God! Is that all you see in women? Whether she’s do-able or not?! Jesus, Gabry. Think about it will you? Hope’s seen things that you and I can’t begin to imagine, and they’ve aﬀected her terribly. And if she doesn’t like you, maybe there’s a good reason for it!”

Looking up Gabriele said. “Seen things? What things could she ‘ave seen apart from the bottom of a gin bottle?”

“Look, don’t be hard on her. Her job isn't an easy one and the last case she was on pushed her over the edge.”

“Over the edge? Over the ravine more like.”

Gabriele took a deep breath and groaned.

“I can’t believe this, Cat. I spoke to her yesterday. She seemed perfectly fine. I … I.. shit.”

He rubbed his hand together and his foot tapped nervously on the ground.

Caterina was not listening to him, engrossed in voicing her thoughts about her friend.

“It was something about a young baby who fell to his death from the balcony of the family apartment. Hope found the mother on the sofa with a syringe in her arm. There was no-one else in the apartment to keep an eye on the little boy. He was only two and a half. Cazzo. Can you imagine?”

“She had something to tell me. Wanted my opinion. Jesus, It must’ve been serious. I had no idea she …”

“I think the problem is, she feels she could have prevented it. She should’ve recognised the danger the child was in. They knew the parents were both heroine users. The older sister had been sexually abused by the uncle too. It took too long to get the oﬃcial warrant to take the kids into care.”

Gabriele turned his head to Caterina wondering why she was garbling on about Hope when her niece lay dead in a coﬃn by their feet.

“So why did she choose a job she couldn’t handle, then? Lots of us’ve seen some scary shit. I’ve seen stuﬀ that would make you vomit but it never sent me doo-lally! And I’ve never turned to drink nor drugs neither.”

“Well good for you. You obviously get your therapy in other ways, Gabry.”

“And what do you mean by that? …. Christ Cat, that girl in there is dead and all you can do is go on about your precious Hope.”

He stood up and hobbled to the grave where he covered his face with his hands. He needed to speak to Pino and explain. Pino would help him. It would be alright once Pino got there.

Pino asks HOPE to come to chapel Thursday August 16th 8.30am Hope crushed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray and studied the faces of the two men sitting opposite her. Blood rushed to her cheeks when the good looking one eyed her up, and she hid her face behind her coﬀee cup.

His tight navy blue T-shirt suited his tanned skin.

Hope thought she would take a walk through the cemetery this morning. Caterina had told her it was stunning and she particularly wanted to see the English war graves. The rows of white gravestones, she’d said, were like soldiers marching in a line, organised, clean and distinctive amongst the chaos, and overgrown carelessness of the Italian dead.

As she put her cup down, an enormous black jeep with red flashes and the word ‘CARABINIERI’ in white lettering down its side, sped past, its two roof sirens flashing. It entered the cemetery gates. Hope fingered the enormous colourful beads on her heavy necklace.

“If they’re after the snake tattoo, they’ve gone the wrong way,” Hope muttered under her breath and accidently spurted coﬀee from her mouth. It dribbled down her cleavage.

Mr good-looking leered, and licked his full lips.

As she wiped the splatters of coﬀee away with a paper napkin, she made out the distinctive voice of Gary Barlow despite the increasing volume of Italian chattering at the bar.

‘Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't mean it, I just want you back for good (Want you back, want you back, want you back for good).’

She plunged her hand into her rucksack on the ground by her chair and hunted for her phone. Her fingers blindly grappled at useless objects crammed inside it. She flustered.

“Hell, where is it?"

Too late.

“Bugger.”

When she finally found it, she raised an eyebrow. Pino? She called him back immediately but it took a long time before he answered.

“Hope. I need you to do something for me. Seen Grazia Rosa?” His taut voice was as immediate and penetrating as the police siren that had sounded tens minutes earlier.

“No. Why? You okay?”

“Any idea where she is?”

“I … I’ve no idea. Doesn’t Caterina know?”

“She’s in no fit state. Merda. You still at the bar?

“How d’you know that?”

“Saw you when I passed. Look. I’m sending Gabriele to get you. Need you up here. Okay?”

“Up here, where?”

“Near the English graves. Something terrible. Look, not on the phone..I’ll explain when you get here.”

Hope’s heart clattered like a dropped saucepan lid on a marble floor. She lit another cigarette and pulled at her brightly floral patterned blouse to give herself some air.

“What the hell was going on?”

The man in the blue T-shirt glanced over and his mouth curled into a white toothed smile. Hope shifted in her seat turning her back to him. She tapped her fingers on the table, dragged the nicotine into her blood cells, watched and waited.

Gabriele takes hope to body Gabriele. Well, well, well.

He slammed on the brakes of his dustcart like Giancarlo Fisichella at the pit stop for a wheel change, leaving it by the pavement outside the bar and jumped out as if he had just won the Italian Grand Prix at Monza. Fit and tanned and full of enthusiasm, he was evidently a popular man. He knew everybody and was obviously well liked as the bar milled with excitement to see him and he was stopped by them all.

“Oy, Gabry! Che cosa e’ successo?”

“Perche’ la polizia e’ arrivata?”

“Ma raccontaci tutto.” - What’s happened? Why the police. Tell us everything.”

It took him ten minutes to reach Hope. His jaunty stride irritated her like a cheese grater on her skin. Wearing a green workman’s shirt, cut oﬀ at the shoulders, he displayed his oiled biceps which flexed masculinity as he slapped shoulders and shook hands. A forty year old still behaving like a boy.

Hope's insides shrieked. The worst kind of idiot. The baseball cap which covered his curly black hair was on back to front.

So here comes the Angel Gabriel.

Gabriele took Hope’s hand and kissed it, playing the gentleman of the royal court. His charm did not fool her but she accepted his smooth gesture and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Christ,” she thought, “I’m on to him. I know his type. I can smell it. It’s written all over him. A self assured, loud, low class, skirt chaser.”

Hope’s skin crawled with maggots.

“Speranza Cacciatore, Dio mio, how long’s it been?”

He avoided eye contact. Hope knew he had something to hide. Oh, yes. He certainly did. And why Caterina still let him into her life … A road sweeper… Not for his brain, that was for sure.

“Sali allora” he said motioning her to jump into his cart. Her agility somewhat hindered by the extra weight she had put on over the last year, the angel noticed her diﬃculty and bounded to her aid.

Inside, there was a strong smell of man-sweat mixed with sweet alpine toilet detergent. A green pine tree aroma card hung from the mirror. When she plonked onto the seat, an explosion of dust particles leapt out. Hope coughed.

Gabriele sped through the cemetery gates and Hope had the preposterous thought of Ernie driving the fastest milk cart in the west, servicing frustrated housewives door to door. She cackled to herself then asked,

“So, what’s going on?”

“Found a body, we did, didn’t we?” He answered, curtly keeping his eyes on the lane ahead. His hands gripped the steering wheel, face expressionless.

“A body? In the cemetery? You found a body? And Caterina? Was she with you?”

“Certo. Sure.”

A man of few words.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s dead.”

“Caterina. I mean Caterina. Is she okay?”

“Very upset, isn’t she.”

“And the body? Enlighten me will you? If you can.”

Turning his head from the road he said, “Pino will tell you love …”

Hope rolled her eyes. God how she hated being called ‘love’.

“Just get me there in one piece, will you? She said pointing ahead.

“ Si. Si. As quick as I know how.”

His boyish voice ground her nerves like nails scratching down a school blackboard. He changed down the gear and his little van’s engine revved painfully, jerked and rattled and then zoomed up the treelined lane. When Gabriele spun it round a sharp bend where an angel lay prostrate on a tomb, Hope grabbed onto the dashboard, teeth gritting hoping not to soon be laying prostrate herself on the road in front of them.

Up the steep hill, the van chugged to a near halt, suﬀering the incline.

Hope wanted to ask him what he had been doing with her best friend in the cemetery at such an early hour in the morning but knew it was futile as he was bound to spin a yarn, a very believable one at that too. She would wait till she met with Caterina.

Hope picked up the single red rose from the top of the dashboard and sniﬀed it. No perfume. But the petals were a velvet red.

She pricked her forefinger on a thorn and dropped it in disgust.

“Cazzo!” she spat. A great Italian expletive, bandied about like the English “Fuck.”

A bead of blood formed, red like the rose. She sucked it clean.

“You know we say ‘Di 'na rosa nasci 'na spina. Di 'na spina nasci 'na rosa’. - From a rose grows a thorn. From a thorn grows a rose. It’s a Sicilian expression.”

“How very profound,” she sniﬀed.

“So it’s like, from a sad event something positive can happen and from a positive event something sad can happen, no?.”

“So anything can happen, then, no?”

“Certo.”

Hope studied Gabriele’s tanned face. Deep lines delved into the corner of his eyes, carved by the sun. When she had last seen him he was ten, eleven maybe. A lad. She had liked him then. Until that afternoon. Then she had loathed him. And even now everything about this man galled her.

What was worse, Caterina had told her too much.

She looked at his hands. His fingernails were clean but one of his middle fingers had no distal phalanx bone. It was a stump without a nail. There was a small tattoo on his ring finger. A name written in fancy lettering.

“Whose name is that on your wedding finger? I didn’t know you’d been married.”

“Married? Me? Never!” He laughed. “La mamma. Teresa. The only woman who deserves a place on this finger.”

“Your mum? Yes, I remember her. She was a special lady.”

“Still is. The best. Twelve of us she raised and no husband to support her. Still looks after us all now, she does. Don’t know where I’d be without her.”

“How on Earth she managed to look after twelve kids, I’ll never know.”

“With an iron fist and a voice like a fog horn.” He sniggered. “D’you remember where we lived in Via Mogadiscio?”

Gabriele hesitated and glanced at her. “But you remember, don’t you? … yeah, Of course you do.”

“God, yes. Up on the hill opposite the school.”

“We could hear her shouting for us from the kitchen window, it was that loud.”

“It was a long time ago and a lot’s happened since those days.”

The angel stared at her and steered his dustcart towards a marble cherub which he swerved to miss. He whipped his arm across her chest and stopped her from bumping her head on the window.

Christ.

Extracting herself from his grip, she noticed the tattoo on his forearm.

“And the parachute?” she asked.

“The parachute?”

She pointed.

“Ah, this parachute.” He lifted his arm in the air. “Course, you don’t know, do you? When I was eighteen, I did military service in the paras. The hardest thing I ever had to do, it was.”

“Was it? I’d have thought it was right up your street.”

“You try jumping out of an aeroplane when you suﬀer from acrophobia:”

“Did it once or twice. Acrophobia?”

“Fear of heights. Well, for me, a fear of falling,” he smirked. “I always hated driving on that bridge. I knew it was going to collapse sooner or later. Bloody tragedy. And the kids. It breaks my heart thinking about them, losing their lives like that. Not right. Not right at all…”

“The bridge. God, yes. The Morandi bridge. How terrible.”

Out of the window, the lane, lined with tall fir and cypress trees meandered past the most bewitching marble statues Hope had ever seen. A multitude of chapels and mausoleums, grave stones, and sculptures varied in sizes and opulence. Classicism, Romanticism, Realism, Art Nouveau.

And then Gabriele pulled to a stop, jumped out and gave his hand to help her dismount. Hope was well aware of the weight she had gained. It was the lasting eﬀect of her depression. She had been drinking a lot, she had stopped going to the gym and hadn’t kept up the aikido classes. The crap she ate too. Well, she was paying for it now.

Straightening herself out, she looked at the scene.

An army of uniformed men stood about smoking cigarettes, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. They were the Carabinieri. The military police. Nice red stripes down their tight trouser legs.

The Vigili Urbani, the local police were there too, dressed in light blue with pistols held in white leather holsters attached to matching leather belts. Smart.

Two men in orange overalls milled about, one wearing large protective gloves and holding a spade, another arguing with the red and white tape he was trying to tie around a tree in order to cordon oﬀ the area. Complete and utter chaos!

And then she saw Pino and her heart thudded against her ribs.

AT The Chapel. Sitting on a bank at the side of the lane, Caterina attempted a weak smile as Hope approached. Her usually impeccable hair looked lank and stuck to her face and forehead. Her red swollen eyes highlighted her pallid face.

Hope sat down next to her friend and nearly slipped oﬀ the grassy slope. Caterina grabbed her arm and helped her to regain her balance.

“Christ, Hope.” Her lips quivered.

“What?”

“She’s lying there on that cold ground. In that..that place. I couldn’t look at her. I just couldn’t…” Her chest heaved with sobs. She scratched her leg.

Hope looked about.

In front of them stood an imposing Gothic chapel. It had a domed roof on which a white marbled angel towered, her wings folded behind her curvaceous body. For an angel, she exuded sensuality as she hushed for silence with her forefinger on her closed lips. Below her feet was a staﬀ with two snakes coiled around it.

“The magic Caduceus of Mercury, God of commerce, trickery and thieves. Bloody breathtaking,” Hope murmured.

“An empty bottle of vodka. There’s an empty bottle of vodka. God Almighty. Why? I don’t understand it. They’re saying she killed herself. Vodka? and..and the pills. A whole bottle … what was she thinking? … I don’t get it…”

Caterina’s voice was garbled and breathless.

“Stop, stop, stop. darling it’s okay. Take a deep breath and try and calm down,” Hope said, stroking Caterina’s hair. She put her arm around her shoulders and held her close. “Now, start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”

Just at that moment a tall, sturdy police oﬃcer wearing a commanding pistol in his holster and a striking, well-groomed moustache put his arm around Gabriele’s shoulder and walked him away from the chapel. Pino looked imposing in his uniform and Hope could not keep her eyes oﬀ him. She watched as he pulled out a packet of Winston Silvers and tapped out one of the white filter cigarettes which he lit up and inhaled deeply.

“Gabriele’s limping.”

“He played football last night.”

“How the hell can he play football like that?”

“It’s something he’ll never stop doing.”

“Along with a lot of other things I can mention. But I have to give it to him, I don’t know how he does it.”

“He’s a special man. He has a force that is admirable.”

“Special? He’s an idiot.”

“You only see his exterior. The part he wants you to see. He’s a good, caring man. And don’t look at me like that. He really is. He looks after everybody.”

“He’s the angel bloody Gabriel. Yes, I know. You keep reminding me. No idea what you see in him, that’s all. I didn’t expect Pino here.”

“We called him,” said Caterina.

A short man wearing white overalls, his shoulders hunched and head bowed, was escorted from the chapel by two carabinieri oﬃcers. Pino, looking stern, went to greet him. The man pulled oﬀ the hood revealing a frown etched into his face by lines so deep they appeared to be trenches.

Despite only reaching Pino’s breast bone, and with no smile, he gave Pino a bear hug. Pino bent his head low and the man whispered into his ear. He then took Pino’s hand in his and patted it. Pino nodded without speaking. The man in white was escorted away and Pino, filling his cheeks with air, breathed out what appeared to be a sigh of relief.

“Who’s that?” Hope asked Caterina.

“The legal doctor, the coroner. He’s only been here fifteen minutes.”

“Is that all? He can’t have made a verdict yet, surely? I’ll go and ask Pino. Will you be alright for a little while? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

When she stood up, she felt uneasy and as she approached Pino, she tripped and stumbled head first onto the hard ground, staring at his black, large-sized, shiny polished boots.

“Hope, let me help you up.”

He took her hand and lifted her to her feet. She swept her long, deep red hair away from her eyes and brushed the pine needles oﬀ her baggy, coﬀee-stained blouse. He leant in towards her and she smelt his sweet eau de cologne.

Gabriele clicked his tongue and turned his back.

“What’s going on, Pino?”

“Come with me. You can see for yourself.”

Hope’s thumb darted to her mouth. She bit on the nail then pulled at her lips.

“I … I don’t think I can.”

“It’s fine. You’re with me. No-one will object.”

“Yes.. but .. I … I’m not sure I’m ….” Hope’s uneasiness churned her stomach and tightened her chest. She darted a glance at the door of the chapel and played with the chunky beads around her neck.

Pino placed a hand on her back and eased her towards the chapel entrance. Her breathing quickened.

“Come on. In here.”

Hope peered at his face, looking for a way out and saw how deeply the lines furrowed into his brow, As they walked, he took hold of her arm tightly; and she sensed it was not to support her but to support himself which gave her the very unsettling sensation that she knew whose body she was about to inspect.

Hope in the chapel - THURSDAY 16th AUGUST 8.30 am ‘All deaths are sudden, no matter how gradual the dying may be.’ - Michael McDowell

“You do know they’ve all been trampling on possible evidence, don’t you?” said Hope pointing to the three policemen ambling around the chapel entrance.

She had not meant to sound barbed but her nerves pulled like the tense tendons at the front of her neck.

How long had it been since she last saw a body? And she did not know how she was going to react.

“That police oﬃcer leaning against the door may have smeared away fingerprints,” she continued. “I’m surprised that hasn’t occurred to you!”

Hope did not notice Pino’s raised eyebrow and continued.

“Curious police oﬃcers are dangerous. They can contaminate the scene before the forensics get here and they can grind evidence into the ground. You do have a forensics team, don’t you?”

“So Hope. You’ve got a sore head too, have you?”

They had not seen each other for years until last night. As a child, Pino had been her hero but he had always made her feel nervous. She felt nervous now. Especially after having fallen into his bed and into his arms with an all too ready passion. Not something she did often. Abandon herself like that. Must have been the Aperol Spritz. How many had she drunk?

“Can I just remind you this is not Britain, Hope. This is Italy.” Pino swallowed hard, trying to clear the acid rising in his throat.

“Mind where you’re treading, all of you, we may need to check for footprints.”

He hurled this at all the on-lookers who were milling about. “And get away from that door, fool!”

The young oﬃcer lounging against the chapel door, uncrossed his arms and straightened up.

“Yes, Marasciallo,” he bleated, weakly.

“And another thing,” Hope could not stop herself. “Just be careful that any items we find here may have been actually left by your nosy men in blue! It happens, really, and more often than you may think!”

Pino’s eyes rolled.

“Santo Cielo, Hope. Please. I do know what I am doing!”

The young police oﬃcer who had moved away from the door, sniggered but Pino gave a look that stabbed him in the chest and he bowed his head like a castigated child.

Before she entered the chapel, Hope took a voluminous lungful of air then followed Pino whose gait was heavy and slow.

Inside, there was a chill. She was struck by the cold, musty atmosphere, such a contrast to the humid heat from outside. She expected the unforgettable stench of a decomposing human body but there was not yet that fetid smell that would always make her want to vomit. Thank goodness. She would have hated to lose her cool and look a fool in front of Pino. She needed to keep sharp. She wanted to show him how competent she could be.

When she saw the body she took a step back. A young woman curled on her side dressed in red.

“Oh my God, Pino.” She put her hand to her mouth, then stared at Pino’s face, so wrung and drawn and she understood.

Aurora.

Aurora Rossi.

Pino’s niece.

The girl was indeed very beautiful. And what struck Hope first was/ were her clothes: a simple red dress and red heeled shoes, not too high but sophisticated and elegant.

Hope glanced at Pino as he stretched a pair of white rubber gloves over his hands, his brow furrowed.

Long chestnut hair with streaks of sun kissed blonde framed a delicate oval face, a small nose and soft cheek bones. Her grey-green eyes, clouded and sunken in death gazed, startled. Her skin was purple and waxy, but in life it had surely been as smooth as the marble altar that stood in the middle of the chapel room where she lay.

Hope noticed the stiﬀened neck muscles where rigour mortis had started to set in.

‘Muscular stiﬀening begins between four and 12 hours after death. Calcium builds up in the muscles, causing them to tense. It starts in the neck and makes movement of the limbs impossible. When it reaches the scalp, it can make the dead body’s hair rise. Like goose bumps on the living.’

She remembered reading this quotation in one of her training manuals, stored in her brain from so many years ago. She had an eﬃcient memory when it came to her work.

As she looked at the dead girl’s porcelain countenance, she felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Her palms felt clammy. She wiped them on her thighs and counted to ten in her mind. One and two and three ….

The death scene. Examine the death scene.

By working her way into the body, she calmed herself, and using great care not to disturb any possible evidence, she moved around the circular chamber.

First she observed the surrounding ground and carefully looked for anything that might have been of evidential value but from what her own eyes could make out, there were no marks and no stains on the body.

“What’s her story, Pino?” she asked, her voice delicate and low.

Crouched down by her waxen face, his own, pallid and strained, she noticed him swallow hard. He did not reply.

She asked him again.

“The coroner is certain it’s suicide.” He spoke without looking up, his tone tired. “He told me there are no visible signs of a struggle on the body. There are no defence wounds, there is no lividity and her nails are clean.”

Hope could not hear the quiver in Pino’s voice. He had caught himself. An expert at hiding his emotions behind the uniform he wore.

“His decision means we do not investigate for suspicious death, but we close the case because of obvious suicide,” he added.

“What time does he think she died?”

“Around two in the morning he said. Just before or just after. He couldn’t be exact.”

“God it would’ve been dark and cold and she was alone and away from her family. Very scary, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think anything, Hope,” his tone sharp. “I look at the evidence.”

His reaction surprised her but Hope put his irritation down to emotions.

“Any sign of dragging or transportation? Folds or rolls in her clothes?” She asked.

Pino nodded. He was feeling stressful and testy and what was worse, his head pounded from the two, or was it three, Negroni he had drank the evening before.

“I said ‘No’.” He snapped. “Her dress is pristine. Just creases at the back where she’s been lying. All consistent with the ground surface, okay?”

“Was she suicidal, Pino? Had she displayed any signs?”

He pounded the marble altar with his fist.

“She had a rough ride with that father of hers. I’m sure she suﬀered from it. Diﬃcult to keep your head when your mum gets beaten up by the one man who should protect her.”

“Was she depressed, then? Depressed enough to want to kill herself in this cold chapel in a cemetery at night, in the dark?”

“Look Speranz …. I mean Hope. The evidence is all here. She was obviously depressed, alright?”

He picked up the empty bottle of pills that lay by Aurora’s hand.

“Prothiaden,” he read.

“What’s the principle active ingredient? Does it say?” Hope asked.

Squinting, he said, “Doslepin, or Dothiepin, I think. I can’t read it clearly. Too small.

“Dothiepin. It used to be one of the most prescribed antidepressants in the UK. Doctor’s don’t often give it nowadays as it has a relatively high toxicity and …..” Hope paused.

Pino, his head turned away, was not listening.

“Go on,” he said after some seconds.

“You sure? You seem distracted.”

“Yes, of course I’m sure,” his tone tetchy.

“Well, Dothiepin, when overdosed, causes death. And the onset of toxic eﬀects is only around four to six hours after ingestion.”

She pointed to the empty bottle of vodka and added, “With alcohol its side eﬀects are even more potential. In fact, to minimise the risk of overdose, doctors only allowed patients a limited number of tablets at a time. Strange she was given such a toxic pill. I mean, she must have been suﬀering from major depression. Did her mother know?”

Pino leant close to his niece’s face. He closed his eyes then sniﬀed.

“There’s a strong smell of alcohol still on her lips.”

Hope looked at the dead woman’s hands. They were almost blue and her fingernails were as white as her lips. On her left wrist was a bracelet made with shimmering crystal beads that gleamed and twinkled as if desperately wanting to show they were alive. She bent down to take a closer look. Engraved on each coloured bead was a letter of the girl’s name. The beads spelt the word A.U.O.R.A.

“Pino. How is the name ‘Aurora’ spelt?”

“A.U.R.O.R.A.” He dictated each individual letter with emphasis. “Why?”

“So a letter ‘R’ is missing. Look there.”

“And?”

“Seems to me an expensive item. Strange she wore it with a bead missing, that’s all.”

“Keep your eyes peeled for a crystal bead on the ground boys,” Pino hurled to his men through clenched teeth.

“I’d say she’s been dead for about 8 to 9 hours judging by the look of her,” said Hope. “There’s no sign of a struggle as there are no obvious marks on her neck or wrists. Your legal doc is probably correct in that assumption.”

“Probably? Probably?” Pino raised his voice and Hope’s palms felt sweaty. She wiped them against her trouser legs.

“Sergio Mantero is one of the most reputed doctors in Genova with thirty years experience. There’s no probably about it, Hope.”

“Right then. Of course.”

She fell silent and her heart began to race. Her throat tightened and her breathing quickened. That all too familiar anxiety rose in her chest. She needed air and wanted to get out of the place. She tried to fix her mind on her training manual. It was one of the ways she used to deal with the panic attacks that would insidiously creep over her.

‘What happens to the body immediately after death? Your body temperature drops by about 1.6 degrees Fahrenheit per hour until it reaches room temperature. After a few minutes, your cells begin dying due to the lack of oxygen. They then start to break down and leak, beginning the process of putrefaction.’

What was it that her detective Inspector had said that morning eleven months ago?

“You’re not well and you need help, Hope. You are to go home on sick leave. This decision is out of your hands. It is an order.”

She had felt a complete failure. She had let all her colleagues down and she had been on the verge of destroying her career. Overwhelmed, she had not been able to admit to her illness and her denial eventually led to a breakdown.

After three weeks at home suﬀering feelings of inordinate paranoia, physical weakness, lack of concentration, she finally went to her GP who had prescribed her antidepressants and an appointment with occupational health for counselling.

PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. A mental health condition triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts about the event.

She’d still got the bloody leaflet somewhere.

She wasn’t on Dothiepin, but certainly something similar to this poor creature who lay in an almost foetal position on her side on the cold stone floor of her family burial vault.

Hope felt beads of sweat form on her forehead but she tried to keep her head.

Knowing every death scene was three dimensional she looked up. She saw the blue cloudless sky through the skylight in the domed roof and then she followed the ray of dazzling sunlight that shone down to the ground.

She spotted something.

“Could you pick that up please Pino?”

“What?”

“There. Look.”

With his gloved thumb and forefinger, he picked up the dog-end and sniﬀed it before oﬀering it to Hope to do the same.

“Marijuana. But there’s something else. A distinct, strong aroma I’ve never come across before. Any idea?”

“Smells like ‘Wet Fry’ to me,” he said.

“Wet Fry? What on earth is that?”

“Marijuana sprayed with formaldehyde.”

“Formaldehyde? But that’s embalming fluid, isn’t it?”

“That’s the one!”

Pino took another small transparent plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket, shook it out and placed the cigarette butt into it, zipping the bag tight shut as he explained how the kids of Genova had found a new game.

“They soak their marijuana joints with formaldehyde and then dry them. These joints are easy to make but they can be bought already rolled for only twenty Euro a piece and they come in little packets with a cartoon character on the front. Just right for the younger market.”

“Are there any side eﬀects?”

“Yep and they can be pretty nasty depending on the amount of formaldehyde. Heavy fry users can get extremely violent. The feeling of euphoria creates a sense of invincibility also because they have an increased tolerance to pain. Visual and auditory hallucinations, feelings of anger, forgetfulness and paranoia. And the high can last from 6 hours to 3 days! But for the unlucky ones it can lead to renal failure or even a stroke,” he explained.

“Plus the bottle of vodka and the pills. Did she hate her life that much?” she asked.

Pino lifted his service cap and swept his black hair back with his hand.

“The problem is, formaldehyde can be purchased legally in any drug store, so it’s easy to get hold of. It used to be the choice in the poor minority areas of Genova like Via Pre’ in the Centro Storico or Via Cantore in Sampierdarena where there’s a high migrant population. The Latino quarters especially. But recently it’s been spreading to the aﬄuent white suburban areas like Albaro, Quinto and Castelletto. It’s a cheaper alternative.”

“Rich Genovese. Tight with their money,” Hope said.

“There was a case two winters ago in Sestri Ponente. A sixteen year old boy Ripped up his elderly neighbour.”

“Ripped?”

“Stabbed him seventy times.

“Seventy times? Jesus. Is that possible? How much blood?”

“It was not very pleasant at all, as you can imagine. He had to be strapped down in the hospital room otherwise he’d’ve destroyed it. The boy said he’d smoked the stuﬀ to quiet the voices in his head.”

“Bloody hell,” Hope said, alarmed at such horrific eﬀects of a drug so readily and cheaply procured by such young kids.

“Any long lasting side eﬀects?”

“Formaldehyde is lethal. Even a small dose of formalin, say an ounce, can kill an adult.”

“Formalin?”

“Solution made up of water, menthol and 37% formaldehyde. Drink a tiny dose of concentrated formaldehyde and you’ll drop dead from respiratory failure or fall into a coma. Not nice.”

“Do you think this was the first time she’d smoked the stuﬀ, Pino?”

“I am very surprised but I have to say I doubt it. She’s nineteen. She hangs out in the Santa Margarita and Portofino bars. She may even have a supplier.

Pino In the Chapel

Pino was used to the dead. He knew the unmistakable smell of it very well, like rubbish left out in the hot sun to rot.

He had, of course, seen and smelt much worse than this.

Last year he had entered a flat in the historical centre where a man in his late forties sat on his sofa with half his head blown oﬀ. He had shot himself. An own-goal.

The walls. Shit. Covered with pieces of brain. And after four days of sitting there, the neighbours had begun to notice the putrid stench in the corridor outside the apartment. Despite the menthol balm he had wiped on his lips and moustache before entering the room, Pino had retched. Pictures of himself having to scrape oﬀ the bits often flashed back to him.

Now with that familiar sour taste in his mouth, he looked at his niece and had to hide his fear.

At forty one, Marasciallo Giuseppe Tallarico, a large, powerful man of six feet four, tall for an Italian, had come to Genova as a baby in the late seventies with his parents from Catanzaro in Calabria near the little toe of Italy and he had still been living with his mother, up until three years ago when she died. Melanoma. As huge as a bloody great spider on her arm. She had ignored it, of course, until it had spun its web too deep and wriggled inside her.

He still lived in the same house where she died, in Sant’Antonino.

The Exodus from the south of Italy to the north began in the 1950’s when there were few employment alternatives available locally, other than farming. But the region of Calabria, rugged and craggy, was not easy to cultivate and to make matters worse, frequent earthquakes shook them. So they out-migrated to the industrial north.

His father? Pino never spoke of his father. He had been dead for over ten years. Lung cancer. The man had spent his working life on the motorway they had used to travel to Liguria, building, repairing and breathing in the fumes that polluted his body and soul to death. As far as Pino was concerned, his death had not been painful enough.

In his youth, Pino had to choose sides. It was either legality or criminality.

Most of his friends joined the heroine clan. They were nearly all dead now and if not, their lives were shot to pieces as were their livers. But there was another, more convincing reason he chose to join the force. ‘Rivalsa’.

Payback.

Vendetta.

Luckily for Pino, he had, even at that young age, a strong sense of justice and although he grew up in a diﬃcult environment, he chose to don a uniform, like his beloved Carmelo. The Uncle, they called him. Hope’s father was known as The Uncle to all the kids in Via Mogadiscio. He looked out for them. Pino’s dad was rarely at home but when he was, he only had eyes for his older daughter. Not even his mother was given much attention by her husband. Having been absent from the marital home for long periods of time he found the fifteen year old Grazia Rosa far more attractive and comforting than his ageing, who, after the birth of the three children had very little interest in any physical intimacy.

It was 8 o’clock in the evening and Carmelo, The Uncle, riding his bicycle on his way home from the police station, received seven bullets from a 7.65 calibre pistol. Outside his house. Nearly home.

Hit in the shoulder, the chest and the head.

People were still walking the streets. People who saw the blood and heard his moans. Yet nobody called an ambulance. Nobody dared say a word.

In Calabria, diﬀerent families had control of certain towns. They were the clans of the ‘Ndrangheta’ and with the south, north migration, powerful families maintained their hold.

In Via Mogadiscio there lived two of these clans. Two families who wielded their influence with a violent force.

The story on the street was that The Uncle had been watching a certain Domenico Viscomi, the ‘Little Viceroy’. He was one of the Boss’s right hand men. The trusted man servant and he was an arrogant bastard. Extortion was his game.

Viscomi, a local butcher by trade, had been imposing his supply of meat on the local supermarkets and threatening them with violence if they went elsewhere to buy it. All on behalf of his clan.

The Uncle upset the meat cart and had to be exterminated.

Pino, however, knew diﬀerent. He knew the truth. A truth that had fuelled his passion for Rivalsa. But a truth that he had been forced to swear never to reveal.

Pino’s chest heaved. He wanted to take Aurora’s face into his large hands and caress the fair skin of her cheeks. He wanted to stroke the fringe away from her eyes which seemed to plead with him for resurrection.

But he had to hold it together.

He crouched down and closed his eyes. He remembered the sound of sobbing through the walls of his bedroom. Grazia Rosa. How old was he then? Nineteen? Twenty? Same age as Aurora. And his sister? She was only fifteen.

He remembered his father had come home and had handed his older sister a package. A red dress. He had insisted she put it on. His mother, in the kitchen, preparing the dinner, had shown no interest. Ignoring his son and the younger Caterina, he had taken Grazia Rosa by the hand and led her to his marital bedroom, to look at herself in the mirror, he had said.

The next morning, Pino had taken the rubbish out at his mother’s request and had seen a flash of something red in the large green dustbin outside his house. Vivid, blood red. But he had not checked to see what it was. Didn't have the guts. Didn’t want to see it.

What was it? Damn. What was it?

He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. Hope was standing above him.

“Pino, are you alright?”

He slowly stood up, remembering where he was and coughed. Then he placed his hand on the cold marble of the altar to steady himself

“Why was she wearing such a stunning outfit? Was she meeting someone? A boyfriend perhaps?” Hope asked. “Her dress is not one I would have chosen to kill myself in. What do you think, Pino?”

“What?”

“About her dress, Pino. What do you think?”

He regarded Hope with clearer vision. Despite her size she was attractive and her face alone had always set his interest alight. Her eyes were bright and intelligent under long lashes. The dimples on her freckled cheeks were charming and her lips were like strawberries. She intrigued him. She appeared cool and competent, and yet he knew her passion.

Hope stood very close to Pino now. He could smell her perfume mingled with the slight saltiness of summer sweat.

“Excuse me sir, but the ambulance has arrived. They are asking how long before they can take the body away.”

“Ah yes. Of course. I think we are done here.” Pino looked at his watch. “They must take her body to the hospital mortuary to prepare her for burial and I must write up my report.”

As they walked out of the chapel Pino exhaled all the air of death from his lungs and took a deep breath of life.

“Pino. Will there not be an autopsy?” Hope asked.

“No. Not when the legal doctor declares a cut and dry case of suicide. And Mantero was adamant.”

“But don’t you think there’s something wrong in all of this?”

“What do you mean? A young, sad girl kills herself with drugs, alcohol and her prescribed pills. It happens all the time. You of all people should know that. How many times have you seen it on your patch in London, is it? More than me I’d imagine. Am I right?”

“But did you look at her shoes?”

“Shoes?”

“Her red patent shoes. There wasn’t a scuﬀ on them.”

Grazia rosa arrives at the scene - 8.00 am

Just at that moment, Grazia Rosa bounded into them on the lane, her lips tight and her eyes wide, glaring.

Pino grabbed her. She struggled to free herself from his strong grip, flaying her arms. Then she hung her head back and gave a despairing howl.

Pino held her to him, and tried to support her but like a fox caught in the teeth of the dog, the terror had begun to rip her open.

“Lasciami andare. Devo vederla. La mia figlia! La mia Aurora! Let me go. Let me see her. I must see her.”

She fell to the ground at Pino’s feet.

He picked her up and gently stroked her hair away from her face revealing a swollen, bloodshot eye that was closing up in painful protection. The skin at the side of her forehead and on her cheek, black and purple.

Keeping her close to him, he led her into the chapel, almost lifting her oﬀ the ground and as they walked, a path was cleared for them by the onlookers and police, silently reverent.

“I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!” Caterina cried, covering her ears with her hands.

Gabriele took his cap oﬀ and began scratching his scalp. He then wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. The scene was one of hopeless sadness.

Suddenly, the deathly silence was pierced by a primordial scream from the depths of the chapel. The shrill of wild panic and anguish broke the hearts of all those who could hear it.

Desperate. Pitiful. Heart wrenching.

Grazia Rosa’s agonised terror chilled the hot morning air and stifled them all more than the soaring humidity of midsummer could ever do.

Eddie 1 - Life in the piazza Thursday 16th august morning 8.30 Eddie checked his phone. Eight thirty in the morning.

He sat at his desk in his father’s shop, filling the details of a new client into the computer programme and although this was not his favourite task, he enjoyed sitting at his desk. It made him feel important.

This morning, he was still seething and tasting the bitter blood of betrayal. Having to ensure the Pastorino family received regular emails updating them on the organisation of the funeral arrangements, helped keep his fists unclenched and his jaw relaxed.

Name of deceased: Signora Pastorino Carla.

Age: 82.

Date of funeral: 18th August.

Time: 10.00 am.

Contact family name: Pastorino Gina.

Connection: daughter.

Church: Chiesa di Sant’Antonino.

Eddie was 27 years old and was a lucky man. Unlike most of the young people of his age in Genova, he had a job and he was making money.

But not from helping at his dad’s Funeral Directors.

His wages were embarrassing and he’d never be rich in this game, not now that more and more Genovese were cremating.

No.

He owed his bulging pocket to a certain connection he had made through his mate Carlos, the Ecuadorian.

He had come a long way since he had got onto that boat with his uncle Saban. Only 6 and yes, it had been terrifying leaving his mother like that. But she had forced him to go. And she had done right by him.

The civil unrest had turned into a civil war. Foreign troops had landed to restore order but thousands were on the streets every day protesting and the violent outbursts had turned into the killing of hundreds of people by dangerous criminal gangs.

Eddie had little memory of the journey across the Adriatic from his home town Vlora on the west coast of Albania. His uncle had since described the journey as perilous and sickeningly scary.

The old, rusting navy vessel set oﬀ over choppy seas with 101 passengers and could hardly make the nearly six hour crossing. And when they arrived at Brindisi late in the dark, the Italian police escorted the women and children to be quartered for the night while the men were taken to the local police station.

“I was sure I had lost you and would never see you again. I handed you to a woman called Ariana. I’ll never forget her kindness. She looked after you for me for that endless night until I got back to you.”

The Albanian boat people fled the chaos and bloodshed that had erupted in the wake of a pyramid-scheme scandal which took the savings of two-thirds of Albania's 3.4 million people.

That night and for several weeks after, Eddie and uncle Saban lived in a former town jail which served as a crowded dormitory. Uncle Saban told Eddie afterwards that it was filled to overflowing along with the other facilities used to house the 6 thousand and more refugees: churches, gymnasiums, hospitals, low-rent hotels, parking structures, campgrounds and private homes.

His uncle had recalled how it was, back home then.

“There were Kalashnikovs and guns -- children, men, everyone was shooting. We had to get away and the Italian authorities promised us working papers, which meant we could stay with my brother in Italy.”

Saban’s brother had been living in Italy for four years.

“We didn’t know what was going to happen to us. For days all we ate was pasta. What could we do? The uncertainty of a life in another country or risk the gunmen in Vlora who were demanding hefty fees from those wanting to flee the country?

“We were lucky to get on that rusty boat. Those bastards controlling access were charging $250 per person for transporting them to Italy.”

Eddie’s phone made a popping sound. He frowned. His concentration interrupted. The message read simply,

“Start it. You know what to do.”

Oh yes. He knew exactly what to do. This was just what he needed to vent his anger.

Fucking pregnant. Fucking pregnant she was and she hadn’t told him a damn thing. He’d been having sex with the bitch while she was spawning another man’s brat.

He read the message again.

The man they called “il Funzo Teuscego’, Satan’s Mushroom, didn’t mince words and when the Mushroom called, Eddie jumped.

He leapt up from the chair and grabbed the keys.

“Dad, just going out for half an hour. Okay?”

His father, Giorgio Parodi, did not answer.

Chipping at marble no doubt. Chip, chip, chip. That was all he did. What a life. Well Eddie was not going to end up like his father with stooping shoulders and knuckles so swollen with arthritis he couldn’t hold a coﬀee cup without complaining.

Eddie locked the shop door and sprinted to his motor scooter.

How he loved using his scooter. It was the only way to travel around Genova as the roads were narrow and always blocked with slow moving traﬃc. On a scooter you could get from A to B in no time and there was never any worry to find a parking place. Shame he had to wear a helmet nowadays.

Only in the centre on Saturday afternoons was it diﬃcult to park as all the young kids would come into town to hang out in the ‘vicoli’, the lanes, or in Via Venti Settembre, the main high street where they shopped or sat outside in the fashionable cafe’s under the porticoes. Then, the thousands of motor scooters packed together like a raised domino run, one aside the other. They cluttered the streets that surrounded the central piazza, Piazza de Ferrari, where its imposing fountain spouted water that changed colour throughout the hot summer days; from green to purple to blue.

This morning Eddie had received a call to action and immediacy was expected, he had to make his way to Mario’s building yard. He would follow the Val Bisagno, the torrent that led down from the hills, the city’s backdrop, and on to the sea.

Now the torrent was dry. No water to be seen in it except a puddle here and there amongst the reeds, rocks and stones. In the autumn however, he had seen the torrent filled to the brim with raging muddy rain water, fierce and threatening to overflow the banks and flood the city.

As he got on his scooter he saw Giovanna standing outside her flower kiosk. She waved.

He would usually shout out something sweet to her but this was not the moment for charming smiles and flattering syllabics. He was in too much of a hurry.

Startled however, by the police car that turned into the square, Eddie paused. The loud, wailing siren shook his insides and he waited to see in what direction it was headed.

He had a strong aversion for the Italian police. Violent bastards. He wanted nothing of them. Especially not now. He bit his lip and his stomach churned.

To his relief the patrol car did not stop but instead, entered the cemetery gates. He accelerated, zoomed oﬀ and dared not to look back.

Why the hell did they have to blaze the siren so fucking loudly. They’ll wake the bloody dead, he thought.

Eddie 2 - Thursday 16th august morning 8.30 WHERE TO PUT THIS???

Eddie headed oﬀ to Marco the builder to extort the money he owed

Sixty three year old Marco Parodi cowered on the floor in the corner of his oﬃce, his nose bleeding, his right eye weeping and swollen. He felt sick from the punches his tormentors had already laid on him. His kidneys ached from the heavy kicks.

Four days late with his monthly payment for money lent and this was his punishment. Torture and humiliation.

The mean, gorilla-like Ecuadorian lad with an ugly face and a neck tattoo, bent down and glared at him.

Marco stared at the cross under the corner of the Gorilla’s right eye. Above his left eyebrow the words ‘Kill them all’ in matching black ink.

But they were not here to kill him. No. They wouldn’t do that. It would be pointless. They wanted the money and if he were dead, they would never get it back. No, they were here to scare the shit out of him. And it was working.

The blonde Albanian, smart in his Palace T-shirt and blue jeans stood near Marco’s desk, feet part, wiping the blood oﬀ his knuckles with a handkerchief. He watched Carlos drive another punch into the old man’s face. Carlos, the evil bastard, could put the fear of the devil into any man, especially an old man like Marco who owed the Mushroom a lot of money.

“This is what you get when you don’t pay on time, Marco. You should know that.”

Eddie had met the Mushroom only the once but he knew there was no worse scum than a loan shark when his money was not paid back to him on the due date.

“Torture with ferocity and show no mercy.”

The Mushroom’s motto.

“Tomorrow we’re coming to your house, Marco. How’d you like that? When your wife’s at home with the children,” Carlos spat.

“Don’t let us down mate. You don’t want your kids to see their daddy like this, do you now?” said Eddie.

Marco felt like a mouse stuck to a poisoned glue tray. No way out, only a slow, painful death.

His post-dated cheque for the month of July had not been accepted at the bank. The building industry in Italy was suﬀering due to the county’s economic crisis and he had recently lost a customer who generated a high percentage of Marco’s revenue.

Christ, he had been stupid. He should have kept concentrations low and spread the business evenly across his customers. But he had been greedy and just could not resist.

The rate of interest on his ten thousand Euro loan was twenty percent a month. Eddie and Carlos had been instructed to visit him everyday for the last four days. They stood outside the door to his oﬃce waiting for Marco to hand over, this time, cash.

Marco knew the score. He had been given four days to find the money. Those four days were up and now Interest was charged on the interest and Eddie and Carlos began the violence.

First the threats from Eddie, then the aggression from Carlos.

Eddie liked to punch too. He enjoyed the satisfying crack of a bone under his fist.

This was how it worked and it worked well. And Eddie prospered with very nice remunerative returns.

He placed the bloodied handkerchief back in his pocket and then pulled his jeans up by the Luis Vuiton belt.

“See you tomorrow then, Marco. Have a nice day,” he said and walked out.

Giovanna - Thursday 16th August - 8.30 am The dark eyed girl sitting on a stool in the flower kiosk near the gates to the Cemetery opposite Francesca’s bar was feeling hungry. Her stomach rumbled and she wanted to go home.

She was weary and fed up.

It was only eight thirty in the morning and it was already too hot. She felt sticky and uncomfortable and her fingers stank of the flower stems she had spent the last half hour arranging in the tall vases that were placed on the floor around the shop. She was beginning to hate flowers.

Her days were long and slow like her customers. All of them ancient and few and far between. Thank God. Business was sluggish like the heat of these summer days and twiddling her thumbs was, it seemed, her new occupation.

She was finding this job dull. Dreadfully dull. But her father had given her no choice. He had bullied her into managing the shop. He bullied her into doing everything he wanted her to do and she hated him for it but she was too frightened to react and the idea of rebelling against him was a far flung dream. He was such a powerful, strong, cruel man but he was her father. She had to respect his word. That was the way, the Calabrese way.

Her dreams of going to university had been nipped in the bud when he refused her request to attend a high school that specialised in psychology.

“What the hell use is psychology? What kind of job will that ever get you? You’ll be far more benefit to me working in the shop, my girl, and not wasting your time on mamby pamby rubbish like psychology. I’ll hear no more of it.”

And she did not.

The shop it was and here she would stay until he commanded her elsewhere.

How she envied Aurora. Princess Aurora. Had her own flat. Studying architecture at uni. Had a job lined up. With Big shot uncle’s help of course, but still, she was going to be free to choose the life she wanted, lucky thing.

Aurora had it all.

She did not see much of her nowadays, too busy with her new friends from university to spend time with the flower girl. And anyway, Giovanna’s face did not fit in the sophisticated bars of Portofino and Santa Margarita. Certainly not as far as the princess was concerned.

She looked up from her phone and saw Eddie running across the square with his helmet on his head and keys in his hand. She jumped oﬀ the stool, tried to flatten down her long, unruly curls and waved to him but he did not see her.

She sighed.

A police car swept past her with its siren screaming and she jumped back into her shop. Her skin prickled.

“'He’ll come and say hello to me before lunch time, won’t he?” she thought. “He always does.”

The only thing that gave Giovanna enthusiasm in life was the hope of seeing Eddie. She adored him. He was tall and blonde and his blue eyes lightened up her day. Whenever he passed her little kiosk he would smile and salute her with a ‘Ciao Bella”. Sometimes he would even kiss her on the cheek and tell her how she looked ravishing that morning.

Eddie was so sweet to her and always oﬀered her a coﬀee which he would fetch from the bar. He would never forget the packet of brown sugar which he opened and poured in, slowly teasing her with his eyes. Then he would stir it while she held the cup, her hand trembling. As she drank, he would stand so close she could smell him, earthy, musky.

She listened to his exploits on the football pitch or to his gossip about people they saw at the bar opposite. She would lose herself in his deep blue eyes and imagine how his lips would feel kissing hers.

Giovanna was nearly eighteen. Nearly an adult. ’Una maggiorenne’. Her birthday was next month and she would then be legally free in the eyes of the Italian law.

To be eighteen years old was a step she had been waiting for with some apprehension. Her father had spoken to her very seriously about this important moment. Sometimes he did try to be a caring parent but he was always too imperious and quite frankly had put the fear of God into her.

“When you become eighteen, Gio, (Jo), you’ll not only have legal rights but also obligations that will make you completely independent and autonomous in your choices and actions. You’ll start having responsibilities that you didn’t have before and you’ll need to learn how to live with these responsibilities. Don’t forget, you will always have obligations towards me, your father, who has given you a good life, a comfortable life. You have never wanted for anything, have you? So just remember that. If I’d have let your mother take you away with her, you’d have been a nobody by now. Am I right or wrong?”

He always managed to make Giovanna feel so small and insignificant. Would she ever be in control of her own destiny? Will she ever be free of her father’s powerful grip?

Her freedom from his clasp around her neck would only come on her wedding day. But even the man who became her husband would have to oblige himself to her father’s will in order to obtain his blessing.

Her eighteenth birthday was not going to change much for her, she thought, and her father’s hands had just tightened their grip around her neck.

But maybe Eddie could change that.

Rita & MARIO A taxi pulled up outside the flower kiosks.

Giovanna watched as Mario Pittaluga, looking fit and tanned as usual, rushed out from the stands of colourful bouquets he had been preparing and went to open the taxi door to help his wife climb out. Very handsome in his tight, navy blue T-shirt and denim shorts, his black flip flops flapped on his feet and his brown calf muscles were creamed and shiny in their hairlessness.

Giovanna watched Rita struggle to get out of the vehicle and noticed the plaster covering her hand and forearm up to the elbow. Mario took her good arm and walked slowly with her towards their flower shop as if she had broken a leg, holding her up husbandly.

Mario settled his wife into the wicker chair next to the vases of white calla lilies, yellow roses and gladioli.

“What on earth happened to you Rita, poverina,” asked Giovanna, smiling sympathetically at the peroxide blonde woman, bobbed with a fringe that was cut to kill.

How vulgar, she thought, did the woman look in the tight leopard skin top with a neck-line so low her new breasts practically popped out. A tight black leather skirt laid bare her thick, dimpled knees and her shiny gold jewellery was rather too dazzling for this Friday morning.

“Mi sono inciampata. I tripped over while I was walking in the Centro Storico in my heels. Two days ago now. One of them got stuck in a hole in a drain. You know how those lanes are. I tripped up and went flying. Landed on my wrist and it snapped in two places, it did. What a bugger.” She waved her plastered arm in the air proudly.

Poverina. You poor thing” Giovanna repeated.

“Poor Mario, you mean. I’m not going to be good for much for a while so he’ll have to look after me. God he's gonna hate that.”

Her raucous cackle shook the flowers. Mario winced.

“Fancy a coﬀee love?” Mario asked his wife. “Giovanna?”

He had seen Giorgio Parodi the stone mason sit down at one of the tables outside under the veranda and he wanted the low down on the football match that had been played the evening before which he had missed. He also needed to get away from Rita.

She irritated him and when he got irritated he could lose his patience with her too easily. This would then start her oﬀ on one. He needed to avoid that at any cost right now. He did not want to feed her suspicions and nor did he want a hard life. He loved his wife but she was getting old. She was fifty five and he did not like old. She had been a beautiful woman once and he had to admit that she did still try her best but now she was past the sell by date. He didn’t like her loose skin and her flabby arms. He wanted a fresh, young woman to stroke and hold and feel. Women over fifty were ‘inguardabile’ - visually repelling.

“Buongiorno Giorgio. Come andiamo? How’s it going? Francesca an espresso please love.”

“Course my darling. Coming right up. Your usual Mario? Macchiato? With a little milk, nice and hot?”

“Yes, love, thanks. Another clammy one, isn’t it? I can’t stand this heat."

Giorgio held his piece of focaccia up to his mouth and took a huge bite. Giorgio sipped his coﬀee laced with grappa.

“So I suppose you’ve heard, then.” Mario asked the sombre looking man.

“Heard what?”

Giorgio reminded Mario of a rat with his thin face and long saline nose.

“Gabriele told us they found a body this morning up in campo 27, in the Rossi chapel. I thought you of all people, Giorgio, would have known about that by now.”

The stone mason wiped away a strand of lank, greasy hair from his brow. He looked greatly surprised but was more annoyed that Mario had heard such news before he had. Mario watched his expression with delight.

"Who was it? Anyone we know?"

"Gabriele couldn't tell us but he'll give us the low down as soon as he can."

He turned and eyed the redhead in the bright floral blouse, fascinated by how her big beaded necklace tantalisingly hid a very buxom cleavage.

“Who’s that beauty? Haven’t seen her before.”

“That, my dear Mario, is the Cacciatore girl. The one who got away.”

Mario leant back into his chair, crossed his legs and enjoyed the scene.

“The Cacciatore girl?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Christ, she’s grown. Last time I saw her, she was about twelve. Well, look at her now. What’s she doing back here?”

He smiled at her and watched the woman’s hand hide her mouth with her coﬀee cup. Giorgio Parodi’s teeth clicked as they ground the focaccia he chewed.

“You didn’t come back last night. What happened?” he asked with his bony jaws still full.

“My..er …my sister. She’s having problems. I couldn’t leave her.”

“I was counting on you, Mario.”

Giorgio screwed up the tissue paper in which he had been holding the focaccia and threw the scrunched ball into the ashtray. Mario took a sip of the creamy coﬀee Francesca had put in front of him. He attempted to change the subject.

"So how did the game go last night?”

"Terrible! Three, one. What an embarrassment!"

Giorgio looked at Mario intently and pointing his finger said, “Play it carefully this time son. If Rita gets wind of what you’re up to, she’ll kill you. She’s a good woman that one and she doesn’t deserve to be hurt by a jackass like you.”

“What are you going on about, old man?” asked Mario, laughing nervously.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, idiot. I’ve seen the way you’ve been tarting around Elisa’s new girl. Listen. We can’t aﬀord to have any hysterics at the moment. The wrong people have started to get suspicious. So let’s try and avoid any unnecessary attention. That means no public scenes between you and Rita like last time, alright?”

He got up and went to pay the bill. After he left, Francesca shouted over to him.

“Giorgio paid for your coﬀee, Mario. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks love,” he shouted back. “And thanks very much for that Giorgio,” he said under his breath. “Can’t a man have a bit of fun every now and again?”

He picked up the Sporting Gazzette and started to read about the Derby played the evening before between the two Genovese teams, Sampdoria and Genoa. He was an avid ‘Genoano’ and had wanted to be at the stadium with his season ticket and his flag. Genoa, the favourite to win, were leading Samp in ‘Seria A’ for the first time in five years. But he had to miss the match of the season for some idiotic meeting that Parodi had insisted was imperative.

“Bellin!” Che Palle!”

He put the paper down and saw Elisa’s new girl, Carola, saunter past with her young, taut bottom swaying in her tight blue shorts. Her legs were never ending. She turned her head towards him and smiled alluringly showing her lovely white teeth. Her hair was long and dark and shone like gentle water on a silent lake with the summer sun reflecting upon it. He wasn’t ready to give up the game yet. No way. But he could see, over the way, Something else that was glistening in the bright sunshine. His wife’s Rita’s dark eyes. She was glaring at him.

“Time to get back” he sighed “before there’s trouble.”

He wiggled his forefinger, signalling a ‘no’ to Carola to tell her she must not sit with him. This was not the right moment. She gave him a disappointed look and then blew him a kiss which fell on the hot steamy air. He died inside with desire. She was his new sylph. His bright fresh spirit.

Like a snail in long grass, he made his way back to the flower shop to his fifty five year old wife.

THE DEBATE : Hope & Caterina in the garden At midday, still chilled by the shock of the morning’s event, Hope and Caterina sat under the gazebo in the garden of the buttercup house, shaded from the burning sunshine. They both sipped on enormous flutes bubbling with light-golden liquid and the crickets stridulated their constant, monotonous rhythm.

“Is Grazia Rosa sleeping?” Hope asked.

“Yes, finally. Mirella gave her something.”

“Mirella?”

“The nurse who lives in the flat opposite Aurora.” Caterina moaned then said, “Madonna Mia. But why? Why would she kill herself like that, Hope, and in the cemetery too? It just doesn’t make any sense to me. The cemetery of all places! Wasn’t she scared to death?”

“She was probably already high on her antidepressants before she could even think of being scared. Not scared to death but drugged to death. Though it’s hard to say without understanding her story. Did you know she was taking pills for depression?”

“I had no idea. I mean, she seemed so together. So confident and bright.”

“We can never know what goes on behind the closed doors of another’s mind? You see, when you suﬀer from depression, there’s no reasoning. Only grey, colourless darkness and the feeling of dread that you have no control over. You’re unable to see life as an option. The only thing on your mind is putting an end to the sadness.”

Caterina studied her friend’s face. She knew Hope’s last case had pushed her over the edge.

“But there is something I don’t quite get.” Hope continued.

“What?”

"Well, red is not a colour you choose to wear when you feel like shit and want the world to close in on you. When you are suicidal, do you dress up like that? I mean, she looked more like she was going on a date, not going out to kill herself.”

“Red is a powerful colour,” Caterina said. “It symbolises strength of character. A woman who wears red knows what she wants. Her decision was made and she wanted to see it through. Aurora may have chosen her dress very carefully. Don’t forget, Rossi, Red, is her father’s family name. Perhaps the colour she chose to die in had great meaning to her.”

Hope slurped the cooling Prosecco and her body relaxed as the alcohol infiltrated her bloodstream.

“God, how will Grazia Rosa ever get over this? Aurora was her whole life.” Caterina’s eyes welled with tears. Her nose began to run and sniﬄing, she asked,

“Do you believe it was premeditated Hope? That she actually went there with the intention of killing herself? It’s ludicrous. She was so level-headed and she had everything mapped out, you know. I mean, she’d nearly finished university and was so excited about going to work with her uncle. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“I never did speak to her. All I know about her is what Pino and Grazia Rosa tell me. She was a bit of a ….Oh God.”

She blew her nose on the tissue Hope handed to her.

“Did they tell you anything about her love life? Any boyfriends?”

“I don’t think there was anyone special but I know that there was a man she liked. That was about six months ago now. He was calling her a lot. Grazia Rosa said they’d kept it from the dad, Nando. Didn’t want him to know. I think because the guy was a lot older than her.”

“A lot older than her? Know his name?”

Caterina glared. Hope immediately saw her friend had understood the inference and immediately regretted it.

“Oh for God’s sake, Hope. Aurora wouldn’t have been interested in a man like Gabriele. She was a Portofino girl. Her favourite hang-out was the Covo, and if she wasn’t there she’d be in Santa Margherita. She had class and high expectations. And, No. She said very little to me. I didn’t see a lot of her, as I said.”

“What about a best friend? Anyone she was close to?”

Caterina dropped her shoulders and slung her arms by her sides.

“I don’t know, Hope. Maybe Giovanna.”

“Giovanna?”

“She works in one of the florist kiosks down by the gates of the cemetery. One of the De Luca girls.”

“One of Gabriele’s sister’s?”

“Not sure. Could be. Or a cousin. There are hundreds of them.”

“Do you think she might know something?”

“She could do, I suppose. I really don’t know. But why are you so interested?”

“A young, beautiful woman is dead. No inquiry is going to be made because of the decision of one doctor who spent no more than fifteen minutes looking at her. If I were Pino I couldn’t accept such a decision so lightly. I’d want to at least understand her movements. What made her arrive at her fatal decision.”

“And what about Grazia Rosa? Aurora would never’ve wanted her mother to go through such pain? I don’t know. It seems so strange.”

Hope finished her second glass of Prosecco and pushed the swing they were sitting on back and forth with her feet. They sat in silence listening to the crickets’ ridges scraping together urgently. But when she noticed a bright yellow wasp delve into a hole in a mound in the ground near her feet she jumped up to take a closer look.

“I didn’t know wasps dug into the earth!” she said in surprise.

“Oh, they’re Germanic. They make their nests underground. I’m going to have to keep an eye.”

“German wasps? I’ve never heard of them!”

“Actually, they can be quite aggressive. If I’m not careful, there’ll be thousands of them under there before soon. I’ll have to call in the wasp man. It’s the females, you know. They feed their babies on crickets mostly which they capture and paralyse with their poison. Then they hide them in their underground nests and lay their egg on the cricket’s body. They block up the hole so nothing can get out and when the larva hatches it feeds on the poor insect that is still alive but immobilised. Can you imagine?”

“Good Lord! That’s horrific!” Hope felt the flutter of serrated wings in her stomach. “Eaten alive, aware of your death but pinned by poison and no escape!”

Hope watched black and yellow stripes push their way into the tiny entrance on top of a fresh mound of earth and the back of her neck tingled. That curious sensation of dread took her breath away but she could not explain why.

And then they heard the scream.

Grazia Rosa wakes up screaming. - Thursday 16th august - 8.pm Grazia Rosa heard a shrill scream rip the air. She opened her eyes and realised it was her own. Her own scream of anguish. She clutched at the sheets. Sodden. She was drowning in her own sweat.

Her head pounded and her eyes burned from the salty tears she could not turn oﬀ. Her heart retched in her chest with nausea.

She wanted to be laying next to her daughter on that stone floor, holding her tight, dead together. She did not want to be breathing.

She turned and lay on her side in a foetal position, covering her head with the pillow to shut reality out, and then when Caterina and Hope came to her bedside to comfort her, she re-lived the last time she had seen her beautiful princess alive as she had done over and over again in her drug induced sleep.

Hope imagined the horrific scene as she described it, trembling in her bed.

“Mum, Can I borrow your black bag? You know, the smart leather one.”

“Yes, tesoro, It’s on the chair. Tip out all the contents though, could you love, and put them into the big navy one.”

“Where is it?”

Sitting on the large double bed, Grazia Rosa looked up from sewing the button on her husbands’s shirt and admired her daughter.

“There love, look. On the chair. The blue one’s hanging on the back of the door.”

While Aurora emptied her mother’s belongings from the black leather bag, her father staggered into the bedroom. Mother and daughter straightened their backs, alert to his mood.

He stood with hands on hips, legs apart, teetering.

“My, My. Don’t you look fancy in that black dress. New is it? Where are you oﬀ to this evening then, sweet daughter of mine?”

Grazia Rosa heard the sarcastic slur in his voice. Her heart beat faster.

“Nowhere special dad. Just going for a drink with Giovanna and a couple of friends from Uni.”

“Well I hope you’re not seeing any of those yobs Giovanna hangs about with. You know I don’t like ‘em. Tattoos and face piercings. Boys today are covered in ‘em. Look like criminals, they do. Can’t be trusted.”

“Just me and the girls, Dad.”

Grazia Rosa gave her a sly wink.

Aurora placed her hand on her father’s arm to soothe him. He snatched it and, gripping her fingers, he twirled her around as if leading her in a jive. She tried not to wince.

“Dress a bit too short, girl. I’m not having my special daughter looking like a cheap tart. And as for those red shoes…”

“Nando. Let her be. I think the dress really suits her. You look lovely, my dear,” she had the courage to pipe up.

“Shut up bitch. I’m talking to my daughter, not you. Stay out of it,” he spat.

“Nando. Please. No need to raise your voice so. Try and calm down now.” Grazia Rosa tried to mollify him. Her voice low and calm like caramel on the outside, trembled deep in her throat.

“Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do, you bitch. Not in my house! Think you can undermine my authority, do you? I’m the boss here, remember?”

The man’s voice rattled, threatening and mean. His spiteful words attacked like the forked tongue of a thick-headed snake with its fangs on show. Sharp, quick, painful. The alcohol on his breath reeked in the dangerous air.

The short, slight man shoved his daughter away from him and she fell onto the bed against her mother. Grazia Rosa immediately placed an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. She brushed the girl’s honey blonde hair back into place with the flat of her other hand.

Ferdinando straightened his glasses and pushed them further onto his bulbous nose.

“Dad, please. Leave it. I promise, I’m not seeing any boys. I told you already.”

“Nando. Be careful. You’ll hurt her.”

“Dad, please….”

Grazia Rosa put her hand up, warning to silence her daughter. She knew her husband’s mood too well.

Ferdinando’s nostrils flared and with legs planted wide he spat in his wife’s face and grabbed the back of her hair.

“Hurt my daughter? My precious daughter? You’re a stupid bitch. I’d never hurt my daughter, but you.. you deserve everything you get, bitch.”

His scrawny runt of a voice hit her hard but not so hard as his fists. Her heart beat faster. She clasped the duvet on the bed preparing for what was to come.

“Dad, Be careful. You’re hurting her. No dad, please.”

“Darling. Go to your room. Your dad isn’t feeling right. Go to your room, please. It’ll be alright.”

“But mum..”

Grazia Rosa waved a hand to shoo her out.

“Get out and change that dress. You look like a whore!”

Grazia Rosa saw the fear in Aurora’s eyes. A fear she had seen too often. But relieved to see her daughter grab the bag and rush out of the bedroom, she sighed and still sitting on the bed she shared with her husband in sweetness and in terror, tried desperately to hold back the tears clouding her eyes.

She knew what to expect. She saw the red fury twitching under her husband’s eye. His bared teeth reminded her of a she-wolf with blood on her fangs. Its claws ready to tear open the belly of its captured prey.

He rammed his forehead into her face and tightened his grip on the back of her hair.

“You are going to get everything you deserve, bitch. I’m going to kill you, you dirty whore.”

He spat at her. The saliva slipped white and sticky thick down her cheek.

“Just look at you now. Pa..the…tic.”

“Nando, please.”

Thin knuckly, fingers grabbed around her neck.

"Don't you dare cry, you aggravating whore!” He roared.

Ferdinando pulled and Grazia Rosa’s scalp burned in agony. He pinched her nose and ears. Then he struck her cheek. His diamond cluster ring cut her skin. With every spitting word he slapped her.

"Don't…you….dare…cry…you… aggravating…whore!”

His neck red, veins popping.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she dared to whimper. Her voice weakling and mewling like a kitten about to be drowned.

It was too late. His seething rage uncontrollable, he pulled her down onto the cold marble floor and kicked her.

Then he shoved his knee into her belly. She gasped and let out a sobbing groan.

“Who’s the boss in this house, now? Who’s the boss? Tell me you bitch!”

He shoved her head onto the marble, one, two, three. Her eyes bulged with fear.

A punch.

Crack! Her cheek bone..

“No, Nando. Please. Let me go,” she whispered. “I have a consignment tonight. You can’t… I have to …”

Before Grazia Rosa passed out she heard her daughter’s clicking heels and a slam.

The front door.

Aurora was safe.

Hope and Caterina sat in silence, shaken so badly by Grazia Rosa’s story, they had no words. They could not even look at each other, so lost were they in their own seething hatred for a sadistic bully who abused and humiliated the very woman he should cherish.

Aurora’s perspective Aurora heard the click click of her heels on the marble floor as she ran out of her parents bedroom, shaking.

Terrified of what was about to happen to her mother but not wanting to hear, she bolted to the front door which she let slam behind her.

Up the path and past the church, she made her way to her car, gulping for air.

She knew her father would soon be on his knees begging repentance. He would lick his wife’s wounds, paw and pat her, and she would suckle his guilt away for him.

How could she forgive him? She always forgave him. God, she could not bear it.

Her chest heaving with nausea, her throat gagging, Aurora stormed up the path to the church of Sant’Antonino, to her car, wobbling in her new red shoes that pounded on the tarmac. The fresh air she gulped down swept her lungs of the toxic fumes that pervaded her blood.

She grappled for her keys in her mother’s bag, then dropped them on the ground.

When she stood up, a car had rolled up and hemmed her in as she stood by the boot of her Lancia Ypsilon.

The window lowered.

The passenger door opened to her.

“Get in Aurora. Get in, now.”

Alessandro waiting - Wednesday 15th agosto ferragosto The evening before Aurora’s body was found, Alessandro De Luca, sat waiting in his silver grey Mercedes C-Class Coupe. Butterflies in his stomach. He had parked it under the shadow of an olive tree further down the lane than was necessary and at 8pm the sky was beginning to darken for the night. He had been sitting for some time and was becoming more and more impatient.

She never allowed him to park where someone might see him. She always insisted. Her father was not to know who was there to collect her. So he always hid the car a safe distance away. This evening was no exception. But this evening’s visit would be a surprise. She did not expect him but she was sure to be leaving the house soon. She always went out on a Thursday.

He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. His hair was greying at the sides and his carefully groomed beard showed signs of silver but women seemed to like it. It made him look distinguished, they assured him.

He was a good-looking man. His nose was a little too large but when he smiled, his newly whitened teeth outshone the honk, so he smiled a lot. That accounted for the crows’ feet well chiselled into the corners of his dark, sensual eyes.

Life was good. He was having fun and he was crazy about this young girl who he had met only a year ago in a nightclub in the up-market, wealthy town of Santa Margarita.

He pulled up the collar of his white, short-sleeved, polo shirt which gave a suave and fashionable look to his already sophisticated style. He then brushed his fingers through his curly black hair. He was lucky. He was not yet thinning at the top like some of his friends. He admired his new, modern cut that Rodolfo had given him last week. Good old Rodolfo. He was a great barber and knew how to work with a man’s hair. He was also a great procurer of the finest white powder that money could buy. Alex De Luca had become a habitual user.

He leaned over to the passenger seat and checked inside the smart shopping bag he had placed on it. A small gift for her. She would love it. He had chosen it with care. It was expensive, exclusive and it sparkled. She would understand how much he loved her when she opened it.

She’ll have read the note too.

Maybe she would change her mind now.

Dong dong dong. The bells in the clock tower chimed. It was eight o’clock. And he waited.

But he was good at waiting. He had had a lot of training as a child. Then it seemed interminable. He would sit down on the doorstep and had no choice but to wait for his older brother to come out of the building. The smell of urine on the narrow street stuck to his nose hairs. He could always hear the banging of the shutters as they were being closed.

“Just wait for me here, runt. This won’t take long.”

That’s what his brother would always say.

And when he turned fourteen his brother made him enter the building too.

“Today is a special day, runt. It’s your turn. You are going to finally understand what’s really important in life.” He laughed and ruﬄed Alessandro’s hair. God, how he hated that.

Remembering the pungent smell of that dingy room, the dirty sheets on a mattress on the floor and the large breasted black African woman, falling out of her tiny red bra, a long, blonde wig down to her broad shoulders, lying with her legs apart ready for him. He shuddered. This was what his brother had been keeping him waiting for, out on that filthy pavement every Sunday morning?

Smells, smells. Odorous smells. His nose was so sensitive to smells. Reeking, acrid odours that made him wretch.

He began to notice the stabbing pain that was pricking into his thumb. He looked at his hand and saw the spot of blood that he had scratched out from his skin with his own fingernails. It was red and sore. He was punishing himself for his own sins.

At last.

Looking in the wing mirror he could see her walking briskly towards her car, handbag over her shoulder, long blonde hair bouncing. Her legs, slender, brown, delicious to stroke, and that drss, elegant, black, short enough to imagine what lay beneath.

She stopped and wiped her eyes and seemed to take a deep breath of air before searching for something in her bag. She looked beautiful. Miserable but beautiful. Why was she always so miserable these days.

He turned the engine on and quickly reversed the car to where she was standing. He pinned her in between the back of her own car, a pale blue Lancia, and his Mercedes. Her startled surprise showed on her face and she dropped the car keys she was holding. She bent down to pick them up and Alex De Luca reaching over, opened the passenger door to her.

“Get in Aurora. Get in now.”

“Alex! What are you doing here?”

“I want you to get in. Now.”

“But I can’t. I’m meeting someone. Alex, Please. I’m not in the mood.”

“Aurora. Get in the car. I am not moving until you get in.”

“Damn Alex. This is not funny. I haven’t got time for your silly games. I’ve got to be somewhere in twenty minutes and I don’t want to be late.”

“If you don’t get in the car now, I’ll come round there and lift you in myself. You don’t want that, do you?”

His voice was menacing and Aurora felt she had no choice. She reluctantly slid into the passenger seat lifting the bag oﬀ it which she placed on her lap and settled down into the luxurious, light brown leather car chair.

He attempted to kiss her but she jerked her face away. He stroked her hair from her eyes and she tensed at his touch.

“Don’t Alex.”

As she answered she could feel his eyes bore into her soul. He frightened her.

“I need to talk to you. And this way you can’t avoid me, like you have been doing for the last few months.”

“But Alessandro, How many times must we go over this. I am not coming back to you. I thought I’d explained clearly enough how I feel. You must let me go. You are nearly the same age as my father. I don’t feel comfortable with this. And If he knew about us, he would kill you. I can’t be with you any more. Have you already forgotten?”

“No. How could I forget. Your words killed me.”

“Please don’t be so dramatic, Alex. It’s exactly this kind of reaction from you that scares me.”

“So I scare you now, do I?”

“Yes you do actually. And this following me around. The accidentally on purpose bumping into me. Even when I was on holiday with my parents last month in Deiva Marina, you managed to be there too. Don’t tell me that was by pure chance!”

“Pure luck, I’d say, my love.”

“Don’t call me that. I am not your love any more. Do I have to spell it out? We are finished. It’s over. I can’t do this anymore. All the hiding and I want you to stop following me everywhere. You must let me go. You must stop this.”

“Stop what, amore? How can I stop seeing you? I love you. I want you to be mine forever. We have something so special.”

“No Alex. This will be the last time we see each other. I know it’s diﬃcult for you to understand. But I can’t see you anymore. And please don’t try and kiss me.”

“There’s a gift for you. Look in the bag. It’s to show you how much I love you, darling.”

Aurora opened the bag and saw the box. She sank into the chair with exasperation.

“Open it, then” he said.

She shook her head but at his stern look of warning, she slowly undid the packaging.

The bracelet was indeed a beautiful and very expensive gift.

Alessandro snatched the crystal bead bracelet from its box, grabbed Aurora’s wrist and carefully put it around her slender wrist. “Look. It’s exactly the one you wanted and I chose your favourite colours. See how each letter of your name has been so delicately engraved on the crystals. Your father did a good job, didn’t he? See how they glimmer.”

While he tried to close the catch, Aurora’s breathing quickened.

“But did you go to my dad’s shop? Is that where you bought this? From my dad?”

“Of course, my love. Where else would I go to buy jewellery for you!”

“Oh God. Alex. Did you tell him it was for me?”

“No sweetheart. I did not. You are such a worrier! I’m not that stupid. Although I expect he guessed.”

Aurora’s heart softened. A man with a gift was a man worth keeping around.

“Alex. It is lovely and thank you. You always know how to spoil me.”

“You look beautiful.” In an instant his eyes glared. Then his neck reddened the colour of her dress as jealousy filled his blood. “Why are you dressed like that? Got a date?.” He placed his forefinger under the strap of her red dress. “You’re meeting him, aren’t you? Is that why you don’t want to kiss me, Aurora? Because you’re sleeping with another man?”

Aurora grabbed his hand and threw it oﬀ her shoulder.

“It’s none of your business what I do now, Alex. And I can see whoever I like, because you and I are no longer an item. Look, why are you here? What is it that you want?”

“I can’t let you go. Not like this Aurora,” said Alessandro. “Not after what you told me last time we met. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. It’s killing me inside. You have to understand that I love you. And now we have more reason to be together. I’ll protect you and look after you.”

“Alessandro. Please. I won’t tell you again. This is the last time. I don’t want to see you anymore.“

“Did you get my note? Did you read it? We can’t stop what we have now. You can surely see that, can’t you?”

A horn hooted. The driver of a light blue fiat 600 wanted to reverse out of its parking space.

“Alright, alright. Keep you bloody hair on!. We’re leaving.”

Alex revved the engine and with a bolting thrust roared the Mercedes out of Sant’Antonino

“Alex, no! Where are you taking me? Listen, I’m supposed to be meeting my friends. I don’t want to be late. Just stop the car will you? Let me out.”

“But we’re going to your favourite place. I’ve booked a table for eight thirty and they’re saving us one on the terrace.”

“No Alex, No. I can’t. I have an appointment. I have to be there in ten minutes. Come on, stop the car please and let me out.”

“But My love. Calm yourself. If the man who’s waiting for you loves you like I do, he will wait for you forever. And I have something very important I want you to do for me.”

Aurora felt uneasy. Alessandro was refusing to accept her decision to break oﬀ with him. He was morbidly attached to her. He was suﬀocating her and she had begun to feel that his love for her was oppressively exaggerated. She no longer felt comfortable being with a married man with two kids. And Alessandro was scaring her.

“After today you won’t want to leave me. I’ll show you what kind of a man I am and you’ll change your mind. I know you will.”

Aurora’s phone pinged. She checked it.

“Where are you?”

She wanted to answer but dared not. Alex had fury in his eyes. She let the phone drop back into her bag and filled her lungs with a deep breath of courage.

Hope and Caterina on beach at Bogliasco Thursday afternoon? Flash back to THE APERITIVO Wednesday 15th august - ferragosto 8:00 pm Lying on a flat rock on the coastal bluff that protruded from the small pebbled beach into the clear sea-water’s edge, Hope moaned and rolled over onto her back. She had been sleeping in the late afternoon sun with Caterina lying next to her. Hope, after all, was on holiday and despite the shock and trauma they had both witnessed, they had needed to distance themselves from that morning’s horrific discovery and Caterina had taken them to the delightful fishing village of Bogliasco. It was just a twenty minute journey from Staglieno on the ‘Via Aurelia - The Aurelian Way’, the ancient Roman road that was built in 241 B.C. by Aurelius Cotta who by that time had constructed several roads out of Rome. The Aurelia, originally ending in Pisa, was lengthened by more than 200 miles and followed the sea line from Rome to Genova. Built to the Roman standard of fifteen feet wide which allowed two chariots to pass each other, it enjoyed breathtaking views of mountain, valley and sea, but no more breathtaking than here, in this Ligurian pearl. Hope and Caterina had spent the last few hours lazing in the hot sun’s rays and occasionally diving into the coolly refreshing water together. Hope wore her new navy blue swim suit which disguised her enlarged shape by highlighting her feminine curves, she had been told by the salesgirl in Zara. Caterina in a flimsy bikini that highltied her slim graceful figure and long shapely legs. Other bathers were beginning to pack away their towels now. Some were leaving the beach for the day, others were making their way to the little blue and white painted wooden terrace that overlooked the rocks and where a bar offered aperitifs and cold beers. It was a perfect spot to watch the sun disappear into the sea on the horizon and to forget the vision of the body of a dead girl dressed in red. This little laguna could be arrived at by walking down the long steep stone steps that led from the ‘passaggiata’ above, where formidable palm trees offered welcomed shade

and the windows of several villas with fresco decorated facades allowed their inhabitants a heart-stirring vision of the Ligurian seascape. “Shall I get us a couple of beers from the bar?” Caterina asked, sitting up. “Yes please.” she answered languidly and stretched her arms above her head in pleasure then sat up too and dangled her pale legs into the sea enjoying the gentle waves lap over her feet. While Caterina made her way to the bar, hope slunk from the rock into the cool water. She swam about a bit, keeping her head out of the salty brine then turned onto her back and, stretching her legs, and floated motionlessly, feeling weightless. Her mind wandered not to Aurora but to Pino. She luxuriated in the memory of the evening before.

“Pino, Pino! Over here!”

Caterina stood up and waved at her friend who was crossing the piazza and making his way to the bar. Hope, spotting him, took an enormous slug of her delightfully large, round glass filled with Aperol spritz. The ice chinked against her teeth and a dribble of the red nectar smeared down her chin and drizzled onto her blue and white floral blouse.

“Bugger.”

She unruﬄed a red paper napkin and scraped at the stain, flustered. It smeared and now looked like a blotch of dried blood.

Pino arrived at their table, swept Caterina up into his arms and kissed her on both cheeks. Caterina squealed like a piglet.

“Mind my bruise!”

“Oh. So Sorry Pino. Does it still hurt?”

He waved his hand in dismissal.

“No no, don’t stand up for me Speranza.” He laughed and walked around the table to where Hope was firmly sitting. Into the chair next to hers he collapsed with a thump.

“It’s wonderful to see you again Spera. After so much time.”

He stroked away a wisp of her hair that was stuck to her cheek and then grazed her still sticky lips with his. She flushed and felt the blush colour her face, as red as the napkin she still squashed tightly in her fist.

“Great to see you too, Pino.”

“She’s not called Speranza anymore, Pino. She’s Hope.”

“Hope? Hope. I like that.” He rubbed his shoulder against hers in a playful gesture.

Pino called the waitress over and ordered a Negroni. Hope let go of the napkin and grabbed her spritz. She swigged it down to stabilise her pounding pulse.

“Another?” he asked the girls as he lit up one of his white filter cigarettes. “Want one? They’re ultralight. I will give up, sooner or later.” He laughed.

Hope shook her head. “I’ll have one of mine thanks. Prefer them nice and strong. If you're gonna smoke, might as well do it right,” she said and took out her packet of Marlborough Reds.

Elegant clothed tables and comfortable cushioned chairs filled the pavement under the porticoes outside the bars that lined this side of Piazza della Vittoria. It was a fashionably busy, early evening location for the ‘apericena’ hour. Italians of all ages came here to meet friends, drink immeasurably potent cocktails and fill their plates from the extraordinarily varied dishes on oﬀer at the buﬀet. Seven Euro a cocktail - food included. The atmosphere was enjoyably chaotic. Voices getting louder as drinks were consumed.

Groups of ‘amici’ were hovering around waiting for a table to free up, all vying to be noticed in their designer label clothes, chattering together clamorously, proud to be in large numbers. It was a pulsating arena of hens and peacocks competing for attention with brand names, new hair styles and armfuls of tattoos both male and female.

Hope kept her elbow on the table and used her free hand to cover the mess she had made of her cheap Primark top.

“Isn’t it wonderful to have Hope back with us again, Pino?” Caterina beamed.

“Absolutely.”

Hope pinked again as he winked at her then took out his phone and studied it closely, his expression, serious and furrowed.

“Merda. Shit. What a disaster.”

“Bloody hard day, I bet,” said Hope.

Without looking up Pino repeated her words.

“Bloody hard day, to say the least. They’ve … er …. just uncovered the bodies of two young men in the rubble.”

“Not in a car?”

“No, no. They didn’t plummet from the bridge. They were working below it at the dumping site that was there this morning.”

“Christo mio!”

“One consolation I suppose was that neither of them had time to understand a thing. They were crushed in seconds by the concrete pylon that smashed on top of them.” He paused and handed the phone to Caterina.

“Read this out will you, love. I’ve not got my glasses.”

“Yeah. Sure…. Apocalypse in Genova. Bridge in disrepair plunges into the Abyss. Carnage on Highway A10….. Mamma Mia che tragedia.” She paused and sipped her cocktail before she continued.

“City in shock as a partial collapse of the Morandi Bridge kills and injures tens of victims. At least 31 dead including 9 year old boy. Still uncertain the number of missing….. Che terribile. Ma che terribile…..

Corrosion in the cable stays blamed …. Corrosion? …. Maintenance work was planned to take place …. end of summer?” She glanced at Pino in disbelief.

“Italian Government says: Whoever is at fault will pay.”

Caterina passed the phone to Hope.

“Here. Look at the photo. God Pino. Is that true? Were they going to start work on it?”

Hope pushed her unruly waves of hair behind her freckled ears and inspected the photograph of the mountainous concrete wreckage. She wondered at the courage of the men who had climbed onto the fallen girders to search for possible survivors. An impossible feat, she thought and twisted the silver stud in her lobe.

“The horror,” she murmured to herself.

“Let’s change the subject, can we please? Can I tell Speranza, oh sorry, Hope, your big news, Pino?”

“My big news?”

“Yes. You know. Your insignificant promotion to Marshal of the Carabinieri Genova, Central.” She rolled her eyes.

“Should we bow when we meet you now?” Hope joked.

“Little red head, are you teasing me?”

“She’d never dream of it, would you sweet friend of mine?” Said Caterina. “Now put that phone away please, Pino, and concentrate on us.”

“So where’s your angel tonight? I thought you said he was coming?” Pino asked.

“Gabriele? Football, of course.”

“I hope you’re not becoming a football widow, my dear.”

“It’s his only passion.”

“I doubt that,” snarled Hope.

“And anyway, it means I can concentrate one hundred percent on my lovely Hope this evening.” She grabbed hope’s hand and squeezed tightly.

Another round of drinks were ordered and the mood of the evening lightened. When Caterina left the table to visit the Ladies inside the bar, Pino placed his hand on Hope’s thigh. Her whole body tingled at his touch, the large doses of Aperol spritz loosening her normally tight spirit.

“It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve missed you, my funny little redhead.”

“You used to call me Ginger. God I hated that.”

“You’re right. I did. Well I promise I won’t call you that again, then.”

He leaned in close and she felt his moustache tickle her ear. A rush of excitement prickled her senses.

“And what’s with this?” She brushed his carefully groomed goatee beard with her finger.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, I do. It suits you. Very trendy.”

“Where have you been for so long. Why have you never visited us sooner?”

“I…I … you see, my work. Well it’s so, it’s rather taken over, you know.” Her hand darted to her mouth and her fingers plate with the tiny scar at the corner of her top lip.

Pino touched her hair.

“This colour. God, how I loved this colour.”

She giggled.

“And look at you now. All grown up and a successful copper too. Who’d’ve thought my little Ginger’d turn out so well.”

She lifted her glass to her mouth not taking her eyes oﬀ his. So dark and sultry. What did he mean, turn out so well?

“You’ll be sleeping in the room next to mine tonight. Do you remember when you used to come and stay at ours? When your dad worked lates.”

Hope smelt his sweet sour breath.

“How long ago was that. We’d jump on your bed. God, such fun we had all together,” she said.

“You know, you could come and jump on my bed tonight?” His eyes widened and glistened with playful desire. His hand squeezed her thigh.

Tonight?” Her eyes widened in surprise at his sudden directness. The confidence of the alcohol however, swirled around her blood. “A bit of bed jumping with you? tonight?” Her eyes gleamed. She licked her lips.

“Why not? Could be fun. And God knows we could both do with a little light relief, couldn’t we?”

Caterina returned. Pino moved away from Hope. Hope mouthed a “no” and he pouted.

“What’s up?” asked Caterina.

Pino waved at the waitress. “Let’s get another round in shall we?”

“Thought you said you had an early start? You’re driving too. Be careful.”

“I’m alright, little friend of mine. I’m a big strong man. I can take it.”

“Is that why you joined the Carabiniere then, Pino?” Hope asked, trying to brush away the images in her head of Pino’s bed.

“What?”

“Because you’re big and strong?” Hope squeezed his bicep.

“He wanted to prove to the rest of Italy that he’s not a ‘terrone’” said Caterina.

“Terrone. God I haven’t heard that word in a while. Ha! If you’re a redneck Pino, then so are we,” said Hope.

“Well, our Nonni, our grandparents were both illiterate, weren’t they, Pino?” said Caterina.

“I don’t think Nonna Jenna could read that well, either,” said Hope.

“Is that why you became a Carabiniere really?”

“No. Not really. You know, we grew up in a diﬃcult environment, didn’t we? Most of the boys were either criminals or drug addicts. I wanted something better and your dad —well, your dad, he …”

Before Pino could continue, his phone vibrated on the table. He clucked in annoyance.

“Sorry But I have to take this. He’s not going to let me alone until I speak to him.”

He stood up and walked oﬀ the pavement to hide behind one of the white marble pillars that lined the length of the street holding up the porticoes. Caterina raised an eyebrow at Hope and they sipped their drinks in silence.

When Pino returned he sighed then grabbed his glass and gulped down his Negroni.

“I have to go. There’s a problem. Sorry loves.”

He took out a fifty Euro bank note from his wallet and threw it down on the table.

“Hope you’ll be comfortable in that spare room of mine.”

He walked away, stopped, turned and said, “but if you need anything, I’m just down the corridor. No need to knock.”

Hope thought she saw a cheeky glisten in his eyes.

HOPE AND CATERINA TALK ABOUT AURORA’S DEATH OVER BEERS ON ROCK “Beers up!” Shouted Caterina , holding two large bottles of cold Moretti. Hope did her best front crawl to the rock, splashing her arms and feet like an excited child, pulled herself out and shook her hair like a dog, splattering cold water over her friend who shrieked in pleasure.

In silence they sipped their first source, until Hope said, “The first sip is always the most delicious, isn’t it?

Caterina murmured her agreement.

“What time was it, Cat?

What?

What time was it when we drove back to Sant’Antonino?”

“When?”

“Cat! Last night of course. From the aperitivo with Pino.”

“Last night? Can’t remember exactly, but it must’ve been around eleven, eleven thirty. Why?”

“Well, we saw two people, didn’t we?”

“Two people?”

“When we were in the taxi at the back of the cemetery.”

“God, yes. I’d completely forgotten about that. In Via del Veilino. I was sure it was Mario in that black SUV, you know.

“Yes, I know. You said.”

The taxi driver wasn’t too happy, was he? Having to reverse out of the lane like that. If it were Mario, he certainly doesn’t have much road manners.”

“Men in big cars feel in a position of power and the smaller the man the more intimidating their tactics.”

Caterina sniggered. “He’s not very tall, is Mario. Bellin, there was that blonde with him. Not his wife, though. Rita’s blonde, but she must be about fifty now. The girl in Mario’s car couldn’t have been more than twenty. Twenty two at the most.”

“Exactly. He had a blonde with him. Long blonde, right?”

Caterina nearly choking on her beer, spluttered her mouthful over her legs. “Cazzo, Hope. What are you thinking?”

“Nothing really, but it occurred to me we have no idea when Aurora could have entered that cemetery. All we know is that around eight o’clock she borrowed her mum’s bag and nearly witnessed her father beating her mother half to death. But of course, Grazia Rosa, tranquillised up, may have got the time wrong. Nevertheless we know it was early evening. We also know she was dressed up and was going out to meet this friend, Giovanna, and others from her university.”

“What are you doing, Hope? The Doctor declared a suicide. What are you saying?”

Hope put the bottle of beer down by her side and fingered the scar on her top lip. “I’m just musing. I’d like to know how she got in that cemetery after closing time. What time does it get dark here now? Eight, eight thirty? Nine? So she entered that chapel when it was already dark. Pretty scary, wouldn’t you think? I mean, I wouldn’t do it. Would you?”

“I might, if I were pissed or oﬀ my head on weed.”

“Good point. But her red shoes had no scuﬀs on them. To get up to that part of the cemetery is a long trek, especially in heels and her red paten shoes looked brand new to me. Not a scratch.”

“Maybe she took them oﬀ.”

Hope Tutted. “What? Only to put them back on when she lay down to die? I don’t think so. And the blonde with Mario. Aren’t you curious?”

Caterina’s eyebrows raised. “You think it could’ve been Aurora?” She paused, then waggled her index finger and said, “No. Absolutely not. I would have recognised her. No, that was not Aurora. And she certainly wasn’t wearing red.”

“Okay. good. Do you know Giovanna? Could you introduce me to her? It would be interesting to see what she has to say. If she spent the evening with Aurora, maybe she could tell us something about her mood. If she seemed particularly unhappy or depressed.”

“Don’t you think you should talk about this with Pino first, before you start asking questions? There might be a procedure you have to follow. You can’t just start interrogating people.”

“Why not? I’m a concerned friend of her mother. Just trying to understand how she spent the last few hours of her life. If anyone had any idea if she were suicidal. Nothing wrong in that. And anyway, I don’t think Pino would mind.” She smiled.

“Do you honestly think that someone would tell you? I mean, if I thought she was suicidal I’d have made sure she stayed with me, I wouldn’t have left her side. If I had, Id Geel damned guilty and probably wouldn’t want to tell anyone.”

“Yeah well, not everyone is as caring as you, my dear.”

“Hope, I’ve just remembered. We also saw Mauro the tramp.”

Hope’s hairs on the back of her neck tingled. “God, yes. Now that was spooky. Was it really the same Mauro I used to know?”

“Can’t be anyone else, Hope.”

“Poor Mauro. In that creepy lane with that long white hair and white beard, he looked like one of the walking dead or better a white walker from The Game Of Thrones.

She shook her head. Then she shuddered, as a chilling memory took hold of her. She had not thought of Mauro for a long time. Not Mauro. And not the cats.

“He can’t talk you know. That’s what Gabry’s told me. Hasn’t spoken for years. Not since he was little.”

“Know where he sleeps?”

“Haven’t got a clue, but Gabry might. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gabriele looks after him. Makes sure he has enough food and blalnkets. Gabry’s like that.”

“What? The Angel Gabriel? Don’t give me that!”

Mauro The Watcher - 1 am Wednesday 15th August

Several hours before Caterina and Gabriele found Aurora Rossi’s body, somebody else had found her first.

At one o’clock in the morning Mauro watched. He sat hidden and watched as he often did. He hid in the overgrown shrubbery amongst the forgotten graves. Graves that were no longer cared for and no longer visited. There were a lot of them in the cemetery. And the cemetery was enormous.

A man could stay hidden and unnoticed for years. Hidden and safe from harm.

Mauro lived in the cemetery. He had made his home right at the very top, just below the English war graves, in a part that had been cordoned oﬀ from the public for some time due to a landslide that had occurred several years ago. It had never been restored because of lack of funds.

Mauro owned a supermarket shopping trolley that he filled with second hand blankets, coats, trousers and jumpers he found in the large bins on the streets by the main road. He delved into the bins after dark when the streets were empty and the bins were full.

He kept his shopping trolley under the abandoned stone stairwell leading down from heaven and from the clean-white gravestones that lined up like soldiers saluting goodbyes to their brave dead comrades in arms. No-one could see his shopping trolley there. And it was protected from the rain.

Mauro slept under the stairwell too. They never disturbed him and he felt safe.

Gabriele, his friend, had found him a mattress which he placed onto the soft moss that now covered the ground next to Elisa Molinari. Elisa died at the age of 76, in 1892. Mauro was comforted to know that he slept alongside her resting place. She was after all, a dear wife, mother and grandmother who 'had loved in life and was loved in death'.

He whispered her name softly to himself every night as he hid beneath the blanket that covered him and warmed him up.

Gabriele was kind to him. Gabriele was the only man who cared to talk to him. Gabriele had even found him a small table, a chair and a mirror. His friend was helping him forge a home.

Mauro had little furniture but he did have belongings. He stored them in an old small suitcase which he hid behind Elisa Molinari's gravestone and which rested against the wall under the stairwell along with his trolley. In this suitcase he preciously placed his treasured trinkets.

As he walked the cemetery at night he would find things. He would pick them up and position them carefully into the suitcase which he locked with a passcode. It was his special number. He often sat beside Elisa Molinari and put the small suitcase on his lap. He turned its numerical lock to the numbers that were his chosen code. 1892. He opened the case with care and lovingly took out each object, one at a time, to study them in his hands. He felt them, smelt them, turned them over and imagined to whom they once belonged.

There was a beige suede ladies glove, a red paper poppy, a golden pin in the shape of an arrow, an empty glass bottle, a small bracelet of silver beads made for a child, a blue, silk handkerchief, a pair of reading glasses with a brown frame, a half empty packet of cigarettes, several coins of diﬀerent dimensions and values, a 1000 Lira banknote, even a

black sock for a large foot. There was a blue biro pen, a guide book written in French, a plastic watch with a broken red strap, a beautiful red leather bound bible and a lot more besides.

Whenever Mauro left the cemetery he pushed his shopping trolley slowly in front of him and no-one would see him. They did not want to see him. A man who is unclean, unshaven and unwholesome is always unseen. He came and went as he pleased and came and went unnoticed despite his white, matted hair, long like a lion's mane and his yellowish white beard, long like his hair.

To most people, Mauro was strange and frightening in his diversity. But Mauro's world was special.

Mauro never spoke. He had not uttered a word since that terrible afternoon in the church yard in Via Mogadiscio. His voice was silent but his ears were active. He heard everything. And his eyes observed every detail carefully with great curiosity. Staglieno cemetery was a very busy place and there were a lot of things to watch.

That night after the terrible storm, he was tucked inside a jungle of bramble, ivy, and sticky ‘paritaria’ weed. He sat silently, looking up at the angel. She held her forefinger to her lips and her wings closed behind her seductive body. In the other hand she held a staﬀ with two snakes entwined around it. Mauro waited to see if her wings would alight. He wanted to see her take flight in the night.

Then he heard the sound of whispering voices.

“Walk more slowly, will you. You’re going too fast.”

Mauro looked away from the angel and saw three identical shadows. Same height, large shoulders, thick-set. No faces. He felt afraid and so he shifted further back into his hiding place, disappearing, but he kept his eyes on the shadows. It was the living that scared Mauro, not the dead.

The dark shapes stopped right in front of him and he held his breath for fear of being discovered.

Thud.

The heavy weight they carried fell to the ground. Heavy breathing. A grunt.

They lifted their weight and a deep gruﬀ voice said, “Here. This one.”

“You sure it’s the right one?

“Course it is. Last one in the lane and no one’s been in ‘ere for years. No one. No one. For years and years and years.”

The iron door squeaked. The shadows disappeared into the mouth of the chapel. and Mauro sat tight.

It seemed a long wait before the door creaked and the gruﬀ voice spoke,

“Well, get a move on then, will you. It’s been a murderous night and I wanna get home. I need a stiﬀ drink.”

They scuttled oﬀ and when Mauro could hear no more sounds of the living, he gently and carefully came out from his hiding place and slowly opened the chapel door. His heart was pounding inside his chest. He was fearful of what he might find. But he had to go and look. He was the watcher.

Mauro walked into the cool, silent chapel. A sparkling of stars filtered through the skylight high up in the domed roof. He could make out the large marble altar in the middle of the chamber. The silence comforted him. He walked around the central marble slab and what he saw there transfixed him.

What he saw was an angel. The angel. The angel in red. She had come to forgive him.

He had so wanted to help her. If only he had helped her in her sad desperation. But he could not. He felt his arms pinned to his sides. The big boy squeezed the life out of him. His chest caved in. The snap of a rib. And she lay there half dead. Her scream pierced his heart. He could do nothing.

Had she come to him now to forgive him? From the roof she had spread her wings as he believed she would do and had come to him. Such a beautiful girl. Her long chestnut hair framed her delicate face. Her eyes so green with a knowing stare and a bold gaze. Ruby lips red like her dress and skin as white and smooth-looking as the marble she lay close to.

Mauro stood and looked at the angel and tears came to his eyes. He fell down onto his knees by her side in awe. He dared not touch her. She was sacred and inviolate. He brushed his long bony fingers through his hair and pulled at his beard nervously. He watched for a sign but there was none given. The angel remained motionless.

He prayed. “Ave Maria piena di Grazia ..”

He was so reluctant to leave her lying there alone that he stayed by her side until he heard the birds begin their dawn song in the trees outside. He rose slowly with a heavy heart and made his way out of the chapel, his head bowed in reverence.

As he was about to exit through the large oak door he felt something crunch under his foot. He looked down and saw a crumpled piece of paper. He picked it up and felt it with his fingers. Then he opened it and smoothed it out with his hands. Under the light of the stars from the skylight he could make out some writing.

A message to him from the angel in the red dress.

He put it in his pocket with the intention of placing it into his suitcase along with all his other belongings. And in the light of the day he would read it to understand what she wanted to tell him.

Hope Can’t Sleep - 3 am in the morning - of Wednesday 14th August 2018 “It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.” - Oscar Wilde

After the aperitivo with Caterina and Pino and while Mauro sat with Aurora in the chapel, Hope could not sleep. Her skin felt sticky and in the sweltering bedroom, she itched from sweat. She had forgotten how hot the August nights could be in Genova,

The monotonous whirring of the electric fan provided some air but the open windows did not. Then the bell of the church tower chimed three times. Bloody bell! Even clanks throughout the night. Pure fucking noise pollution. The Pope should be told.

She started to feel anxious and recognised the knot in her stomach and the tingle in her chest, so she propped herself up on the pillows in the king size bed, far too big for just one, and grabbed her phone. Ten past three. Bugger.

She opened Facebook and scrolled the posts.

National Prosecco day yesterday. How had she missed that? She’ll catch up no doubt now she was in Genova.

Aretha ill and surrounded by family. How sad, bless her. What a voice. Respect.

British woman moans her Benidorm holiday was ruined by ‘too many Spanish people’. What? Really?

Girl, 4, throws dad’s phone overboard because he was using it too much. Now that was clever. That’s what we all should do.

What an insidious, all-consuming bloody app this was. But she could not stop herself.

Barber cuts ‘penis’ into customer’s hair after he asked for ‘something diﬀerent’. Good Lord.

An article that an Italian chronicle had published came up. Profiles of those who had died in the tragic collapse of the Genovese viaduct. Unknown faces caught by the camera in intimate moments with the smiles of life, each ignorant of their terrible fate to come.

She stopped at the image of a happy family on the beach. Such joy in their eyes. Mother, father and their eight year old son who was pulling a funny face like his dad. The boy's button nose was covered in freckles; kissed by the sun. Amongst the metal sheets that had been their car, the fire fighters had retrieved a sun umbrella and a ball.

A piercing pain shot like a pin pricking into her eyes. Amanda let the phone fall from her hand and she rubbed them. She kept them shut for a moment. How would it feel to fall like that? A family falling.

Did the mother grab hold of her son and keep him tightly close to her while they fell? Did the father take his hands oﬀ the wheel and try to protect his family from the impact?

Falling. Bellin.

And the little one. On the pavement like a pigeon on the ground with its head twisted. The balcony. Six floors down. That stupid bitch, out of it with a needle in her arm. Fucking senseless.

Hope’s heart pounded against her ribs so loudly that it’s banging disturbed her. She breathed deeply to quiet it but fell into a coughing fit. Her phone plummeted to the marble floor. Shit. Still coughing she reached down and picked it up. Thank God. It wasn’t broken.

She logged out of Hope Hunter-Smith’s profile and logged into her Mr Frank Lloyd’s.

The picture she had chosen from Google images was perfect. Frank’s black shadow silhouetted against an orange sunset sat on a cliﬀ top looking into the distance as the sun set. Could have been anyone. When she was Frank Lloyd, she trawled with the confidence she would not be discovered.

She searched Michael Smith and entered his timeline. The hairs on her forearms prickled and her throat tightened. She felt like a stalker and held her breath. Would he catch her at it?

Christ, he had changed his cover photo. It was her. That woman. With him. She was kissing his cheek and his smile was inane. And she looked so damned young. He held his hand gently on her full round belly.

Hope wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her throat felt dry and a burning acid rose from her belly. She felt sick.

A haunting wail outside her window shocked her senses and jerked her away from the photograph of her ex husband and his new pregnant wife.

Fuck it! She closed the app in disgust and jumped to the window. Must be a fox, or a cat on heat. She wanted to close out the noises of the night but the heat stifled her, so she moved directly in front of the fan and cooled her naked body. Closing her eyes and swaying to the rhythm of the droning, she placed her hand on her barren belly and sang softly to herself.

“Baby… ohhh baby… my sweet baby. You’re the one.”

Then she heard rustling and footsteps along the corridor, a door handle squeak, a door creak. She held her breath. It was Pino returning. After standing motionless for what seemed an age, she made a decision.

She left her room and walked down the corridor. His door was ajar. She entered. HIs room was just as airless as her own and on the large bed she could see Pino naked on top of the sheets.

She moved towards him and watched his face; a sleeping angel haloed with black curls. She reached out her hand to touch them but he shifted and she pulled away. Should she turn and leave? Go back to her own room. No. Not now.

She climbed onto the bed and lay down next to the man who smelt salty with sweat. She stroked the black curls on his chest and teased his nipples. He moaned. She brushed her fingertips across his belly and down towards his sleeping penis which she squeezed tightly and began to stroke. He opened his eyes.

“Mmmmm. Speranza. I didn’t think you wanted..”

“Sssh. I’m a woman. I can change my mind.”

Luca the jogger - Friday 17th early morning “Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something.” - Plato

By midday on August the seventeenth of August, the temperature had soared to a torrid thirty four degrees.

The local council issued warnings on neon street signs and through the local television channel advising the elderly and the very young not to go outside. The first two weeks of August alone had been the culprit for ten percent of all deaths that occurred in the entire year.

At seven o’ clock that morning it was already reaching boiling point and Sant’Antonino was as quiet as the graveyard it looked upon.

Hope had had another fitful night. Too hot to sleep soundly. A mosquito had buzzed in her ear. Her skin had itched. Her dreams had been vivid. Turbulent. At five o’clock she had awaited the dawn, wondering why.

In her dream a woman lay on the ground in a woody glen, her naked body like white marble on the decomposing foliage. Her head tilted back and her mouth parted in a gasp. With elbows bent, her hands half clenched in fear. Soft, alabaster arms.

And the rose. The rose, red as her lips, crept out from the ground and curled around the woman’s ankles. It entwined her legs with it’s ever-expanding stems, the thorns piercing, blood oozing. Tangling her body, pinning her down.

And then the blood became a crimson sheet covering her like a long, flowing dress.

There were questions bothering her.

Why had Aurora killed herself when she had called her mother that very same evening to tell her she would be home? Late but she would be home. Why did she go to the cemetery, that fearful place? The dark. Alone. Had she been alone? Wearing that dress, those heels. Drinking, smoking. Had she met a friend? A man?

Someone must have seen her that evening. Her father’s brutal attack on her mother. She had fled. She had left her mother at his mercy.

And then? What happened to you Aurora?

Hope needed air. The sweltering heat smothered her and clasped her throat like a clamp.

She got up, threw on a pair of light cotton shorts and a crumpled T- shirt and found her trainers at the bottom of her still half unpacked suitcase. Yes she had brought them with her. She had thought she might walk. Physical exercise had not been on her agenda for some time and oh yes, how she had put on weight.

Hope was not a walker at the best of times and lush green fronds of any sort made her eyes water with itchy soreness. However, The shady tree-lined lane leading out of Sant’Antonino and on to San’ Pantaleo, cut into the wooded hill and oﬀered hope solace from the bruising sunshine. It followed the tracks of the little train that chugged electrically twice daily in one direction towards the hinterland village of Casella and in the other towards Piazza Manin, a picturesque square which led down into the elite shopping area of Genoa town.

Over the idyllic stream where dragonflies darted and skimmed the rustling water, Hope cleared her head and made a decision. She would talk to Pino first, of course. He would agree, she had no doubt. At this moment in time, preoccupied so with the Morandi Bridge disaster, he had thoughts for little else. Not even the death of his niece.

She would not act upon it until tomorrow but she would act, having no idea yet how her actions would bring her to a murder.

Turning the corner she was horrified to see the lane steepen into what looked to her as vertical as a mountain side. To climb it she clutched the iron banister cemented many years ago into the dry brick wall as an aid for the elderly and the bloody unfit like herself.

At the top she felt her lungs about to explode but thankfully the lane now flattened out. When are you giving up the fags, Hope? Tried to hide the ashtray in her flower bed, didn’t you? Oh, but she saw it. Caterina saw the mountain of dog-ends in it. How many are you getting through a day? I know, I know. I’ll give them up when I’m ready. Not just yet though. I’ve still got a few things I need to get my head around. So not just yet.

She coughed up the phlegm released form the hairs of her atrophied alveoli. Twenty Euro I paid for those allergy tablets and they’re doing sod all. What a con.

She came to the abandoned church she had spied from Caterina’s garden, and walked up the steps to its gravelled terrace. There, much to her surprise, stood a man stretching his hamstrings before a bench. Strategically placed under a large pine-nut tree, the iron bench faced the entire city of Genova which tumbled down the hills before them in hews of pinks, yellows and greens. In the distance, the Mediterranean sea glistened invitingly.

The man turned and gave an awkward smile. Tall, broad shouldered and grubby with sweat, Hope enjoyed the the sight of his strong body in his running shorts and vest.

She approached him.

“Is the church open?” she asked.

“No, It’s desecrated. They were going to build apartments but couldn’t raise the money. You might be able to peek through the hole in the door there. It’s worth a nose.”

How blue were his eyes? They pierced into her soul with their turquoise crystal. Eyes like that she had only seen once before. Inquisitive. Provoking.

“It’s Speranza, isn’t it?” His voice, sticky sweet honey.

Hope stepped back, startled.

“Who are you?” she asked, tilting her head to one side, trying to remember those blue eyes.

“Look closer. Don’t be afraid. Can you find me?”

The nape of her neck tingled as she gazed at his face and then it came to her.

“God Lord. Luca? Luca Giordano?”

“That’s me.”

Hope flung herself into his arms and he grasped her close. So close, his sweaty dampness seeped into her T-shirt. She smelt his salty masculinity. Once he let her down she touched his face. The eyes. The eyes. What beautiful eyes he still has.

Luca. She had adored him. They had kissed. They were ten years old and they had kissed in the school playground at the back of the gym where the janitor kept his wheelbarrow.

A silent, serious soul, Luca was a poet. Often alone, he appeared aloof. He did not join in and he suﬀered for it. And look how glorious he had become.

“How did you know I was back?”

“Gabriele told me.”

“You still keep in contact with him? But he used to tease you so. Didn’t you hate him for that?”

“Don’t forget, Gabriele and I go back a long way. We grew up in the same quarter of town. We have similar backgrounds, shared a lot of experiences, some pleasant, some not. You can’t let that go.”

“He still hangs round Caterina. She can’t let him go either.” Hope snorted.

“Gabry has never wanted to search inside himself for the truth. And until he does, he’ll never question his choice of life. He’ll never hold down a solid relationship with any woman all the while he needs confirmation of his masculinity and prowess. That can only change with maturity. Not of age but of intellect.”

Oh, that honeyed voice. Honey sliding oﬀ the spoon.

“And you Luca. What has become of you?”

He spoke of his travels, his constant search for something, he knew not what. And then the discovery of nature. His peace of mind returned through solitude, reflection, and nature. What a waste of such a divine God.

“So you’re hiding?” she asked, resting her head on his large muscular arm in a gentle gesture of loving friendship.

“No. Not hiding. Just being true to myself and my needs. I see now only through nature can I find real peace. I was like Gabriele.”

She lifted her head and grunted.

“You look surprised. But I was. Constantly seeking quick pleasure and projecting to others a superficial image of myself. But I realise now through a lot of soul searching, I was a fake. Find your true self Hope, and you will find joy.”

They began to walk back down the path to Sant’Antonino. He held her hand.

“You heard about Grazia Rosa’s daughter I guess?”

“Yes. I did. Poor woman. The victim of a cruel act that laid down the tracks of her life she’s never been able to uncouple. And now her only daughter lost to her. Her life, thrown away at her own will.” He shook his head. “Poor Grazia. The unfortunate woman’s suﬀering continues. She has never found peace, and now…”

“But you know something I don’t? What cruel act? What happened to her?”

He stopped and said softly,

“You don’t know? Well then, my darling, I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Things happened in Via Mogadiscio that are best forgotten. There are reasons you don’t know. It is not my place.”

Luca spoke softly close to her ear. Her skin tingled at the feel of his warm breath.

“Don’t be fooled by images, Hope. Your perception of reality is yours and yours alone.”

He placed his arm around her shoulders and they continued to walk until they heard the bells in the distance ring the hour.

“I must go,” Luca said. “Lunch with my brother:” He folded her in his arms, lifted her oﬀ her feet and held on to her as if she were his departing lover. “If you want, I’m here every Sunday. Join me.”

“But I don’t run, Luca, I walk.”

“With you, I can walk too.”

He turned and hurtled away. She stood admiring his fine physique and she felt positively elated. But then he suddenly stopped.

“If you’re looking for answers, go check out the warehouse.”

She laughed. “Warehouse? What warehouse?”

“Back of the cemetery.”

Okay. So, why should I go there?”

“The night before her body was found I spotted Parodi’s son.”

“Eddie, you mean’”

“That’s the one.”

“And so?”

“He was loading a van.”

“Loading a van.”

“Looked like a sack.”

He bounded away and she heard him shout, “Don’t be fooled by images.”

The Pharmacy - Friday 17th August- Morning The summer brightness seeped through the large kitchen window and Hope stood looking out over the olive trees. Orange nets had been tied to their branches to collect the oval fruit as they fell.

In Sant’Antonino the olives were collected in late autumn just as they turned from green to a dark purple. Not too mature and pulpous. It was then the oil they contained was at its most concentrated and the quality of the phenols with their beneficial role in human health, was at its highest.

It was now eight thirty in the morning and Hope could still feel Luca Giordano’s warm strong arms squeezing her tight with genuine fondness. The Hens, running free amongst the trees, suddenly began to cluck and flap their flightless wings like ladies frantic to grab their chosen item before anyone else in the shop sale.

Tabatha was stalking them. Hope sniggered. Then her expression changed.

Not twenty four hours previously, she had inspected Aurora’s dead body and the scene where she lay, and as she stared through the window now, the deep red of Aurora’s dress reminded her of a new red bikini she had once worn underneath a red sun dress. It had been her downfall. She had never worn red since.

Hope sneezed and broke her own silence. Caterina broke her friend’s balls.

“Hope are you ready? We haven’t got much time. I promised Gabriele we’d see him for a coﬀee.”

Hope hated being rushed, especially in the morning, and this morning was going to be hard work. Gabriele’s presence made her squirm.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she shouted and started towelling herself dry, and sneezed again. Something in the air was itching her nose and tickling her throat. She looked in the mirror and to her horror, her eyes were as red as her hair. How could she let Pino see her looking like a wild orang-utan.

She was reacting to a pollination. She needed antihistamine in order to breathe more easily and stop snorting like the wild boar she had seen in the Val Bisagno torrent the previous afternoon.

She and Caterina had crossed the bridge near Brignole railway station by foot and had stopped to look at a family of father, mother and five children snouting around in the long marsh grasses fearful of no-one, ignoring the large crowd of onlookers, and only intent on

sniﬃng for food. The animals were enormous and aggressive, pushing one another violently in order to take control of what tasty morsel had been discovered. Loud pig-like grunting echoed upwards from below the bridge. It reminded Hope of her own snorting, which she hated but had no control over.

“Caterina, I have to go to the chemists. I’m in a bad way and need something to help me breathe at least. God, I hope I didn’t snore in the night. You didn’t hear me, did you?”

“Down here, I didn’t, no. But you need to ask Pino, not me. He’s the one who would hear you, being in the room next door.” She gave her cousin a wink. Hope blushed.

In less than ten minutes, sitting in Poppy, the red Fiat Panda, they drove past Francesca’s bar where Gabriele’s porter was parked by the dustbins. A large pile of wilting flowers filled the back of it but Gabriele was nowhere to be seen.

“Is it true the Carabinieri aren’t much liked, Cat?”

Caterina guﬀawed.

“Liked? They’re loathed!! Well, that’s not quite true. They’re loved when they show their courage but most times they are absolutely hated. People think they’re too excessive with their hands. A bit too violent. Did you ever read about the G8 meeting we had in Genova? When was it now? 2001?”

“Something about it, yes. A boy was shot by a Carabinieri, wasn’t he?”

“Point blank out of the back of the armoured tank. Then, he reversed the tank, and drove right over the boy’s body.”

“Didn’t Pino get involved in the G8? Something about the school? The Diaz wasn’t it?” NECESSARY?????

“Yes. Pino called us just before midnight telling Robbie to get his daughter out of the school as there was about to be a raid by the police. That was an awful night. They say that nearly 350 policemen and 150 carabinieri were involved in the beatings. They all wore ski masks apparently, to hide their identities.”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Roberto’s daughter was really involved in the marching. She was part of the group called the ‘Tute bianche’. All the kids wore white overalls and masks during the march. They were all sleeping in the school. It was being used as a sort of headquarters for the ‘Genoa Social Forum’. Lots of foreigners took part, too. A British journalist was beaten into a coma!

In fact, some years later, I was asked by the medical doctor to be his translator at the court case he was on. Two of his clients, a German girl and the other, a British boy, had been sleeping in the school and were badly beaten up by the police who raided it. The doctor showed me the photos. The girl was so badly bruised you couldn't recognise her. She’d been kicked in the breast too. The boy, even worse. He had been beaten unconscious. I was there to help the doctor understand what the young kids had to say about their gruesome experience. The girl told us she had been taken to a prison miles

away just outside Genova in Bolzaneto, where they were made to stand up all night with their hands against the walls of the open-air cells. If they fell down too exhausted, they got beaten and made to stand up again!”

“Christ: Talk about third world! Why did the police raid the school?”

“They believed there were weapons hidden in the cupboards that had been used in the march that got out of hand that day. Iron bars, hammers, knives and the like.”

“Did they find anything?”

“Oh, yes. sure. But then afterwards, we were told it had been a complete set up. The socalled weapons and a couple of Molotov cocktails, had been placed in the cupboards by the police themselves.”

“Bloody hell. Did anyone from the police ever get arrested?”

“Well, there was a trial. 125 policemen were accused but none of them were punished because of the delays in the investigation. In 2001 torture was not recognised as a crime under Italian laws! Can you believe that?

I do know it took years before anything was resolved. At that time one of the top Ministers in the Berlusconi Government who was in Genova that night had apparently given the police full jurisdiction to act in any way they wished in order to clear the school of the protestors. Most of whom of course were fast asleep in their sleeping bags.”

“What a dreadful thing to have happened!”

“Oh goodness. Look at the time. Hurry up. We’ve got to get cracking.”

“Why are they called Carabiniere, anyway? Bet you don’t know the answer to that one!” Hope challenged her friend.

“Ha! I do actually. It comes from the sort of rifle they used to carry. The carabina.”

Ten minutes later, Caterina double parked outside the pharmacy next to a very smart, highly polished silver grey Mercedes coupe. There was no alternative as parking spaces were few and far between.

The shop was in an advantageous position in this built-up, rundown backwater as it sat on the slip road from the exit of the motorway at Genova Est. It stood between a takeaway pizza parlour and an air conditioning repair shop. There was a small bakery that prepared focaccia in the mornings, freshly baked on the premises, and a barber’s shop next to the veterinary surgeon who only opened his studio by appointment. The back of the pharmacy was situated on the corner of the lane that led up to Francesca’s bar and where the workshops and storehouses of the stonemasons could be found.

Caterina and Hope entered the automatic, sliding glass door which ding donged alarmingly and with far too much enthusiasm.

The pharmacy, with a clinical cleanliness about it, smelt of alcohol, the kind used to disinfect hospital corridors. There were three pharmacists behind the white formica counter, dressed in white coats with an appearance of medical professionalism and there

was a lady behind a separate smaller counter who was the resident expert skin consultant selling face cream for the ageing female clientele. She too was dressed in a white coat and had a large badge pinned to it which revealed her name.

While Hope waited her turn to be served, Dotoressa Salieri explained to Caterina the eﬃcacy of collagen and hyaluronic acid. Hope rolled her eyes and avoided looking at herself in the wall mirror behind the shelves of painkillers and anti-inflammatories.

When the chiselled pharmacist asked how he could help her, Hope stood up straight, interested in his rugged jawline and light brown wavy hair which was highlighted with strands of glistening blonde. She liked the tuft which kept falling into his black eyes. But when she noticed the shiny gold band on his finger she sighed and slumped her shoulders.

“How can I help, madam.” He whisked away the tuft from his forehead.

“I need an antihistamine to help me breathe, please,” Hope snuﬄed. “I’m really not sure what I can be allergic to. I don’t suﬀer from hay fever but I’m in a dreadful way,” she explained. She spotted her red nose in the mirror and covered it with her hand.

“I expect it’s the olive trees, signora. They’re the highest producers of pollen in this area along with the ‘paritaria’ weed. They don’t have an enormous quantity of flowers, you see, so they don’t attract the insects. The pollen is scattered on the wind. It’s enough to have a little windy day and more than 25 degrees centigrade outside and you get an aggressive pollen count, especially early in the morning. That’s sure to be your problem.”

Hope looked at his name tag. Alessandro De Luca. Well, well, well. Another De Luca brother. A De Luca brother managed to become a pharmacist. Bloody hell! Fit and with a brain.

She studied his face with more interest. The same bulbous, triangular nose, the square jawline and the dark almond shaped eyes. Just his hair colour diﬀered and a younger face. She had never met this one.

Alessandro turned and bent to open a drawer in the wall behind him. He took out a box and placed it on the counter in front of her. “I have just the thing. One tablet twice a day for five days should do the trick. And perhaps madam would like to book an allergy test? If you have time we can do it for you now.”

“Can’t I’m afraid. Got a funeral to go to.”

Dottor Alessandro tilted his head to one side and his smile could have melted ice.

He opened a diary that lay on the counter.

“Friday. Ten o’clock. Okay? Can I have your name and number, Signora?”

Hope had no time to refuse. “Ah, Yes. Speranza Cacciatore.” She felt the flush of blood rushing into her cheeks. She had not used her Italian name for many years. His head shot up and his eyes caught hers. Did they narrow or was it her imagination? Had he recognised her name? Impossible. She was not sure he had even been born when she left.

“Doctor, may I ask you? Do they still prescribe Dothiepin here? I'm over from England for a while and my prescription is running out.”

“Dothiepin.” He checked on the computer. “Yes, here we are. We have some in stock. Do you have your prescription?”

“No, not on me. But I'll bring it along on friday.

“Would you like some now?”

“That's okay. I can wait.” She was surprised he could sell her such a potent drug without proof of a doctor’s request.

“Until Friday then.” De Luca turned to his next customer and smiled his charming whiteteethed smile.

At Dotoressa Salieri’s face cream counter, she said, “Cat, you didn’t tell me the pharmacist is a De Luca.

“You didn’t ask. But I thought you’d guess. The name’s on the sign above the shop door.”

When they left, Cateina holding a bag of jars filled with miraculous properties, Hope looked up and read ‘De Luca e figli, The Chemist of Your Choice’.

HOPE & CAT DISCUSS DEPRESSION “Do you believe she killed herself, Hope?” asked Caterina as they drove back to the piazza in front of the cemetery.

“I couldn’t say. I didn’t know the girl. You tell me. But the thing is, in the UK, around 20% of all poisoning suicides are due to depression. And I doubt it’s much diﬀerent here. That means depression is the most frequent psychiatric disorder in people dying by suicide,” explained Hope.

“I had no idea!”

“Availability, a..vail.. a… bility,” she said with emphasis. “That’s the secret. The fundamental problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, self-poisoning in individuals with depression often involves antidepressants prescribed for them. She’d been taking them because her doctor, or somebody else, readily gave them to her. Availability see.“

“Did you recognise the tablets from the bottle on the ground?”

“I didn’t recognise the brand name but I did see they were TCAs.

“TCA’s?”

“The older tricyclic antidepressant type. And they’re renowned for being more toxic than the newer selective serotonin drugs you get nowadays. Add a bottle of vodka and what looks like a whacky fag and you’ve got a lethal combination.”

Hope knew bloody everything about depression. It had caused her to not only lose her husband but to nearly lose her job too. And for Hope, her job was her life.

“What’s serotonin?” Caterina asked.

“It’s the happy chemical. It makes you feel good.”

“So people with low serotonin levels are depressed then?”

“Well, they’re not sure if it’s low serotonin levels that contribute to depression or if depression causes a fall in serotonin. But what they do know is that drugs which alter serotonin levels can treat depression.”

“So why would you want to kill yourself if you take antidepressants? Surely they make you feel better.”

“Good question. But before you see any kind of benefit, practically all antidepressants take time to build up in your system and often they make you feel worse before you feel better. So any suicidal thoughts you might be having could increase in severity and frequency and in some cases, you can start wanting to kill yourself even if you didn’t before.”

“And what happens if you increase the dosage?”

”Well, if the dosage is increased too quickly, or if you deliberately take a larger dose than prescribed—which can often happen because you don't feel the eﬀects immediately and you want them to work quicker, you can exacerbate this potential side eﬀect.”

“Her death must have been horrible!”

“I doubt she was conscious. She may have experienced a seizure and perhaps even tremors but her blood pressure would have dropped really low. She would have become excessively drowsy, fallen into a stupor which then took her into a coma. There was no vomit and no signs of diarrhoea so I expect she had a cardiac arrest as her breathing slowed right down. She died in her sleep practically. But no, not nice at all.”

“Poor Aurora. She had her whole life ahead of her. It’s like a knife in the heart. God knows how Grazia Rosa will cope today.”

“What kind of a life had she been living up to her death? You said she was so together. Isn’t that what you said? So confident and bright. But she wasn’t all that clean, was she? I mean, I bet it wasn’t the first time she’d had a Jeﬀrey.”

“What’s a Jeﬀrey?”

“A Jeﬀrey, my dear Caterina, is a joint laced with something more serious like opium or heroin or even worse, angel dust which is the scariest mother on the street today.”

“Angel dust! Quite appropriate for a cemetery.”

“It’s PCP to us in uniform and it’s deadly. ‘When the world gives you a jeﬀrey, stroke the furry wall’”

“What the hell is a furry wall?”

“Where have you been living all these years, sweetie? Imagine stroking a wall of fur. How would it make you feel? “

“Ah!”

“Got it in one!”

At Sant’Antonino they got out of Poppy. They walked in silence to the cypress tree where Hope stopped and turned to face the cobbled lane that led past the back of the church. Her expression clouded.

“Nonna Jenna?” asked Caterina softly.

“You go on on home. It’s time I see her.”

Caterina gently rubbed Hope’s arm and left her standing next to the iron bench that circled the tree. She placed her hand on the trunk and felt its hard, solid wood.

Do it now Hope. Go there now and get it over with, she thought, then filled her lungs with a deep breath of courage. The air smelt of pine, Mediterranean pine. She walked down the steep cobbled lane at the side of the church.

Nonna Jenna 1 She needed to see her, Nonna Jenna. She’d been avoiding it but she knew she had to, before it was all over.

So long. It had been so long, the poor woman wouldn’t recognise her. What’s the point? No, bloody hell. She owed it to her. Her chest tightened and her breathing quickened. She began to count as she descended the cobbled lane. One and two and three and four….

At the bottom of the lane, Hope pushed open the green gate and walked up to the lemon coloured cottage. A climbing purple Bougainville clung to its walls and boxes of red and white geranium fell from vases on the window sills. She tried the door. It opened. It was always open.

Hope entered the musty smelling living room to find Nonna Jenna lying, like a shroud, motionless on the sofa in her mauve flannel nightdress and wooly bed socks. Her eyes were shut but her jaw dropped and her mouth gaped. A light snore rasped at the back of her throat.

She crept towards her, bent over the wrinkled face and grazed the lined forehead with her lips. A faint smell of lavender and face powder permeated her nostrils. She sat on the cold marble floor by the ancient lady’s side and took a spindly hand in hers. Thin transparent skin highlighted an estuary of blue veins and swollen knuckles.

A wave of love surged through her as if lapping onto a white sandy beach and a far-away memory reminded her of warmth and protection. As a child, Hope’s shelter was Nonna Jenna.

“Is that you Rina?” A weak, rusty voice asked.

“Nonna Jenna, It’s me, Hope. Remember?”

“Hope? I don’t know no Hope.”

“Speranza, nonna Jenna, Speranza.”

The woman opened her old eyelids and turned her head. Her vague, watery eyes glistened.

“Speranza? Gioia mia. Is it really you?”

Hope’s heart tied into a knot. This now fragile, waif-like woman used to be a tough robust bird, ‘una bella donnina’ with strong arms that could crush you between her huge bosom.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I’ve missed you so much, my joy. I hoped you would come. Not long now before I reach God’s Paradise and see your father again. It’s been a long wait. And you, my dear, are beautiful. I knew you would be with that mane of red hair you’ve got. I always said to your papa’, ‘That daughter of yours will break hearts, you know’.”

Hope whipped both hands onto her head and flattened her hair, stroking it down and over her shoulders.

“Your dad was a good man, Speranza.”

“Nonna, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now, my dear, you must hear it. It’s important you try to forgive him. You can’t be happy with such hatred in your heart. Here, come closer, dear.”

Hope leaned towards her and smelt a sudden reek of medicinal bitterness on Jenna’s breath.

“Remember this, Speranza. What your father did was for your safety and welfare. Have you ever thought how much he suﬀered to let you go?”

“Nonna, he forced me to leave. I didn’t want to go, but he made me and it tore me apart. How could he have done that?”

“You didn’t even come to his funeral, did you love? That made me very sad.”

“I can’t forgive him. I can’t. I was a child. Only fifteen.”

“But you know, don’t you, dear’. If you’d stayed they would have shamed you. Everyone. Think of the hardship, the struggle. And without a husband, for no man would’ve had you. Your father did what was best.”

Hope thought of the mother on the plane, the baby, the struggle.

“Exiled to live in a foreign country with an uncle and aunt I’d never met, at fifteen. I couldn’t even speak the language. And then … then the ..”

“I know, child.” Nonna Jenna wheezed and coughed. Hope passed her a glass of water from the coﬀee table and placed it to her dry, cracked lips. The old woman swallowed hard.

“Nonna Jenna, I’ll never know what it is to be a mother. He did that to me. He did it.”

“No, my child. Not your father. Your father loved you. He protected you in the only way he knew how. He was a good man. A great man. And look what you’ve become…”

Hope tightened her lips. And what had become of her? With her job on the line and her mental heath shot to pieces. An ex husband parading his young pregnant wife on social media. Indeed a fine example she’d made of herself.

“A great man would never abandon his child.”

“After you left, his only objective was to break them. He was a great policeman. He knew his job but he made one mistake. He let his emotions get in the way and he couldn’t see straight. His anger and hatred burned inside him and he did not rest until he came face to face with them. But emotions are dangerous, they mist your brain and cloud your sight.”

“They told me he was killed in a bawdy street brawl. That he’d been drinking as usual and picked a fight with someone bigger and stronger than himself.”

“No, no. Not true, dear.” Her weak voice quivered. “He sought them out and had the courage to stand up to those evil twisted men. They didn’t help him. Nobody helped him. Powerful families with weapons corrupt the inner workings of the local police and are no match for one man.”

“But then how did he die?”

“Let me take your hand, my love. Now sit, sit here.”

She shuﬄed painfully on the sofa and grimaced, allowing space for her granddaughter to sit.

“He .. he was sh..shot dead in the street outside his home. Riding back on his bicycle like he always did.”

Hope gasped and her free hand shot to clasp her neck in disbelief.

“Oh my God. Is it true?”

“Yes, my dear. It is the terrible truth. Seven bullets. They fired seven bullets.” Nonna Jenna shook her head. “He was hit in the shoulder, the chest and the head. My poor, poor boy.” She wiped her damp eyes with a rickety hand.

“But were there witnesses? What time of day did it happen? How?”

“It was 8 o’clock in the evening and there were still people about, of course. But no-one, not one single person, saw or heard anything. No ambulance was called neither. Left he was, left to bleed to death like a slaughtered pig.”

Hope’s lips moved but no words came out. Air trapped inside her lungs and she pulled her T-shirt away from her neck to breathe. The blood drained from her face and she felt light-headed.

“Why wasn’t I told the truth? I should’ve been told. They lied to me.”

“We chose not to tell you. You were so young. Your new life was only beginning and it would have been wrong to burden you with such a trauma. Wasn’t that enough already? No, we couldn’t tell you, Gioia Mia. Gino and Sara are good people. They took care of you. It was hard for them too, you know.”

“But they told me it was a drunken brawl.”

“They meant well, love. It was for your safety.”

“And why tell me now? After all these years?”

“My sweet child, I cannot leave this earth with untold truths on my conscience. You must have the chance to forgive and live the rest of your long life to come with kindness and love. I am right, aren’t I?” Nonna Jenna stroked Hope’s pale cheek with tenderness and pulled at a strand of the rusty red hair. She twisted it around her stick-like finger then let the curl twang into place.

“Curls would suit you my love. Now come and give your nonna a big hug and then go and make us a nice cup of hot tea, will you dear? That will make us both feel a little better.”

Via San Lorenzo - Friday 17th august - 4:00 pm At four o’clock in the afternoon on that same day, rainbow water droplets sprayed Hope’s face as she waited for Pino in the centre of Genova town.

She shivered pleasurably.

It was such a refreshing sensation, she walked closer to the fountain in Piazza De Ferrari, hoping to get soaked.

The heat seemed to rise in steam not only from the asphalt but from her skin too.

She pushed her straw hat further down her head to protect her face from the bright sun and a glisten of light caught the corner of her eye. The bronze statue of Garibaldi sitting proud on his horse before the six columns of the Carlo Felice Opera House glimmered.

She blinked and then she spotted Pino and her stomach fluttered. Count Hope, Count. One and two and….

He stood out tall and strong, his stride confident and charismatic. People moved to make room for him to pass as his uniform and gun in his holster reminded them of the authority he wielded. His walk was a parade but there was no exaggerated swagger.

When he saw her, his face lit up. He opened his arms and embraced her in a bear hug that nearly crushed her and lifting her oﬀ her feet made her squeal.

She could feel his gun holster pushing hard into her thigh. It was his gun? Her hat fell oﬀ her head. How she delighted in this easy Italian show of emotions.

“Hope, Hope, Hope. How’re you feeling? So sorry I put you through that yesterday morning. But I needed you there. Your eyes are a little more objective than mine.”

”Must have been harder for you, Pino. Must have been terrible. When Grazia Rosa arrived, we all felt our hearts break.”

She sensed Pino was holding back his emotions. His face, inscrutable. He placed her white straw hat with the blue ribbon back on her head and took her arm.

“Let’s walk down here. We can discuss in my oﬃce. This humidity kills me and I’ve got air conditioning. Much better idea, don’t you agree?”

They made their way, arm in arm, past the splendid pink Ducal Palace and into a pedestrianised lane, the street of Via San Lorenzo, that ran at its side.

At the top end stood the two medieval towers that marked the original entrance to the old town, the historical centre and towards the other the magnificent Cathedral dedicated to Saint Lawrence the Martyr, in its Gothic white and black marbled glory. The horizontal zebra-striped bands, a clever architectural device to exaggerate its dimensions.

Two elevated and regal lions lay at each side of the steps leading up to the entrance, guarding and protecting. A young boy, joyful, sat on the back of one, grasping its mane, while apprehensive mother stood clutching his leg and proud father took photographs.

“The Cathedral of San Lorenzo,” Hope said. “Isn’t Saint John The Baptist the Patron Saint of Genova?”

“Absolutely.” Pino gently plucked an eyelash away from Hope’s cheek with his forefinger and thumb. “In fact, the cathedral does actually guard the ashes of San Giovanni Battista. They say his ashes were brought to Genova at the end of the First Crusade.”

“I can’t remember ever going inside. Can we? I hear it’s breathtaking.”

Hope strode up the steps where people sat, eating focaccia or studying guide books.

At the central archway she studied the elaborate Gothic sculpting before she crept through the door.

“You should cover your shoulders, dear. It’s not very respectful to the church and to God to show one’s nakedness.”

An elderly gentleman with a pointy nose pointed at the table and Hope pulled from the box a blue and red silk scarf which she swathed around herself clumsily.

Pino made the sign of the cross.

“Believe in God, Pino?”

“I have my moments. Catholicism is deep rooted in our society. Both my parents, my mother especially, were faithful believers. For many, the church and their priest is a safe haven, a strong support and an advice centre too. Far stronger than the police have and will ever be.”

“What about Saint Lawrence then? Why was he a Martyr?”

“Well, there is a famous legend about him, actually. They told us in Sunday school and it’s quite a comical one, too. Want to hear it?”

Hope nodded, falling in love with the sound of his liquid voice, resonant like a church choir.

“You see, he once was a deacon of a church in Rome, responsible for the distribution of alms to the poor. The Roman emperor, Valerian, I think it was, ordered all Christian deacons, bishops and priests be immediately put to death and San Lorenzo had to turn over all the riches of his church. So clever Lorenzo quickly distributed the treasure among the poor. When asked to show the treasures, he brought forward the crippled, the blind and the suﬀering. “Here are the diamonds and pearls of the church” he said and the Prefect of Rome was so angry that he had a great gridiron prepared with hot coals beneath it, and had Lorenzo placed on it to cook.”

“Good Lord!” Exclaimed Hope. “But you said it was a comical story. I can’t see anything funny in that at all!”

“Be patient!” smiled Pino and he continued. “So after the martyr had suﬀered his pain on the griddle in silence for quite some time, so the story goes, he cheerfully declared: "I'm well done on this side. You can turn me over now!”

Hope laughed “That's actually quite horrible!” but Pino put his finger to his mouth to remind her of where she was.

“So that’s why San Lorenzo is the patron saint of cooks, chefs and comedians,” he whispered.

“Cooks and chefs? Ah yes, of course. He got cooked on the iron grid!” She kept her voice low and it was just then that she declared in surprise “Goodness, Is that a bomb!”

Encased and on show in a glass cabinet to the right of the altar near the entrance was indeed a large unexploded Bomb.

She read aloud the writing on the plaque that was erected by its side. “To the undying memory of the horrors of war. This grenade was shot in 1941 by the British Royal Fleet during one of the worst attacks against the city of Genoa during the Second World war.”

Hope’s love of art in all its forms had been instilled by her grandfather who had stayed in Rome for a short while after the war. When a child, she sat at his feet while he recounted wonderful tales of his adventures there. He showed her old black and white photographs of the Cistern Chapel and told her how he had met Michael Angelo! She had believed his every word until at school she realised what a liar he had been! A delicious liar.

She chuckled, quietly wondering where those old photos were now. She would pull them out and take a look at them again with her adult eyes.

“Pino?”

They both turned to see the most crumpled man Hope had ever seen in her life. His face was as creased as his suit. With his rumpled forehead, and miserably sloping mouth, an indelible frown was etched. Behind the glasses, folds of skin drooped above his lids and curtained his sad eyes. The shoulders of his dark blue jacket covered in a dusting of dandruﬀ looked like the icing on the cake.

”Dottore,” Pino said, sounding oﬀ guard. He hesitated then grabbed the man’s dumpy hands with both of his and pulled him close.

The sound of the thump, thump, slap on the back of the rounded shoulder echoed oﬀ the high ceiling.

The man stepped away and said, “I trust all is as it should be?” His sluggish voice had the monotonous cadence of a true Genovese.

Hope regarded the short man. Shorter than herself. And with his grey stubble and his torso buckling under the weight of those slumped shoulders, he appeared more like a tramp than a doctor, as Pino had greeted him by.

Pino touched the doctor’s arm, winked and said, “All in order, Doc. All in order, thank you.”

Hope widened her eyes. Something about him made her believe she had seen him before. But she could not remember where.

Pino made the necessary polite introductions and the doctor bowed to Hope with great regality almost sweeping the mosaic floor with his hand. Hope smiled politely. The doctor then slunk down the side aisle, slipped into a pew and sank.

The Chimes of the bell in the clock tower began to ring the hour and Pino checked his watch.

“Hope, I’m sorry but I’d better show my face at the station. Do you mind if we make a move? Come with me and I’ll oﬀer you a coﬀee from the machine.”

Back on the street, the heat took their breath away.

“I’m sure I’ve seen that man somewhere, but where? I can’t put my finger on it.”

Pino made no comment but instead asked, “So how long are you staying ?”

“Staying? In Genova, you mean? Well, see, I’ve got quite a bit of … er … holiday leave to take so you’ll have me around for a while.”

“Good. I’m going to see a lot of you then.” His eyes dived into hers and lingered for more than necessary. He squeezed her arm. She flustered and felt her cheeks redden.

“Yes. I suppose you are.”

Hope was uncertain how to interpret the pounding her heart was giving her ribs. Excited or terrified?

He took her hand in his and led her down the street and excitement stirred her insides. She felt like his captive, being led away to her …?

Doctor Sergio Mantero While Pino and Hope strolled out of the Cathedral, Doctor Sergio Mantero sat on the pew with his head in his hands.

He was out of control and he knew it. But if he could just get that win. It was coming. It was.

So he was on a losing streak right now. But it wouldn’t last. He needed to get his hands on some more cash. Then he would recoup his losses.

Yes, he’d bet on that long shot in the Siena Palio 2 days ago. What Contrada was it? The Seashell. Damned horse fell on the second bend. Angelo had insisted it was a winner. Christ. Why did he have to listen to Angelo? He knew the Giraﬀe would win. He’d had that nagging feeling. He would stick to his own instincts in future.

Mantero’s only choice was to go back to Gianni. Nobody else would help him out. Gianni owed him, and big time anyway, after what he, Mantero, renowned Medical examiner with over thirty years of experience did for him. He laid his career on the line for Gianni. Everytime. Every bloody time Gianni called him.

Two thousand was all he needed. A sure bet, Angelo said. Roman Rosso in the two thirty Del Mar $1 Million TVG Pacific Classic. A straight win bet. If he put two thousand on it he could pay everything back. His credit card debts. His rent arrears. He hadn’t paid the gas bill. And then there was Gian.

He pulled out his wallet and checked he still had the ten Euro note. If he went to Gianni’s now, he could get on the slots.

Yes, his only option was Gian. He no longer had property to remortgage. His ex wife’s solicitor had made sure of that. His savings depleted. Credit cards maxed out.

And friends? He had none. They had soon become wise to his lies. So many, outrageous lies to cover up his addiction. Deception, spiralled out of control.

There was just Gian who kept him afloat but the rope that bound him to Gianni, The Mushroom was thick and tough. It had hung like a noose around his neck for years. Mantero could never forget it was Gianni who had the power to tighten it.

The call he had received four nights ago made him shudder in revulsion.

“Why are you phoning me at this time of the evening?”

“Evening Dottor Mantero. Aren’t you pleased to hear from me?” Gianni only called him Doctor when a job was required of him and Mantero’s stomach tightened. “What do you want?” he said between clenched jaws.

Gianni cackled. How he hated that hoarse cackle.

“I haven’t seen you for quite a while, old friend. I’m missing you. Not been tapped out, then? Had a score or two recently? Well you know where to come if you got debts to pay. Don't want to be known as a Welsher now, do you? I suppose you’ve heard the news. For Illegal betting these days you can get up to 3 years. Just a word of advice. That’s all.”

Sergio Mantero heard the derision in Gianni De Luca’s voice but bit his lip. Mantero knew his addiction to gambling had ruined him and that it was Gianni who kept him afloat. His breathing quickened.

“Just get on with it, Gian.”

“Now you’re talking. Listen carefully. We’ve got a situation.” Gianni lowered his voice menacingly, “There’ll be a pretty package found sooner or later in the cemetery. It’ll be a self check-out. No questions. Got that?”

Gianni waited for a reply. Mantero had grabbed a cigarette and was lighting it.

“Got that?” he repeated slowly and firmly this time.

Mantero exhaled.

“Yes. Got it.”

“Good boy, Doc.”

The phone went dead and shook in Mantero’s hand. Gianni The Mushroom did not hear Doctor Sergio Mantero curse.

“Cristo mio!”

The coarse rope around his neck scraped like a scouring brush at his skin.

At Pino’s Station COMMAND Some fifteen minutes later, Hope sat opposite Pino at his grand oak desk. She stared up at the fresco on the ceiling.

“What a room you have,” she remarked aware that he was staring at her.

He stroked his moustache. “Rather splendid, isn’t it? Zeus on Mount Olympus surrounded by the Gods. 1696.”

“Extraordinary.”

She crossed her legs. Her long sun-dress rested above her knees and feeling his gaze on her thighs she felt her cheeks blaze.

He smiled, tapped out a cigarette from the packet of Winston Silvers on his desk and lit up. He oﬀered it to Hope. She declined. “Those white filters aren’t for me. Too light,” she said taking out her packet of extra strongs. “But I’ll have one of mine.”

Pino held his lighter to her cigarette. They peered into each others eyes for a moment. She noticed a flicker of desire under his long eyelashes then looked away as the lighter clicked.

She inhaled that first heady puﬀ and as she let the smoke out he said, “Well, that was a nice surprise.”

Hope tilted her head to one side and then brushed her skirt letting it fall to her ankles.

“Why did you come to me the other night, Hope?” Pino’s dark, inquisitive eyes bored into hers. She coughed.

“Water?” He took a bottle from a small fridge and poured it into a plastic cup which he handed to her. She gulped it down.

“You don’t have to answer that. I was surprised, that’s all. Pleasantly surprised of course. So how’s Michael?”

“Michael?” Hope’s forefinger jumped to her top lip. She played with the scar that only she knew was there.

“Isn’t that your husband’s name? Sorry. Caterina’s been keeping me updated.”

“Ah. Right. Well Michael, my ex husband, is perfectly fine, thank you. He’s thoroughly enjoying his pregnancy actually.”

“His pregnancy?”

“Well, the girl’s.”

“Ah. I see. Finding that diﬃcult, are you?” He saw her lips tremble. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me.”

“I’ve had a tough twelve months, Pino. Bloody tough.”

“Michael?”

“Not just…”

His phone rang.

“What? Where were they found? .. I see. Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Any news on the German tourist? Found? Out of town? I see. At least that.”

“Pino hung up. The furrows in his forehead deepened. He placed a hand on the nape of his neck and massaged it.

“A family. Just been found under a concrete pylon at the Morandi Bridge. Car completely flattened. Jesus. Husband, wife and Nine year old daughter.”

“How terrible.”

“Crushed by a mass of asphalt and reinforced concrete. Christ It makes me so angry.” He swept his hair back through his fingers. “That’s everyone on the list now. But we’ll keep looking. There could still be more.”

“How can a bridge like that collapse? Is it true they did no maintenance on it?”

“Don’t get me started.”

Hope shifted to the edge of her chair and rested her chin on her elbows.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“About the bridge?”

“Well, no. Actually, I meant, about Aurora.”

He placed his palms on his desk.

“Aurora? How do I feel about Aurora?” He rubbed his brow. “How are you supposed to feel when your niece kills herself. Bloody angry. Angry and frustrated.”

“No Sadness?” she asked.

Pino rubbed his forehead and his eyes closed for a brief moment. She did not wait for his reply, sensing his discomfort. Emotions were diﬃcult to pin down, she knew and a man like Pino, with the work he did, would have had years of stifling them under his stiﬀ uniform.

“Certain it was suicide?”

Pino pressed into his eyebrow with a forefinger. “No doubt about it. Mantero confirmed.”

“And you believe him?”

“What the medical examiner says is sacrosanct.”

Hope shifted to the edge of her chair. She remembered seeing that little man in the white coat outside the chapel. The Doctor.

“The man we saw in the Cathedral earlier, that was the medical examiner at the chapel, wasn’t it Pino? That’s where I saw him from.”

“Yes. Sergio Mantero. Good man. Knows what he’s doing. He is the judge, the jury and the executioner.”

“You are joking, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not. Why should I joke.”

“ But to accept his decision with no questions asked? A decision it seems to me, made so quickly, too. He was there for, what? Fifteen, twenty minutes if that.”

“When the traﬃc light is red, you are obliged to stop. I have no choice. My hands are tied.”

“Christ. But she was your niece. You don’t really believe she killed herself, do you? Alone in the dark… I mean … lying on a cold stone floor like that. Surrounded by the dead. Come on Pino. It just doesn’t make sense, does it? You saw her shoes. Not a scuﬀ on them. Just to walk up to that chapel, is a task for anyone, let alone a girl in high heels. And don’t you want to know if anyone saw her? What time she entered the cemetery? How?”

“The evidence was all there. You saw it too. And you know as well as anybody …. Look, Hope, In Italy suicide is the leading cause of death among young people aged fifteen to twenty four.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve done my research.”

“Then you also know sixty five per cent of all suicides are committed by poisoning with alcohol and drugs. I don’t know about the UK, but last year there were nearly four thousand suicides here. That means one every two hours. Every two hours. Suicide is right there next to death by road accident, tumour, and heart attack. I have to be honest with you, as far as I’m concerned, she killed herself.”

“Okay, and what about the tablets? Do you know how long she’d been taking antidepressants? Do you know if she'd been suicidal before? What pushed her over the edge? Because something must have done. Aren’t these questions you want to ask?”

“Speranza.” His tone sounded like a father to a child, worn out by too may questions.

“My name is Hope.”

“Hope. Enough. My hands are tied. No amount of questions will change the outcome. Aurora took her own life. Let it be.”

“But aren’t you in the least bit curious to understand more? Don’t you owe it to her mother. Your sister?”

“Her mother?” Pino’s voice rose. “Look, Grazia Rosa, yes, is my sister, and I love her as a good brother should but I do not condone the destructive atmosphere she and that husband of hers allowed Aurora to be party to.”

He took a deep breath and continued.

“And I am not about to risk my up and coming promotion by going against a coroner’s oﬃcial report just to satisfy my curiosity for the sake of my dysfunctional sister. And God knows I’ve tried to help many times…but to no avail.”

“Aah! The pro …. mo…. tion. Can’t risk that now, can we?”

“What?”

“Oh come on Pino. Your promotion is more important than your niece’s death? I thought you were better than that.”

“He slammed his hands on the desk and jumped up from the chair.

“Right now, I am having to deal with the greatest tragedy my city has ever seen. Thirty eight crushed bodies have been found so far under that damned bridge. My men are risking their lives, desperately digging from tons of concrete and steel girders. God knows how many more men, women and children they might find. Twenty are still missing that we know of. Do you honestly think I can waste my time on a spoiled, selfish kid who couldn’t sort her life out and so decided to end it all with a bottle of vodka and a packet of pills. No thought for her mother. Her family. Jesus, Hope.”

His fists clenched. His cheeks reddened and his neck veins pumped with rage. He snatched the bottle of water and slugged from it.

“Okay, okay. No need to get so riled. I get it. Things are tough right now but I just don’t see why you don’t want to ask a few questions and find out what happened to her that evening. I mean, your sister begged you to, didn’t she?”

“Riled? Look, Hope, I haven’t got time for this. I’ve got to get to the bridge. So do you think you can leave now and let me get on?”

“Right. Of course. Don’t want to stop you from getting that promotion, do we now.” She stood up and marched towards the door, head held high. Then she stopped and turned back.

He was wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief.

“You should get your blood pressure checked,” she said.

He stood and stared at her stiﬀ shoulders as she pulled the door open with such force, the handle came oﬀ in her hand.

”Dannazione!” she cursed.

At that exact moment, Sergeant Griﬃni entered and bumped into her.

“Scusi. Scusi. Ah,Sir. Scusi, Sir. There’s a ... a lady, sir. I ..I wouldn’t disturb you sir, but she’s very upset.”

“Griﬃni, for heaven's sake, if I had to see everyone who comes here upset, I’d never get anything done. Now please, deal with her yourself, can you? No. Get Giulia to sort it. I need you to drive.”

“Yes, but sir, she, er, she says. She says …”

“Whatever she says can’t be as important as me getting to the bridge and I have to leave.. now. So Giulia can handle her and you, get the car out.”

Pino placed his cap on his head, grabbed his phone and snatched the door handle from Hope’s hand. Griﬃni stood his ground.

“She says she’s your niece’s sister, sir.”

“What?”

“Your niece’s sister.”

“That’s absurd,” sneered Pino. “Aurora didn’t have a sister.”

Griﬃni lifted his hands and shrugged.

Gianni De Luca - Friday 17th August evening Gianni De Luca looked at himself in the mirror. He pulled his pot-marked cheeks back with his hands, smoothing his skin from the heavy lines that marked his fifty years. He didn’t look bad for his age; a little too rounded now perhaps but he was tall and he could get away with it.

He swept back his curly hair, still black apart from a few grey strands at his temples and then, grinning, he lightly slapped the Chinese girl’s bottom and handed her a ten euro bank note.

“The Chinese Touch with surprise“ had indeed surprised him. The young girl had been great with her hands. But he didn’t want to spoil her. She was a clandestine after all. No documents.

Feeling less wound up, he could say that he was in fact in rather a good mood. It was seven o’clock in the evening and he had to get back to his oﬃce. He needed to call Li Hua in Shanghai, his contact there. Had to keep him sweet. He could speak no Chinese and his English was poor so he relied heavily on Li whose Italian was not bad at all, for a Chinaman.

The Lotus Flower massage parlour was one of the many shops opened recently by the Chinese in this new era of multi ethnicity in Genova. Situated at number five, Via del Campo, in the old town, the Centro Storico, it was one of Gianni’s favourite haunts. It was also one of Gianni’s, full stop. And for Gian, of course, it was gratis. Services rendered. Only right.

Ten minutes later he walked through Piazza Banchi and entered Via Degli Orefici.

The cobbled lane was still crowded with Genovese shoppers and tourists and like most of the

lanes in Genova’s historical centre, Via Degli Orefici, Goldsmiths’ Lane, took its name from the activity that had prevalently carried out there at one time. In fact, today there were still a lot of jewellery-making workshops in this ‘Zona Campetto’.

Gianni saluted Ferdinando Rossi who he could see placing an emerald ring back in its show place in his jewellery shop window. After working in this area of Genova for nearly 20 years Gianni knew all the shop keepers by name. Many of them came into his bar for their daily pick-me-ups and would exchange local gossip with him. Most of them had come to him for more. In fact, he could not remember all the ways in which he had helped. But of course he never forgot their individual needs, desires, setbacks. All their little vices. Useful information that tied them to him.

He was owed a lot of favours. That’s where his power lay and his control of the city he loved was about to improve further once his old mate, Renzo Bianchi, won his seat in the up coming local council elections. It was a certain. Another favour owed to him by a man at the top whose habit for white powder and party girls in nurse’s uniforms with handcuﬀs and whips had provided Gianni with years of very substantial bonuses and the ability to take over shop front lock ups out of which anything could be run.

But Ferdinando? Ferdinando went back a lot further. Good old Nando. Still up to his old tricks.

Gianni slipped into the very short, narrow and rather unpleasant smelling street called Piazza delle Oche, Goose Square.

Like many of the maze of side streets, it reeked degradation and disrepair and it smelt of human urine. This lane, however, led to the side entrance of the sumptuous Basilica of Santa Maria delle Vigne. Once upon a time, the tiny square was the courtyard to the dwelling of the Vivaldi family who kept geese and had them running around free in the street.

The shabby building now had a large, marble plaque set into the old stone at the side of its door entrance which laid claim to the fact that Albert Einstein, as a 16 year old young man, had stayed there with his uncle in 1895 for several months.

Gianni entered the Basilica, as he often did, to light a candle to his mother Maria, dead these ten years. The fact that the Basilica had the same name as his mother made it all the more poignant. He liked to spend a few minutes in silence in this peaceful place of God to remember her beautiful face and sit in the cool nave.

From the outside one would never suspect the church had such an enormous hall nor such grandeur and sumptuousness. Gianni always felt he was in an ancient Roman temple. Tall marble pillars lined the central aisle and the ceiling was a blaze of beautiful alfresco paintings that represented the glory of Maria, the Madonna and mother of Jesus.

He stopped at the mirror that had been intentionally placed on the ground at an incline for all those who wished to admire the ceiling without getting a sore neck. Then he looked up at the Madonna on the wall nursing her child and remembered his wife in the hospital bed, holding their newborn daughter in her arms, baby feeding from mother’s breast and the look of adoration, a look he had never shared.

Since his wife, Anna, had left him, Gianni had had a string of girlfriends but now he found it simpler to visit the Lotus Flower. It cost him far less money. Girlfriends were expensive. And the Chinese fluﬀ rarely talked. Few of them could speak Italian anyway. Having to listen to a woman’s constant chatter was painful. The little orientals, always sweet, gave him exactly what he wanted.

Anna. Christ she’d been hard work.

She could do nothing right. Couldn’t even bear him children properly. How many miscarriages?

How he had dreamed of a son. A little Gianni. His mould. But she had managed to give him his daughter Giovanna, nearly 18 years old and his prized possession. His property. He had groomed her into the young woman she was expected to to be for her future husband. Obedient and hardworking, a good cook, a second to none housekeeper and very amenable. Not too clever, mind, but certainly without a head full of silly modern ideas.

His daughter was traditional and totally reliant on her father. That way he kept complete control of her. At 50 Gianni knew how to obtain obedience from just about anybody. He was big, tall and powerful and very used to getting his own way. His voice boomed commands and his fists demanded respect. He had his father in him alright. And the nose.

He did not want to dwell on Anna, that bitch who had run oﬀ with her tennis teacher. Yes, okay, he used to knock her about a bit but she deserved it. When he came home after a hard day’s work, all her whining would irritate him. It was his right as a husband to put his wife in her place.

And to think she wanted to take his little girl away with her. Well he made sure that didn't happen. He nearly beat the idiot tennis teacher to death and the cowards, both of them, jumped on the first plane to Barcelona. She left their daughter behind, thankfully, but knew damned well that if she had taken Giovanna with her, he, Gianni, would have had her for kidnapping a minor. The Italian law was on his side.

And so was his precious daughter. He made sure of that. Giovanna knew exactly what a bitch of a mother and a wife Anna was. Good riddance to her and may she rot in hell.

When he reached Piazza Banchi, he looked up at the church of ‘San Pietro’, and its red and soft green striped porticoes and gave the sign of the cross.

Built above commercial establishments, this unique church curiously combined the sacred with the profane.

In the 12th century, Piazza Banchi was filled with money changers’ stalls, the first bankers in Europe. It was appropriate that Gianni De Luca had his oﬃce in this part of the old town as one of the side-lines of his very successful export-import business was that of lending money. He was a loan shark, a money-lender and a swindler. In Italian he was known as ‘un strozzino’ or ‘cravattaro’. The very worst of the underground filth.

At the corner of Via Al Ponte Reale, Carlos was standing outside Bar Del Porto, smoking a cigarette and followed Gianni in, complaining of the heat.

“How’s business today Carlos?” asked Gianni. Carlos smiled and put his forefinger to his cheek twisting it as if to say “I just ate a delicious meal”.

“Today good, boss.”

“More details, Carlos, please.”

Carlos was one of Gianni’s stooge’s or henchmen, his ’tirapiedi’. The word, which literally meant ‘pull feet’ had been given to the men who helped the executioner by pulling the legs of the hanged man in order to speed up their death. And Carlos was not a nice person to get mixed up with.

His tattoos which covered him, helped give an image to the fact.

He was about 27, balding and always wore a crisp white shirt. Today, sleeves rolled up for business above his elbows, His jeans fashionably torn at the knees.

His voice was dry and husky and his mouth was hidden behind a neatly trimmed, goatee beard which lent him an almost fatherly air. His gaze however, gave him away. It was of ice.

“Had a brown suit come in this morning. Staglieno Eddie sent him. I gave him nine hundred. His two post-dated cheques are in the till. Seven fifty each. Second cheque we cash in three week’s time. I explained the drill and Eddie’s smart. Know what he’s doing.”

“Good boy that one. We’ll give him a little bonus.”

He would take a visit to Staglieno tomorrow morning to keep Eddie sweet. He was a bright kid and needed looking after. He didn’t want to risk losing him to the Albanians.

“So what was this one’s story, Carlos?”

“Usual thing. A clothes merchant in diﬃculty. A few of his clients aren’t coughing up and he’s got suppliers breathing down his neck. His bank’s asking for their money back.”

“This ‘maladetta’ crisis we are in is great for business Carlo, my son” said Gianni opening the till to finger the cheques. Two of them so the bank asked no questions. The amounts were always way lower than the maximum one thousand. That way the banks minded their own business.

“Get Valeria to go to Rapallo tomorrow morning, will you? We haven’t cashed a cheque there for a while. She can go to the Bank of Chiaveri. I don’t think they’ve ever seen her, have they?”

“No boss. Ok boss. Will do.”

Easy money Gianni thought and went to sit down at the large table at the back of the bar, where he picked up ‘Il Secolo’, the local Genovese rag. He called out to Valeria for a carafe of house white and a plate of pasta al pesto.

A sweet looking girl with long dark hair and smooth olive skin, she reminded him of his daughter. Her innocent expression so like all the other young girls of today convinced Gianni she didn’t stick out in a crowd. Perfect to run errands for him. No fear of questions.

He looked over the front page news.

‘ ROMA - “Basta gente a spasso, basta migranti in giro per le strade, che non si sa cosa fanno o fanno casino.”

Matteo Salvini the young and charismatic leader of ‘Lega Nord’, the Right-wing, anti-immigrant, anti-Europe Northern League, is now Foreign Minister of the new populist coalition government with the anti-establishment Five Star Movement , Movemento Cinque Stelle and is putting his foot down over immigration. Zero tolerance is his electoral campaign slogan and he is making his first moves towards internal security.

“My job is to keep Italian citizens and their country safe. So no more immigrants wandering around the streets creating mayhem and stirring up trouble”.

Measures will be put in place to guarantee that beaches are safe, ‘spiagge sicure’, for this coming summer so that we can fight against the drama of unregulated activity, ‘abusivismo’ that damages our shopkeepers and merchants and disturbs the bathers who wish to enjoy our beautiful beaches during the summer holidays.” ‘

“And about time too!” Gianni shouted.

Valeria set before him a plate of trofie with pesto, his favourite Genovese dish. She then poured him a glass of the white wine, frizzante, cold, she had placed on the table for him and a bowl of focaccia cut up into strips.

While Gianni ate, he picked up his phone and checked his Emails. He was surprised to see one from Parodi Giorgio.

“What on earth does the little tyke want?”

About to open the message, Sergio Mantero shuﬄed in and taking oﬀ his hat, sat down before Gianni.

Several minutes of silence ensued as Gianni read the phone message.

Finally he looked up.

“Dottore, What a pleasant surprise. Glass of wine? The finest of course Valeria, another glass for the Doc, will you?”

Mantero nodded and turned his hat in his hands.

“Everything under control, Mantero?”

Mantero recognised that steely stare and squirmed.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Have no fear. What Mantero says, goes.”

“So what do you want then?”

“Gian, I, well, I ..”

“Need some more money?”

Mantero shrugged.

“Carlos, take a hundred out of the till, will you son. A hundred enough for you?”

“Gianni, I’m, I need more than that. Look, I, er, promised Stefania I’d pay for the new bathroom. It’s the least I can do. You know what she’s like. The men are already half way through the job and they want the first down payment in cash. By tomorrow. I Just don’t have the funds right now. Can’t let her down, can I Gian?”

“Can’t let her down? If I’m right in thinking, you’ve been letting her down for years. That’s why she kicked you out, isn’t it?”

Mantero shifted in the chair.

“How much you talking about?”

“Well, it’s like, er, three grand. Yes, three grand. That should do it. Keep them quiet. And keep Stefania oﬀ my back.”

Mantero’s laugh sounded like an elephant’s trumpet.

Gianni tilted his head.

“A new bathroom?”

“Gianni, please. This time I put my good name on the line for you. Risked my reputation. Help me out here, will you?”

Gianni’s phone rang and he picked it up.

“Hey, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you back.”

Gianni stared at Sergio Mantero. He knew the man’s addiction was ruining him. He’d seen it so many times. The look of him. The smell of him. Desperation in his eyes. He put has hand on Mantero’s shoulder.

“Can’t it wait?” He said to the phone. Then he sighed and said, “Right. Where are you?”

He pushed himself out of the chair and called Carlos.

“Boss?”

“Sort the Doc out, will you. Give him three.”

“Hundred, boss?”

“No, not hundred, thousand. Remind him how things work around here too, cos I do believe he’s forgotten.”

Checking his pockets for his keys, he marched up the steps and out of the bar completely ignoring Paolo’s “What’s happening, boss? Everything okay?”

Carlo looked at Valeria and said “Boh! Where’s he going in such a hurry?”

“Cazzo!” Gianni spat under his breath. “What the hell has she done now!”

Red Lipstick - Friday 17th August- early evening That evening, Just as Gianni De Luca ran out of his bar, Hope put on lipstick for the first time in a very long time.

A dark red.

It highlighted her full lips but she thought it inappropriate. Tomorrow morning they would bury a girl who could never wear lipstick again. Not ever.

“Are you sure this suits me? Not too dark?” She stood in front of the wall mirror while Caterina, sitting on her bed in Pino’s spare room, watched her make up.

“Looks fabulous. So tell me again. What did she say?”

“I’ve told you everything already, Cat.”

“I know but I want to hear it again.”

“Well, she said she was her sister.”

“Her half sister.”

“Yes, okay. Her half sister.”

“And she’d come all the way from Bari to meet her?”

“Yes, I told you. They’d been writing to each other for months. She came up on the train especially and they were due to meet this morning. When Aurora didn’t show at the station to pick her up and after unanswered phone calls and messages all morning, this Sara Rossi was worried enough to look for Pino. She knew of him through Aurora’s emails.”

“So, do you think it’s true? What did Pino say?”

“Pino remained very calm. He let the girl talk. Apparently Nando met the girl’s mum when she worked in a Jeweller’s he used to visit down there. She’d always believed he was just a family friend but then her mum told her the truth on her eighteenth birthday a few months ago. That’s when she sent the first email to Aurora. I have to say there was a strong resemblance to him.”

“To Nando?”

“Yep. Same hazel eyes, same olive skin and that dimpled chin.”

“Does Nando know she’s here?”

“She didn’t want to make a fuss. She’s spending the night in a hotel in the centre and tomorrow she’ll return to Bari. She said Nando’s got enough to deal with, which was very nice of her, considering.”

“God, I always knew he was a wanker.”

“Cat, that’s not like you.”

“Well, he is. He’s had a second family for all these years. Lived a double life. What a bastard. And Grazia’s put up with his drinking and bullying. Always forgiven him. If she gets to find out about this, it will push her over the edge. We’re gonna have to keep it from her as long as we can. She mustn’t find out. Not right now.”

“Pino said the same as you. Got to protect Grazia Rosa.”

“You don’t agree?” asked Caterina.

“Oh, I agree but there’s something I don’t get. I just don’t understand why Aurora would have arranged for this girl to visit. Have her come all the way from Bari, organise a meeting, after having written numerous e mails, and then kill herself just before the girl arrives? What’s that all about? I mean, surely she’d want to see her in the flesh? And then maybe even confront her father too.”

“Maybe she did already.”

“Maybe she did. What would you do if you discovered your father had a secret second child by another woman? She’d witnessed his rage and his heavy fists. For how long? Do you know? Maybe for years. And in the very place where she should have felt safe. Home. “She’d watched the slow destruction of her mother at his hands, the man who should have looked after them both. Perhaps even been abused by him too, we don’t know.

Think about the unpredictable environment she lived in. The tension. The fear. Can you imagine?

“The conflict and violence. Her mother’s injuries. No wonder she left home at such a young age. How old was she when she moved into that flat? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen, I think.”

“Not at all usual for an Italian child, right? They usually stay with their parents well into their thirties and some even into their forties.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t go far, did she? I mean, Grazia Rosa can watch her every move from her kitchen window,” said Caterina passing Hope a stick of Chanel mascara.

“And then she discovers he’s not her real father. God, how terrible.”

“Perhaps knowing the existence of Sarah Rossi drove her to searching out her birth certificate.”

Hope wiped a black smudge from the corner of her eye and said, “But the burden of that knowledge would’ve weighed heavily, for sure.”

“Hope, I think it’s time for a drink, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. Where are you taking me?”

“Boccadasse, my dear.”

“Boccadasse?”

“Don’t remember it? Little bay at the end of Corso Italia? Fishing boats? Great ice cream?”

“Alcohol?”

“Oh, yes. The bar on the beach does a great Aperol Spritz.”

“Perfect. Just what I n…”

The door to Pino’s apartment slammed. Hope and Caterina rushed into the corridor to see Pino storm in, face red, fists clenched.

“I’m going to kill that bastard if it’s the last thing I do,” he said between gritted teeth.

Pino pulled opened the door to the linen cupboard next to the bathroom and searched the top shelves. He took down a bundle of white sheeting which he grappled to unwrap.

When she saw Pino throw the Winchester shooting rifle over his shoulder she gasped.

“What the hell, Pino. What are you doing?”

She followed him as he marched into his bedroom.

“This is my hog gun. The best bolt-action hunting gun ever made.”

Caterina stood at the door behind them, hands on hips.

“What the hell are you doing? What do you want that rifle for? Pino. Can you calm down and explain.”

Breathing heavily, he rummaged in the top drawer of a heavy mahogany chest of drawers that stood by the tall carved oak panelled wardrobe. From it, he extracted a packet of round-nose 220-grain bullets. Hope had done some shooting practice with a Remington but never a Winchester and Pino’s super grade model 70, she knew, was a deer and hog killing favourite with a range beyond 200 yards.

He stroked the sleek rifle’s polished Maple wood as if it were a kitten. Then, Kerplunk. He had pulled the gun’s bolt up and back and was slipping a slender bullet into the magazine chamber. One, two, three.

“You’re not going hunting for wild boar now? At this time of an evening? We’re about to go for an aperitivo. Why don’t you come with us. You look like you need a drink.” Caterina said in a calm, smooth voice.

Pino cracked his knuckles. “I need to be sober for what I’m about to do to that bastard.”

Hope grabbed his arm. “Cazzo, Pino. You can’t. Not Nando. If you do this you could lose your job.”

Pino’s laugh had a sarcastic edge to it and Hope noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Remember who I am, Hope. I can do anything I like. Nobody would dare touch me.”

He stomped out of the house and they could hear his feet stamping down the steps. Hope and Caterina stared at each other, grabbed their handbags and charged through the door to follow him.

Pino and Nando The front door to Grazia Rosa’s buttercup house was wide open. Hope and Caterina entered and trotted over the shiny polished terracotta flooring in the hallway. A comforting aroma of fresh basil and garlic wafted from the kitchen but there was an overpowering stench of silence throughout. The kitchen was empty. They tried the living room where spotless shelves displaying pots and vases in careful, colour coordination told the story of a diligent housewife proud of her home. No-one. They ran up the stairs two at a time, Hope’s ankles straining in the bloody heels she was wearing. She never wore heels. And just when she needed her trainers, damn it. She slammed open each of the doors. In the bedroom lay Grazia Rosa, on her back, fast asleep. A bottle of pills and a glass of water on the bedside table. Nando’s studio empty. Bathroom, empty. Where the hell were they? “Cazzo, where are they? What’s Pino done?” Caterina’s weak voice trembled.

In Aurora’s old bedroom, they stood stock still, immobilised. It was the room of a young child. The single bed with its pink head rest was perfectly made with teddy bear patterned linen sheets, tightly tucked under the mattress. A herd of furry animals lay across the pillow looking up at the ceiling where luminous stars had been stuck to form a nonsensical constellation. There was a cerise petal shaped wardrobe with posy handles and a pink desk that matched the bed, pushed against the wall opposite. Five or six barbie dolls sat on it in a perfect line, long blonde hair shining in the sun from the large window, bright red lips like Hope’s and crystal blue eyes staring at them. The shelves above the desk were filled with story books. It was a shrine to the six year old Aurora. Hope strolled to the window. What she saw made the pit of her stomach wrench even more than the pink memorial to Aurora she was standing in. Her hands darted to her head. “Cazzo!” she cried. “In the garden.” She rushed out of the room and stumbled down the stairs. At the bottom, she slipped off her heeled sandals and sprinted bare footed out the door and down the garden. “Christ Hope, I can’t keep up with you,” cried Caterina. “You stay here. This could get nasty.” At the bottom of the garden by a vegetable patch filled with tall tomato plants, Pino aimed the Western seventy at his brother-in-law’s chest. Ferdinando, dressed in elastic waisted, khaki, cargo shorts that fell to just below his knees and a white vest, held a spade in one gloved hand. His sweaty arms were caked with mud. Hope could not tell if the sneer he wore was out of derision or fear but she noticed how tightly he clutched the spade handle, his knuckles white. “Pino,” Hope puffed, controlling the panic rising in her throat. “This is not the way. Put the rifle down.” Pino ignored her and continued to stare at Nando. “How long have we known each other, Nando?” asked Pino in a quiet voice. Nando’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “All our lives.” “So that makes how many years? Forty one?”

“Right.” “And in all these years, I’ve never seen you scared. But you are now, aren’t you. Look at you, you worthless scum.” “Pino, please put down the gun. This is not right,” pleaded Hope. Pino shifted his head without taking his eyes off Nando and growled, “Speranza, will you shut up. This has got nothing to do with you. It’s between me and Nando, here. I know what I’m doing so if you don’t like it, walk away.” Hope, shocked at his outburst, lifted both hands in the air and took several paces back. “Do you know who came to visit me yesterday, Nando?” Nando jerked his head from side to side. “Can’t you guess. Well, let me help you. A girl called Sara. All the way from Bari. Ring any bells now?” “Sara? Sara who? I don’t know any girls by that name in Bari.” “No? How strange. This girl says she knows you. Knows you very well. In fact she told me you’re her father.” What little blood was left in Nando’s cheeks drained away completely. His eyes darted up to the bedroom window. “Oh, it’s alright. Grazia Rosa won’t hear us. She’s fast asleep on temazepam. So tell me something. This Sara, Sara Rossi, said you’d been shafting her mother for years. Looks to me like you’ve got a nice cosy little family unit all the way down there in Bari.” “Look Pino. I kept my part of the bargain.” Nando whined. “And I stayed with her, didn’t I? She’s wanted for nothing and I looked after that girl of hers like she was my own. Doted on her, I did.” “And all the while you were playing happy families down in Bari. How caring of you. Did you smash Sara’s mother’s face up on a regular basis, too? Or was that just Grazia Rosa’s.”

“Cazzo, Pino. I know I’m not perfect, alright. But your sister is as frigid as frozen ice. Always has been. I have needs, like any man. You of all people should understand that!” “God, you disgust me.” “So what? Gonna shoot me, are you? Big man with his hunting rifle in his uniform and polished boots. A man with no secrets, right Pino? As clean as a whistle you are. What did you have to do to get so big?” “Keep your mouth shut.” “What’s this? Don’t want little miss detective to know the truth about you? Who’s turn is it to be afraid now?” Nando cackled. “Well, go on then. Shoot me. Get it over with. Not sure how Grazia Rosa will cope with having to clean up my brains off the grass. God knows, she’s barely managing to function now when she’s not comatosed from those bloody pills she swallows.” “Christ, if you don’t shut up I will pull this trigger, God help me, I will.” Pino then stabbed Nando’s chest with the muzzle. Nando stepped backwards, lost his footing, stumbled and landed on his coccyx with a thump. As he leaned against the tomato plant behind him the stem crackled, then the plant crunched under the force of Nando’s weight. As if in slow-motion, Nando toppled onto his back, crushing it and squashing the nearly ripe tomatoes beneath him. If it were not for Pino’s threatening stance, the cords visible on his rigid neck, the thrust of his chest, Hope would have chuckled with sheer amusement at such a ridiculous scene. “Get up, idiot,” Pino ordered. Ferdinando rolled onto his front like a bear and heaved himself onto all fours, his shorts and white vest covered in red stains. “Aurora knew. She knew all about it,” said Pino. “That’s the sad part. She knew about Sara and had arranged to see her. That’s why the girl was here in Genova. She’d come up especially to meet her newly found step sister. From what I understand the two girls were very excited about their first meeting. Looking forward to it.” PIno’s voice had the sing song lilt of sarcasm. Nando remained on all fours, out of breath. “Oh Dio mio,” he huffed. “Aurora knew about this? Jesus, how long has she.. had she known?”

“Sara sent the first e-mail to her about three months ago. I’m surprised she didn’t confront you with it. Or did she?” Nando furrowed his brow then wiped his forehead with the side of his forearm. “Jesus. No. No she didn’t.“ To Hope he appeared genuinely upset. He then tried pulling himself to his feet but shrieked in pain and placed a hand on his lower back. “Ma porco cane, Pino. Can you put that damn rifle down. Can’t you see I’m suffering here. Think I’ve damaged my coccyx. I can’t move.” “What’s going on? Pino? Nando? Are you alright? What the hell have you done, Pino?” It was Caterina who had been watching the scene from the upstairs window and rushed out when she saw Nando fall, thinking that Pino had pulled the trigger. “I haven’t done anything, Cat. It’s that bastard that’s done all the damage.” He handed the rifle to Hope who immediately switched the safety lock on. He grasped Nando under the shoulders and heaved him from the ground but Nando yelped like a beaten dog. “No, no. let me down,” cried Nando, blowing out air in small puffs. “Leave me here like this. If I lie on my back it’s okay.” “I think we’re going to have to call an ambulance,” said Caterina. “Looks like he’s slipped a disc, or worse, cracked a vertebra.” “Bellin, I don’t know about you, but I really do need that drink now, Cat,” said Hope

Boccadasse - Friday 17th August evening “One may smile, and smile, and still be a villain” - William Shakespeare

On the warm evenings of summer, Corso Italia, Genova’s seaside promenade, pulsed with activity and this evening was no exception. It was chaotic, vibrant and filled with both the young and old.

After having circled for at least twenty minutes, Caterina, frustrated, irritated and overheated, finally managed to find a parking space for Poppy and as she reversed into the space as small as a stamp on an envelope, she said, “I don’t know what Pino was thinking. To hold him at gun point like that. Has he lost his mind? I know he’s under a lot of stress, but really.”

“Parking’s always such a bloody nightmare. Too many cars. Too many damned people. Too little space.”

The stroll to the beach at Boccadasse, albeit a long one, was calming and looking out towards the great expanse of sparkling sea from the ‘passeggiata’, Caterina and Hope felt positively balmy.

Genova’s ‘lungo mare’ underwent several transformations throughout the day. From a daytime bikini clad beach life to an evening dressed-up hub that oﬀered a meeting place exciting to be part of.

Now, the nearly one and a half mile promenade pumped with enthusiastic pre-dinner joggers in lycra, rollerbladers in knee pads and helmeted cyclists in padded pants, sportified in glorious technicolour.

Hope recoiled.

Too much physical activity going on for her liking. What smug expressions they had, showing oﬀ their beautiful brown bodies. She would rather be sipping on an Aperol Spritz, keeping her pale limbs to herself, thank you very much.

“Look at that group! There must be at least thirty of them! I forget how you like hanging out in large numbers.”

“I think it is all about wanting to belong to the crowd. The larger the group, the more significant they feel.”

Hope could not think of anything worse.

A middle aged man with short greying hair and a crooked nose strolled past. He was dressed in a long black robe and white dog collar with a braided belt hung loosely around his hugely rotund middle. His bare feet were poking out of brown leather Jesus sandals.

The women reached the church. ‘La chiesa della gente di mare - ’ The church of the people of the sea. Beautiful in its simplicity but unusual, for hanging from the arches of the central nave, above the statues and paintings of saints, were models of old sailing ships, highly detailed and brightly polished, each one diﬀerent to the next.

The steep cobbled lane that led down to the bay of Boccadasse from the church was filtering the wave of people who, like Hope and Caterina, headed for the ‘Strambata’, the bar on the beach.

Hope, head bowed in concentration on her every step, tottered in the damned heels she was not used to wearing and grasped Caterina’s arm so as not to trip. What a relief when she reached the bottom where the narrow ’Creusa’ opened into the horseshoe shaped cove. The blazing sunlight dazzled and Hope had to adjust her eyes to the brightness.

“Isn’t it delightful?” asked Caterina.

“Nice and empty.”

Hoards of friends and families sat or lay in their costumes on the tiny pebbled beach like calamari frying on a grill. Children splashed in the water.

A young man knelt by his dark haired girlfriend who posed shamelessly at the water’s edge while he took photographs.

A group of young nuns, some Italian, some African, had changed their habits but still wearing their hair veils, were tip-toeing into the lapping waves, long light grey summer skirts tucked up into their white knickers, grins of pleasurable naughtiness on their faces.

The bay was surrounded by tall green-shuttered houses with grey slate roofs. Their frontages painted in pale yellows, soft mint greens and the blood red of the ox. Typically Ligurian.

There were several restaurants and bars where circular plastic tables and wooden wicker chairs hosted cocktail drinkers looking fashionable in designer sunglasses. They eyed the bystanders with almost disdainful smirks, proud to be with the right crowd and those who milled nearby, hoped to catch a table that would, the brusque waiter had reassured them, free up any time soon.

At around a quarter past eight, the evening lamp-lights around the bay of Boccadasse unexpectedly turned on as the sun mellowed. Ten minutes later, speakers blared out an instrumental version of ‘Nessun Dorma’ and hundreds of enchanted faces lit up orange as they watched the ball of amber fire disappear into the sea, lighting up the water in a divine golden glory.

The atmosphere was charged with the night’s expectations, and Hope and Caterina made for the ‘Strambata’.

Inside the pub it was awkward. They had to push their way through the cramped, restricted space. Hope’s worst nightmare was having to press her body up against complete strangers. But once they managed to order their drinks and Hope spotted the various bowls of food on the counter, her enthusiasm picked up and she felt more at ease.

She took a plate and helped herself to the buﬀet that was included in the price of the aperitivo while the tall, handsome barman rolled up his shirt sleeves and poured Prosecco into long glasses half filled with Aperol.

As soon as they had a glass in hand they both went to look for a place to sit outside. No chairs available, they sat on the pebbles, legs outstretched not minding the discomfort to their bottoms.

Hope stared at the nuns towel-drying their legs and ankles. She enjoyed their girlish giggles but wondered how they could sacrifice their feminine roles to a God they had no proof existed. She thought of her fan obsession with Elvis Presley when she was an eleven years old. They were probably hero worshipping Jesus, like she had the King. Maybe they even fancied him a bit too. She felt a hand on her arm.

“Look, Hope. Is that Eddie? It is. I like Eddie. Let’s go and say hello. Come on.”

“Caterina. Why would I want to go and see an Eddie I’ve never met before? I’m perfectly happy here. Thoroughly enjoying the view.” She pointed her Aperol spritz towards the still glowing sea.

“He’s Parodi’s son. And he’s a charming young man. You’ll like him.” She saw Hope’s pout. “Really you will.”

Hope wagged her finger

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport.”

She tugged at Hope’s blue and purple flowered blouse and Hope groaned.

“Bellin. Alright then. If I have to.”

The two women walked towards the young man and the long haired, dark skinny beauty sitting by his side on a large beach. Hope noticed the six-pack of beers by their feet, two of which were already opened and in their hands. She also noticed Eddie’s. His naked torso sent a pulse of interest through her veins.

“Eddie, Giovanna. What a nice surprise? Warm night, ay?”

Hope noticed how the young man sat up straight and jerked his hand away from the girl’s thigh. He smiled warmly. He was no George Clooney, Hope thought, but he wasn’t bad arm candy either.

“Ciao Cat. Come stai? Tutto bene? What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d bring my long lost friend to see this beautiful place. Hope’s over from England and it’s the first time she’s visited in years.”

She poked her tongue at Hope. Hope scrunched her nose and flicked her hair from her face.

“And this, Hope, is Giovanna. Giovanna De Luca. Gabriele’s niece.”

Hope nodded. She saw the same triangular nose and the sharp eyes with the whites as bright as white marshmallows. Her jawline so defined and lips that any man would want to taste.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Eddie shifting closer to Giovanna.

“England. My uncle wanted to go to England. Wanted to take me with him. But we never got the right documents. They wouldn’t let us in.”

His Italian was perfect but for a very slight rounding of his vowels, especially the ‘O’. Like an English O.

“Are you not Italian, Eddie?” Hope asked.

He tilted his head back and roared delightedly.

“Bellin, no.” Hope noticed how he used the Genoese expletive so well. “Albanian and proud of it. Came over on the boats in ninety seven with my uncle to escape the gang wars.”

Hope's skin prickled. Albania. The Albanese. Deeply reliant on loyalty, honour, and family. Hope knew only one word of Albanese. ‘Besa’, trust. The code of honour of their mafia. If you give someone your Besë, you swear to protect that someone with your life.

Known for their violence, the Albanese mafia had control of more than seventy five percent of the UK’s brothels, seventy percent of the London prostitution market, their operations in Soho worth over fifteen million pounds sterling annually, and had in the last few years sold more than 500,000 kilograms of drugs in London alone.

“Ninety seven. Something about pyramid schemes, right? Bad investments? Didn’t Thousands sell everything to invest in the schemes and lose it all?” Hope asked.

“That’s right. Not many people can remember that. Dad was a farmer. Sold all the livestock to invest in something that didn’t exist. Stupid bugger.”

“Don’t be hard on him. Those large companies were oﬀering silly money as a return on the investments. He did what they all did.”

“Yeah, but it was a lie. And when everybody realised it was just one big scam, the riots broke out.”

“They wanted their money back. Only natural,” said Hope.

“I know, but then the gangs took over. Started shooting people left, right an’ centre. That’s when my mum forced us to leave. Me and my uncle.”

“Is your mum still there?”

“She’s still there. Dad died a while back, but she’s still there. I send her money when I can.”

Caterina turned to the girl, Giovanna.

“How you feeling, Gio?”

Giovanna grinned, then seeing such concern in Catrina’s eyes, bit her bottom lip and bowed her head.

“A bit numb, actually. Can’t believe it’s happened,” the girl said, her eyes widening into saucers.

“It was you who discovered her, wasn’t it?” asked Eddie.

Caterina blushed under her sun tanned cheeks. Surely no-one knew why she was in the chapel that dreadful morning.

“The most horrific thing I’ve ever experienced. Seeing her like that. It was horrible.”

“You knew Aurora well, Giovanna?” Hope asked.

“We were best friends.” She faltered. “Well, once.”

Giovanna sniﬀed then put her fingers to her nostrils. Her eyes welled. Hope pulled a paper tissue from her bag and handed it to her.

“It must be very diﬃcult for you. Did you see a lot of her?”

“Not much recently. She was always too busy with her new university friends.” She blew her nose

“Did you mind that?”

“Did I mind?” Giovanna squeezed the tissue in her hand. “A little. Yeah, I have to be honest. We used to speak every day but gradually she stopped contacting me so much. She’d often come and have a coﬀee with me in the old days. I used to love our chats. We’d tell each other everything. but, you know, she wanted to make something of herself and her new friends were part of that. I wasn’t. I don’t think she felt I was the right kind of person to fit in with them.”

“That couldn’t have been very nice for you, dear,” said Caterina.

“Yeah, well. I’m just a girl who sells flowers. Aurora started to mix with people better than me. You know, with breeding.” Giovanna flicked the air with the tissue as if a queen pestered by the riﬀraﬀ.

“So when was the last time you saw her?”

“Last time?” The girl hesitated. Hope watched the girl’s face and noticed her eyes glaze. Her gaze was steady, almost cold. Was she about to tell a lie? Hope recognised the signs. But why should she? The girl continued. “About a week ago. She popped in to buy some white lilies. She didn’t stay long as she had to rush home and change for her night out with some fancy boy.”

She started to play with the tissue, folding it and folding it, smaller and smaller until it was a tiny ball. Hope wondered if in distress or agitation.

“She had a boyfriend then, did she? Tell you his name?”

The girl’s eyes shifted to Eddie. He fidgeted then swigged his beer. She looked down and studied the tissue she had crumpled in her hand.

“All I know is there were a lot of men she was interested in. But a boyfriend? Nah. Doubt it.”

Hope watched Eddie and thought she saw him wince.

“Why d’you say that?”

“Aurora was a party girl. Just wanted to have fun. Anyway, she kept me well out of her new life.”

“Did you know her Eddie?” Hope asked.

“Me?” Hope saw his eyes flicker with wariness. They broke contact with hers and he said, “No, not really. Met her a couple of times, that’s all.”

The young man picked up a pebble, jiggled it in his hand then threw it back in the sand. Giovanna swigged her beer and looked in the direction of the sea. Hope couldn’t understand why she sensed something was wrong. An uncomfortable something unsaid and it bothered her.

“What about the night she died, Giovanna? Her mum thought she was going to meet you for a drink. Did she?” Caterina asked.

Giovanna looked up from the tissue, mouth open in surprise.

“A drink? With me? But that’s not true. We hadn’t arranged anything. Haven’t been out together for ages. I told you. She was always too busy to see me.” She paused. “And anyway, I was at the meeting, wasn’t I, Eddie?” She began to rip the tissue into pieces.

“The meeting?” Eddie’s brow creased. To Hope he looked confused, then his brow softened. “Yeah, that’s right. We had the Guild meeting,” said Eddie. He wiped his fingers through his hair.

“Guild Meeting?” Hope enquired.

“The Stonemasons Guild of Saint George.” Giovanna said, straightening her back.

“I’m a new member. It’s very exciting. We have to wear special long robes. I’d dressed up. Put on my best red dress, but of course it didn’t matter. Nobody could see it anyway, not under that great long thing. I looked like something out of an Arabian film. What are they called? Kaﬀ tins?” Giovanna gushed. Her voice reminded Hope of a train leaving the station, getting faster, louder, boom, on it’s way.

“Kaftans,” corrected Caterina.

“It’s a private association, actually,” said Eddie with less enthusiasm. My father’s the Alderman.”

“But didn’t you say your father passed away?” Hope never missed a thing.

“Adopted. I’m adopted. Giorgio and Eziana, they adopted me.”

“Giorgio likes to call it a social fellowship, doesn’t he, Eddie? He always reminds us that our guild allows us to maintain standards. And the other night he talked about protecting us against the enemy.”

“The enemy? What do you mean?” Caterina asked, pulling at her chin with her thumb and index finger.

“One of our jobs is to protect our members from unfair dealings from outsiders,” said Eddie.

“Are there a lot of members?”

“About forty of us. Florists, coffin makers, the cemetery staff, drivers and the stone masons of course. Anybody that’s involved in some way with the dead.” He sniffed.

“Were you all there at the meeting?”

“Most of us, yeah.”

“Gabriele wasn’t there, was he. Had a football match or something,” said Giovanna. “And Grazia Rosa didn’t turn up. She was supposed to, but then didn’t. She had some kind of consignment or other. Didn’t she Eddie? God, poor Grazia Rosa. Oh, and then Mario left half way through and didn’t come back like he said he would. Rita was furious. Remember?”

Eddie grunted.

“Sounds like it was an interesting meeting then,” snorted Hope.

“And Eddie. You left too, didn’t you?

Eddie glared at Giovanna and frowned. Hope glanced at Caterina.

“Yeah well, It was my mate’s birthday, see,” Eddie explained. “Went to his house for a few beers to celebrate and we watched the match.”

“What time was that?”

“Can’t remember. Maybe around ten, ten thirty” Eddie’s mouth tightened. His restless fingers tapped the glass bottle neck. Hope saw his eyes narrow. She did not trust him.

“I left at the same time. Had to get home. Eddie walked me to my motor scooter, didn’t you, Eddie?” The girl blushed and picked up the pieces of tissue she had dropped onto the pebbles. She stuﬀed them in the pocket of her shorts.

“So you’ve no idea where Aurora went or who she was with that night?” asked Hope.

Giovanna sucked her lips into her mouth and her chin quivered slightly.

“I really have no clue what she did. She never told me anything anymore. And to be honest If she had, I wouldn’t’ve been interested anyway.”

“Why did Aurora tell her mum she was seeing you that evening. Don’t you think that odd?” Hope watched the girl carefully. Giovanna took some moments to answer.

“I expect she didn’t want her dad to know who she was really with. Her dad’s very protective of her. But a lot of Italian fathers are. Mine is. If he knew I was going out with Eddie, he’d kill me.

“He’d kill me, you mean,” said Eddie. He swigged his beer. It caught in his throat. He coughed.

“I’ve done it a couple of times too. Told my dad I was with Aurora when I didn’t want him to know the truth. We always vouched for each other if they ever checked up on us. That’s what best friends do, isn’t it?” She laughed nervously.

“So would you have vouched for her this time even though she hadn’t told you where she was going and who she was with?”

“I expect so. Once a best friend, always a best friend, no matter what, right?

“Do you think she committed suicide, Giovanna? “

“Suicide? I don’t know.” She thought for a moment then added, “On the outside she was so sure of herself and what she wanted in life. She had it all mapped out. I mean, she’d nearly finished university and had a job waiting for her in her uncle’s oﬃce.” She hesitated and then continued. “But I know she was a nervous type. Up and down. You know, one day really happy, the next day in a foul mood.”

“Did you know she was suﬀering from depression and taking pills for it?”

“Depression? Aurora? Well, I suppose so, yeah. She didn’t exactly tell me but I can well imagine it.”

Eddie elbowed her and said, “Right come on then, who’s for a dip?”

He jumped up and grabbed Giovanna’s arm to pull her with him.

“Coming ladies? It’s a perfect night for it.”

“You wouldn’t get me in there after dark,” said Caterina “I’d be worried about what was swimming around my feet.”

“You’re not scared are you, Cat?” jeered Hope.

“Scared? I’m Terrified! Octopus come out at night and I wouldn’t want my ankle grabbed by one of their slimy legs!”

“Come on. Let’s leave the young couple to it. I want that ice cream you promised me.”

Hope and Caterina heaved themselves oﬀ Eddie’s towel and made their way across the pebbles towards the long queue outside the ‘gelataria’ which gave proof to its popularity as did the sign on the sandwich board:

‘You can’t buy happiness but you can buy an ice cream.’

“What’re you going to have?”

“Just a small one. Gotta watch my waistline.”

Hope patted her belly. “How about pistacchio, stracciatella, coconut and tiramisu’!”

“Blimey. Just a little taster, then!”

Fifteen minutes later, the two women strolled to the fishing boats, licking their cones. Hope turned to look for Eddie and Giovanna. Nowhere to be seen.

When they reached the fishing boats, they climbed onto the rocks, avoiding the various couples clasped in love, and sat and watched the stars sparkle on the black sea, the water as still and reflective as a mirror. Hope slurped the mountain of green, white and brown ice cream with the gusto of a child.

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” asked Caterina.

“Who?”

“Eddie, of course. I told you he was.”

“Good men are good to everybody. Nice guys are nice to their targets.”

“Who said that?” Asked Caterina. “Shakespeare? Dante?”

“A Californian surfer.”

Hope had not liked Eddie at all. She had got the impression he was holding something back. He smelt false and and her sense of smell was as good as any Cocker spaniel’s.

Tomorrow she would ask a few more questions.

Carmine the Receptionist Saturday 18th August -8.30 am -The morning of the funeral - A middle-aged woman stooped over the empty husk of her loved one, and clutching her hands to her breasts, whispered her grief to the bloodless face she stared down onto. The mask of skin she studied was cleverly made up with the blush of life and the woman’s whimpering broke the silence of the melancholy peace eternal that lingered in the air.

Hope and Caterina peered into the open candle-lit chamber where the freshly dressed corpse laid out on show in a silk lined coﬃn. They spied on the woman’s last intimate moments of togetherness.

Caterina’s hand fluttered to her neck. She remembered her mother’s waxen gauntness and the congealed blood at the nostril. She shivered and placed her arm through Hope’s.

“It’s so sad to watch the grief of others.”

She laid her head on Hope’s shoulder. Hope’s throat tightened and she looked away. “I feel like I’m prying,” she said. Her fingers flustered over the scar on her top lip.

Men’s loud laughter behind them interrupted the grief. The women turned and saw two men standing in front of the reception area by the entrance.

"Can Carmine help you ladies?" asked the short, stocky one.

Hope's skin prickled with disgust as she studied his unkempt, unclean appearance. His grubby, faded white T-shirt did not manage to hide his pot belly and long greasy strands of black hair stuck to his sweaty brow. His unhealthy-looking pasty skin was repellent.

Placing his hands on his hips, Carmine said, ”So please, you can ask me anything. Absolutely anything.”

His colleague, short and dumpy with a cigarette between yellow thumb and forefinger lifted his head and guﬀawed.

“I wonder. Could you tell me what your opening and closing times are?” Hope asked.

“To the public?”

“Yes. Why? Do certain people have access after hours then?”

“Sure. The Guardian Angels do.”

Tweedle dum shook his head in jolly amusement.

“The guardian angels,” repeated Caterina with a romantic sigh. Hope elbowed her.

“Now where ‘ave I seen your pretty face before, young lady? Let me see. I never forget a pretty face.”

Hope tightened her lips and cringed.

“I presume you mean the night security. Anyone else that can enter after hours?”

“After hours? Well now, of course the cleaning staﬀ are let in earlier. And the ecological workers, oh yes, Salvatore and his team.”

“Salvatore?”

“The exhumer. Exhumations are carried out every day, you know. Early morning of course. We don’t want upsetting the visitors. Not nice to see.”

“Don’t forget Renzo’s SPOF boys. Martini and his men,” said Tweedle Dum.

“Right, yeah. Forgot about them. The boys that dress the bodies. What’d we do without ‘em, ay? They’re on call twenty four seven. So they can enter any time.”

“Even in the middle of the night?” asked Hope.

“Course. The mortuary’s inside the cemetery. So, any unsuspicious death at home, they pick up and take to the mortuary.”

“At home’?” asked Hope.

“I mean at home and not in hospital. If you die in hospital you’re immediately transferred to the hospital morgue and dealt with by the company that the hospital uses. If a person dies at home, it's the SPOF boys that get called in. They have to deal with the body asap, especially if the wake and funeral are the next morning,You should speak to Paolo. He’ll explain it all to you.”

“Paolo?”

“Paolo Martini. Have a word with him.”

“So what time do the night guardians usually start work?”

“The night guardian. Only one. Name’s Franchy. He gets here at around seven, seven thirty. Nice bloke but not very bright. Good to have around the cemetery though after dark. Built like a giant, he is. Strapping lad. Strapping.” He slid his hand along his slimy strands of hair and pasted them tightly onto his oblong head.

“And what are the opening times to the public?”

“To the public?” He thumbed towards the sign tacked to the notice board.”From half past seven in the morning to six thirty post meridian six days a week. On Sundays we close at half past twelve, in time for lunch.”

“And is this the main entrance?”

“Ask a lot of questions, don’t you love.”

Tweedle dum answered for him, his voice husky and rough from tobacco stains.

“No, my dear. This is the side entrance where the funeral limousines pass with the coﬃns when a burial is to take place. There are two entrances. The principal gates are located on the main road, Via Bobbio, in Piazzale Resasco just round the corner where the taxi rank is.”

“I see. And where do the staﬀ enter and exit after hours?”

“There is a smaller door just to the left of this gate at the beginning of Via del Veilino. That’s the private entrance. You need to have the key in order to get in from that door. Or the guardian let’s you in. It’s where the security oﬃce is.”

“Could somebody get into the cemetery at night through any other opening, gate or entrance?

“No. No other doors. The only ways in and out are these.”

“Are there any sections of the outer wall that can be climbed over?”

“What are you up to miss? Not thinking of breaking in, are you? Wouldn’t suggest it, if I were you, The ghosts come out at night, you know.”

The unwholesome men cackled together. Hope raised an eyebrow and the slime ball cleared his throat.

“Never thought about it before but I suppose it’s possible, specially up at the top in the ‘boschetto’. The wall’s quite low in places up there.”

“Are there cameras placed around the cemetery at all?”

“Telecameras? Telecameras? Now that’s a good joke. Who’s got the money for cameras around here?”

“Mind you, Carmine, wouldn’t be a bad idea though. What with the recent stealings and all, said Tweedle dum.

“Stealings? What do you mean?” Asked Caterina, furrowing her forehead as she thought of her mother’s grave and the Copper vase she left on the tomestone.

“Nah. This one’s exaggerating, aren’t you Ciccio?” Said Carmine stabbing his colleague in the chest with his long-nailed forefinger.

“Nothing serious love. Back in April, a loculo was broken into and the coﬃn was taken out of it. Whoever did it used a machete to break open the casket. Nothing was taken, it was just an act of sheer vandalism.”

“Very upsetting for the family. It was the coﬃn of a young girl who died in a car crash 30 years ago.”

“How awful. Did they ever find the delinquent who did it?”

“Delinquent? Bastard more like. Nah, but the dead girl’s sister filed an oﬃcial complaint against us for ‘negligence’. Not very pleasant proceedings for us, mind.”

“And don’t forget the flowers gone missing from newly dug graves. Ay Carmine?”

“Somebody’s been stealing the flowers? Good Lord, who’d do that?”

“Right, yeah. Well. Unbelievable, isn’t it? They get sold on the streets. There’s good money in fresh flowers.”

“Are people that desperate?”

“Where’ve you been living young lady? Don’t you know life in Italy today’s hard? Not like when we had the Lira. That Berlusconi ruined it for us when he let the Euro in,” said Carmine.

“Too many taxes, mate. And there aren’t no jobs, especially in Genova. Cost of living is ex horbital.” Tweedle Dum shook his head and continued, “It’s all them illegal immi grates. Desperate they are, poor souls. Come over on the din gies from Africa, they do.”

“And what do you think about the Rossi girl? Did anyone see her?” Hope asked.

“See who, love?”

“The Rossi girl. Aurora. Did anyone see her enter the cemetery? She was quite noticeable.”

“Lovely girl, lovely girl,” said Carmine.

“Lovely, lovely,” repeated Tweedle Dum shaking his head.

“The funeral’s here today.” He looked at his watch. “In half an hour.”

“Her mother’s in a right state, she is, poor love. Changes the flowers here regularly and keeps the graves tidy and well-kept. A wonderful job she does too.”

“Wonderful job. Wonderful.”

“Can’t imagine losing your child like that. Terrible. Terrible. We all feel her loss.”

“Terrible. Terrible.”

Carmine took a cotton handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. He then studied the contents, rolled the handkerchief in a ball and replaced it in his pocket.

“She wasn’t well though, was she Carmine,” said Tweedle Dum.

“Quite right, Ciccio mate. Ill for quite a while, you see. One of those mental cases.”

“Mental cases?” asked Hope.

“Yeah. Bi-po laris. Course, in the old days it used to be called schizzi frenic or something. What was it?” Tweedle Dum scratched his stubbly chin with a dirty nail and hope heard the click click click.

“Always arguing with her father, she was. He’s a jeweller. Got a shop in Via degli Orefici in the Centro Storico. I go there when I need my watch repairing. I was there the other day, come to think of it. Had to buy a new strap for it. Look. What do you think of that. Not bad, ay? Real leather. Only cost me twenty four Euro, and he fitted it for me too. Come to think of it, as I rang the doorbell I could hear a bit of a slanging match going on. Sounded like two women having a right barney. But then women do, don’t they? When Nando came to the door he told me to get lost and come back later. Thought that was a bit oﬀ, I did. Said he was still closed. He sounded right fed up, too.”

“Did you see the women? Any idea who they could’ve been? I mean, could one of them have been Aurora?”

“Diﬃcult to say. Don’t know her that well. But I know it wasn’t Grazia Rosa. I’d have recognised her voice. Low and husky it is. I like that in a woman.“

“Did you hear anything of what was being said?”

“Nah, Just a bit of swearing. Strange to hear him arguing though. Nice man he is, that Ferdinando. Can’t imagine he’s a wife beater. He’s too much of a gentleman.”

Caterina straightened up and clenched her fists. Hope put a hand on her friend’s arm.

“Wife beater? How do you know that?”

“Well, it’s none of may business of course, and I’m not a one for gossip. That’s for women, aint it? But working here, I get to hear all sorts of things that’ll make your toes curl.” He grinned to reveal yellow teeth, with black stains between the

“Do you get many suicides in the cemetery?” Hope changed the subject.

“Suicides? Suicides. Yeah. It happens, it does. You’d be surprised. A couple of years ago, a bloke hanged himself from the aqueduct over there.” He lifted his arm to reveal a sweaty armpit.

“What? The Roman Aqueduct?” asked Caterina.

“That’s the one. A shopkeeper he was. Got into trouble and took a loan from one of those loan sharks. Course, he couldn’t pay the interest and then he couldn’t handle the violence. They say he was humiliated in front of his wife and four year old kid. Beaten up and dragged through the shop by his hair, right in front of them.”

“Good God. Does that really happen here? Sounds more like something out of the Godfather.” said Caterina.

“All sorts of things happen here, my dear. This is Italy!” He cackled, baring his yellowbrown teeth. He looked at his watch.

“Cor, Is that the time. Right, got to get on. Come on Ciccio mate. And ladies, if you want a guide, Ciccio here will show you around, won’t you Ciccio. At a good price too.”

He winked and Ciccio bowed, then they both turned their backs on the women and entered the reception.

”

Vico degli Orefici. That’s in the historical centre, isn’t it? I think a visit to the jewellery shop’s in order, Cat.”

“Hope, today’s Sunday. Nothing’s open on Sundays. We can go tomorrow. Look, there’s Gabry. Come on.”

“Oh, joy! Lead me to the angel. Let’s see what he’s got hiding under his wings today!”

“Hope, please! Don’t be so bloody sarcastic.” Caterina lifted her chin and trotted towards her lover while Hope took her time to light up a cigarette.

Gabriele leant against the door of his dust cart, legs crossed, arms folded. Dressed in green overalls with a blue cap on his head, he looked like he was about to jump in his fighter bomber and fly into enemy lines for Operation Strangle.

“What’s wrong, Gabry? The lines in your forehead are as deep as the Second World War trenches.” Hope said.

“Have a look at these photos. Took them this morning,” Gabriele grunted.

Caterina and Hope leaned in to look closely at the images Gabriele began showing them on his phone.

“An old lady was visiting her husband and she found his grave like this! Completely turned over. The granny was right distraught. Whoever did it took the copper urn, the silk flowers and the illuminations. Nothing of any value although the copper could be worth a bob or too.”

“Copper’s a semi-precious metal, isn’t it?” asked Caterina.

“Yep. Here we call it ‘oro rosso’, red gold. That’s how precious it is. Street value of copper these days is about four Euro a kilo depending on the quality and if it’s pure and clean, it can fetch up to eight Euro easily.”

“You’d need a lot of copper urns to make any real money, though. Wouldn’t you?” Hope snorted.

“Yeah but d’you know how heavy a real urn is? I mean, one for the ashes of an adult.”

“Tell us, do.” Hope closed her eyes for a moment. The man made her recoil.

“About two and a half kilos of copper. And if it’s ancient..”

“Antique,” interrupted Hope.

“Yeah. Antique.”

“An average man’s ashes can weigh nearly three and a half litres. That’s three large bottles of fizzy cola. The urn needs to be big. About the size of a box set of books.”

“In your case the Fifty Shades Trilogy,” said Hope and sucked on her cigarette and blew the smoke into his face. Gabriele coughed and fluttered his hand in the air to protect him from the toxic smoke.

“Anything can be sold for cash on the black market, can’t it. Cause there’ll always be a buyer. I know a bloke who procures second hand prosthesis for arms and legs and he always manages to get rid of them. Makes a lot of money too.”

“Just think how much you’ll be worth when you’re dead, then.” Hope could not help herself. Caterina looked daggers.

“Must you always be so bloody nasty? And put that cigarette out for God’s sake. You shouldn’t be smoking in here. Have a bit of respect.” Caterina’s eyes glared.

Hope squinted. “Can’t see a no-smoking sign. We’re in the open. Don’t see the problem. And disrespect? Disrespect to who? The dead?”

She inhaled deeply, then she threw the Marlborough onto the gravel, stomped on it and said, “Right, I’m oﬀ to the Pantheon.”

“Jump in, I’ll take you” said Gabriele with a voice as cheerful as the breeze.

“Nah. I’d rather walk.”

With a tight jaw she flapped her hand in dismissal and marched oﬀ.

“Hope, come back, for Heaven’s sake.” Caterina pleaded.

She turned to Gabriele and said, “I don’t remember her being so damned pig-headed, do you?”

The Funeral - the - the pantheon Saturday 18th august Hope stomped up the tree-lined lane, unsure of where it would lead. The funeral was being held at the Temple. Well, she had no idea where that was and the cemetery was so bloody huge, she doubted she would get there at all.

A man in muddy orange overalls carrying a spade on his shoulder strolled passed and tipped his cap. He held a metal box so tightly under his other arm, it could have been made of gold, bless him.

“Excuse me, Is this the right way to the temple?”

The man, burly and broad stopped and turned. “Which temple? There’s more than one here, love.”

Hope wondered how a man so sturdy could have such a falsetto voice.

“There’s a funeral.”

“That’ll be the Pantheon. ’Tempio Dei Suﬀragi. Porticato Superiore. Up the steps here, love.”

What joy, Hope thought, regarding the steep, narrow stairway she would now have to climb.

The Temple of Intercession, rose up at the summit of an extensive marble staircase behind the frontal field of graves in a symmetrical line with the main entrance of the cemetery.

Inspired by the Roman Pantheon, the circular, dome-roofed temple preserved the remains of Genova’s most celebrated citizens.

Twenty five metres in diameter and twenty three and a half metres from its floor to its rooflight, it was a sombre and refined example of nineteenth century neoclassicism.

‘Intercession’, Hope read in the guide book, ‘is prayer that pleads with God for our needs and the needs of others. But it is also much more than that. Intercession in Catholic theology involves prayer and indulgence as a way to reduce the amount of punishment one has to undergo for sins committed in life and thus allowing for the consequential admission from Purgatory into Paradise.’

Hope thought, “There can be no indulgence for the abuser of a child, the beater of a wife, the rapist of a young woman. There can be no reduction of punishment, surely, for the murderer of an innocent. How can I believe in a God who created a creature capable of such vile acts of violation against its own kind.”

Outside the Temple, the disquieting toll of death abated and the bells began to invite the mourners to enter its doors with less solemnity.

It was Aurora Rossi’s funeral.

The priest was about to initiate the Requiem Mass and the assembled funeral goers slowly flooded inside the solemn chapel. Some, however, continued to hover on the courtyard outside.

Hope stroked the packet of cigarettes in her pocket and turned it in her fingers. Caterina could be so damned irritating. And there she was strolling through the marble memorials, hand in hand with Gabriele. They both paused at the decadent angel prostrate on a gravestone and when Caterina looked up and saw her, her hand fluttered away from his.

As she approached her she said, “He didn’t deserve that, Hope. And you know it.”

“Look all I know is, I don’t trust him. He makes my skin creep and I don’t understand why you keep letting him weasel his way into your life.”

A bright laughter cut the quiet murmuring like scissors on silk. Heads spun to see a half naked, belly button pierced thing with her head buried into Mario’s arm. Caterina searched out his wife, Rita. She was nowhere to be seen. Grabbing Hope’s hand, she said, “Come with me. This could be interesting,” and pulled her towards the handsome florist.

“Ciao Mario. What a lot of people there are! Not going in?” Caterina asked him.

“Nah. Hate funerals. Too depressing for me. But I came to show my respect.”

The young blonde placed her hand on his arm and squeezed, crossing her legs in baby girl style. A pistol in a garter inked onto her dimple free thigh appeared below the hem of her short denim skirt.

“I think I’ll go in, Mario. I’ll see you after.”

“Right you are, love.”

“Who’s that?” Caterina nudged him.

“Mmm. That little beauty is Carola. She’s Elisa’s new girl. Lovely, isn’t she?”

Caterina smirked at Hope and mouthed ‘the blonde’. Hope rolled her eyes.

“Mario, you haven’t met my friend Hope, have you?”

“Ah, yes. I saw you at the bar the other morning. I never forget a pretty face.”

“Rita?” Caterina asked.

“Inside, love. Pino’s there too. He helped Grazia Rosa when she nearly collapsed as the coﬃn was taken in. God I don’t know how she’s going to cope. What a tragedy!”

“Did you know Aurora well, Mario?” Hope asked.

“Me? No. Not really. I know Grazia Rosa of course. She gets her flowers from me but her daughter hasn’t been around much for quite a while, being at university and all. Studying architecture, I think. Seems strange she killed herself, though. Just doesn’t tally up. A girl like that. So young and she was a real stunner, too.”

“I wonder how she got into the cemetery. I suppose you didn’t see her that day, did you? I mean she was quite noticeable,” said Hope.

“Noticeable? What d’you mean?”

“Her dress. She was wearing a bright red dress. Couldn’t miss it.”

“Red’s a good colour on blondes,” said Mario.

“Quite.” Hope’s eyes rolled.

“Come on, let’s go in. We should be with Grazia Rosa and Pino.” said Caterina.

Inside the chamber it was cool and there was a smell of candle wax and floor polish. In fact, the coloured marble flooring gleamed and the eight towering candelabra at the golden altar lit up Jesus whose outstretched arms welcomed the overflowing congregation.

Hope and Caterina moved their way solemnly around the sides of the circular dome and squeezed in at the back behind it. Gabriele stood by a semi-naked marble eﬃgy in one of the many arched niches and gestured to them to join him.

“How many people!” said Hope.

“For Grazia Rosa. Everyone from around here has come out in sympathy. Even though not many of them knew her daughter though. Well, not since she’s grown up.”

“Is Rita the woman with her arm in plaster? I saw her the other morning getting out of a taxi. Mario’s wife, right?” Hope whispered to Caterina.

“Rita.” Gabriele said. “Rita e’ la donna che ha le piu’ corne di Genova.”

”

She's had the most horns in Genova. To have a horn means your partner has been unfaithful to you,” explained Caterina.

“Poor woman.” said Hope.”But she certainly looks good for her age.… if you like leopard skin and lip implants.”

“She’s had a bit of work done, true. She had her breasts enlarged again recently and is very proud of them! She’s easily fifty something but she tries her hardest to keep her man. Mario’s a bit of a naughty boy as you’ll have gathered. He likes the younger women.”

“Well he is quite fit. Looks good for his age too. I expect it’s a strain on her to keep him all to herself. She’s just doing what she can. What did she do to her arm?”

“She broke it in the historical centre,” said Caterina. “Tripped and fell on the cobblestones in her high heels.”

The priest, dressed in black with a purple tunic, was sprinkling sacred water over the coﬃn which gave memory to the baptism ritual. He was asking that eternal sleep be given and that the body laid in the coﬃn be cleansed of her sins. He then prayed she be gathered up into the kingdom of God and her soul be entrusted to the saints of Paradise.

Hope was no Catholic even though she had attended a private convent. Her secondary school had been severe, strict and traditional and had severed all her desire for learning. She had since become an atheist. She was decisive. Could not be Agnostic. That was a coward’s way out and she was having none of that.

The priest began his reading of the sacrament. “For those of you with faith, the Word of God will be a source of encouragement and consolation. Please remember that the sacraments are not just words but the voice of the Lord of Life. Jesus himself is now sacramentally present.”

The Priest kissed the Holy Book and began. Hope raised her eyes to heaven. Caterina nudged her. “Be good now.”

“A reading from the book of Wisdom 3:1-6.9

The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God,

no torment will ever touch them.

In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die,

their going looked like a disaster,

their leaving us like annihilation;

but they are in peace…”

Hope had never heard this reading until now. The souls of the virtuous, only the virtuous? They did appear to die. She frowned. But she liked the word annihilation. Their leaving us like annihilation. Yes, this, she felt an aﬃnity for. Taking her eyes oﬀ the priest, she watched the faces in the crowd. At the front were Aurora’s mother and father. Grazia Rosa, hunched, shook. She, like Ferdinando, wore dark sunglasses to hide her tears.

Pino sat next to his sister, in ‘borghese’, no uniform but smart casual clothes. His face wan and pale. Grazia Rosa occasionally lay her head on his shoulder.

“Let us pray” intoned the priest and the congregation sitting at the pews fell to their knees. A communal prayer was chanted in Italian, followed by the sign of the cross.

“And now I call upon Aurora’s father, Ferdinando to read in her memory.”

Ferdinando stood up and walked solemnly to the lectern. He tapped the microphone and when he was convinced his voice could be heard he began to read from Wisdom 4:7-1.,

Hope crossed her legs, crossed her arms. She wanted to hear this.

“The virtuous man, though he die before his time, will find rest.” Ferdinando’s voice rasped. He looked washed out. A shadow. He kept on the sunglasses, perhaps to hide from all the knowing eyes that watched him as he spoke.

Hope liked the word ‘virtuous’ coming from a bully and a wife beater.

“Length of days is not what makes age honourable,

nor number of years the true measure of life;

Understanding, this is man’s grey hairs,

Untarnished life, this is ripe old age.

‘Untarnished life.” Hope squirmed as she studied Nando’s thin face, pointed like a double edged sword.

“She has been carried oﬀ so evil may not warp her understanding

or treachery seduce her soul.”

Hope shuddered. But thanks be to God that he took her quickly from the wickedness around her, she thought.

“For the fascination of evil throws good things into the shade,

And the whirlwind of desire corrupts a simple heart.” Nando’s voice cracked. He took oﬀ his sunglasses and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He then took a handkerchief from his double breasted pocket and blew his nose. The microphone picked up the sound of his snorting.

He took a deep breath, looked towards Aurora’s coﬃn and finished.

"Coming to perfection in so short a while, she achieved long life;

Her soul being pleasing to the Lord,

he has taken her quickly from the wickedness around her.”

He stepped down from the lectern and walked back to his seat, sliding his hand across the shiny wooden coﬃn in which his daughter now lay for eternity. He bent and kissed it and then touched the large photograph of her that was on display at one side. He slumped back into his seat next to Grazia Rosa but there was no contact between them, no hand touching, no word exchanged.

A rustle could be heard at the front. A man, tall and sturdy dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head pushed through the throng. Hope noticed a tuft of blonde hair fall out from the hood onto his forehead. Once he found a place to observe the coﬃn, he made the sign of the cross which he finished with a kiss of his hands as they raised to his mouth.

The priest now called the believers to partake of the holy bread and wine saying to each in line “I am the resurrection and the life. If anyone believes in me, even though he dies he will live, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

Once all were again seated, he then walked solemnly around the coﬃn with a lighted incense stick in order to demonstrate the respect that christians have for the body as it awaits its own resurrection.

Hope searched for the hooded man but she could no longer see him. She then watched as the family rose and slowly made their way out of the church following the coﬃn which would be transported to the grave.

Pino held Grazia Rosa up. Ferdinando tried to take her arm but Pino shoved it away.

The visitors slowly left the Temple and milled about the pillars and steps listening to the slow chime of the bells announcing the end of the funeral mass.

Grazia Rosa was embraced over and over again, sympathy and warmth oﬀered to her readily. Some kissed her cheek, some stroked her arm, others held her close for enough seconds to be deemed right. She sobbed and whispered and held herself with dignity despite her despair. Ferdinando and Pino stayed close to her and nodded or slapped backs in embraces.

“Coming, Hope? To Grazia Rosa’s?” asked Caterina.

Hope shook her head. “Just going to have a word with the priest. I’ll see you there in ten.”

She re-entered the temple and, hands behind her back, stepped up to the altar where the priest cleaned the golden goblets and the bowl of broken bread.

“Signor,” she said. “The girl committed suicide. Is that not a mortal sin? Doesn’t your church teach we are stewards, not owners, of the life God has entrusted to us. It’s not ours to dispose of. Why then allow her to have such a funeral? Shouldn’t she have been buried in unconsecrated ground?”

The priest did not look up from the cloth in his hand nor did he stop wiping the bowl clean.

The Priest “You are right, my dear. The intentional taking of one's own life is indeed wrong, and for several reasons,” said the priest, keeping his eyes on the golden bowl he wiped clean with the linen cloth.

“Taking one’s own life defies our natural instinct to live. It violates a genuine love for oneself and one's neighbour — family, friends, and even acquaintances. Other people need us and depend upon us in ways we may not even know.

“As a priest I had to comfort Aurora’s family and I can only hope she somehow realised how much she was loved and needed.

And, of course, suicide defies the love we owe God. To commit suicide is to reject Him in our life. Objectively, suicide is a mortal sin. So you see, you are indeed right.”

The priest began to put out the candles with a long iron candle snuﬀer. The smell of wax infused the air as the white smoke rose.

“But we must remember. For a sin to be mortal and cost someone salvation, the person must be aware that his action is wrong and yet intends to commit this action. Aurora may not have been fully responsible for her action due to her grave psychological disturbances. She was troubled and faced something so seemingly unbearable and insurmountable, that she chose to withdraw from the love of God and others, and kill herself.

“This does not make what she did right, but she may not have been totally culpable because of her personal conditions.”

He finally stopped and bored into Hope with dark beady eyes. Erect for his some seventy years, his ….. , he enjoyed the sound of his voice which he threw not to Hope but as if to a large congregation.

”He’s memorised these words.” Hope thought. “They’re too well …..

“Only God can read the depths of our soul. Only He knows how much we love Him and how responsible we are for our actions. We leave the judgment then to Him alone.

The Catechism oﬀers words of great hope. It says we should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to Him alone, God can provide the opportunity for salutary repentance.

I felt it right that I oﬀered the Mass for the repose of Aurora’s soul and that her grieving family felt God's tender love and mercy, and His healing grace.

The Fight ‘The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung to their first fault, and withered in their pride.’ - Robert Browning

In the kitchen with the light blue cabinets and floral furnishings in pastel pinks the air hung heavy, the atmosphere oppressive. The whirling of a fan failed in its attempt to ventilate the room and cool its occupants from the stifling heat.

Hope stood. Caterina sat with her sister.

Sweat trickled down Hope’s back. She wished she could open the fridge and sit in it.

Grazia Rosa hunched over her dimpled elbows on the oak table. A chubby hand held her forehead, a porcine finger and thumb hung onto a small cup of espresso coﬀee. The widened nostrils in her turned up nose were red from wiping and her hollow eyes were sunken in tears.

The elderly woman by her side comforted her with gentle caresses. She had a mouth so twisted and contorted that Hope shuddered at the aspect. Finding it diﬃcult not to stare, she looked out of the window facing the church steeple towering in the square above them. From here she could clearly see into the windows of the apartments opposite.

Pino’s voice, soft with sympathy, broke the fan’s whirring as he stepped into the kitchen and made his way to the table.

“Grazia Rosa, my love.”

“There’s coﬀee in the pot if you want some, Pino.” her voice monotone and lifeless.

“Where’s Nando, love?” Pino asked, kissing her head.

“Where’s Nando? Where is he? Where do you think he is? He's where he always is. In that bloody study of his, isn’t he. Think he’d be in here? With me? If he’s not raising his thick fists, he’s locked in that study sitting there doing God only knows what. Counting his money I expect. As that’s all he’s ever interested in. That and the booze.”

“Now calm it down, Grazia. Don’t get yourself any more upset.” The twisted-mouthed woman patted Grazia’s hand.

Pino poured himself a coﬀee and oﬀered to fill Grazia Rosa’s cup.

“No dear, you’ve had too many.” Anna Clara’s voice commanded. Her dark eyes darted towards Pino. “Pino, she’s a nervous wreck with all this caﬀeine inside her.”

“I’m glad you have Anna Clara here to look after you, Gra. It’s good for you to have company.”

“I haven’t been able to go into her flat yet, Pino. I just can’t face it. Not yet. Is it alright in there? Not too much of a mess, is it? She’s always such an untidy thing. I keep telling her to sort her clothes out at least. …..Oh … Oh God, my poor Aurora…”

Grazia Rosa’s shoulders began to shake then she collapsed into folded arms, heaving painful tears of grief.

“It’s alright my love. Caterina and Hope can go and have a look for you, can’t you girls?

Caterina nodded. Hope lifted a thumb up. Grazia Rosa hit the table with her hand and her coﬀee cup jumped.

“Suicide they say. Suicide! But that’s impossible, Pino. Why did that Mantero say she killed herself? My Aurora could never’ve done such a wicked thing. Not to me. She was a good girl. She was a happy girl, wasn’t she? Sweet mother of God, it’s all my fault. I should’ve protected her more from… from..that bastard.” Her voice quavered and broke down into a wail.

“Now, now, Grazia. This is not, absolutely not, your fault. You have always been a loving mother. You are not to believe otherwise,” Anna Clara’s twisted mouth spluttered.

“I mean, none of this makes any sense. Pino please, please can’t you find out what happened to her? Isn’t there any way we can know the truth?”

Grazia Rosa’s desperate pleading gripped Hope’s heart and squeezed it. She looked at Pino whose expression gave nothing away.

“Darling, Dottor Mantero is an expert with over thirty years of experience. He knows what he’s doing.”

Pino knew the figures. He knew that last year there had been nearly four thousand suicides in Italy and that suicide was the leading cause of death among young people aged fifteen to twenty four. He also knew that kids with abusive parents were high on the risk list for suﬀering with depression and having suicidal thoughts. Aurora’s may have been a cry for help that went too far.

He convinced himself.

“Speranza, can’t you do something? Please, Speranza. Pino?”

Anna Clara plunged her manly hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“Here Pino, the keys to the flat. Go and check on it now, will you? We’re here for her.”

Pino turned the keys in his hand and beckoned to his sister and Hope. They both sauntered towards the door.

“She called me. She called me. I don’t understand it. She said she’d be home late, but that I needn’t worry. She had the key, you see.”

Pino stopped in his tracks and spun round to face the table.

“What time did she call you, Grazia? Can you remember?”

“What time? I’m not sure. But it was dark. I was with Franchy. I couldn’t find the key and so I sent her a message. I remembered she took my black bag and the key was in one of the zips. She rang me straight back. She said she’d put it in her pocket so as not to forget it. She sang the song. She did. She sang the song to me over the phone.”

“What song darling?” asked Anna Clara.

“Dai diamanti non nasce niente, dal letame nascono i fior.”

Anna Clara looked at Pino and shook her head.

“De Andre. Was that her favourite song, dear?”

“No. Not her favourite. Mine. She laughed at me. Didn’t like him. Said he had a voice like a chimney. But she knew all the words. It’s on the key, you see. The words. And she had such a pretty voice.”

She broke down, heaving with sobs that choked her. Then she wiped her eyes.

“She said she’d be home late but not to worry. Why would she say that to me if she wanted to kill herself. It just doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand it. I don’t. She was going to bring me the key.”

“What key, Grazia?” asked Hope, scratching the top of her head.

“The key to the…”

Before she could finish, a thunderous voice at the door shut her down.

“Grazia Rosa!”

All heads turned to see a short, stringy man standing legs apart in the doorway with one hand in his trouser pocket and the other clenched by his side. Dapper in his tailor-made dark blue suit, his immaculately starched white shirt supported his thin sinewy neck and the button down collar helped to add breadth to his narrow, equine face and protruding chin.

Hope cringed at the sight of him. For such a small, skinny man, he was a grand example of a vain, pompous dictator. A mini Mussolini.

Grazia Rosa folded her arms across her chest and shrunk further into the chair at the sight of him. The left corner of Pino’s mouth raised slightly. “Ferdinando!” said Pino, “we were all wondering where you’d got to.”

Ferdinando ignored him.

“Any coﬀee left, love?”

Grazia Rosa jumped out of her seat but Pino laid a hand on her arm and pushed her back down.

“No. No. You sit still. I’ll get it” he said firmly.

“This is my house,” boomed Nando. “You stay where you are. Grazia Rosa will get me a coﬀee, won’t you my love? Not having any guest of mine wait on me. Wouldn’t be right, would it, now.”

Grazia Rosa rose from her chair. Her lips tight. Pino again placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. Leave this to me.”

“Can’t you see your wife is in no state to be serving you today. I will do it or you do it yourself.”

The two men stood facing each other, Pino towering above his scrawny brother-in-law. Hope squirmed at the uncomfortable silence in the room. Then Nando smirked and said,

“I’ll do it then.”

He strode to the stove pushing past Pino and poured himself a cup.

“Let’s go,” said Caterina to Hope, opening Pino’s clenched fist and taking the keys. She patted him on the arm.

“Calm it,” she mouthed to him.

As the women reached the door, Nando turned and, feigning a trip, the cup flew out of his hand and hit Pino’s chest covering his white shirt with rich brown coﬀee. Grazia Rosa gasped. Caterina’s hands smacked to her mouth.

Hope thought, “shit.”

Ferdinando said. “Oh, dear, how clumsy of me.”

Pino grasped him by the jacket and snarled.Nando yelped and staggered. Pino jammed him against the fridge and Nando tussled, arms flailing. But Pino shoved his forehead into Nando’s like a bulldozer. Nando grunted.

“Think you can fuck with me you piece of shit?” roared Pino. “I know exactly what you do to my sister behind closed doors. Think you’re quite the big shot, don’t you? With your easy fists. Well, let’s see how you like it, you little prick.”

Hope moved to Pino’s side. She rested a hand on his back. Pino jerked it oﬀ.

“Pino,” she murmured. “Leave it. He’s not worth it. Come on. Let him go.”

“Let him go?” Pino snarled, the vein on his red neck pumping. “This bastard? I’ve had enough of him. He doesn’t deserve to be in the same room as my sister. I could kill him.”

“Not a good idea, Pino,” Hope said. “Let him go now.”

Pino turned and saw Hope’s pleading eyes. He dropped Nando from his grasp. Nando slid to the ground, paper-faced.

“Your sister,” Nando sneered. “Nobody else would’ve had your sister, and you know it. I did you all a favour. Or have you forgotten that little detail?”

Pino grabbed his shirt, his jaws set tight. “If I had a knife,” he thought. “Shut the fuck up, dick head. One more word out of you and you’ll regret it.”

Grazia Rosa crushed in the arms of Anna Clara lifted her head and whimpered, “Pino, please.”

Anna Clara flapped her hand in the air and said, “Right, get out all of you. Go on. Out. This is not the time for family feuds. Pino out. Caterina take him with you. Go and inspect the flat. Grazia Rosa doesn’t need this.”

Pino hesitated, rage seething through his veins. He could still throttle the sitting flattened on the ground like a kicked dog. He suppressed his anger and steadied himself with his hand on the table.

He thought, “I’m going to kill him. But not today. They’ve just buried their only daughter. So not today.”

Caterina pulled at Pino’s sleeve.

“Come on, brother. Let’s go.”

“I’ll be back later Gra, to see how you’re feeling,” Pino said as he stomped out of the kitchen with Hope and Caterina following like puppies at the heels of their master with two leads in his hand.

Aurora’s Flat In the living room with the biscuit speckled marble floor tiles, Hope studied the book titles on the wall cabinet while Caterina, flushed with sadness, sat on the sofa sobbing.

The narrow room felt alive with the rays of sunlight flitting through the billowing curtain at the enormous window. Aurora’s bits and bobs gleamed on the shelves and a scent of lavender fluttered in the air. It seemed she could have walked in at any moment.

But she would not. Never again.

Hope moved into the kitchen where Pino sat at the table reading the paper and smoking one of his Winston Silvers. Through another large window she could see the piazza of Sant’Antonino and its silent bell tower. She could also see down into the Rossi estate where the buttercup house stood proud in its ample grounds below.

On the stove sat a coﬀee pot and in the sink, two unwashed plates and two glasses.

“It’s odd,” she said.

“Hmmm?” Pino grunted not looking up. He sucked on the white filter of his cigarette and blew out through his nose.

“Her apartment has no signs of a woman depressed. If anything, I find it fresh and vibrant.”

Hope opened the lower cupboard and found in the bin the silver-foil pots of a Chinese takeaway. And a single red rose, snapped in two, its petals crumpled and forlorn.

“Well, well, well. Why am I not surprised?” Hope said.

“What?”

“Chinese takeaway. And our little friend’s calling card.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who hands out single red roses to women like candy?”

“No idea. You tell me.” His face continued to hide behind the paper. He felt ashamed of his behaviour and looked at the paper to avoid looking at her.

“You don’t know? Why, your sister’s hero, the angel, of course. That’s who. So, the angel is a lying bastard. He told me he didn’t know her very well. What’s he been coming to her flat for. She’s young enough to be his daughter for Christ sake.”

“Hope, we can’t be sure it was from Gabriele. It could have been given to her by anyone. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

He turned a page.

“God. I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. This will destroy Cat but it’s for the best. At least this way she’ll realise once and for all what type of wanker he is and she’ll stop letting him into her life finally.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Yeah, Right. The only thing he’s interested in is getting his leg over any bird with no feathers.”

Caterina, unhappy, stood by the door, hands clasping the pendant around her neck. Her face, blotchy.

“What is it with you, Hope? You just can’t let it go, can you? Fixed on the idea he’s a liar and a cheat. Just because you attract them like flies to shit, you think we all do, too. He may not be perfect but he’s a good man. Whether you like it or not.”

“Listen, my love. Men are all the same and you know it. Oh, come on, Cat. Look at the evidence. Why the hell’s he been giving her roses? There’s one in the bin. One in the vase on the table. Might not’ve been successful but he’s certainly been trying, I’ll give him that.”

“Christ, just shut it, will you? Shut up. He wouldn’t ‘ve done such a thing. And what? Right under my nose? Do you honestly think he’s that stupid?”

Hope rolled her eyes and shrugged. Pino pushed back his chair.

“I’ll check the bedroom. You two carry on. Two clucking hens with your feathers ruﬄed.”

“Where’s the bathroom? I need a pee,” Hope asked.

The bathroom was smaller than any she had ever seen. There was no bath but a ceramic shower base and a rose patterned plastic curtain hanging from a washing line attached to

hooks in the walls. There was the bidet, an essential item in every Italian home and the toilet had a seat cover that matched the shower curtain.

“She certainly liked flowers.”

She peeked into the dirty linen basket. It was empty. Not even a pair of knickers to wash. Mum did it then, lucky girl.

She opened the cabinet above the sink. It was filled with creams, lotions, cotton buds, toothpaste and a bottle of tablets. She took hold of it and read the label.

Celexa, an antidepressant. Its active ingredient, Citalopram, Hope knew, was a relatively new drug. Doctors liked it as it presented far less collateral side eﬀects than the older types. It was more easily tolerated by the body and was therefore also prescribed for light depression and panic attacks. It oﬀered a faster reaction as the patient would begin to feel the results from the serotonin after only a few weeks .

Hope felt confused. She thought, “But the empty bottle of pills found next to her body was Prothiaden not Celexa. Overdose on them and you’re dead after just a couple of hours.

She checked the label again and read “Farmacia Genoana di Dott. De Luca Alessandro Via bobbio 325.

“Did she get the Prothiaden from you too, Doctor Alessandro? I wonder.”

Doctor Alessandro De Luca. The dyed blonde tuft and another De Luca brother.

It was the name and address of the local chemist where she had been to get the allergy pills. She slipped the bottle into her handbag and walked towards the bedroom where Pino was checking the drawer of the bedside table.

The bedroom, as petite as the other three rooms, filled with gushing light from the two tall windows on each wall. From one Hope could see the entire city of Genova, down to the sea and beyond. A chaotic sprawl of rooftops. A mixture of domes and spires, steeples and castle turrets. Spots and dabs of pinks, greens and yellows.

Hope sighed and then turned towards the bed. A single red rose in a slim violet vase sat on the bed side table, its petals still a deep red.

“Look. Another one! He’s been coming round here with regularity by the looks of it and not that long ago either. The rose is still fresh. Jesus. We need to talk to him, Pino. Find out what he’s been doing here. If he’s seen her recently, which he probably has, he might be able to tell us something. How she seemed. If she had any problems.”

Pino ignored her. He held a a piece of paper. It shook and a worried frown burrowed deeply into his forehead.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He shoved the paper into Hope’s hands.

“Jesus. She knew,” he said.

He sat on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

Hope stared at the certificate.

Cognome: Tallarico . Nome: Aurora

Data di nascita: February 1990

Luogo: Salita Sant’Antonino 12, Genova

Nationalità: Italiana

Madre: Grazia Rosa Tallarico

Padre: non conosciuto

“Shit. But I thought Ferdinando…”

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong.”

“But how can the father be unknown? That’s impossible.”

Pino looked up.

“Hope. My family has history. Think about it.”

She heard shuﬄing behind her. “Here, Cat, take a look at this. Pino found it in the drawer there.”

Caterina looked over Hope’s shoulder and gasped. She snatched it from her hand.

“Oh my God. Where did she get it from?”

“How the hell should I know’?” Pino brushed a hand through his hair. His face looked pasty.

“But I don’t understand,” said Hope. She sat down next to Pino and placed her hands on her lap like a schoolgirl ready for a scolding.

Hope, you were never told. Nobody was told. It was the biggest kept secret in Via Mogadiscio. And then you were whisked away.”

“A secret to the death,” Pino murmured.

“God, I wonder how long she’d known.” Caterina perched on the bedside table.

“Maybe she didn’t know. What happened, I mean.” Pino’s eyes stared into the wall ahead.

“But what happened? I still don't get it? If Nando isn’t her father, then who is?”

Hope looked at Pino then at Caterina. Their silences braced her.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Look, after Uncle Carmelo got shot. Your dad. And you and your mum left, things got hard, Hope. Really hard.”

Pino stood up and placed his arm around Caterina while he continued. ”Dad started drinking. He .. he couldn’t help it, I suppose. But he would lose it. Often.”

Hope covered her mouth with her hand then dropped it, “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“Grazia Rosa, well, Grazia Rosa....” Pino hesitated and bowed his head.

The back of Hope’s neck bristled and in the deafening silence she could hear her heart thudding in her chest.

Then they heard knocking on the door.

The Nurse Hope opened the door to a neat nurse tunic in comfortable white pumps on slim suntanned legs. With a short masculine haircut her feline eyes highlighted provocative lips. Hard to ignore.

“I’m sorry. I saw you enter and wondered how’s Grazia Rosa bearing up?” The tunic blinked her long dark lashes and her full lips pouted.

Hope cocked her head to one side and her mouth slanted into a polite “Who are you?” smile. She tried not to show her irritation at this woman’s disturbance.

“Sorry. Sorry. I'm Mirella. Live just here.” She pointed at the door opposite. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her. You know, making sure she gets the right meds. I know you had the funeral this morning. Couldn’t get there… sorry. Listen, would you like me to make you a coﬀee, or something?”

Caterina joined Hope at the door and seeing Mirella, gave the woman a warm hug, then pulled her into Aurora’s living room.

“Mine’s a tiny flat too, but it does us for the moment.” Mirella said and sat down on the sofa. She pulled down the tunic but did not cross her legs.

“Mirella.” Pino leant against the bedroom door, arms folded looking manly.Hope noticed how his eyes devoured, not the tunic but the legs. She felt a twang somewhere around her heart as if a string had broken on a guitar.

“Hello, Pino.” The tunic’s sultry voice reminded Hope of sticky toﬀee oozing from the pudding. She could see it drip down the sides of Pino’s mouth after biting into it.

PIno sat down next to the pouting lips and the fluttering eyelashes, so close hIs trouser leg brushed her thigh. Twang. Another broken string. He fancies her. They’ve either done it or they want to. And where did that touch of jealousy spring from? thought Hope.

“Have you been here long?” she asked, turning her head to the window with an “I’m not bothered attitude.

“About two years now. We’ll be moving out soon. Found a flat in town. Much bigger. The kids need a room to themselves….So do we.”

“Mirella’s partner teaches self defence classes for women in the village hall. She’s got a black belt in karate.”

“Aikido,” corrected the tunic. “She could do with more participants, If you’re interested.”

Hope's Shoulders relaxed. She. She. The tunic’s partner is a she. She grunted and said, “I’m good, thanks. Did my self defence training years ago at the police academy. Once you know the tricks you never forget them.”

“The doctor declared a suicide, Mirella. Did you know?

“Yes. I was surprised to hear that. We weren’t friends or anything, but sometimes we’d chat in the hallway if our paths crossed. She was a nice girl. Friendly and …. I don’t know … she seemed ….well… rather joyous, really. I never saw her looking unhappy. But then, we never know what goes on behind closed doors, do we?”

Hope span round. Pino was no longer touchy feely. He had shifted position. “Did she have visitors? Did men friends come to call?” she asked.

“Oh ..I’m not home much. Always on call, see and so I’m often out of an evening. When I am home, I either catch up on my sleep if I’ve done nights or busy myself with the chores. MIcky isn't much of a housekeeper so I prefer to do it. She looks after the finances.”

“Michela’s an accountant by profession,” said Caterina perching on the arm of the couch.

“But in the last few days, you didn’t hear anybody arriving, leaving, at her door? Nobody?”

“I have to admit I haven’t seen her at all for a while. I wondered if she’d got herself a new boyfriend. You know what girls are like. Boy mad. Well .. mine is.”

“How old’s your daughter?”

“Fourteen, coming on for twenty four. Crazy about Harry Stiles.” She laughed. Hope snorted. Harry Stiles? Give her Gary Barlow any day.

“But wait a minute.” The tunic scratched her head. “There was one night … I got back relatively early… for me… must have been three or four days ago now. I’d just literally closed the door and I heard someone out in the hall. Well, keys jangling in the lock. So I peeked out. Thought it might’ve been her. But it wasn't.”

“Probably Grazia Rosa checking up on her. She’s got the keys,” said Pino, picking his nails.

“No, no. It was a man. God, yes. I’d forgotten about that. Got quite a start when he turned to look at me. I’m not sure he saw me though, as I was hiding behind the door chain but I could see him. Well, just about.”

“Did you recognise him? Did you know who it was?” Hope tried to keep her voice calm but inside she felt a tingle of excitement.

“I can’t be certain. It was dark. The light in the hall had gone out.”

“But you did see his face?”

“Well… sort of.”

“Anyone you know?”

“Y..yes…actually. I could’ve sworn it was that …er …dustman…what’s his name…I’ll have to ask Micky. She’s bound to know.”

Hope’s back lifted. “Gabriele?” Caterina’s glower did not go unnoticed.

“Right …Yes…that’s it. Gabriele. I often see him around here. In the afternoons, mostly. Always carrying a tool box. I expect Anna Clara’s got him doing all her odd jobs.”

All heads turned to the orange box sitting on the floor under the window, A pair of pliers resting on the top.

“Gabriele, the odd job man. well..well..well. Why am I not surprised?”

Caterina growled. Her eyes smouldered and her nostrils flared. Pino rolled his eyes.

HOPE AND CATERINA ARGUE “Why the hell do you always do that, Hope?”

Caterina jerked her white T-shirt down over her hips and paced the living room in front of Hope who sat on the sofa alone. Pino had escorted the lovely tunic to her flat saying he needed to be somewhere. Hope wondered whether the tunic had persuaded him to stay for coﬀee. She was certain he would not have refused and she felt sour.

“Do what? What do I do?”

“I know you can’t stand him but must you always belittle him in front of me. At least keep it to yourself, for god’s sake. And what’s it all about anyway?”

Hope flapped the palms of her hands out to her sides.

“What? You think he was involved with her in some way? Or wait a minute. You think he could’ve killed her? Is that it? You find a rose in her flat and Gabry becomes prime suspect number one. Am I right? Am I?”

Hope crossed her legs and tutted.

“Bellin, I am right, aren’t I? Well you… you are bloody wrong, cazzo. Do you really believe that Gabry, Gabry, could’ve done something to that girl. Okay, so he does like the women, but so do most men. And he might have flirted with her. I’m sure he did. She was gorgeous and knew it. But he’s certainly not a .. I tell you what. If anything, it would’ve been her who’d’ve done something to him, from what I heard.”

“Really? Why d’you say that? You’ve always told me she was a lovely girl. Bright, positive, going places. A bit spoiled and mollycoddled by her mum but who isn’t in Italy?”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t want to lower myself to hearsay.”

Caterina fell onto the sofa and slumped like a rag doll. “What have you got against him, Hope? I mean, you two have history. We all do. Did something happen between you both?”

“What?” Hope flicked at the sleeve of her blouse to remove a hair. “God no. Look, nothing happened, alright. He just gets up my nose, that’s all. Sometimes you can’t explain why. Could be as simple as the way he walks or his voice or even his smell. I don’t know. But I don’t like the way he treats you and I think you deserve better. Much better. You are quality, Cat. How many times do I have to explain it to you.”

She put her hand on Caterina’s arm. “So what’s the hearsay?” she asked.

Caterina crossed her legs and folded her arms.

“Aurora’s not exactly renowned for being all sweet and innocent. She was a bit of a girl. But she liked them with money. Or the ones with the potential for giving her a good time. If they had a flash car, hung out in Santa Margarita. You know the type. And she wasn’t afraid of asking for favours. Always got what she wanted, too. She was a very sexy young woman. Sophisticated but sexy.

“So there’s nothing to worry about then, is there?

“What do you mean?”

“She wouldn’t‘ve been interested in Gabry. You said so yourself. He’s got nothing to oﬀer a girl like that. And she certainly wouldn’t have wanted a road sweep on her arm in Portofino. Perhaps he couldn't handle the rejection. Lost his cool. Lashed out. It happens. Want to know the four main possible motives for murder? Lust, love, loathing and loot. lust, love, loathing and loot.”

“Bloody hell, Hope. So, what are you telling me? That Gabriele was in love with her? In lust with her? Couldn't stand her? Or wanted her money? What the hell are you going on about?”

“Just pondering.”

“Well ponder elsewhere cos you're on the wrong track.”

There was a brief and uncomfortable silence until Hope opened her mouth. “So, what’s with the birth certificate. She discovered Nando isn’t her father. Now, that would be a shock for anyone, sure, but not shock enough to want to end your life.”

“Christ, your tongue is sharp.”

“Just saying. And what was it, then, that you were about to tell me before we were rudely interrupted by nursy with the puppy dog eyes.”

Caterina giggled. “God, you do have a way with words. Alright. So listen to this. But promise me you will not tell a soul. Promise?”

“Cross my heart and Hope to die.” Her hand made the sign of the cross over the right side of her chest. Caterina did not notice. “Who’s the father then?”

Caterina bowed her head and sighed.

“You do know, don’t you?” Hope asked her.

“Yes, I know. Unfortunately. Pino used to come down of an evening and drink with Roberto and me. Cuba Libera. Good name for rum and coke. It certainly made his tongue libera. He’d talk to us about everything.”

“What’s the story?”

“After the … the shooting. When your dad, Uncle Carmelo was killed and you were taken away. Pino’s dad took it bad. Couldn’t handle it, I guess. His close friend’s assassinated right outside his house. Got scared and turned to the drink. He was away a lot too, for work. On the roads. He formed a, let’s say, a special relationship with Grazia Rosa. She was beautiful at that age.You wouldn’t know it to look at her now, but she was a beauty.”

“Christ. I really do not want to hear this.” Hope chewed the nail of her little finger. “How old was she when he started on her?”

Caterina’s eyes widened in surprise. How had Hope guessed what she was about to tell her?

“So, When you were sent away, Grazia Rosa was only five. And how old were you? Fifteen? Thirty years ago, right? She had Aurora nearly twenty years ago. Do the maths. She was the same age as you were when you left. But I don’t know how young she was when he. Maybe fourteen? They kept it all hushed up. For Pino’s mother, being so religious, abortion was not an option and Grazia Rosa had to keep the kid.”

Caterina rubbed her forehead. “You know Aurora suﬀered from weak lungs? It was Cystic Fibrosis.”

“Cystic Fibrosis? Christ. That’s a genetic disease.”

“Exactly. Defective genes from incestuous reproduction. She was under treatment but often had wheezing fits. Had to be careful.”

“Bellin. Luca mentioned something terrible had happened to her. He said she’d been the victim of a cruel act that laid down the tracks of her life.”

“Luca?”

“Giordano. I saw him yesterday morning. I went for a jog. He was there up at the church, stretching.” Hope rubbed her forehead then fluttered her fingers over the scar on her top lip. “She had to keep the kid? Poor Grazia Rosa. What she has been through.” She paused, then said, “But she had a child. Became a mother. She was allowed to become a mother.” She stared out of the window.

The image of her grinning ex husband stroking the full belly of his new young wife zoomed before her eyes. Her stomach clenched. God, he had so wanted a child. But she, Hope, had not been able to give him one. The abortion at fifteen had rendered her barren. She had not been allowed to keep her kid.

They had even looked at adoption. But after the initial, very gruelling first interview with the social worker who had come to their house to assess their suitability to become adoptive parents, they had read the leaflet and lost their courage:

“In England around 2,000 children are waiting for loving adoptive parents. They are a range of ages, from a variety of backgrounds. What they have in common is a difficult start in life and that they can no longer be brought up by their birth families. All these children need a loving, stable home. They need parents who will stick by them through the good times and the bad. They need support and love to help them overcome their troubled backgrounds, make sense of who they are and grow up to be safe and secure. You will need to give your adopted child lots of individual time, understanding and support. Children who experience unmet physical and emotional needs early in life can have their later development adversely affected, perhaps requiring different parenting techniques to a birth child. That may sound daunting....”

Hope knew deep in her heart this was not the way to go for them. She was frightened of being incapable of fully loving another woman’s child. They did not adopt. And their marriage gradually became as barren as her belly.

Hope rubbed her abdomen and pinched the flab at her waist.

“So how did Nando get involved?” she asked.

“It was his mum’s idea. She wanted to keep him oﬀ the streets. Heroine was big back then and a lot of the kids in Via Mogadiscio got hooked. Most of them are dead now, including Gabriele’s brother, Domenico. Maria Rossi thought that by marrying her son oﬀ

and fixing him up in the jeweller’s with the very nice dowry they got as payment for services rendered, their boy would keep clean.”

“Might’ve kept him oﬀ the skag but it drove him to drink. And violence, by the sounds of things. Christ. From a father who abused her to a husband who beat her. Poor, poor Grazia Rosa. And what about Aurora. Did Nando beat Aurora too?”

“No. I don't think so. Nando would never have hurt Aurora. His precious Aurora. Yes, he was jealous of her, but he doted on her. She was a delicate kid. Needed looking after. ”

“Was he jealous enough to have forced himself on her? He wasn’t her blood father. A man like that could’ve felt it his right. Made to marry a woman he didn’t love my his own mother. Yes, he got a pretty packet but to have to bring up a kid that wasn’t his but his father-in-law’s? A sick kid, too. Then the kid grows up and flashes a well developed bosom and long lissom legs as she walks half naked from the bathroom to her bedroom. While his wife has become frigid from the trauma she suﬀered at the hands of her own father. The story starts all over again.”

Caterina jumped up and put her hands on her hips.

“No. I can’t believe it. Aurora was too feisty. Spoke her own mind. He wouldn’t have had the courage. And she wouldn’t’ve kept quiet. Then there’s Pino. No. No. Not possible.”

The bells of the church in Sant’Antonino clanged. Caterina opened the window and they could hear bells throughout the city ringing in mourning.

“What time is it? Half eleven. It’s started,” she said and she turned on the television to Primo Canale, the local Genoese channel. The anchorman spoke with a solemn voice as scenes of the white haired Italian head of state, President Sergio Mattarella, embraced the sobbing mother by the side of one of the flower covered coﬃns that lined the great hall.

“With flags at half mast, the streets are deserted in a Genoa, pained and wounded on this day of national mourning, that has gathered around the family members of victims who died when the Morandi Bridge collapsed. The solemn state funeral, being held in Pavillion B of the Genoa Exhibition center is filled to capacity and as the rescue workers and firefighters enter, the applause is resounding by the three thousand citizens in the pavillion today.

Families of the other deceased chose to bury their loved ones privately, angry at the state and blaming the authorities for the tragedy which should never have happened. They were Victims of a state homicide, they say. The state being ultimately responsible for the national infrastructure.”

“Look. There he is. Did you see him, Hope? There. Look Standing at the bottom of the stairs.”

Hope stood and moved closer to the television. In his uniform, she could see the face of Pino, rubbing his moustache, and her heart squeezed with shame.

ANNA CLARA SPEAKS TO HOPE Out of breath, Hope stopped at the bottom of the salita, coughed and watched Caterina charge up the cobbled lane to her house as if it were a downhill ski slope. Envious of her friend’s fitness, she took in a deep breath and was about to climb the mountain with fury when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see who it was and flinched at the horrific aspect before her. It was The Rottweiler.

“My dear, I need to talk to you,” said Anna Clara, slurring through the corner of her twisted mouth.

Hope smiled and concentrated hard not to stare at the horrific aspect with which Anna Clara’s cancer had taken root and gripped her. She had woken one morning face distorted. ’Una colpa di strega’ they all had said, believing she had been suddenly ‘smacked in the face by a witch’, a sudden paralysis of the facial muscles due to a violent contraction caused by cold air. The tests of course denied all responsibility to any witch but to a tumour that was killing her.

A simple, uneducated ‘contadina’, daughter of the soil, of which she always liked to remind people, Anna Clara was, too, a no nonsense, direct talker. From her lips often ensued abuse which had no propriety nor sophistication about it and she was nicknamed ‘The Rottweiler’ by most of her neighbours who had often been in her unfortunate firing line of spiteful spit.

The fact that the cancer had attacked her often foul mouth was interesting proof that illness begets its owner.

“Grazia Rosa will not get through this unless she has some answers. She needs to know what happened to her beloved girl. You understand that don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Hope furrowed her brow, perplexed. Why had this big woman stopped her?

“You’re wondering why it’s you I want to talk to. I don’t know you, my dear, but I’ve heard a lot about you. I know your history. I know what you do and I knew your father. I believe you can help.”

“You knew my father?”

“Your father was a good man. Lost his way a bit, but after what happened, none of us were surprised, my dear. Now, Grazia Rosa. You need to help Grazia Rosa find a little peace of mind.”

Well, I’m not sure I …”

“No excuses, my girl. Just listen. This may be of little importance but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s been worrying me and I think you should know. It may help. See, somebody was lurking about her front door the other night and in the pouring rain too. Must ‘ave got soaked.”

“What?”

“The other night, I couldn’t sleep. The pain, you see.” She rubbed her swollen cheek. “Looking out of my window, up there,” she pointed to the top floor of the house they stood before, “I saw a man.”

What door?”

“The door to Aurora’s apartment. That door there.” She shook her thick arm and the flabby wing where her tricep muscle used to be, flapped. “Then he sat on the steps under the porch. Just sat there for about fifteen minutes. Stroking the cat, he was. And why am I telling you this? That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you dear?”

“Well, yes, actually.

“Can’t be sure, of course, but I could’ve sworn it was Gabriele. He wore a hood and in the rain it was diﬃcult to make out his face but when he sat down under the porch, I don’t know but to me it was him. I couldn’t say anything in front of Caterina. I know how much she dotes on him. Lord knows why but she does, and I might be a direct talker. Pride myself on telling how it is. But I’m no gossiper and wouldn’t want anything to hurt that girl’s feelings. Do you understand me?”

Hope nodded. “When was this exactly?”

“That boy’s been going round there every afternoon for the last couple of weeks. Still hasn’t finished the job. In fact, I had words with him just the other day. I said to him, I said ‘And how are you getting along with the electric wiring in the flat? Have you nearly completed it? It’s been two weeks now, Gabriele. It seems to me you are taking too long. I hope that girl, Aurora, isn’t distracting you from your work. I know what you’re like with pretty young women. You can’t see sense, can you dear?’ Sees a pretty girl and he gets distracted.” She paused but for a moment to wipe her mouth with her sleeve.

“He denied it, of course. Said he was fast asleep. Then I said “Yes, well, the sooner you finish, the sooner you’ll get your money. And don’t forget, if you go over the agreed date, I’ll begin to deduct money oﬀ for late completion. Don't say I didn’t warn you!” And I would have. I’m not one for any nonsense. And another thing, I said, what were you doing, slinking about outside the flat at half past three in the morning morning? I saw you. What were you up to?” It was gone three in the morning.” I couldn’t sleep you see. When the pain gets me, there’s no pill in the world what can help me.” Anna clara touched her cheek.

“When was that Anna Clara?” Hope managed to ask.

“The night before the Bridge collapsed. I remember because it was raining. Terrible weather for August. Terrible and what a tragedy that was. Do you know how many times I’ve driven over that bridge? Don't bear thinking about.” Anna Clara paused for a brief moment and wiped her mouth again. “Our Gabry is a good man, but, see, if he was

stalking about like a cat, he was, and that isn’t normal, is it? Course, he didn't stand a chance with a girl like that.”

“A girl like what?” asked Hope.

“Aurora, God bless her, a lovely girl, lovely girl but had a bit of a reputation. Had a lot of men friends but she only chose the ones with a bit of money in their pockets. That’s what I mean, see. She’d never ‘ave gone after a man like Gabriele. And then the cheek of the man. Only hands me a red rose. “This is for you, Anna Clara. A beautiful rose for a beautiful lady to make her day,” he says. Well, I watched him turn the corner and then threw the red rose onto the ground. What the hell do I want a single red rose for, at my age! How ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder who he thinks he is!!”

“Hmmm,” Hope grunted. “Did you ever see any of her men friends? Did any of them call on her?”

“Now, I’m not one for gossip, I’ve told you. I don’t like it. But I seen that Eddie lad coming out in the mornings recently. Eddie the Alby, they call him. Parodi’s son. Well, not his real son. Adopted, you know. Now, why Eddie, I couldn’t make out. Working for his dad, he’s not going to be making much money. But she was all over him. Good looking boy that Eddie but for her to be interested in him he must’ve hit the jackpot somehow.”

“Hope, you alright?” Caterina’s voice bellowed down the salita. Her head popped through the gate that squeaked as she opened it.

“Go on, dear. You go. I’ve said all I wanted to say. Go on now.” She patted Hope’s arm and added, “See If you can find out what happened to her. For Grazia Rosa’s sake.”

“But Anna Clara,” Hope said. “Her death has been oﬃcially declared a suicide.”

“Suicide? Aurora no more killed herself than that bridge was struck by lightening, There were people up in the echelons who knew that bridge could collapse at any moment. But spend money on its maintenance? More money for their own coﬀers, more like. A shameful crime it was and they’re now investigating negligent homicide. Multiple manslaughter. But will anyone take the blame? Course not. It’ll all be kept hush hush. You mark my words.”

“And why are you so sure Aurora didn’t kill herself?”

“Despite all her faults, that girl adored her mother. Wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her. Grazia Rosa brought her up the Catholic way and taking your own life is a mortal sin. Aurora did her lessons. Learnt the catechism. She came to my course in the church here when she was at primary school. And a good little learner she was, too. Point 2281 says:

‘Suicide contradicts the natural inclination of the human being to preserve and perpetuate his life. It is gravely contrary to the just love of self. It likewise oﬀends love of neighbor because it unjustly breaks the ties of solidarity with family, nation, and other human societies to which we continue to have obligations. Suicide is contrary to love for the living God.

And Point 2325 …”

Hope repeated it oﬀ-pat for her. “Suicide is seriously contrary to justice, hope, and charity. It is forbidden by the fifth commandment.”

She too had attended lessons twice a week for two years from the age of seven to nine to learn her prayers, the ten commandments, the seven sacraments, and the seven deadly sins. She had also taken the first communion, dressed in white robes with flowers in her hair, excited to break the Holy bread and drink some real wine for the first time in her life. And her first confession. At nine years old. Sitting in the box trying to think of something to say. Something evil she had done, thought. The humiliation she felt when she revealed to the priest how she had stolen her classmate’s rubber. Not sure if this was sin enough to confess or so evil that Jesus would not forgive her.

Such deep indoctrination when so young had made the church the longest most successful organisation in the world with a constant growth in power since 313 A.D., when Catholicism became the oﬃcial religion of the Roman Empire.

Hope knew the Vatican's wealth was something up to fifteen billion dollars. Its priceless art, land, gold together with big investments in chemicals, steel, construction and real estate, not to mention insurance and banking, ensured its power across the globe. Today, Italian stockholdings ran to $1.6 billion, 15% of the value of listed shares on the Italian market. A business to be proud of.

“Hope. What are you doing? Come on. And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Caterina now leant out of her kitchen window.

A delicious aroma of gently frying garlic made Hope’s tummy grumble and she bade goodbye to the Rottweiler, bowed her head, clenched her fists and marched up the creusa to a delicious spaghetti alle vongole and a large glass of crisp white Gewürztraminer from Trentino.

GIOVANNA SPEAKS -Sunday 19th August 10 am On the day after Aurora’s funeral, the morning was dazzling. At ten past ten, Hope sat and watched Francesca behind the oak panelled bar pouring generous portions of Campari into two glass beakers. She then pulled out the cork from a half empty bottle of Pino Bianco and filled them to the top. Today, wearing a pair of white linen trousers, a cherryred T-shirt that did not cover her pierced belly button ring, and flushed cheeks, she looked like the Australian blood finch, crimson with aggression.

Hope, in a fluorescent blue T-shirt , yellow leggings and pink Nike running shoes, complimented Francesca’s bird impression. They both blazoned the sunlit piazza with more colour than the flower kiosks across the way where Hope could see Giovanna sitting on her stool amongst the white lilies and purple irises on display outside the kiosk. She was chewing a nail.

Then Hope saw Caterina. Giovanna waved and Caterina strolled towards her. Wearing a navy blue sundress that wafted with each graceful step she made in her skin-coloured, open-toed sandals, she looked stunning. Giovanna stood up, said something and Caterina’s hand flew to her mouth as if in surprise. She grabbed the girl’s arm then pointed to the bar. Mario came out of his shop, nodded his head and grinned at them both.

Hope watched them trot across the piazza, Giovanna’s head held high, hips swaying in fashionable high waisted denim shorts that barely covered her bottom, and a white cropped T-shirt with “Come here Daddy” written in red over her taut breasts. Brazen in contrast to Caterina’s elegance.

When they arrived at Hope’s table, Hope looked up from the middle pages of the sport gazette and tilted her head with such feigned surprise, her pony tail bounced. She smelt a hint of fresh lilies as Giovanna slumped deep into the chair opposite, crossed her arms, then her legs, and grunted, “Ciao.” Caterina sat on the edge of hers, back straight. She rubbed her forehead.

“Morning,” said Hope. “You're looking serious. Has someone died?”

“Funeral of Loredana at half past ten. Alberto Manzini’s wife. Killed in an accident on holiday in Rhodes. Kite surfing apparently. She was fifty eight, so quite old. Alberto brought her body back to Staglieno,” said Giovanna, yawning. “It happened on the last day of their holiday.” Giovanna’s tone was so expressionless that, Hope thought, the girl had no sense of the tragedy she had just recounted. Probably for the Millennials, death was so far away in the scheme of things, it carried no weight and was something that only ever happened to others.

“At least that,” Hope said but regretted it when Caterina groaned and sent her daggers with eyes so narrow they seemed like two slashes in her skin.

“Giovanna’s got something to tell you. She didn’t think it was important, so kept it to herself but then this morning decided we should know.”

“About?”

“Go on, Giovanna. Tell her.”

Giovanna leant her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands.

“She was pregnant.”

Hope’s eyebrows raised. She folded the newspaper, glanced at Caterina and asked, “Who was pregnant?”

“Aurora of course.” Caterina clicked her tongue.

Hope rubbed the scar at the top of her lip. “How can you be so sure?”

“She, she er, told me,” said Giovanna and flinched as Hope’s green eyes delved into hers and she bowed her head. She picked a bag of sugar from the bowl and began to play with it, turning it. Round and round. Hope got the impression she made the girl nervous.

“Told you? But the other evening on the beach, you said Aurora never told you anything anymore.’”

Giovanna looked up and flicked her long thick hair away from her face. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t tell you, could I? Not with Eddie there. He’d’ve killed me.”

“Hmmm. Kill? That’s an Interesting choice of word. Why do you think that?”

The girl pulled at the sugar bag and its contents scattered over the table. “Cazzo! Sorry,” she said and wiped the grains onto the floor.

“And when exactly did Aurora tell you this, seeing that you hardly ever saw her these days?”

“When she came in to get the flowers her mum needed. She said she was pregnant. So proud of herself she was about it, too. Wanted me to know she was going to get a lot of money from the bloke. She was going to leave and go to Barcelona. Start a new life away from her dad. Course she wanted me to know that. Make me jealous. So full of herself, she was. Everyone thought Aurora was the perfect princess. But you’d be surprised.”

“So you were still having your girly chats. Still close enough for her to reveal to you such personal news. And yet you said to us you were no longer best mates.You almost seemed envious of her new friends. That you were no longer included. Not good enough for her, you said.”

Hope studied the girl's furrowed expression and watched her trace around the sunflower pattern on the plastic tablecloth with her forefinger. She sensed there was something almost calculating about her but perhaps Giovanna was anxious. Her hand gestures certainly demonstrated agitation.

“Did she tell you who the father was?”

“No. She was talking about real money, like proper money. So must’ve been some rich bloke from Santa Margarita or Albaro, knowing Aurora. She had been seeing a married man for a while. No idea who. She kept it all hush hush. Probably didn’t want her dad to know.”

“And this money. Why was he going to give her money? To have an abortion? But the cost of an abortion wouldn’t be enough to start a new life. Not these days.”

At the roar of a motorbike engine, Giovanna turned her head to check the rider.

“Well, he was married, wasn’t he, Didn’t want his wife to know, I s’pose. Wanted her to keep it all quiet. Probably trying to shut her up about it.”

“Could it have been Eddie’s?” Hope noticed Giovanna sit up straight. She could have sworn she saw a flicker of emotion behind those black eyes.

“Eddie’s? Where on earth did you get that idea?” asked Caterina. “He told us he didn’t know her very well.”

“I have my sources. Don’t forget in a little hamlet like Sant’Antonino, nothing goes unnoticed. I know he’s been seen leaving her flat early in the mornings. Did you know they were sleeping together, Giovanna?”

Giovanna’s eyes flashed.”No, that’s not true. He wasn’t. He wasn’t interested in her.”

She placed her thumb nail between her teeth and started to chew.

The other night on the beach, you seemed close, you and Eddie. Very cosy indeed. Drinking beers, having a late night swim together. I could see you like him. Like him a lot.”

“Yeah, I like him. And he likes me. There’s no way he was sleeping with Aurora.” The girl rubbed the top of her perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Whoever it was said he seen him at her flat is wrong. It wasn’t Eddie.” She fell silent. Then she said, “Look I have to get back. Mario’s looking after the shop, for me.” She placed both hands on the table and said, “It’s been nice talking to you.”

As she walked away, neither Hope nor Caterina could see the corner of her lips curl into a tight smile.

HOPE ATTACKS GABRY & MEETS PARODI “Detect a little jealousy there?” asked Caterina.

“A little?” Hope scoﬀed while, with phone in hand, she concentrated on texting. She wanted to speak to Pino and tell him Giovanna’s news. See what he had to say. ‘Have something to tell you. When’s a good time to call?’ A tingle of excitement rushed down her spine. Perhaps he would not want to talk to her, not after their argument in his oﬃce, the other day.

“Pirlò pronto!” shouted Francesca from the bar and handed a large glass of campari and white wine to a man with a short stocky man in orange overalls.

“Alcohol at this hour? I know I’m a drinker but at this time in the morning?” Hope scoﬀed.

“Don’t be hard on them. They may’ve just finished the night shift. For them it’s like going to the pub for a pint after work of an evening. D’you want one? They’re good. It’s called a ‘Pirlò’.”

“You gonna have one?”

“Why not. It’s Sunday and yesterday was horrible. We deserve it.”

She turned her head and shouted for two Pirlòs just as Gabriele appeared, looking verdant in his khaki singlet and grass green trousers, his shirt rolled around his waist.

“I have something for you,” he said and, as if pulling a rabbit from a hat, he pulled from his vest a single red rose and handed it to Caterina. “For you my special one,” he said.

Seeing Hope roll her eyes, Caterina waggled her forefinger and scowled at her friend before she lit up with pleasure.

“You’re so sweet, Gabriele. Thank you.”

He took Hope’s hand and brushed it with his lips. She jerked it away and, under the table, wiped it on her thighs revulsed at the thought of the bins his hands had been in. She found the boyish, Peter Pan image he emanated, ridiculous but her worry was she could easily imagine him with a young girl, still a teenager, and it was this, more than any bin, that gave her such feeling of revulsion.

She thought, “A red, red rose, all wet with dew. With leaves of green but red shot through. Who was that? Nesbitt? Edith Nesbitt. ”

Gabriele grabbed the ‘Gazzetta dello Sport’ from under Hope’s elbows and pointed to the front page news.

“The match last night was an embarrassment. Una vergogna!” he blurted out for all to hear.

He was a staunch Sampdoriano but last night they had lost to Genoa three goals to one. His declaration caused an onslaught of criticism, insults and opinions. The performances of players were picked to pieces in minute detail. Every kick, foul, corner and penalty were re-lived with the passion of season ticket holders and the referee was called to account for having given the goalkeeper a yellow card. The atmosphere felt electric. A cacophonous tremble and twitter.

Putting the rose to her nose Caterina sniﬀed.

“She sells the same rose to everyone.”

“What?” asked Hope.

“De Andre. Via del campo,” said Caterina. “His song about the prostitute in the lanes of the old town.” She pulsated the petals of the rose on her cheek as she murmured the words to the song.

“‘In Via del Campo there’s a pretty girl with big eyes the colour of leaves.

All night she stands on the threshold, she sells the same rose to everyone.’

And then there’s the famous line, ‘Dai diamanti nasce niente, dal letame nascono i fiori.’ I suppose you don’t remember him, do you, Hope?”

She gazed towards the flower kiosks, almost melting away with her thoughts. Then she said, “Pregnant? Aurora? But who was the man? And she’d asked him for money. I wonder if she’d threatened to tell his wife? I wouldn’t be surprised.” She leant in close to Hope to battle the ascending treble of voices. “Did somebody really see Eddie coming out of her flat?”

“Oh yes. Poor Giovanna doesn’t want to believe it but it’s certainly true. Seen more than once in the last couple of weeks.”

Caterina smacked her hand to her forehead in disbelief. “So it could be Eddie’s, couldn’t it? But why would Aurora have been interested in Eddie? And what about all this money she was going to get? Do you think Giovanna was telling the truth? I mean, Eddie certainly wouldn’t have lots of money?”

“Oh, I think Eddie will be worth a visit. See what he has to say for himself.”

At the bar, a bellow boomed from the focaccia filled mouth of a pot-bellied short man with unkempt hair and a sweaty face.

“And Leonardo Malazzi's long-range missile? Impressive, ay? What a Wallop.”

“Goran’s was the goal of the season though, wasn’t it? Nine times the Grifone’s have won. Nine times and we’ll win again. How many times for Samp, Gabry? Come on, tell us?”

“Alright, alright. Four.”

“How many? Can’t hear you!” sang the fat bellied shorty.

The Blucerchiati's inferiority complex in respect to Italy’s first oﬃcial football team, Genoa Cricket and Football Club, was well known.

Caterina tutted and Hope rolled her eyes. They could hardly hear themselves talk. Then Francesca arrived with two Pirlòs, bent and gave both Caterina and Hope a kiss on the cheek and said, “There you go, Ladies. Made it extra strong for my favourite customers.”

As she sipped the drink, Caterina said, “It’s hard to get my head around.”So, it looks like she knew what she was doing, doesn’t it, Hope? I mean, the vodka, the weed and the pills. She planned it, right? She’s pregnant and about to get loads of money to get away from Sant’Antonino and from her father who she’s discovered isn’t her real father and then there’s this apparent sister who pops up from out of nowhere. Jesus what a mess.”

Hope squinted and looked up as Gabriele’s voice, overbearingly loud now, grated on her nerves. “Abortion is another trauma that increases vulnerability. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to keep it. Sigmund Freud referred to depression as anger turned inward. When you suﬀer from depression you can have a really critical inner voice that doesn’t stop reminding you how worthless and shameful you are. If she discovered what happened to her mum for example... ”

A sudden rousing chorus of one of the Genoa Ultras’ anthems hit the roof of the prefabricated bar. Its glass doors shuddered under the strain of the stadium chant.

“SAMPDORIANI POVERETTI

Più COLORI CHE SCUDETTI

DI SCUDETTI NE HANNO UNO

SAMPDORIANI vaﬀ*****oOO

Hope put her fingers in her ears. Gabriele, his face pinker than the Sporting Gazzette, hid between the print. Caterina lifted her tumbler of ‘Pirlo’ and toasted the singers.

“Chin, Chin.”

For a Sunday morning, the square was a hive of activity just as every morning.

This area of Genova, known as Staglieno, was where a proper cottage industry appeared to be flourishing and where families and individuals were operating out of kiosks and small workshops to produce labour-intensive stone work for headstones and commemorative plaques. They organised all aspects of a funeral, dealt with all the paperwork for the bereaved and provided psychological support for families grieving their loss. They and the flower sellers were the backbone of the cemetery. It appeared indeed to be a huge business. Death, after all, would never go out of fashion.

When the excitement had calmed and the laughter had died, Hope checked her phone. Pino’s reply stared at her and her stomach fluttered “Call you lunchtime.”

She turned to Gabriele and asked, “Business looks good here. Has the economic crisis in Italy aﬀected the stone masons and flower sellers in any way?”

“Good? No no. Not good. Business is not as good as it appears to be.” Gabriele folded the Sports Gazette and placed it on the next table.

“Ground burials are out of fashion. Too expensive, aren’t they. More than 70% of burials in the cemetery are cremations now. See that chimney over there? The one churning grey smoke? Well that’s the furnace and it never stops.”

“What a horrible thought!” gulped Caterina.

“You see everybody needs a funeral sooner or later so the amount of work hasn’t diminished. It’s what the clients want that’s changed. People never used to worry about prices but now they don’t have the money for fancy funerals and expensive coﬃns.They want to know exactly how much it’s going to cost right down to the last detail. They want fewer flowers and simple, plain ceremonies.”

Gabriele suddenly stood up and shouted, “Parodi, over here!. Come and join me. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

An oval faced man with round rosy cheeks sauntered over. He took Gabriele’s hand in both of his and kissed him on each cheek. Hope noticed how impeccable were his nails, clean and groomed yet his, knuckles swollen and red.

“Parodi, this is our friend, Hope. She’s a policewoman in London.Been there for years.”

Parodi tipped his finely woven cream coloured Panama and said, “A policewoman, ay?”

The straw hat added style to his ill-fitting dark blue jacket, the sleeves of which, too long, covered his hands. His black trousers shone from over ironing but his smile did not. But then, Parodi rarely smiled. A serious man with serious work to do, for him life was not to be enjoyed but to be endured.

And as Gabriele had told Caterina, Parodi belonged to that type of man who spent his whole life inside his workshop doing nothing but work, work, work. He never left the place. And he certainly never squandered his money on wasteful pleasures. Oh no. Never went on holiday. Never took his wife out. Mean as hell. Hidden away, chipping at the marble in his white coat, he’d take it all with him to his grave, he would. Poor chap. Poor chap, my foot. He could choose to do anything he wanted but was so obsessed with work he couldn’t see beyond the gravestone he was chipping at. He’d be making his own one soon, that’s for sure.

“Always wanted to go to London but never had the time,” said Parodi.

“Sit, sit. Let me get you a coﬀee,” Gabriele said.

“Make it a double, will you? I’ve had a hard morning, Gabry.”

At the table, Parodi crossed his legs and rubbed his red bulbous nose. “Haven’t seen you here before. Don’t visit often?” he asked Hope in his strong Genoese accent.

Before she answered she watched Gabriele enter the bathroom cubicle. He stood at the basin, door wide open, washing his hands and regarding his profile in the mirror.

“No, not often.” Hope said distracted.

“Giorgio, she hasn’t been back since she was fifteen.”

“Hasn’t changed much, has it, er sorry, your name?”

“Hope,” said Hope.

“Speranza. She used to be called Speranza. Speranza Cacciatore.” Caterina reached over and brushed a russet curl away from her cousin’s cheek with tenderness.

“Cacciatore. Cacciatore. Now why do I know that name?” He lifted his hat and scratched his head. His baldness gleamed in the sun like a billiard ball.

Hope stood up and said, “Sorry. must go for a pee.”

She held her tummy in as she weaved through the pack at the bar and managed to reach the cubicle just as Gabriele came out drying his hands with a paper towel. She stabbed him in the shoulder with a finger.

“I want a word with you,” she said in a no nonsense tone and pushed him back into the cubicle.

He winced.

“Been drinking, have we? I can smell it a mile oﬀ. What d’you want?” he asked.

“So how many roses does it take before you get your leg over, ay, Gabry?”

“What?”

“Come on. Tell me. How long’d you been visiting her with your flowers before she let you in?”

“Hope, what the hell are you going on about?”

“The young Aurora. How long?”

“Aurora?”

“Yep. Aurora. The lovely, young Aurora. Young enough to be your daughter, you pervert.” She stood close to his face and could smell sweet peppermint on his breath.

Gabriele chuckled. “Pervert? Is that what you think? I’m a pervert?”

“You like ‘em young, don’t you?”

Gabriele shook his head.

“You’re denying it, then?”

“Course I’m bloody denying it, cos it’s not true.”

Hope stepped back and asked, “So why are all your bloody red roses in her flat?”

“Ah! You saw the rose in the vase on the table and immediately thought of me, did you? Clever detective work. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to get into her knickers. And anyway, why should I have to explain anything to you?”

“Why? Because I don’t want you to hurt Caterina anymore than you already have. I know exactly what men like you are. Anything for a bit of fresh skirt. A couple of roses and wham bam.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not like other men.”

Hope snorted. “Yeah, sure. So you’re telling me it wasn’t you who gave her the roses? You weren’t going to her flat for quickies?”

“Look. Piss oﬀ will you. Just cos I give a rose to a woman, doesn’t mean I want something, does it? That’s what you all think, right? You’re the ones perverted. Not me. I done nothing wrong. And if you or Caterina or anybody else wants to know, just talk to Anna Clara. She’ll tell you.”

“I already have and she tells me you were going round there every afternoon.”

“That’s right. Doin’ the rewiring, I was.”

“She also told me she saw a man looking very like you hanging around outside her front door at about three o’clock in the morning.”

“What? Like me? What the hell. Do you honestly think I’d be hanging around her flat at that time in the morning? I have to be up at six. Need my sleep, I do. But what night was this?”

“Tuesday. The night before she died.”

“Well that was the morning I found my saddle threaded to pieces by some bastard’s knife art. Bet whoever Anna Clara saw was him. If I ever find out who it was, I’ll kill him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that, Gabry.”

A woman stood waiting for the toilet. She dangled the key and said, “Excuse me, d’you mind?”

Gabriele pushed by Hope.

“Got to get Giorgio a coﬀee,” he said, and went up to the bar.

“Just give me one more minute,” Hope said to the woman who now stood cross-legged, grimacing.

Hope, feeling her cheeks burning, splashed cold water over her face to cool her rage. There, much better. She then apologised to the woman and made her way back to Caterina where Giorgio Parodi was wiping his shiny head with a white handkerchief.

The man Parodi was actually smiling. Well, the corners of his lips turned up just ever so slightly. It looked painful..

“You’re not Carmelo Cacciatore’s daughter, are you?” He asked.

“Well, yes, I am. I am indeed. Did you know him? My father?”

“Ah, who didn’t know Carmelo?”

He put his hat back on and played with the rim. Hope waited for his explanation but Gabriele returned with Giorgio’s coﬀee and, placing it in front of the middle aged stonemason, sat down and said, “Hope asked me how business is going here. I told her, not good but you know better than me. Why don’t you tell her what it’s like nowadays.”

He seemed to have completely forgotten their little chat. Well, bugger him, Hope thought.

“What it’s like? Business? Ha! Being a stonemason used to be very lucrative but not any more. Not any more.” He shook his head. “Having to compete with a large factory-based manufacturer that’s mass-producing at much lower prices. Not easy, Not easy at all. Usual story in this damned country.”

“Anyone we know?” asked Caterina.

“‘See that large sign over there?” Parodi wagged his fore finger towards the octagonal prefab at the end of the piazza near the main road. “‘SPOF’. ‘Servizi Pompe Onoranze Funebri’. Enemy number one. Council-owned and run by Renzo Bianchi and his son Matteo. Very astute businessman, he is, I give him that. Clever and rough which is a nasty mix. I wouldn’t mess with him. Got his fingers in all sorts of pies.”

The name Renzo, sent a chill through hope’s veins. Renzo Bianchi. Renzo. She shuddered but did not understand why.

“Trying to get into politics now too. Running in the Regional council elections next year. Wants to become a county councillor for the central right coalition. Berlusconi’s ‘Forza Italia’ and Brothers of Italy. Been an active member of Brothers of Italy-National Alliance since it was created in 2012 apparently,” said Parodi.

“Yeah, and when you work for the council you have a very cushy position. Security for life with a huge pension that I could only dream of,” said Gabriele.

“Brothers of Italy? Sounds more like a communist revolutionary group, doesn’t it? The Italian political parties always seem to have such creative names! Wasn’t there a name like 'The Daisy’ or something a few years back?” Asked Hope.

“That’s right. Margherita in Italian. The Olive Tree was another and Edelweiss. I Liked that one!” said Caterina.

“Yeah, but they’re not communists.” exclaimed Gabriele. “They came from Italy's Fascist party. In fact the leader, a woman called Giorgia Meloni, made her speech at their general election campaign this year with Mussolini’s granddaughter standing next to her,” said Gabriele, warming to his favourite subject next to football.

“Their views though now, Gabry, are more national-conservative,” said Parodi.

“Come on. Their anti immigration ideas are worse than the Northern League’s. Did you hear Meloni’s “Italians first” speech she made. It was like she wanted to revive memories of Italy’s authoritarian past. What did she say? Something like “If we need to dig trenches, we will dig trenches. No one enters illegally, and those who have, will be sent home.”

“'Brothers of Italy. Sounds Communist,” said Hope.

“'Brothers of Italy' is a reference to the first line of Italy's national anthem,” said Parodi.

“I love our National Anthem,” put in Caterina. “It’s so lively and bouncy. It’s a real bayonet-charging battle cry. It’s a patriotic call to arms and it talks about some fairly obscure battles in Italy’s history. Did you know it was written by a 20 year old Genoese boy?”

“It’s a great song to sing at the football stadium!“ said Gabriele.

Hope groaned.

“Dad, there you are. Been looking for you everywhere.”

“Ah, here’s my right hand man, Eddie, my son. Eddie, come and say hello to these charming ladies with Gabriele. But then, Gabry’s always with charming ladies, aren’t you boy?”

Hope lifted her eyebrows and bored into Caterina’s eyes with a wide expression that said, “See, it’s not just me.”

Caterina crossed her arms and sighed.

Eddie did not resemble his father. His face was angular with a large forehead. He was fair skinned and fair haired. Dressed in deck shoes, smart navy shorts and a pink polo shirt, he looked more like he’d just washed down his yacht than organised a funeral. He gave a formal nod of his head to Hope, his grin wide. She noticed his eyes narrow. You may smile and smile but still be a villain, she thought.

“Ciao Cat. Ciao Gabri,” said Eddie. “Didn’t see you at the meeting Tuesday evening. Where were you?”

“Eddie.” Gabriele took his hand. “Had an important match on, didn’t I. Couldn’t let the boys down.”

“Against Sant’Eusebio, right? How’d you play? Did you beat ‘em?”

Gabriele hesitated, looked behind him and then said, “Yeah. Good. Listen I gotta get back to work. Been sitting here too long.”

He pushed himself out of the chair, pecked Caterina on the forehead, Ignored Hope, and skirted around the throng of coﬀee drinkers, chanting “Doria olé, Doria olé, Forza Doria, Doria olé!”

Caterina grinned. Hope cleared her throat. Giorgio Parodi stood up, tipped his hat and left with his son.

“Coming back with me and Poppy?” Caterina asked Hope.

“Nah. thanks. I’d like to have a little chat with Eddie. I’ll walk back. It'll do me good.” She patted her belly.

Then she finished the ‘Pirlo’ and followed Parodi into his shop.

Giorgio Parodi Giorgio Parodi smiled as he stroked the smooth marble block he would start sculpting the following day. He loved Sunday mornings. It was always lucrative, was Sunday.

Giuliano Pinerolo wanted an angel with the face of his wife to emanate the joy she had had for her life with him and his son. The angel was to have long curls swathed over delicate shoulders and hands in prayer at her bosom. Ethereal wings had to appear in flight towards the heavens and her robe had to envelope her lissom body like ermine flowing in the breeze.

It would be a capo lavoro, another great piece of work and he couldn’t wait to set up his mallet and chisel. Tools that had not changed over thousands of years. Tools that had shaped the pyramids of Giza.

Whenever he touched a large marble slab, his heart glowed with tenderness. Marble, a fine, easily worked stone quarried in the city of Tuscan Carrara, in the Apian Alps. The marble of Michelangelo’s David, prestigious throughout the world. Parodi was proud to be part of two thousand years of timeless beauty.

Startled by the clang of the door bell, he pulled down his suit jacket and checked his greying hair in the glass door that led to his shop front. The Cacciatore girl. God, she looked just like her father. Eery. Quite eerie, he thought.

In a fluorescent blue T-shirt, yellow leggings and pink Nike running shoes, she reminded him of a parrot as she stood in front of his desk with a brochure in her hands. She looked like she’d just been jogging. Not an outfit appropriate for a visit to a funeral parlour, but who was he to judge?

She took his hand and said “Signor Parodi. Hope you don’t mind me following you in.”

“The spitting image of your father, you are. Now what can I do for you, my dear? Please sit.”

“I was hoping to have a quick chat with your son, Signor Parodi. Is he here?”

“Eddie? Well, no. I’m afraid he’s not. He, er, had to rush oﬀ and visit a client,” he said. He paused and scratched his chin as if checking his words, then continued. “We oﬀer home consultation now. Have to be ahead of the competition. And there’s a lot of it. Not easy these days, you know.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” She noticed his raised eyebrow.

“I mean Eddie not being here, and of course, diﬃcult times for you, I’m sure.” She had no idea why.

She looked about her, fighting for something more to say. She spotted the Saint George flag on the wall.

“I understand you are the Alder master of the Stonemasons guild here at Staglieno. That must be a great honour?”

“He clapped his hands together and laughed. “You are a very well informed young woman. And where did you hear that, may I ask?”

“Eddie told me. Met him at Boccadasse yesterday evening.”

“I see. Yes I am. Very honoured. I’ve been in the business for thirty years. The position proved to me my work is highly reputed and what more could a simple man like myself want.”

“Mmm. Yes.” Hope said. “Eddie also told me you had a meeting on Tuesday evening. The evening before Ferragosto, The evening before the girl, Aurora, was found.”

“What a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing. That poor girl. Her poor mother. I can’t imagine what she must be going through.” He rubbed his forehead.

“And the meeting?”

“Ah, yes. The meeting. That’s right. We did have a meeting. We have an issue to sort out and I called the meeting to discuss our options. But we have a meeting every year on the eve of the August bank holiday. It’s become a tradition. Before a lot of us shut shop and take our long earned holidays, you see.”

“Did you know your son was seeing Aurora before she died?”

“Seeing Aurora? In what sense, seeing Aurora?”

Hope said nothing but stared into his grey, watery eyes.

“Ah, I see. And what makes you think that Madam Cacciatore?”

“You didn’t know?”

“You are an inquisitive lady, aren’t you? Listen. My son is twenty six years old. What he does in his free time is not my business. He is a good looking boy. He sees a lot of girls. But I certainly knew nothing of Aurora. Where do you get your information from?”

“I was told by a reliable source.”

“And what business is it of yours?”

“It’s none of my business but I promised Aurora’s mother I would discover how she spent her last day on this earth. Grazia Rosa doesn’t believe her daughter killed herself, you see. So I’m just trying to give her some peace of mind.”

“Of course she can’t believe it. What mother would? But, I tell you something. My son had nothing to do with that girl. And I don’t understand what you are trying to accuse him of?”

“Signor Parodi, I am not accusing Eddie of anything, I assure you. I’m just trying to find out what Aurora did that evening and who she might have seen. For Grazia Rosa. That’s all. So I know Eddie left the meeting early. He said he went to his friend’s birthday celebration. But the strange thing is, somebody saw him loading a van at the warehouse behind the cemetery at around eleven thirty. Do you know anything about that? What he was doing there at that time of night?”

Parodi picked up a pen and started scribbling on a notepad.

“Well, whoever said that must have been mistaken my dear. Eddie told me he had a birthday party to go to and I have absolutely no reason to disbelieve him. My son’s a good boy.”

“I’m sure he is Signor Parodi. I don’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset? I’m not upset. I’m just surprised you come here asking all these questions. Like your father, you are. He couldn’t keep his nose out of things either. That’s what got him killed. And you should watch who you talk to.” He threw the pen onto the desk.

“Got him killed? What, what do you mean?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I.. I think it’s best if you leave, now. I have a lot to do before I close. You’ll find Eddie here in the morning. Speak to him directly if you want, but he won’t have much more to say than I have, I can bet.”

He rose and walked round to the back of Hope’s chair which he helped pull out, then he led her to the door and almost shoved her through it, locking it after her.

Free from the unpleasant intrusion by Cacciatore’s daughter, Parodi sat back at his desk and rubbed his knuckles. The years of chiselling hard marble had paid its toll on the bony joints which were now swollen and often sore. He frowned but not for the pain.

His son worried him. He did not know where he was this morning. Parodi and son Funeral Directors did not oﬀer home service. Never had and never would. So where the hell was he. The boy disappeared all too often during working hours and what was he doing at that warehouse? Damn.

Parodi had the sinking sensation he knew what his son was getting himself involved in.

PHONE CALL FROM PINO “Hope. You wanted to speak to me?”

Hope felt her heart thud as she heard Pino’s velvet voice. She walked oﬀ the lane to stand in the shade in front of two sheds almost hidden from view by a tall fig tree. She cleared her throat.

“Yes. Giovanna came to me this morning. She told me something you have to know.” She looked up at the branch heavy with fruit and plucked a deep green fig, swollen and soft with sweet juicy pulp. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, I’m afraid.”

She bit into the fig and murmured her appreciation.

“Are you eating something?”

“Mmmm. A delicious fig, just picked it from the tree.”

“Where are you’”

“On the road to Sant’Antonino. Near a couple of sheds. The tree is heaving with them. I’ll pick a few and you can taste one later, if I don’t eat them all first.” Hope gave a nervous giggle.

“So, tell me. I haven’t got long.”

“Well, Pino. Look. Giovanna said, well she told me that,” Hope hesitated, not sure how Pino would react to the news.

“Hope, spit it out. I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon.”

“Yes, right. Well, Aurora was pregnant. Giovanna doesn’t know who the father was. But Aurora was going to get a lot of money from him. She was planning to leave Genova. Go to Barcelona apparently. Start a new life. So if this is true, why the hell would she have killed herself?”

Pino’s loud laughter exploded into Hope’s ear and she pulled the telephone away until he calmed down.

“Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Hope, this girl Giovanna is talking bullshit. Aurora was a good girl. No way was she pregnant. Sounds to me like Giovanna is spreading jealous gossip. She always was envious of Aurora.”

“Well, if you’d done an autopsy you would’ve found out.”

“For Christ sake, Hope. Not this again. And if she were pregnant, that could have been the catalyst that pushed her over the edge. If Nando had found out. Well. It isn’t worth thinking about.”

“And the money? Her plans? Wanting to leave? If we can find the man who..”

“Speranza, That’s enough. Stop with this, please. You cannot be getting involved.”

“Pino, listen. She’d been sleeping with Eddie, the Albanese boy. What if he’d found out and was so jealous, he couldn’t handle it. And somebody saw him that night loading a van with a heavy sack outside the warehouse at the back of the cemetery. He told me and Cat that he’d gone to a birthday party. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He also said he didn’t know Aurora very well. Another lie. I think you should speak to him, Pino.”

“Bellin, Hope. This is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Who the hell have you been talking to?” His voice boomed and she imagined his face red with fury, eyes fiery. And while she listened, she shuﬄed the leaves and twigs on the ground with her right foot.

She could not understand why he refused to listen. Any thought to what had happened to his niece that night lit his fuse and his emotions exploded.

She spoke softly. “Pino, I really think if you spoke to Eddie….”

“Basta. Enough!” he shouted again. “I cannot be listening to this. I have far more important things to do.” He put the phone down.

Hope stood motionless for a moment, wondering at his overreaction. Such exaggerated anger. Was he so worried he could lose his promotion if he made a wrong step? Was he really that superficial? How disappointing if he were. She decided she would go and have a chat with Eddie, despite Pino’s

She began to shuﬄe the ground again with her foot, feeling despondent. Then suddenly she uncovered something that made her bend down to look more closely.

A white filter cigarette butt. She plucked it and read ‘Winston Silver’. The brand Pino smoked.

She felt a chill shudder through her and shivered. Would he have been smoking while riding his motorbike or driving his car on his way home? But the butt had been flattened by a foot. Whoever had smoked it here had been standing in the spot where she was now and has trodden on it on it to put it out.

She laughed. But anyone could have been here and smoked it. Had she ever seen another Italian smoke a White Silver? She had to admit. Never. An ultralight light cigarette only for those wanting to give up, that she knew. Italian smokers were real smokers. With the exception of Pino.

She walked towards the two makeshift sheds. Put together with planks of wood and panels of corrugated iron. No windows. She tried the doors. She laughed again. “What a suspicious old cow I’ve become.” Then she picked a pocket full of figs and continued her trek up to Sant’Antonino.

Passeggiata di Nervi - SUNDAY AUGUST 7.30 PM THAT EVENING, Huﬃng and puﬃng, Hope grabbed the railings and wheezed. She could not rest on the bench for a young couple entwined in open passion, were lost to the world in their kiss.

Ignoring them she panted:

“God, how fit!”

She leaned over to the rocks below. Another couple were rolling together on their beach towel despite the discomfort of the hard stone rocks they lay on.

“Christ. It’s like watching the worst episode of Love Island!”

Making its way towards Corsica, a ferry boat lit up the water like a birthday cake, golden fairy lights from bow to stern celebrating the start of a summer holiday for its excited passengers.

“It’s good to be alive,” she panted and inhaling the beauty of the Ligurian evening air, she coughed.

“I need a fag.”

On the east side of Genova lay the small village of Nervi. There were no white, sandy beaches at Nervi. There were none on the Ligurian coast but the rocky cliﬀs that fell down into the sea from the promenade above were still filled with lazy sunbathers, no heed to the discomfort of sharp granite on their backs.

The views were stunning. In the distance, to the left, was the promontory of Portofino where Punta Chiappa jutted out to allow the ferry boats to enter its tiny jetty and permit its passengers to walk the steep but delightful climb up to San Rocco and its church. One could just make out the famous trattoria, ‘Du Spadin’, its tables and chairs so close to the lapping water’s edge that the smell of the sea mingled with the aroma of shellfish and garlic being cooked in the kitchen.

To the right, one could see as far as Savona on a clear day.

This evening too, Hope could clearly discern the mounts that, in the winter, created a snow capped backdrop to the city that rolled from the hills, packed and cramped with pink, yellow and green blocks of apartments and houses, down towards the Mediterranean brine.

Looking at the glistening water below, Hope mumbled, ““Dai diamanti non nasce niente, da ….”Hope chanted.

“Cosa hai detto?” asked Gabriele. “What did you say?”

“Dai diamanti non nasce niente, da ….” She repeated. “But I can’t remember the rest of the line.”

“Dai diamanti non nasce niente, dal letame nascono i fiori. You know De Andre?” asked Gabriele.

“Nope. The key was attached to a ribbon with those words written on it.”

“What key?” asked Caterina.

Gabriele had opened Youtube and produced a video of a man with heavy, lazy eye-lids, long lanky, fair hair and weathered face hunched over his guitar. His two-packet a day voice strummed a monotonous rhythm. The eﬀect was sleepy.

“Charismatic!” said Hope.

“Sarcastic.” said Caterina.

“De Andre is a cult figure here in Genova. There are streets and parks and even schools with his name.”

“Bully for him. Not my cup of tea. What’s the song called again?”

“Via del Campo.In the historical centre. It used to be the red light district of Genova,” said Gabriele.

“Know it well, then?” asked Hope, pulling her lips with her fingers.

Caterina rolled her eyes.

“Business took place in the ‘Case chiuse’ - "locked " houses. The girls had to keep their shutters and curtains closed. And then The ‘Merlin Law changed everything and closed them all.”

“Merlin, as in Wizard?”

“Nah, Merlin as in Angelina Merlin, the first woman to be elected into the Italian Senate after the war. And guess how many brothels were closed as if by magic, overnight!”

“Do tell us. You’re the expert.” said Hope, ignoring Caterina’s glare.

“Five hundred and sixty. And about three thousand prostitutes lost their jobs over night!”

“Blimey. Big demand. What did you all do without them?”

“Christ. What are Italian men like!” moaned Caterina.”I read that all the prostitutes in Russia speak Italian fluently!! Italian businessmen are their number one clients!”

“Blyat!” burped Hope.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Russian, my dear friend, It means ‘No eﬃng way’!”

Caterina giggled. “You are such a linguist, Hope!”

“When I was fourteen, my papa took me to visit a prostitute in the Maddalena. He thought it was my initiation into sex. I had my first sexual experience at twelve but he didn’t know that of course. Thought he was doing me a favour. He always went to the Maddalena on a Sunday morning after church mass while mamma went home to prepare Sunday lunch. His little pre-lunch appetiser!” Gabriele confessed.

Hope mouthed the word ‘Maddalena’ and Caterina said, “It’s an area in the ‘Caruggi’, the Lanes of the historical centre, named after Mary Magdalen, Jesus’s prostitute. The ladies of the night and day sit on their doorsteps in high heel shoes that would kill any normal woman who tried to walk in them. Even at 8 o’clock in the morning. I heard that they now accept luncheon vouchers from the workmen who visit them in their lunch hour!”.

Hope wondered how diﬃcult a life would be standing for hours in a cobbled street in a mini skirt and heels selling her body to any man who was so desperate for sex that he was prepared to pay for it. Men were animals. She turned brusquely to face Gabriele.

“How well did you know Aurora, Gabry?” she asked.

Gabriele startled by her unexpected question, placed a hand on the railings and garbled, “I.. I…I feel a little strange. Look, you both walk straight on. I’d prefer to take that path that goes behind the public toilets at the back over there. You don’t mind do you? I’ll come out onto the promenade just a little way further up from you. I’ll wait until you reach me. Okay?”

“Are you alright, Gabry?” Caterina asked, concerned. “You seem very pale. We don’t mind, darling. We’ll walk with you.”

He took hold of her hand.

When they reached an area behind the toilets that was pleasantly lit up by lamplight, Gabriele sat down on one of the benches. His breathing was fast and heavy and his forehead had erupted into beads of sweat. “I’m sorry. I feel a little dizzy. I’m not very good with heights. That piece of the promenade always gets to me. I Just can’t face it!”

“A touch of Vertigo,” said Hope. “Well timed.”

“No. Not vertigo exactly. It’s worse than that. Whenever I see a sheer drop I want to throw myself oﬀ! It terrifies me. It’s like I can’t control the feeling I have, to jump oﬀ.”

“Bloody hell!”

“LIke the Morandi Bridge. I always avoided it. Couldn’t drive over it even if you paid me. Avoided it like the plague, I did. I always take the sea road. And look what happened. Three of my colleagues were found under all that concrete. Christ what a disaster.”

“Where does this feeling come from Gabry? Something happen to you when you were a kid?” Hope was for the nurture argument, not the nature one.

Gabriele rubbed his forehead.

“When I was a kid, my mum used to tie me to the railings of our balcony as punishment and leave me there for hours. Our apartment was on the eight floor. I’d be scared stiﬀ of falling oﬀ.”

“Seriously? Today that’s known as child abuse.”

“She had twelve of us to look after and my dad was hardly ever home.”

“Always in the Maddalena by the sounds of it!”

“He wasn’t a beautiful man but the women liked him.” Gabriele smiled with fondness. “We kids weren’t easy, I can tell you. I was starving most of the time. My dad, when he did come home, would demand his dinner on the table and would eat the best, first, while we kids had to wait for the leftovers. So it was normal for me to knock on the neighbour’s door next to ask for something to eat. They were always very kind and would give me a piece of bread or focaccia. But sometimes I would steal from the store. My mum would always know. It was like she had eyes everywhere. The only way she could deal with us was with a heavy hand.

So she would tie me to the railings of the balcony to keep me under control. But of course she’d forget I was there and I’d sit there looking down from that balcony, eight floors up, in terror of falling. But also feeling very guilty about making my mum mad at me. I deserved the punishment every time. That’s for sure.”

“Tough childhood, said Hope.”

“It was normal for us. I know so many kids that died though either from drugs or stabbings. My brother was an addict. Ruined his life. He Died at forty four. Never had a girlfriend, no job and still lived with mum. A complete loser. Don’t get me wrong. I loved him to death. He was my brother but I’ll never condone his choice of lifestyle. You know me Cat. I don’t smoke. I’ve never touched alcohol and I don’t even drink coﬀee. I’ve seen too much pain because of it all. And if it hadn’t been for the football, I’d’v probably gone the same way.”

“Don’t you have a sister in prison?”

“Yep. Emanuela. She was dealing. She’s in an all-female prison in Bolzaneto. A hard nut.”

“Ever visit her?”

“Been there a couple of times but I try and avoid it. It’s not my favourite place, as you can imagine.”

“Do you know anything about Wet Fry cigarettes? Apparently all the kids are smoking them these days. They’re really cheap and easy to get hold of.”

“I’ve heard of them. I know that some of the more dodgy pharmacies sell them under the counter. It’s good money. They sell them individually for about twenty Euro so any kid today can aﬀord to pay for one. A little bit of cannabis and a lot of formaldehyde. Bloody potent and very dangerous.”

“We found a joint butt on the ground by Aurora’s body in the chapel. Pino was pretty sure it was Wet Fry. Any idea where she could’ve got it from. Does the local chemist sell them, do you think?”

“The local chemist? You mean Alex? I wouldn’t put it past him. Smarmy charmer. Can’t stand him. But a brother is a brother. We might not like each other but at the end of the day, we’re family.” Gabriele looked at Caterina. “Now Alex knows how to play the system. He puts on a white doctor’s coat, and everyone thinks he’s a qualified pharmacist. Alex left school at fourteen, like me. Doesn’t know one end of a book to the other. Doctor Alex De bloody Luca.”

“Smarmy charmer, ay? Does he give out single red roses to all his favourite women, like you do, Gabry?” Hope’s derisive tone cut the air.

“Hope, please!” Caterina, groaned.

Gabriele did not lose his cool but his lips tightened into a thin line. “I don’t give roses just to the beautiful ones, you know, which is what you’re thinking, right, Hope? Cos you, like everybody else, always think the worst, don’t you?. I give roses to old ladies too. I Like to cheer ‘em up and a small gesture like mine can change their day, can’t it? What’s wrong in that?”

“Nothing wrong at all,” said Caterina.

“Ooh, Yes. You are a real Angel Gabriel,” said Hope.

HOPE TALKS TO EDDIE MONDAY morning 20th August 8.00 Clack, clack, clack.

Eddie could hear his father out the back, roughing out the marble block with his point chisel, bursting the stone away to remove its bulk before he could start modelling it.

He had watched his father many times and admired his patient, loving work but hoped to God he would not end up like him. Nothing in his life but hard graft and little to show for except swollen knuckles and a bad back.

No. Eddie was going to make something of himself. There was a lot of easy money to be had now that he knew the right people. And then he would get out of Staglieno.

Staglieno. What a dump. He was going to get himself one of those grand apartments in Via Albaro, on the top floor, with a view of the sea and a terrace he could have wild parties on. Invite the Santa Margherita pussies. Yes, he’d be someone, alright. Then they’d bloody respect him. And he’ll shove their 'Eddie the Alby’ down their pathetic throats. Make them choke on that fucking nickname they used for him.

The bell clanged as the shop door opened and he watched the red head saunter in like she owned the place. She had more flowers on her blouse than all the florists in Staglieno put together. Somebody needed to tell her. Redheads shouldn’t wear oranges and yellows. Even he knew that.

“Ah, Eddie. Your father told me I’d find you here this morning,” Hope said. “Popped in yesterday but you were at a client’s, apparently.”

“Yesterday? Morning? Er, yep, that I was. You wanted me?” He scratched his head.

“I’m in a bit of a quandary.”

She collapsed into the chair in front of his desk and crossed her legs. “Don’t mind if I sit down, do you? My feet hurt. Not used to walking and that’s a long road from Sant’Antonino.”

He looked at her flip-flopped feet. Toe nails well manicured and a rusty red colour, but grubby with dust.

“I was wondering. You don’t seem very cut up.

“Cut up? About what?”

“Well, I mean, the girl you were sleeping with has just been found dead in a chapel, supposedly killed herself. And you, going out, drinking beer on a beach with her best friend. And the best thing is, you told me you didn’t even know her very well.”

Eddie’s eyes stared wide. He looked like she had just slapped him in the face. His face paled. He looked behind him.

“What’s wrong Eddie. Not feeling well all of a sudden? Anything I said?”

“What are you going on about?”

“Eddie. Do I look stupid?”

She stared into his eyes. She could see his discomfort. He lowered them quickly, snatched up a pen and started clicking it.

“That’s rubbish. Who told you that?”

“Someone who’s word I trust.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t.”

“If you got nothing to hide, there’s no reason why you’d deny it, right? She was a beautiful young woman. Sophisticated. Smart too. What man wouldn’t want her? Especially a man who’s trying to make something of himself. A girl like that on his arm creates a good image.”

“She wasn’t my type.”

“No? Sure about that? Or more into Giovanna, now that Aurora’s gone?”

“Is there a point to this? I’ve got a lot to do this morning.” He patted the pile of papers next to the keyboard.

Hope placed her elbows on his desk and leant her chin on her hands.

“Was it yours?”

He stared at her without blinking. Hope saw his jaw clench. A flinch of caution.

“Was what mine?”

“Come on Eddie. Don’t be obtuse. You know very well what I’m asking. She was up the duﬀ, wasn’t she? Pregnant. Going to have a kid. So was it yours?”

Eddie smiled and shook his head.

“God. I bet the last thing you wanted was a kid. That would fuck up your plans, wouldn’t it? So, did you oﬀer her money for an abortion?”

“You think it was mine?”

Hope gave him a satisfied smile. His question had told her the truth. Giovanna was right and Eddie had known she was pregnant.

“Wasn’t it?”

Eddie’s lips tightened and turned purple.

“Nope.”

“Whose was it?”

“Absolutely no idea. But I do know it wasn’t mine. She was seven weeks pregnant. I’d been seeing her for only three. Four at the most.”

“Must’ve been hard for you to discover she was pregnant with another man’s kid?”

Clack, clack, clack.

Hope tilted her head and peered behind Eddie.

“That’s dad. He’s started on his new project. Still uses the chisel and hammer. This one’s going to be an angel.”

“Nice. I’d quite like an angel on my gravestone, if I were going to be buried, but there’s no way you’re getting me in a coﬃn under the ground. Absolutely not. It’s a cremation for me and I want my ashes spread over the ocean so my molecules can float about in the universe, free to do as they please.”

“Right, well, I’ll remember that when the time comes.”

“How did you find out, Eddie?”

“What? That she was pregnant?”

Hope nodded.

“Well, It was that morning.”

“Which morning?”

“The morning of the Morandi Bridge. I’ll never forget it. I came out of the shower and when I walked into the kitchen to grab a cup of coﬀee she was sitting at the table with a letter in her hand. The window was still open. It was pouring out. I remember thinking “A letter! That’s nice. Don’t think I’ve ever received a letter from anyone in my life. People don’t send ‘em anymore. Just texts!”. Then I asked her who it was from.”

“Did she tell you’”

Eddie’s fists clenched. “Of course she bloody didn’t. She put the letter down and tried to cover it with her hand. I knew she didn’t want me to see it.”

“What did you do?”

“Snatched it from her. What would you have done?” He tapped the pen on the desk.

“Then she jumped out of the chair and tried to grab it back but I wouldn’t let her have it.”

“So that’s when you read it?”

He moaned. “Yeah. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I knew she was no virgin but if I’d known she was pregnant, I wouldn’t have touched her.”

“So what did the letter say?”

“Some crap about keeping it. Didn’t want her to have an abortion. He oﬀered her a pot load of money to keep the kid but it had to be all hush hush so his wife would never know. What a bastard.”

"A load of money? How much money?”

“A hundred grand.”

Hope whistled. “A rich bastard, then. Did you see who it was from?”

“Nah! When I get one of my red mists, can’t see anything clearly.”

“So how did you react’”

“I completely lost it. Not proud of that. Slammed my fists on the table. Tried to grab her. I could see she was frightened of me and that’s when she ran out of the kitchen and straight into the bathroom. She locked the door. I tried to get her to open it but she was having nothing of it. And in the end I got dressed and left. That was the last I saw of her, I swear.”

Hope rubbed her chin. “The last time you saw her. I see. So why did you lie to us that night on the beach?”

“Lie? Look, what’s with all these questions?”

“You also told us you went to a mates’ birthday party. Now I know that wasn’t true either.”

“Bellin. Whatever drugs you are taking, I want some. Of course I went to my mate’s birthday party. Like I said.”

“Well now, see. That’s interesting. So, I’m jogging, right. Up in the hills towards San Pantaleo. Nice up there. D’you know it? And anyway, I meet an old mate of mine, from years back. We used to go to school together. In the same class. Really good guy. Honest. You know the sort. Not many of them around these days.” She saw him grimace.

“So, this old friend of mine, he tells me he saw you around half eleven at night outside the warehouse at the back of the cemetery.”

“What? When?”

“When? The night Aurora supposedly killed herself in that horrible smelly, cold chapel in the middle of the night. Alone.” She paused and watched him squirm in his chair. “He said you were loading up a van with something big and heavy. Interesting. Were you at the birthday party. Or were you at the warehouse? Cos you couldn’t have been in both places at the same time.”

Eddie shrugged, looked away and began to type on the computer.

“What goes on at that warehouse, Eddie? I popped up there last night. Met a really nice bloke. Carlo, I think he said his name was. Liked the dog he had with him, too. What a fine specimen.”

“Carlos.”

“So you know him, do you?”

“Maybe. What’s it got to do with you? All these questions. I mean, who are you anyway to come in here and interrogate me like Commissario Montalbano with tits.”

“Nice comparison, Eddie.” Hope adjusted her blouse to cover up her cleavage. “I’m just doing a favour. For Grazia Rosa. Trying to find out what Aurora did before she went to that chapel. Grazia Rosa is beside herself. She doesn’t believe her daughter committed suicide that night and asked me to help her find out where she went, who she saw. Nothing wrong in that, is there? Do a favour for a desperate mother who’s lost her child? You can understand that, can’t you?”

“S’pose so.”

“So what’s with the van loading? And the bull dog with the fangs? I have my theory and I’m almost always right. A female’s sixth sense.”

“And what’s this theory of yours, then?”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think you found out she was pregnant and lost it. Couldn’t control your anger. In a jealous rage you killed her. You were loading her body into the van to dump her in the cemetery, weren’t you? Made it look like a suicide. You may even have taken her there to the chapel, got her to drink the vodka, smoked a couple of whacky fags and fed her the pills while pretending you were having a romantic evening together. What do you say to that?”

His eyes widened. Hope saw the glint of fear in them.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Jesus. You're crazy. Of course not. Bloody hell. No.”

“So, If it wasn’t Aurora’s body you were loading..”

Eddie groaned. “Christ. I might as well tell you. Your’e gonna find out anyway, sooner or later.”

“I will. Of that, I have no doubt.” Hope said.

“Look. I do some odd jobs for a bloke, alright? Deliveries. Get paid in cash. It’s good money.”

“Fake designer labels or what? Selling on stolen goods? Drugs?”

Hope noticed the vein under his left eye pulsating.

“Don't have to tell you.”

“No, you don’t. That’s true. What about the bloke you work for? ”

“Never met him. All I know is, he’s called The Mushroom. Satan’s Mushroom.” He leant forward and clenched a fist. “My dad must never know about this. Do you hear? Never.”

Satan’s Mushroom. Hope had not heard of this name before but for some reason her scalp prickled and she felt a tightness in her chest.

“Eddie, I’m not interested in what you do with Carlos and the white beast in your spare time. Just tell me if you saw Aurora the night she died. She was all dressed up for a night out. Was it you she was going to see?”

He swallowed hard.

“You did meet her, didn’t you?”

He tapped the pen on his desk then groaned.

“Look. If she was meeting anybody, it wasn’t me, alright? But yes, okay. I did see her. Not for long, though. She was walking up to Sant’Antonino. Bare foot she was. She’d taken oﬀ those red shoes of hers. I was in the van. I wanted to give her a lift but she refused. I tried to persuade her to get in. Don’t like that road at night. And she was wearing a black dress that as too short for my mind. Obviously been out with some other fella. I didn’t like that. But she wasn’t having any of it. Said she wanted to walk.”

“Hold on a minute Eddie. What did you say?”

“What? That she wanted to walk. Barefoot an all.”

“No. Before that. You said her dress was too short. But what colour was it?”

“Black. It was black. Why?”

Hope’s brow creased. “Are you sure it was black? Not red?”

“Yep. Like I said, she never wore anything but black. She always wore black. Thought it made her look more sophisticated.”

Hope tried now to remember what Grazia Rosa had said about Aurora’s dress she was wearing when she came to borrow her mother’s bag that evening. Had she said red or black? She could have sworn, red. But perhaps she had simply assumed it was red. She needed to talk to Grazia Rosa. Get confirmation.

“Go on, Eddie. Did you give her a lift, then?”

“No, I drove oﬀ. She wouldn’t tell me who she’s been out with either. Right pissed oﬀ I was so I left her to it. Let her walk. Can’t be doing with girlie hysterics. God knows why she was acting so bolshy with me. I wish I’d grabbed her and forced her in, but I didn’t. And there’s nothing I can do about it now. How was I to know what she was going to do, the stupid cow.”

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Hope felt sorry for him.

“What was she mad about?”

“No fucking idea. Probably still sulking from our argument that morning. I’ll never understand women. Bi-polar, the lot of them.”

“And you saw no-one else. Nobody around?”

“Nope. I had a delivery to make. Couldn’t be late and had to get back to the meeting before dad gave me the third degree. He’s not to know any of this. Okay?”

“He won’t. If what you’re telling me is true.”

The young man sighed.

“That’s all I know. I swear.”

Hope softened her voice. “Do you think she killed herself, Eddie?”

Eddie swept his hair back then began to massage his scalp with his fingers, his eyes red and watery.

“Well, she was up and down like a yoyo. I mean, one minute all sweet, the next minute, a witch, clawing out your eyes. I knew she was going to be hard work. She was high maintenance in every sense of the word. She wasn’t exactly what I’d call stable. So I suppose she could’ve. Just wish she’d got in the van, that’s all. If she’d got in the van, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Did you know she was taking pills for depression?”

“Nah. Didn't know that. But I’m not surprised. Like I said, she was bi bloody polar.”

“And what about drugs? Did she smoke weed?”

“Yeah, well, everybody does, nowadays, don’t they?”

“And Wet Fry? Did you ever see her smoking that?”

“What? One of De Luca’s specials? Aurora? I didn’t think it was her cup of tea. She preferred a drink. Didn’t like the smoke in her lungs, she always said. Why?”

“De Luca’s specials?”

“Sells them in his pharmacy. Under the counter, of course. Twenty euro a fag. Good stuﬀ it is too.

Paolo Martini SPOF funeral director’s MONDAY 20TH AUGUST 10 AM

At ten o’clock that same morning, Hope, sauntering through the cemetery, stumbled upon the children’s graves. The stony silence where they lay among the cypress trees, took her breath away, as did the toy cars and teddy bears propped up against miniature marble crosses at the head of tiny mounds. She had tears in her eyes.

When Hope left university she could have headed for a top law firm or a large management consultancy. She had been an outstanding student and left Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford, with a first in Experimental Psychology. Her impressive Curriculum Vitae highlighted her excellence. She had spent a term as president of the junior common room of her college and she had been head girl of her school, the Notre Dame Convent in Cobham. She was Intellectually curious, articulate, and charming and could have been the catch of any employer out there. But she wanted to make a diﬀerence so she decided to don a blue uniform and joined the Metropolitan Police, picking up a truncheon instead of pushing a pen.

She had loved her work. It was the challenge she needed and she still found it incredibly rewarding despite her illness. She endeavoured to serve her local community and strived to achieve the right outcome for victims and their families. This was her strength. Until the terrible tragedy and that one case which had pushed her, finally, over the edge.

She had been cautiously looking into a dysfunctional family situation where both the young parents were heroine addicts and sexual abuse of the 12 year old daughter by the uncle had been identified. The tragedy came when the younger child fell to his death from the balcony of their family apartment on the sixth floor of a tower block in Seven Dials, to the west of Brighton Town Centre. The mother had been found on the sofa with a syringe in her arm. There was no-one else in the apartment to look after and keep an eye on the little boy. The child was only two and a half years old. It was a terrible tragedy which could have been prevented if only Hope’s team had worked faster at recognising the danger that the child had been in and if she, Hope, had got the oﬃcial warrant to take both the children into care beforehand.

The sound of weeping brought Hope back to her senses. She saw a grandfather bent over a newly laid grave, his shoulders heaved as he wept into his withered hands. An insistent buzzing about her ear distracted her from the sense of helplessness that crept up on her and, irritated, she flapped her hand in the air. Then she clutched her bag to her chest and crept away.

She walked under an archway and found herself on a narrow lane where a newly built chapel of prayer attempted to hide the tall silver steel chimneys of the crematorium that coughed out heavy smoke. Here, the walls were covered from top to bottom in ’cellette’ where copper urns held the ashes of loved ones and electric candles lit up their memory.

Hope had only visited half of the cemetery and yet felt emotionally and physically exhausted. She had not even attempted the ‘boschetto’, the woods that stretched up into the hills. The woods. She shuddered. She did not want to go there but perhaps she would have to. She knew it.

At last she spotted the shop front. ‘Servizi Pompe Onoranze Funebri’, the local council’s funeral directors.

It was here Hope would meet Paolo Martini and where she would find a comfortable chair to rest her swollen ankles.

She rang the bell. After several minutes, she saw a fat finger pull aside the slatted blind at the glass door and a fresh-cheeked young man peeped out. When he opened it she gasped. The young man’s body was hidden in rolls of fat.

“Buongiorno Signora. Please come in. Come. Come in. And how can I help you?” His heavy breathing was uncomfortable yet his beady eyes exuded tenderness and compassion.

“I’d like to speak to Signor Paolo Martini. Is he in?”

“Martini. Servizio di Vestizione. Yes, of course, Signora. I’ll call him immediately and may I say how sorry I am for your loss. A close family member?”

Hope hesitated then said, “Yes. Yes. A close family member. So sad. So terribly sad.”

She sniﬀed.

“You have come to the right people, Signora and Paolo is the very best, I can assure you. He will look after everything with the greatest delicacy. Please, sit.”

His chubby hand waved to the chair and the wings where his triceps must have been, flapped. The young man then tottered like a penguin on his huge thick legs, thighs rubbing against each other with every step.

I could fit in his T-shirt more than four times, Hope thought and wondered when he had last seen his cock.

While she sat and waited, the door opened and a grey haired man entered wearing light beige Chinos and a purple and green striped polo shirt. He carried a large wad of handouts by the string that tied them.

“Buongiorno Signora. Has my son Matteo been looking after you? ”

She saw the resemblance immediately. Spitting image. His son, but chiselled out of the block of fat that enveloped him.

“Yes, thank you. Very helpful.”

“Perhaps I can oﬀer the lady one of my campaign leaflets,” he said and handed her his smiling image, slick and unctuous.

“Renzo Bianchi. Piacere. Running for councillor in the local elections, Madam, for the central right coalition.”

Renzo Bianchi. Renzo. A name from the past, and for some strange reason, the sound of it made Hope shiver. She regarded his face. She had seen it before, but she couldn’t remember where. It was a long time ago.

“That is, you know, Berlusconi’s ‘Forza Italia’ and Brothers of Italy,” Bianchi went on. “ Our aim is to clean up this city from all the illegal immigrants that have been pouring in since the Left started running everything into the ground. What a mess they’ve made. A joke, really. An embarrassment. We, the Brothers of Italy, on the other hand, are

committed to the social, political and economical development and growth of this city. Our beloved Genova.”

He bowed.

Hope wondered how often he had given that short speech and noticed the large stains of sweat under his armpits. Beads were forming on his forehead.

“Matteo!” He shouted. “Matteo, get out here now, son. The lady can’t wait all day!” Then turning to Hope, he placed his hands in prayer to his lips and said, “Matteo is a good boy. He’s a little problem with food, though, as I’m sure you noticed, poor lad. His grandmother has been force feeding him pasta ever since he was a baby in nappies, stupid woman. Paying the consequences for it now. We’ll be taking him into hospital next month for the stomach operation. They’re going to close it up. It’ll be only liquids for him for the next six months but it has to be done. Let me go and see where the boy has got to. Excuse me madam, won’t you.”

Hope, studied the face of Renzo Bianchi on the leaflet and read:

‘Elezioni Comunali Genova. No to controlled immigration! Support the supporters. Your vote will unite Italy. Fratelli d’Italia di Renzo Bianchi.’

“Racist pigs”

Hope scrunched the leaflet in her fist and held it tightly as Matteo appeared.

“Please come with me. Paolo can see you now,” he said in his soft voice and ushered Hope into a back oﬃce where he introduced her to Signor Paolo Martini. Martini was sitting in a large comfortable leather back chair with his back to her which he rotated as Matteo presented him. He stood up, pushing the chair behind him.

A coarse-looking man, unshaven, he was rough and harsh in texture like his salt and pepper stubble. His long side-burns reminded Hope of Elvis.

He rubbed his hands on his jeans before reaching out to take hers. They were immaculately clean. His nails cut and polished. They were not the thick hands of a roustabout but rather those of an artisan or a musician with slender long fingers and smooth skin. His grip was gentle but firm. Hope sensed she could trust him. There was a softness to his eyes that appealed to her.

Martini bent his head slightly to one side.

“How can I help?”

She could smell his nicotine. His gruﬀ voice and the lines around his unhappy mouth gave away the years of cigarettes he had smoked. She wanted one now but would light up later.

“Yes. Thanks for seeing me Mr Martini. I’m sure you are a busy man so let me get straight to the point. Last Thursday morning the body of a young woman was found in the Rossi chapel as I am sure you are aware.”

Martini nodded and massaged his temple with two fingers.

“Suicide. Unfortunate. I dressed the body.”

“Well, you see, that’s why I’m here. Her mother, a very dear friend of mine, doesn’t believe it. And I must say there are some discrepancies that I myself can’t get to grasp with.”

“Discrepancies? You can check the medical examination. It should be on the public domain.”

“That’s another thing, it’s not. You dressed Aurora?”

“For the wake. I’m not surprised.”

“Not surprised?”

“You can’t find the examination report. One of Mantero’s.”

“Mantero?”

Hope was beginning to find the conversation very monosyllabic.

“Dottor Sergio Mantero. Can’t stand the man. He gets called out a lot. Very pally with the chief of police. That’s what it’s like here in Genova, it’s who you know. Mantero’s their little lap dog. Does what he’s told and doesn’t ask questions.”

“Doctor Sergio Mantero. Right. I’ll look him up. So you dressed her?

“Yep. me and my team, we dress the dead.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Nope. Specially when I’m called out at three o’clock in the morning. It’s the nights that are ‘ard.”

“But why do you work nights?”

“Do’ya know how many people die every day in Genova? And they have to be buried or cremated within thirty six hours of death. That’s the law.”

“Why so soon?”

“Can’t use the embalming injection anymore.”

“Embalming injection?”

“We used to inject embalming fluid in ‘em, formaldehyde, but now we aren’t allowed to. And without it the body begins to decompose pretty quickly. It’s all about hygiene. I doubt if you know this but a dead body will fill with toxic gasses and can even explode if left to swell. The liquid goes everywhere! That’s why they’re kept in zinc casing nowadays. The coﬃns are all lined with Zinc today to prevent toxic gasses escaping into the atmosphere. Seen it happen. Not very nice but after ten years on this job nothing bothers me. I’ve seen it all.”

This was a long speech and he smirked, seeming to enjoy Hope’s expression of repugnance. So had she. Seen it all. And she knew. She knew all about it but the vision of a swollen body exploding still hurt her senses. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Still, It can’t be easy living with the dead like you do.”

“Not been sleeping well lately. Terrible dreams. They wake me up in a right sweat.”

“What do you do to take your mind oﬀ things?”

He inclined his head, smirk widening.

“I mean, sport or something?” She snorted. Christ, they’re all the same.

“Well, yeah. I play football. I s’pose it’s my way to let oﬀ steam. You look surprised. Don’t think a man of my age can still play footy?”

“No, no. I …”

“There’s a few of us oldies that get together once a week. We play up by the old church at the back of the cemetery oﬀ Via Mogadiscio. Got quite a strong team, we have.”

“Do you play with Gabriele, then?”

“What, De Luca? Know him too, do ya? He’s a grande. Mythical, he is. And he’s still our best player despite he’s only got one leg.”

Hope swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth and said, “Yes, he’s pretty amazing. I heard there was an important match the other night. Wednesday was it?”

“Yep. Hard match it was, too. We missed Gabriele’s strong attack. He’s a good striker. We’ve got no-one else like him on the team.”

“Didn’t he play that night?”

“No. And none of us understood why, the bugger. He said he was coming and it’s not like him to miss a game. We were all counting on him. Said his leg was playing up and he couldn’t face it.”

“Well, well, well,” Hope thought. “The Angel Gabriel. He didn’t play football that night. And why am I not surprised.” She remembered him limping at the chapel. Caterina’s hero The special man with a force that is admirable. That’s what she said, didn’t she? Poor Cat and what a wanker he is.

“Did any of you get called to work that night?”

“What night?”

“Wednesday, after the match.”

“Nah. It was ‘Ferragosto’. We don’t work on the August bank holiday. No-one does. Everyone knows that.”

THE BOSCHETTO At the back of the cemetery lay the ‘Boschetto Irregolare’, an area of woodland accessible via sinuous, intertwining paths that followed the course of the hill-line. It oﬀered a place for peaceful meditation, away from the geometrical lines of the cold marble gravestones below.

Those who chose to enter could wander through the dense vegetation and to their surprise discover vast open spaces crowned by elegant cypress trees.

To Hope, the humid, damp air smelt of pungent mushrooms and moss and as she crumpled the leaves and twigs below her feet she heard a scream echo through the sunless brown boscage.

Her stomach fluttered like the wings of the crow above her. Her hairs bristled. She chuckled to herself. Losing her way in the Boschetto was not a very clever idea, but if she kept to the path she would surely arrive back at some semblance of civilisation.

To her frustration, the path became a dense mangle of bramble and thorn. Hope stooped and pushed her way through it, prizing away the prickly mesh with her thumb and forefinger to avoid scratches. A piece of her hair got entangled.

“Fucking hell! Why did I do this!”

She had to rip the auburn strand oﬀ her head to free herself and continue. Then, stepping over a fallen tree trunk, her eyes dazzled as a vast, sunlit meadow of green and white opened up before her.

She waded through the long hay-like grass, sweeping it with her hands, breathing in her sense of freedom from the prison of the undergrowth.

When her foot thudded against something hard., she bent down and uncovered a piece of dirty netting still attached to rusting football posts.

“Oh, my God. Is this where we used to come and play?”

She slowly spun around and with her realisation came a thumping of her heart. At the end of the field she could hear rumbling. She walked through the line of low lying shrubs and was not surprised to teeter on a steep slope that verged onto the main road below. Opposite was a church. She caught her breath.

She sat on the soft grass and slid her way down on her bottom, gripping the ground with her heels, just as she used to. The boys would gallop down it. No fear. Showing oﬀ as usual. She would scream at them, always terrified a car whizzing past would knock them over.

At the road, she crossed, looking right then left then remembered she was in Italy. She was in Via Mogadiscio. She knew it.

She climbed the steps. How many? Were there fifteen? And the little quaint church, cosy in its country village aspect, incongruous amongst the square, high-rise apartment blocks that encompassed it.

Hope stood stock still, uncertain she wanted to go further. She looked at the familiar wooden door, its colour no longer a lustrous deep chestnut but a tired grey. She touched a shard of faded varnish and peeled it oﬀ.

To the right still stood the arbour hidden by the twisting, coiling vine which provided protection from beady eyes peeping from the windows above.

Then Hope saw the wooden table. Her legs trembled.

She stole around it, tracing its rectangular line with her finger. Her mouth twisted like the vine shading her.

A splinter of wood pierced her skin just as the dagger of a memory pierced her mind. Her lungs heaved and her breathing rasped. She needed air: Count, Hope, count. One and two and three ...

She ran out and to the back wall, her mouth dry. Somewhere here she could climb down an old olive tree. She could get to the arches.

Whose was the small hand that had stroked the girl’s arm as she lay on her side in a ball of despair?

Hope felt her cheeks wet but not with sweat. She wiped her eyes. The tears insisted.

The olive tree, gnarled and knobbly, stood like an old lady peeping over the wall. Its branches like wrinkled arms stretching out to her with elbows bent and knurled. She climbed down holding her breath and clung tightly to the strong, solid bark. With a jump she thudded to the ground.

The arches along the wall were no longer treasure troves of dumped car parts. There was nothing to rummage through now.

The voices of boys shouts and a whistle blow in the distance called to Hope and she quickened her pace. The football club. A thankful interruption to her harrowing recall.

She entered the bar where an elderly man, shoulders hunched and rounded from years of wiping dry glasses and coﬀee cups did not look up.

By the window sat a table of mothers clucking like hens, waiting for their boys to finish football training. They eyed her up as she made her way to the barman. She asked for a bottle of water and an espresso coﬀee.

“You know, I used to come here when I was a young girl to watch my friends play. How I envied them. I so wanted to play too. I don’t suppose they have girls teams nowadays, do they?”

The man placed the drying cloth on his shoulder and turned his back on her. He magicked the coﬀee machine to fizz and whir, spun round and placed the tiny cup on the counter, as if a wizard.

“Sugar’s there,” , his raspy voice said, pointing to a plastic bowl with small packets in it.

“No girls allowed, miss. Never have been and never will be. The mister doesn’t take to girls playing football.”

“That’s a shame. My friends still come here to play now. I expect you know them. Gabriele De Luca and Pino Tallarico.”

The old man’s expression remained dead pan but he did raise an eyebrow and looked at Hope’s face as he wiped the counter with a murky cloth.

“Haven’t seen Pino for a while but saw Gabry a few evenings ago, I did. He came in and sat over there in the corner.”

“There was an important match on, wasn’t there? Sant’Eusebio, Sant’Antonino. Did the men play well?”

“If I remember, they were all a bit disappointed. They rely too much on Gabry. He’s a good striker. Without him the team suﬀers.”

“Didn’t he play, then?”

“Nah. He sat there for about half an hour then slunk oﬀ without saying a word. Not like him. He’s usually the first on the pitch. Too quiet, ‘e was. Too quiet.”

He stroked his chin.

“Yes. Not like our Gabry at all. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well,” she said and scratched her head.

“Nah. Our Gabry’s the salt of the Earth. Football’s his life. They told him he’d never play again, you know, those doctors, after he lost his foot. But he showed ‘em. He’s an inspiration is our Gabry. He’d play even if ‘e had the plague, ‘e would. Nah. Something was bothering ‘im for sure. But ‘e didn’t talk to me about it.”

Hope handed him a five euro note she had in her small red rucksack.

“Thanks Signor Beppe.” She remembered his name.

The man closed the till and looked up. His weary, watery eyes studied her.

“You’re Carmelo Cacciatore’s girl, aren’t you?”

Apart from a slight smile that curled up one corner of his thin mouth, the old man’s face maintained its miserable sallow expression.

“I am indeed, Signor Beppe. I am indeed.”

“I can see his looks in you, my girl. You’re a handsome one too, just like he was. And that hair.”

Hope cringed.

“Terrible what happened. He was a good man and didn’t deserve to die like that. Shot in the head. Terrible...terrible. But you must be proud of him.”

Her cheeks reddened and she seethed inside. Even this old barman knew the truth.

“The thing is, we all knew who did it. But even back then, Satan’s Mushroom was poisonous. With that tyrant of a father they had, they all went to the dogs. Apart from one and it was the football that saved that one. Did some crazy shi … ….”

He stopped, glanced at her and then lowered his head and picked up a glass which he started drying ferociously with the towel he whipped oﬀ his shoulder.

“Signor Beppe. The Mushroom? Satan’s Mushroom?” Hairs pricked at the nape of her neck.

“I…I forgot myself. Best not talk about these things here. Not good to bring up the past, ay?”

“Who is he? Signor Beppe? Does he come from around here?”

“The Mushroom? Here?” The old man clucked. “Well now … ha!… Nobody knows. But I tell you, nobody can stop Him. Got too many connections in high places these days. Satan’s Mushroom’s going places too. Got his best mate running for mayor. Thick as thieves they are.

A cold shudder, like stampeding wilder-beast, rattled her bones

Under a Tree - MONDAY 20th August The angel lay prostrate over the marble tombstone, heart broken; mysterious and sensual in her realisation that she could oﬀer no consolation for the ineluctability of death.

One outstretched arm lay on her spread-open wing, the other held her forehead in desperation. Her long fragile robe wafted over her slender body, seductively clinging to her breasts and her curvaceous hip slightly raised with one bent knee delicately closing her inner thighs.

Her petite bare foot drooped to the ground where a photograph of Nonno Ribaudo, was nailed to a small marble cross by her toes.

Hope had returned through the boschetto and was back in the cemetery where she now stood before the most decadent of the guardians of Eternity, set out in the ‘Angel

Itinerary’ and she held her hands to her heart. She sighed, lingered a moment longer and then continued to stroll along the trail to angel number four.

Along the pathway she noticed the man in a green uniform sitting under the cool shade of a leafy oak, his bare brown arms slumped into his lap. The visor of his cap pushed down over his eyes.

Hope approached him and kicked his leg. She heard the thump of hard plastic.

“Ouch. That hurt!” Gabriele opened one eye.

“Oh.. sorry.” Hope saw his lop-sided half smile. “Hurt? But how?”

“That’s my phantom leg, that is.”

“Phantom leg?”

“Never heard of a phantom leg? Well, I can still feel it, see. Even though it’s not there no more.”

“Still feel it?”

“Oh, you bet. Sometimes it itches and I have to scratch me other foot to stop it from killing me.”

Hope rubbed her chin, not sure to believe him.

“Must’ve been hard. To lose a foot like that, Gabry.” Hope’s voice had softened.

“Specially for the football.”

Hope knew that as a lad he had been headhunted by Sampdoria but his father had not allowed his son to join the Sampdoria under eleven’s training campus and the course of Gabriele’s life had changed. He had worn a black expression at school every day for nearly a month, devastated by his father’s refusal. Gabriele left school at fourteen capable of only doing odd jobs and manual work. “I’m good with me hands,” he would always say with a grin.

“Yeah, well, after the accident, the doctors told me I'd never be able to play again. Crushed me, it did. But I showed ‘em. Determination. This,” he tapped the prosthesis, “will never stop me playing the game. Football’s been my salvation. It was your father, Hope, The Uncle, who helped us lads. Remember that, do you? He was the one who set up our team and made us train. Bloody hard task master he was, too. Four, five times a week he’d get us running round that pitch. But it got us oﬀ the streets and away from the smack. It’s your dad I have to thank for that.”

“Yeah, well, I see they got you working hard in here.” she said, smirking and looking around the tombs that surrounded them.

“The freedom of being me own manager.”

“ Nice job, you got then. No cctv cameras keeping a check on you?”

“In here? You joking, love? They ain’t got the money.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t Parodi tell you? Nobody wants to be buried any more. It’s all cremations nowadays.”

“Cremations. That’s right. Cheaper solution.”

“You bet. Made-in-Italy coﬃns cost a fortune. Mind you, the Chinese are doin’ a good job of cutting the prices but even so. Marble tombstones, limousines, priest, flowers. You're looking at an easy five grand. Who’s got that sort of dough nowadays?”

“So how’s your injury?”

“What injury?”

Hope pointed at Gabriele’s leg.

“Didn’t you get your thigh kicked in the other night?”

“What other night?”

“When you played football. The night you didn’t come for a drink with us. Caterina said you got your leg kicked in during the match. That’s why you’ve been limping.”

Limping was the norm for Gabriele. The skin on his shin had, over time, become so thin and delicate that it took very little to abrase and chafe. Blisters were his greatest enemy and the pain would be excruciating, but he kept it to himself. HIs problem. Nobody else’s. And if they told him he had to stop playing, that would be the end of him. He’d lose his marbles, that’s for sure.

“Yeah. Well. Right.” Gabriele rubbed his thigh.

Hope put her hands on her hips. “So, the rose was from you, wasn’t it?”

“The rose?”

“The one on her bedside table. There was another one in the bin under the kitchen sink. They were from you, weren’t they?”

Gabriele shifted his position and wiped his flared nostrils with his thumb and forefinger. His nose was triangular, almost arrow-shaped. The beak of a goose, Hope thought.

“Again? You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Oh come on. You were fixing her wiring. Literally by the sounds of things. Sharing cups of tea. Getting your leg over too, were you? Give her a rose and she’s all yours. That’s how it works, does it? Aren’t you a bit too old to be chasing women young enough to be your daughter?”

Gabriele stood up using the trunk of the tree for support and put his hands on his hips. He stuck his face into hers and she winced at the pungent smell of sweat that emanated from his armpits.

“Got to get back to work.”

“Hit a nerve have I?” Hope had the strong sensation that he was holding something back.

Gabriele clucked and strolled over to the broom left against a moss-stained grave stone.

“Oh, yes! There was something else a little bird told me. You didn’t play football that night, did you?”

Gabriele halted and spun round to face her.

“What are you going on about now? What bloody night?”

“The night you didn’t join us for a drink. The night Aurora supposedly killed herself.”

“You tell me what I did. You seem to know everything. You always were a smart arse.”

“You should be more careful. There are a lot of busy-bodies in Sant’Antonino. Nosy sorts who peep and watch. They love a good bit of gossip.”

“Listen. Whatever I do is my business. I’m a free man but I tell you, I never did nothing I’m ashamed of.”

“So what did you do that night? Cos you certainly didn’t play football.”

“I went home and watched the match on the box.”

“Home being Caterina’s. So she still lets you have the key, does she?. Christ! And I thought she chucked you out years ago.”

“Look. She and I ‘ave an understanding. Something you don’t ‘ave with nobody.”

“Yeah. You sniﬀ around with your roses and a pocket full of chocolates and she falls for it every time. They all do, by the sounds of it. Easy pickings and you know it.”

“She’s a grown woman. Makes her own decisions. And I’ve never forced her to do anything she doesn’t want to. So keep yer nose out of it.”

“Bet you didn’t tell her about your cosy cups of tea with Aurora.”

“I don’t have to answer to nobody. Least of all you, Little Miss detective. You’ve only been back five minutes and you think you know it all, don’t ya?”

“Well. Somebody saw you knocking on Aurora’s door that night. Right at the time you should have been on the football pitch. Strange that. I mean, you didn’t know her very well, right?”

“Whoever’s got the mouth is a wanker and no, I did not go round there that night. But why does everyone keep saying they seen me at her flat at night? I never go round there at night. In the afternoon, yes, alright. Been doing the wiring job like Anna Clara asked me to. And yes, alright, she makes me a cuppa tea when she’s there. But that doesn't mean I’m shagging her. And I’ve never been there at night. Whoever this wanker saw, wasn’t me.”

He took his cap oﬀ and wiped his black curls with a hand.

“So now you’re on a roll, tell me about the football.” He clicked his tongue. “Look I know you didn’t play that evening, so you might as well tell me why and what happened.”

“Bellin, Hope. You don’t let go, do you? Bet they hate you in London or wherever it is you’ve been working. Cazzo. Look, we were s’posed to meet at the bar at the football club. And not for what you think. All I know is, she wanted to tell me something. I don’t know what. I waited for her but she didn’t turn up. So I left. It wasn’t like what you and everybody else thinks. I never touched her. She was a friend, that’s all and I was doin ‘er a favour.”

“So you’ve no idea what happened to her? Why she didn’t turn up?”

“Nope. As I said, she had something on her mind. She wanted my advice. That’s all. But she didn’t turn up.” He waved his cap about in the air.

“Advice? From you?” Hope snorted. “What advice?”

Gabriele’s lips tightened and his eyes stared, glazed.

“All I know is, she was having problems with an ex, alright? Thought he was stalking her. She wanted to tell me something and that’s all I know. And if you think I had something to do with all this, you're wrong. It was me who found her, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed his cap back on his head and groaned.

“Yeah well, do you know how many murderers report the discovery of their dead victims or who are at the scene when the body is found?”

Gabriele shook his head, cleared his throat and spat his phlegm on the ground in disgust.

Hope knew she had gone too far and did not want to lose him now. She softened her tone, and her harsh expression.

“Problems with an ex? She tell you his name? D’you know who he was?”

“No. Only thing, he was a lot older than her. Married I think, with two kids. But she never told me his name. She broke up with him but he kept coming back. Wouldn’t let her go.”

“Like someone else I know.”

“For fuck’s sake, Hope. Give it a rest.”

“So how did she seem the last time you saw her? Did she seem worried about something? Was she depressed? Anxious?”

Gabriele scratched his temple. “The last time I saw her was only for about five minutes. Saw this envelope under the mat and delivered it to her. She didn’t let me in. That Eddie was in there, taking a shower. Didn't know she’d been seeing him. All I knew about was the married bloke.”

“There was an envelope?”

“Yep. Under the mat. I handed it to her, then left. That was all. She seemed perfectly fine. I wasn’t. I was furious ‘cos some bastard had slashed my saddle. It’s gonna cost me a fortune.”

The bells of the clock tower chimed in the distance. Hope pulled her phone out and checked the Time.

“God is that the time already? Sorry to leave you. I got an appointment with your ex.”

She marched oﬀ but then halted and turned back. Gabriele was standing erect like a flustered cockerel about to fight.

She sauntered back to him.

“I saw Mauro.”

“Mauro?” Gabriele asked.

“Saw him trundling down Via del Veilino. Late it was.” Her voice softened. “Had a shopping trolley filled with bags. Clothes I suppose. How long’s he been on the streets, Gabry?”

“A long time. How did you recognise him?

“I didn’t. Caterina told me.”

“What did you expect? That he’d get through it? Grow up normal? Get a job, hold onto it, have a family? Yeah, right.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“Why'd you want to know that?”

“I’d like to see him. Can you take me to him?”

“Hope, leave it. It was a long time ago. He can’t remember a thing. He doesn’t speak anyway, his brain’s soft. Well, it always was but these days...”

“Please, Gabry. Let me see him. He was in that lane around midnight on the night she died. He might’ve seen something. Heard something. It’d be worth asking.”

“And what d’you think Mauro’s gonna tell you? He can’t talk, porco cane. Hasn’t said a word since that day.”

He pulled out his phone and checked it. Then he looked at Hope’s eyes. He suddenly had a flashback to the eyes that stared at him through the vine all those years ago. Wide and pleading and his heart clenched.

“Not today. It’s late and you’ve got an appointment. I’ll take you tomorrow. Meet me here tomorrow at eleven. Just before I knock oﬀ. But if he gets upset...”

Hope nodded and placed her hands to her heart. Then as she backed away said, “So how did you get that limp?”

“Bellin, Hope, you don’t give up, do you?” and he ripped his cap oﬀ his head and threw it onto the ground.

Gabriele FLASHBACK- Tuesday 14th August Morning 6 am - “But he that dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose.” – Anne Bronte

Left alone amongst the gravestones, so familiar to Gabriele, the chirping of crickets suddenly broke the silence. Their whirring buzz grew into a hysterical crescendo as if the heat drove them crazy. They could not bear it. Just as Gabriele could not bear to think of Aurora.

He picked up his broom and began to sweep the lane that led back to the cemetery gates.

When was the last time he had seen her? That beautiful girl. She was so alive and vibrant. He shuddered at the thought of her body lying on the ground in the chapel. He had seen some shit but that really had aﬀected him. He had even vomited.

It had been the morning the Morandi Bridge collapsed, he remembered. He had woken up as usual, at six a.m. to what seemed a fairly ordinary morning.

Now as he swept, the rhythm of his broom and its hypnotic swishing let his mind wander back to that morning.

The bell in the clock tower began its peel of six chimes and he stretched his body on Caterina’s sofa where he had spent the night again.

He sat up and rubbed his calf muscle before he fitted it into the prosthesis that stood upright by the coﬀee table.

He tiptoed down the stairs to the bathroom, not wanting to wake her. That wouldn’t be fair. It was too early.

After his ablutions, he massaged body cream onto his lower leg and shook talcum powder onto the stump where his foot had been. This prevented unnecessary sweating which created blisters. He then put on three thick socks, stretching them carefully to avoid creases which too could chafe the skin on his shin.

His working clothes hung ready for him on the back of the bathroom door. In this way he avoided having to return up the stairs.

She slept so lightly. and he could not face another one of those conversations.

“You never come to my bed. Always on the sofa. Why? Why don’t you join me anymore?”

Gabriele took a deep breath and shut the front door ever so gently behind him. The ground was still damp from the night’s downpour. He sniﬀed the air and smelt the heady humidity the day was threatening to oﬀer.

‘Bellin’, It’s going to be unbearable.”

The forecast was for squally summer storms. Some even violent, they said. But for now, there was a truce after the heavy night rain and the Italian hamlet of Sant’Antonino made no sign yet of the deluge that would later break the city in two. At this hour, it was still sleepy and restful.

Startled by a clunk on the corrugated roof of the garden shed behind him, he turned to see Tabatha hurl herself oﬀ.

“Cristo! Porco Dio! Bloody cat.”

She trilled her friendly greeting and brushed up against his green trouser legs.

“Stai zitto cazzo! Shut the hell up!” He spat in a harsh whisper.

Tabatha continued to push herself against him, weaving around his ankles. He grabbed her with two hands and hurled her down the garden path.

Thud!

She wailed and burbled but was silenced by a lizard that scuttled under her nose. She hurtled towards it but the creature slipped into a crack in the wall.

Gabriele, dressed in his green working man’s trousers and matching green shirt, the sleeves of which he had cut oﬀ with a pair of scissors, limped into the garden towards a flowering rose bush and ignored the throbbing in his stump.

It always pained him first thing.

The prosthesis he wore up to his knee gripped around his atrophied calf muscle and rubbed against his bony shin causing the paper-like skin to bubble and blister, more often than not. When he arrived at the depot, he would take oﬀ a sock. One too many and the prosthesis became his enemy.

He hobbled to the rose bush behind the Sharon fruit tree. Its red flowers were almost smothered from view by a wild Morning Glory creeping and entwining and clasping its curly stems onto the thorny stalks.

Like most of the women he had ever met, Tabatha did not give up. She stalked up the steps and followed him, purring then began to rub herself on the leg he could not feel. He shoved the cat away with his real foot. It yelped. He hated cats.

Now dogs, dogs, yes, were pets to have. Not whining pussies.

He stroked the petals of his chosen rose. It felt soft like Tabatha’s fur to Gabriele’s rough, working- man’s fingers.

He tore at the purple trumpets strangling it, took out his penknife from his trouser pocket and cut oﬀ the stem, being careful not to prick himself on its thick thorns. He always carried a penknife. Something he had learnt as a kid in Via Mogadiscio.

He gently placed the velvet red flower under his green shirt and nearly stepping on Tabatha’s tail, he went to open the squeaky iron gate. He reminded himself to buy some oil for the hinges.

From where he stood, the rooftops of Genova in the distance, tumbled in dingy pastels towards the menacing Mediterranean. Dark clouds rolled, threatening turbulence and upheaval. It was going to be a steamy day. It was going to be upsetting.

Gabriele let the gate swing shut. Its squeak and clank grated on his nerves and broke the pleasant stillness of the morning. But when he saw his motor scooter his irritation turned into fury.

One, two, three. Three bloody knife slits sliced open the saddle. Dark yellow padding burst out of the lacerations in sharp contrast to the black leather. He felt the artery in his neck pulsate violently.

“Porco cane! Merda! Who the fuck has done this! If I get my hands on you, you’re dead meat!” he cursed, through clenched teeth, fists tight to punch.

He had no time to deal with it now. He had to get to work. And before, he had a little job to do. He rolled the scooter oﬀ its leg stand, wheeled it away from the wall and climbed onto the ruptured saddle.

"Che cazzo!" he swore, at the spiky bristling on his buttocks.

He started the engine but did not put on his helmet. He would do that as soon as he reached the square at Staglieno Cemetery, before he merged onto the main road.

Descending the steep cobbled lane, the motor scooter bumped and bounced but Gabriele controlled it with expert ease. When he was only twelve years old, he was doing wheelies up the hill in Via Mogadiscio on his older brother’s moped.

Then suddenly, the nightmare memory flashed before his eyes as it sometimes did.

“Don’t look up”, but her sweet voice from the window sounded like music to him.

“Don’t look up. Concentrate on the road ahead.” Yet he could not resist. He had looked up. He could never resist a beautiful woman, even at that young an age.

Sandals, wearing bloody sandals, idiot!

It had been lunchtime. Lunchtime in July and no-one about. The street outside the cemetery was empty. Gabriele had not expected to see a JCB.

It reversed onto the main road and did not stop. He slammed the brakes and wheel locked the bike. Screeching tyres. The bang of metal. He hit the black and yellow loader side on. The driver of the tractor rushed to his aid but passed out when he saw the foot. Gabriele’s foot in the middle of the road, sandal still on it.

Once the little green demons had finished playing with Gabriele’s mind, he just got on with it. There had been that one weak moment though. When the doctor told him he would never play football again, he had nearly thrown himself out of the hospital window. But he had shown them. He had shown them alright.

Just before the church, at the mint green house, Gabriele now slowed down and using his real foot to hold the motor scooter upright, he looked towards Aurora’s bedroom window. The shutters were still closed tight. He could not disturb her yet, could he?

He walked up the stone steps to the porch and noticed something blue under the door. He crouched down and pulled out an envelope. Seeing her name on it, his heart pumped harder and without thought he rang the intercom.

Moments later he stood outside her apartment door with the rose in one hand, the envelope in the other and a smile that illuminated the entrance hall,

Then he heard a voice shout, “Amore! Someone’s at the door. Can you get it? I’m in the shower!”

Gabriele felt his heart shrink. He knew the voice. It was Eddie the Alby.

“It won’t be for you, will it!” Aurora shouted back. Gabriele sensed her irritation.

She opened the door and Gabriele, despite his disappointment, smiled brightly like the morning’s missing sun, and bowed.

“Good morning, principessa. here’s a letter for you. I found it under the door and here’s one beautiful rose for my beautiful princess.”

Her hand went to her throat and her olive cheeks blushed a deep red. She took the envelope.

“It was under the door, you say?”

“Yep. A bit damp, it is, so I brought it in for you, see.”

“Who is it, amore? Is it Carlos?”

The throaty voice from her bathroom ground into him and scraped like a dentist’s drill.

Bending her head to one side she called back, “Postman!”

Gabriele gave a wry smile. Postman? He felt a twinge of discomfort somewhere deep in his chest. Was it jealousy? But what did he expect? That this classy girl would be interested in a man like him, Gabriele, the dustman with one foot?

“Is the coﬀee on?” Eddie shouted.

Aurora clicked her tongue.

“It’s been ready for ages. Help yourself.”

She turned the envelope in her hand.

“I can’t take the rose. Not this morning. Thank you though,” She said, rubbing her neck.

“No worries. It’ll have to go back to the safety of my heart.”

He lifted his green shirt to reveal his tanned muscular torso and saw her glance at his cheeky devil tattoo peeking out from his waistband, brandishing a pitchfork. She raised an eyebrow. He then placed the stem under his belt and carefully tucked his shirt back into his trousers. The thorns pricked his skin but he didn’t mind. He deserved it.

“Will I see you this afternoon as usual? You have to finish the job right?” she asked.

“Not sure I can make it this afternoon, love. But I’ll be here, if I can,

He turned from her and tried to cover up his slight limp with a manly saunter, completely unaware that this would be the last time he would ever see her again.

HOPE sees GRAZIA ROSA MONDAY - she tells them about Francesco the guardian on Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto After what seemed an interminable morning, Hope felt drained and the shadows beneath her eyes, she knew, gave away her emotional turmoil. But nothing so far had been harder than to see the haunted, lost face of Grazia Rosa as she stared out of the kitchen window towards her daughter's apartment, desperately, hope sensed, searching for a glimpse of her girl.

There was something disorientated about her and to Hope she appeared a shadow of herself. Seeing her like this, so diﬀerent, was a slap in the face to both Hope and Caterina.

When they sat, one each side of her, on the swing chair in her garden, Hope took hold of her hand. It did not move. Nor did her face. She continued to stare. She appeared to be drained of all energy. Caterina looked concerned and Hope, apprehensive, not sure how to start the conversation, played with the scar on her top lip with nervous fingers.

“Grazia Rosa. I am going to find out what happened. I promise.” Hope squeezed the woman’s hand.

Grazia Rosa turned her head to look at Hope, her face blank, and said, “She did not kill herself, Hope. She wouldn't have done that. Not to me. I brought her up to believe in God. To be a good Catholic girl. She would never have taken her own life.”

Hope plucked up the courage and asked, “What do you think happened to her?”

Grazia Rosa’s eyes misted. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“I’ve been working extra hard to help pay the university fees. She was going to be an architect. My girl, an architect. Pino had got her a job lined up in the local council. She was so excited.”

This troubled Hope. Either Giovanna was lying when she said Aurora wanted to get away, leave Genova and start a new life in Barcelona or Aurora was the liar, and a very good one too, lying to her mum who she so apparently adored.

“How had she seemed to you recently, Grazia Rosa? I mean, was there anything about her that worried you?”

Grazia Rosa gazed at the ground, silent. Then she said, “She was a little preoccupied. But she had an exam to study for. A diﬃcult one too. But there was nothing else. She would’ve told me, if there was.”

Well, she knew nothing of her daughter being pregnant. What else, Hope wondered, had Aurora kept from her mother. Their relationship was not as close as her mother had believed.

“And you know of no boyfriend? Did she have a crush on someone? Was she seeing anyone special? A close friend?”

“I know what they all say about her.” Her voice now was tinged with anger. “That she slept around. But she wasn’t a slut. She was a popular girl, bright, intelligent, beautiful. She had the pick of the best but there was no one special. Nando put paid to that.”

“She may, then have kept it a secret.”

Grazia Rosa’s eyes flew open. “No. She had no secrets from me. I’m her mother. She told me everything.”

Caterina rubbed the desperate woman’s arm to calm and comfort her.

“When Aurora came to your house that evening to borrow your bag, what was she wearing?” Asked Hope.

“Oh, she looked stunning. I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked.”

“What was she wearing, Grazia Rosa?”

“She had on a new dress. Lovely and elegant. Nando said it was too short but I didn’t think so. She’s got gorgeous legs and should show ‘em oﬀ. She’s young. More beautiful than mine ever were.”

“What colour was it. Red, right?”

“Red?” Grazia Rosa’s eyes looked up from her hands and widened. “No. It wasn’t red. She never wore any other colour than black. Don’t think there’s one single red dress in her wardrobe. Well, there might be one. Yes, I think she did have one, but I’ve never seen her in it. Now, her shoes were red. In fact Nando didn’t like them either. Told her she looked like a whore. God, he’s got no idea.”

“So, it was definitely black, her dress.”

“Definitely.”

Hope wanted to go and check Aurora’s wardrobe for a red dress. If it were missing then with all probability she had come back to change. For what reason, though, Hope could not fathom. Colour and mood swings? Who’s got the bloody time to think about colour and mood? Do women really do that? She doubted it.

“Can you tell us anything more about that night, after she left your house. She sent you a message, right? Did she call you? How did she sound? What did she say?”

Grazia Rosa sighed and without interruption, Hope and Caterina let her talk, understanding that It was a way for her to

It was half past nine. Grazia Rosa had cleaned herself up. Taken a couple of painkillers but despite the swollen eye and bruised cheek, still had to go. He was expecting her, Franchy was. Well. When she got there it took him a long time before he opened the door. She’d pounded on it for ages. Said he was on the loo, reading the paper.

“Francesco, Franci, Let me in. Cazzo, dove sei? Where are you. For Fuck’s sake!”

“H..h..hold your horses, will you Grazia, Been on the loo,” She could see his eyes peering through the crack that was splitting the old rotting wood of the side door then he unbolted it, top and bottom, and turned the key in the lock.

Francesco the cemetery night guardian bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. His gentleness always surprised her. He was such a massive giant of a man with hands as big as two florentine steaks.

“Sc…sc..scusami tesoro. Sorry love, but when a man has to go, he has to go.”

He clasped her hand and led her into the security oﬃce where he spent seven nights a week from half past eight until half past six in the morning. He slept on the put-you-up bed disguised as a sofa that was pushed against the wall near the desk. Couldn’t fit on it. His legs were too long. But then nothing fitted him.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses in the dark, my love?” he asked her.

She slowly took them oﬀ to reveal an eye, blue, bruised and bloodshot. It was swollen and there was a horrible welt at the temple.

Francesco’s thick-set jaw dropped.

“O..o..oh my God. Gra. He’s not done it again, has he? The bastard.”

She never did want to tell him the truth but he knew. “No, no. It was an accident. I slipped and fell. I hit my head when I was cleaning the … the gravestone of Silvio Rosanda in Campo 21. It’s got that slab of stone sticking out at an angle. You know the one I mean. It looks like a book. I hate cleaning it.”

“Now listen to me, Gra. If you ever need my help, I’ll be round there like a shot and I’ll do him in for you. You just say the word. Promise me, Love? He might be my mate and yes we go back a long way but I won’t have it. Just say the word and I’ll kill him with my bare hands. Understand?”

“No need. Really. It was my stupid fault. Let’s forget it. Shall we. Now, listen. I’ve got to pick up a consignment, Franci. Got a message this morning. It should be ready for me to collect.”

Grazia handed Francesco a white envelope that she’d taken out of her bag. He opened it, careful not to rip it, peeked inside, nodded and said, “C…C..Come on then. I’ll take you there. Make sure the ghosts won’t get you!”

“Franci, please! You know I hate the cemetery after dark. It scares me.”

“Hold on to my arm then, love. No harm’ll come to you all the while you hang on to me.” And he led her out of the oﬃce, locking it before they left.

Francesco, towering above her, gallantly took hold of her bag and placed her arm in his. As they walked along the Viale Superiore del Veilino, her head reaching to his waist, shadows played amongst the graves but she never felt fearful. Not with Franchy.

“Here we are my love. De’ Andre’s tomb.”

“Yes. But don’t go anywhere, okay?. You’ll stay right here, won’t you? while I go inside.”

“Don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

Francesco took hold of the considerable assortment of keys attached to the belt of his trousers and jangled them about.

“Ah ha. This is the one. Number 17, De Andre. I can tick it oﬀ my list. De Andre, security check. Tick, Tick, Tick.”

“When Francesco opened the glass door of the chapel, he bowed like a prince to let me in. He’s such a sweetie.” Grazie Rosa’s face had softened as her memory of that evening stole her away from her grief.

“Have you ever been in that chapel?” She asked Hope and Caterina. “Well it’s bloody narrow. No room to swing a cat. I had to be careful not to knock over the guitar that leans against the back wall.

And cazzo, what a fright she had had. At first she could not find it. It wasn't in its usual place behind the cork board. The words to his lovely song are pinned to it. “Via del Campo”. ‘Dai diamanti non nasce niente, dal letame nascono i fiori.” She sighed. “Lovely. And Aurora sang it to me over the phone.”

Her chest heaved and the vein twitched below her eye.

“I did find it, of course. Hidden behind the Chinese fan. Hadn’t seen that there before. And it was horrible too. With a garish image of Fabrizio printed on it. So I wanted to check inside it. Make sure I’d got the right one. But couldn't find the key. I rummaged in that large bag. Even knelt on the ground and took everything out from it. And that’s when I remembered.

“Aurora had borrowed the one I usually use. The black one. I’d asked her to shake all its contents out and stuﬀ them in this old thing. Course, she didn’t check the zip pockets.

“So that’s when I texted her. Asked her to call me.”

“And she answered your text?” Hope asked gently.

Hope saw the flash of fear in her eyes. A terrifying realization that Aurora was no more. She began to sob. Through her tears she said, “Yes. She did. I’ve kept all her messages on my phone. Been reading them again. Over and over.”

“What did the message say?” asked Caterina.

“Sorry mum. Didn’t check the zips. Got it. So no worries. See you tomorrow. Love you.’ She sent lots of hearts and kisses. You know. Those emoji things. Then I sent her some kisses and told her to have fun.”

She broke.

“Franchy skipped me back to the oﬃce and we drank a couple of grappas.

“You’ll find it love,” he said with that childish voice of his. Like a little boy he is. “Now come on then. Stick the box in that huge bag of yours so no one will see it. I’ll get me hammer and bash it open. Bash, bash, bash.” He took my arm in his. Wanted to get back to his oﬃce for a glass of grappa to calm me down and warm me up. Said I could call Aurora there.

I told him I didn’t need any warming up, not on a hot evening like that one was. But then I saw his little face all pouty and disappointed, I told him I could do with a little something to settle me nerves,

“Sounds like a plan then. Plan, plan, plan,” he said. So excited he was, he skipped me back. ‘Oﬀ we go. Hippety-hop, hippety-hop.’ Makes me laugh, he does.”

Her lips parted and Hope saw a glimpse of a smile. But Hope had to ask.

“Did you call her?”

“Call her? My Aurora? Didn’t need to. She called me. Such a beautiful voice, she had.” The smile was gone. Replaced by tight lips and pain. “Said she’d be home late and that I needn’t wait up for her. She knows I always wait for her to get home. I can see her bedroom light, you see, from my window. I know she’s home, when she switches it on. That’s when I can relax. But she said to me, she said, ‘Mum, don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late. You need to get a good night’s sleep. Such a good girl. She worried about me, see.”

“Did you go to sleep?”

“Yes, I did. Felt a bit sore, you know.” She stroked her cheek bone.

“How did you know she wasn’t at home then? In the morning, I mean?”

“Popped in there before I went to work. I got a key, see. Go in once or twice a week to clean up her mess. Such an untidy thing. I Pick up her dirty washing and leave her some food I prepare for her. Leave it in the fridge. But she wasn’t there.” Her eyes swelled and she began to sob. “If I’d stayed awake, I’d’ve known. I could’ve called her. Checked to see if she was alright. Where she was.”

“Grazia Rosa. Stop. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.” Caterina held her hands.

“What was in the metal box, Grazia? Why was it so important to collect. I mean you must’ve been in terrible pain after what Nando did to you?”

Grazia Rosas’s head snapped up. “The metal box? Why do you want to know about that? What’s it got to do with anything?”

“Why? Is there something you don’t want to tell us?” Asked Hope.

Grazia Rosa shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.” She paused, and look up at her daughter’s windows. “Why don’t you have a chat with Nando, if you want to know. He’s the one that’ll tell all about it. If you can find him.” She sneered.

“You don’t know where he is?”

“Haven’t seen him since the funeral. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone on a little trip.”

“A trip?” Asked Caterina, eyebrows raised.

“Course you didn’t know, love, did you? Nando is a right traveller, he is. Often takes oﬀ on his ‘work trips’. Buying, apparently. But I know. He always goes to the same place. That woman in Bari. That’s where he goes. Buying, my foot. Well I hope he stays there, 'cos she can bloody-well have him. And good riddance, too.”

ENTER AURORA’S APARTMENT AGAIN “Was it my imagination, or was Aurora wearing a red dress when you found her?”

Hope stood behind Caterina as she turned the key in the lock to open Aurora’s apartment door. …..

OPEN WARDROBE TO CHECK CLOTHES - SEE THE RED DRESS WITH THE LABEL STILL ON IT.

DECIDES TO visit Nonna Jenna again - WHY?

NONNA JENNA 2

THE BICYCLE RIDE - MONDAY 20TH EVENING

That evening, Hope pulled the hood of her sweat shirt over her head and wondered what the hell Parodi had meant about her father. But she would find out. And tomorrow morning she would return to have a little chat with Eddie.

“I’m oﬀ out now Caterina. I won’t be long but if I’m not back in three hours, call a search party for me, okay?” Hope cackled.

Caterina was sitting on the sofa painting her toenails a bright summer cerise. She laughed.

“Where are you going again?” she asked eyeing Hope up and down. “Looks like a funeral. Black doesn’t suit you, you know. I’ve already told you, your colours are deep purples and greens.”

“ I’ve got a date with your bicycle, remember? Where is it, by the way?”

“In the garden shed where I always keep it. But do be careful, won’t you? It’s not nice down that lane at night. I don’t know why you have to go on your own? Can’t you go with Pino? He loves getting on his bike.”

“Nah. I just fancy some alone time and it’ll do me good. I need some exercise and It’s a lovely evening.”

“Well, Don’t go talking to any strangers and take your phone in case you get lost. I don’t want to have to sit here and worry about you. Okay?”

“Get lost? I may not have been here for years but I still remember it like the back of my hand. What on earth do you think could happen to an old lump like me, anyway?”

“It’s the last place I’d go after dark and you know where that lane will take you.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Back of the cemetery.

“And it’s really creepy even in the daytime. I never liked going there. All sorts could be lurking about. That sinister looking white-bearded tramp for one thing. Now he was creepy.”

“Do you honestly believe that the cemetery houses an army of lady molesters or are you worried that the graves will open up and I’ll be attacked by flesh eating zombies?”

Hope skipped out of the house humming to the tune of ‘Thriller’ and Caterina shouted

“You’re not an old lump! You’re gorgeous! Believe in yourself and shine your light!.”

THE WAREHOUSE 'Fuck me or Fuck oﬀ’.

“Charming,” Hope said out loud as she leant Caterina’s bicycle against the wall covered with graﬃti. On the ground nearby, lay a dirty mattress and piles of rubble dumped by indecent builders. She spotted a used condom and shuddered with disgust. The back of the cemetery. Christ, what a salubrious spot.

It was twilight. A ghostly film of mist crept over the hills as the heat of the day escaped from the land. This back road, unmarked and unpaved, was empty and silent. Even the crickets had stilled the rubbing together of their rough edged wings.

A closed barrier, locked with a padlock, signalled the end of the road. On the other side of the barrier, coursed a torrent which allowed the rain waters to run from the high land to the sea. Now, however, it was desiccated. And deserted.

To the left was a dirt track rutted with car wheel marks. There was a large concrete building at the end of it. The warehouse. Hope was here to take a closer look.

Outside the garage door, a large white van was parked, its windows blacked out with newspaper. So this was where the bastard had driven to. The bastard who had nearly run down that little boy outside Francesca’s bar.

She continued walking round the side of the warehouse where she arrived at a yellow sign. ‘Aldo Carrozzeria’. The Car body repair shop appeared shut up for the night. She peered in through the glazed glass panel and saw, lifted on a ramp, a black BMW SUV. No plates.

Suddenly she heard a beast-like snarl. Hope’s throat clenched as the growling penetrated her chest and rumbled against her ribs.

The dark silhouette of a thick-set orang-utan appeared from the side of the workshop. In one hand he held the rope that was attached to a spiked collar strangling the stocky neck of a large albino pit bull terrier. Its jaws were set to snap shut around Hope’s ankle like an iron trap. As the two beasts neared her, she could see the shooting rifle resting on the human’s burly shoulder.

"What you doing snoopin’ round ‘ere? This is private property, this is. You shouldn’t be ‘ere.” His voice gruﬀ and raw. The man restrained the dog with a firm pull on the rope.

“Hold back Brutus Now. Let’s see what the nice lady wants, shall we?”

The dogs blue eyes were icy like its master’s and stared at her while it bared its razor sharp teeth, ready to gnarl.

Brutus? Christ! Hope stood motionless. She loved dogs but this one. As ugly a bastard as the man who held its rein. She clenched her fists and felt her palms sweating.

“I..I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step back. “I was out for a cycle ride and got lost. I saw the warehouse and wondered if anyone was about to help me find my way back. I’m

going to Sant’Antonino. Can you tell me which way I have to go to get there?” She swallowed hard and put her hand on her chest to protect her fast beating heart.

“Sant’Antonino? You live there?”

The snake that encircled the man’s neck, like the collar on his dog, looked suﬀocating. His arms were long sleeves of colourful ink and the word “Sacrifice” stood out in black above his right eyebrow.

Well, well, well. The bastard van driver.

“Staying with a friend who lives there. Where you from?” She had recognised a twinge of hispanic in his accent.

“Ecuador. You?”

“Here. But I’ve lived in the Uk for a while. Do you live here in this place?” She asked pointing her thumb to the warehouse.

“Nah. Just looking after it.”

She then decided to take a risk and knowing a little Spanish asked, “¿Qué guardas en el almacén?”

The neck tattoo raised an eyebrow.

“La señora habla español,” he said.

She nodded. “Un poco. Learnt a bit at school.”

“la dama es una entrometida, pero. Nosy. Very nosy. What’s in the warehouse is no one’s business. Okay missus, only one way back to Sant’Antonino. The way you came. You better leave now. This place is no good for a stranger. That way.” He pointed to the road.

The pit bull growled.

“Bien, me voy,” she said still in Spanish. She turned and took a deep breath of relief. None the wiser but very suspicious.

Back at the bicycle, the lane that took her back to Sant’Antonino looked eerie in the darkness. She turned on the handlebar lamp. Shine her light, she thought and smiled. She climbed on and as she cycled away, the front wheel shook. She stopped, got oﬀ and checked it. Great. A flat. In the backend of nothingness. She had no choice but to walk and push. The climb back up to the hamlet would be a long, slow one. But riding would have been harder.

Further along the lane, the wall became low enough to see over and she smelled the cypress pine in the cemetery on the other side.

A crazy idea came to her.

Leaning the bike against the wall, she used the saddle as a foothold and lifted herself onto the stone, still warm from a day in the blazing sunshine. Four marble sarcophagi lay

in a row below her feet. She slid down the wall and let herself drop onto one and there she was. In the cemetery.

A breeze brushed her cheeks and her skin prickled. What now? What the hell was she doing? She patted her pocket. Yep. Phone still there. Good.

She jumped oﬀ Giulio Maineri’s block of marble. 1958-2001: Beloved husband and father. His absence a silent grief, his life a beautiful memory.

Hope tiptoed across the field of graves until she arrived at the central avenue lined with tall pines. She wanted to see the chapel at night where Aurora had lain for the last time. Why had the girl come here of places? In the dark. Alone. Hope wanted to feel it, smell it, understand it.

The half moon created a spectral glow and eerie shapes played in the shadows. But Hope had never suﬀered a creative imagination. As a child she had been afraid of the dark only once. Running a high temperature, she had left her sweat soaked bed and entered her parents room where the furniture had come alive and moved like monsters in the dark.

Then, true, she had been terrified.

She walked unhurriedly. The only sound she could hear was her own heavy breathing. She should stop bloody smoking. Not yet though. Maybe next year when she’d sorted herself out.

She felt something bite her cheek. She quickly smacked herself and looked down at her hand where the squashed mosquito stained her palm with her blood it had sucked. Christ, now she was going to have a whopping great boil on her cheek as it would swell up and take over her face. Lovely

Then a sudden screech startled her. She stopped. A bat perhaps? Do bats have a call? She knew they clicked with their tongues but at frequencies higher than humans could hear.

Was this what Aurora had done? Climbed over the wall and made her way to the far end of the cemetery, hearing the cackling sounds of the night. Had she not been afraid?

She heard the screech again. Was it a little closer now? A little more distinguishable? She trembled. What the hell was she doing? Just go home. What will this prove?

She put her hand in her pocket and took out her phone. She held it tightly in her hand and it helped her to feel more at ease. No, she was here and she wanted to see the chapel at night.

At the end of the avenue she turned right and followed a steep windy lane where she passed mausoleum after mausoleum. Gabriele had driven her up here, she was sure and if she remembered correctly, the angel holding Mercury’s Caduceus would soon appear.

Keep it together. Breathe. Count.

Bells chimed. Ten times. It was only ten o’clock. Certainly not the witching hour. And there she was. With a finger at her mouth and wings folded behind her as if she had just alighted on the roof of the chapel.

Hope walked up to the door which squeaked as she pushed it and she stepped into the atrium, immediately struck by the cold and the smell of musty damp. Starlight filtered through the glass dome in the roof.

The marble altar altar where Aurora had lain behind, hidden from view stood solid, time in memorial.

At the back, a spiral staircase led to the catacomb below. Hope climbed down a couple of steps. Silent emptiness. Where the bones of family members lay in coﬃns in the walls. She shuddered, changed her mind and returned to the altar where he sat on the stone ground.

So, Aurora, you downed a bottle of vodka. You felt woozy, I bet. Head spinning? For sure. Then you lay on your side, knees up to your chest.

Hope did the same and as she lay in the foetal position, she closed her eyes and listened to her heart pounding.

Why here? Why had she come here? A god awful place to die. Why not in the comfort of her own bed? Most suicides took place in the person’s home. Or in a vehicle. Very few on public property. Hope’s instincts told her it did not make sense. Something must have happened to have brought her to this smelly, filthy, pit.

Several minutes past and Hope’s arm felt numb. Her hip hurt on the cold stone. She got up and shook the pins and needles away. She wanted to be home ten minutes ago.

She hurried out, down the lane, head bowed. She had to get out of there. Find the wall. Get over the other side. She felt beads of sweat drip down her back. Her chest tightened. She began to count.

Then she heard a rustling behind her. She froze. She turned. A colossal black shadow raised an arm and a bright white light exploded behind her eyes. A sharp pain in her head. She collapsed. Then she felt the pull of her arms. She was lifted up, winded by a shoulder in her stomach. Shit, shit, shit.

Francesco - The Night Guardian The giant dropped Hope onto the sofa bed. He grabbed a bottle of water and poured it over her face. She groaned as the cold shocked her senses. She rubbed her eyes, then her head.

The thighs of the man standing before her were gargantuan. His uniform was too small for him and his trousers tight against his enormous legs. His knee length black boots shone with polish and his light blue, short sleeved shirt exhibited his oﬃcial security badge.

He wore a Colt 1911 firearm in the leather holster tied around his waist. He looked as if no-one would ever dare mess with him.

She wrenched her neck back to look up at his face. The triangular nose, bulbous at its tip flared. It was the snout of the De Luca family, she was certain. Their famous trait. Used for sniﬃng out the enemy.

“What the hell did you hit me with?” she asked.

“What the hell are you doing in my cemetery after dark?” He handed her a towel, his voice surprisingly soft for such a behemoth.

“In your cemetery? Can you expand?”

“I am the night guardian but more’s the point, who are you and why are you here at this time of night? The cemetery’s shut, you know. Shuts at six thirty. Six thirty. No one’s allowed in after six thirty.”

He paced back and forth stooping his shoulders to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. He pressed his fingers into his forehead and massaged his brow.

“What’s your name?” Hope asked.

“Name? De Luca. De Luca Francesco. Night Guardian. See. I’m the night Guardian and no one’s allowed in after six thirty. Not the public. No.”

Ha! She was right. Francesco De Luca. One of Gabriele’s eleven siblings. Dropped on his head by his father, they said, to stop him bawling. He was a toddler, the last time Hope had seen him.

“Francesco, I’m a friend of your brother, Gabriele. I knew you when you were a little kid. You won’t remember me though.”

“You know Gabriele? Gabry,, my brother?”

“Yes, I do. And Pino. I’m his friend too. Pino and Grazia Rosa.”

“Pino?” He shuﬄed from one foot to the other and wiped his brow.

“But you’re not allowed in the cemetery after half past six. That’s the rule. Half past six. Why you in here after dark?”

“Francesco, Grazia Rosa’s daughter was found in the Rossi chapel four days ago. You know that, don’t you? And they say she committed suicide but Grazia Rosa doesn’t believe them. She needs to know what happened to her and asked me to help find out. So I came here to see what it’s like at night, in the dark. What it was like for Aurora to lie on the cold ground in that scary place. Do you understand?”

“For Grazia Rosa?”

“Yes. For Grazia Rosa. The police said Aurora killed herself but it doesn’t make sense. You were patrolling that night, weren’t you? Like every night, right?”

He nodded.

“Didn’t you see her? I mean, you saw me tonight. Didn’t you see her?

The giant sat on the desk and lowered his eyes. His black curls shook.

“No, no. I didn’t see. I didn’t see.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see her, Francesco? She was hard to miss. Wearing a bright red dress and red heeled shoes. She was very conspicuous.”

“Conspicuous?”

“Noticeable. Very noticeable.”

“Con..spic..u..ous,” he repeated. Then he crossed his arms and stared at the wall in front of him.

“I didn’t see no girl in no red dress and I walked about the grounds to keep an eye on everything. I did. It’s my job. I always do ‘cos I’m the night Guardian and there was no girl anywhere. No girl in a red dress. No.”

Hope could tell he was agitated. His sentences were clipped. He spoke too fast.

“Do you sleep on this, Francesco? Feels nice and comfy.”

He looked at her bouncing and said, “Yeah. I can’t stay awake all night. I have to get some shut eye, sometime. Rest my brain.”

Hope watched his eyes. They moved to the right as he spoke. To the right for the truth.

“Did you let any vehicle in that night? Tuesday night. Think carefully and try to remember. Did you let in a van. The night before Gabriele found Aurora’s body.”

His eyes shifted to the left.

“No, no. No van. I let no van in. No. Sometimes a car, I let in. Sometimes. The men from SPOF. They come in at night, sometimes. To dress a body for the funeral. That’s all. Just Renzo’s cars. Paolo. And Giorgio. No van.”

“And you didn’t see Eddie that night? You didn’t let Eddie in? Did you, Franchy?”

Eddie’s eyes widened and Hope thought she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Eddie? Eddie the Alby? Not Eddie. No, no. Eddy wasn’t there.”

Hope watched him shift from foot to foot. She recognised a wariness about him and she had the strong sensation that he was not telling her everything.

“But somebody was, right Franchy? You did let somebody in, didn’t you?”

“No. No. No. I don’t know what you mean. Nobody was here. Nobody.” He walked towards her and grabbed her arm, pulling her oﬀ the sofa bed.

“Time you go. You shouldn’t be here. Out now. Out you go, now,” he chanted like a child in the classroom repeating a lesson.

Hope had no choice but to leave but somehow she would find out why Franceso De Luca was lying and who he had let into the cemetery the night Aurora Rossi died.

HOPE WORRIED 1 The climb to Sant’Antonino on the bicycle seemed interminable.

Hope’s head pounded but her legs ached even more when she climbed the steps to Pino’s apartment. She knew Pino was not at home. She had not seen his motorbike in the creusa. She was thankful. She had no desire to speak to anyone as exhaustion overwhelmed her. When she opened the door, the house was still and the silence enveloped her like the cool blue ocean that had lapped over her body in the bay at Bogliasco.

Before leaving the cemetery, she had texted Caterina. “All ok. Got to get to bed. Shattered.” Caterina had replied with a zzz emoji and a purple love heart.

She put the key in her bedroom door but found it already unlocked. She flinched. She had locked the door this morning. She could have sworn it. Not that she didn’t trust Pino, a damned Marshall of the Italian Carabinieri. But it was habit. Like a hotel room. Pino had given her the key, so she used it.

Hope stepped in and fumbled for the light switch. The bulb was out. A stab of fear pierced her chest. She took another step forward and heard the crunch of breaking glass under her trainer. She grappled for her phone and swiped the torchlight to ‘on’.

Looking below her she saw the shattered glass of the light bulb on the marble floor.

When the light hit her suitcase, she shuddered. It was open. Clothes strewn about the floor. She trembled and her hand shook.

She tried the bed side table lamp. It’s soft yellow beam did nothing to soothe her nerves as she saw the indentation on the sheets of the bed. That morning she had made it with care as she always did, smoothing down the creases to perfection. First job of the day, make the bed then the rest of it will be a good one. That’s what Nonna Jenna had told her every morning as soon as Hope got up for school.

She sat on the edge of the bed, listening for an intruder but only heard the distant yapping of a dog.

Then she saw something that frightened her even more and she began to count. One, and two and three.

At ten, Hope swallowed and dialled Pino’s private mobile number.

****

“Pino. Someone’s been in the house. My bedroom. The door was open, the bulb in the ceiling light broken. All my clothes everywhere.”

“Speranza, calm down. You’re speaking too fast. Where are you?”

“Hope. My name’s Hope. And I’m in my bedroom. Someone’s been in and..”

“What do you mean, someone’s been in? Broken in? Was the front door damaged?”

“No. I opened it with no problem. With the key.”

“And you say someone’s got in? Into your room? But how?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been telling you.I don’t know how. Al I know is my suitcase is open and my clothes are all over the floor like someone’s been searching for something. There’s glass everywhere from the smashed light bulb and my jewellery. They found my jewellery bag. Strewn it all over the bed.”

Hope began to cry. She could not stop herself.

“Hope. Is anything missing? Did they take anything?”

“Yes, they did.”

“What, Hope? What did they take?”

“Nonna Jenna’s golden crucifix.” Tears ran down her face and she shook. “They took the cross she gave me, Pino.”

The Pomegranate SEED TUESDAY 21ST August 4.00 pm The water shooting from the large fountain in the middle of Piazza de Ferrari was on a loop, turning first blue, then red, then purple, and green. The principal square of the city of Genova sat at the top of Via Venti Settembre, the long high street lined with elegant shop-fronts under frescoed porticoes, its pavements inlaid with painted ceramic tiles.

Hope and Caterina walked across the square and laughed at the light spray refreshing their faces. At half past four in the afternoon on the following day, the square was alive

with Italian shoppers, foreign tourists holding maps and wearing hats, immigrant street hawkers selling sunglasses and gaudy flashing gadgets, young people languishing on the steps leading to the elegant Palazzo Ducale, the Ducal Palace and the tables on the pavements outside the bars were filled with lively chatter. The smells of freshly ground coﬀee wafted in the air.

Hope had spent all morning resting in bed, her head pounding from the smack she had received the evening before by Francesco, the cemetery night guardian. Her entire body ached, muscles sore from lactic acid. Bloody hell, she really must start exercising again. Then after a plate of prosciutto crudo and several slices of cantaloupe melon, Caterina had given her a pain killer and pulled her out of the house, suggesting they visit Ferdinando’s shop in the historical centre.

Now she followed Caterina down a narrow cobbled lane that ran by the side of the Ducal Palace. Stiflingly narrow, it was dark and dingy, hemmed in by the buildings on either side raised tall to hide the sky. This was typical of the ‘carruggi’ in Genova’s historical centre. Ancient architectural planning to protect its inhabitants from possible attack by enemy pirates and from the crippling heat of the summer.

Suddenly the steep cobbled lane opened up into a small square, Piazza San Matteo. It was a breath of surprising fresh air but what struck Hope more was the sense of being transported into a medieval hamlet. Once the settlement of the noble, aristocratic family, Doria, the square represented the tangible power this great family had in Medieval Genova.

The Gothic church, with its large round rose window in the centre of the black and white banded facade had been constructed on what appeared to be a raised platform of cobbled stone creating the eﬀect of a theatrical stage. The church was encircled by houses characterised by arched friezes and frontages also with black bands of slate and white bands of marble, typical of the times.

It was Martino Doria who laid the foundations of the church, their family chapel, and gave its name to Saint Matthew ‘il gabelliere’ - the tax collector, Marino’s own profession.

Wandering down another lane they arrived in Piazza Campetto where the 14th century Palazzo Imperiale was open to the public as an art and antiques gallery, its high ceilings covered in magnificent frescoes.

Caterina stopped and said, “Once upon a time they grew veg in this square. It used to be a ‘campo’, a green field.”

“Hard to imagine,” said Hope looking at the busy shops.

“Come and have a look at the ’Palazzo del Melograno’.”

“Pomegranate Palace? Can’t wait.” Hope’s sarcastic tone did not stop Caterina.

“Look at those Doric columns.Aren’t they a marvel?”

“Mmm. Super.” The sarcasm in her voice was too obvious.

“God, Hope. You’re such a philistine.”

“No I’m not. It’s just that Doric pillars don’t do it for me.”

Caterina tutted.

“Believe it or not, this store holds a secret prophecy that only the Genovese people know about. Interested?”

“Go on then. Reveal all. I’m fascinated.” Hope crinkled her nose and rolled her eyes.

“See that? Up there. Well that’s a real pomegranate tree.”

“What? That twig sticking out of the wall?”

“Hope, it is not a twig and it has great significance. About four hundred years ago a pomegranate seed landed on that first floor balcony and that little seed inexplicably took root. Over several years It grew and grew into a beautiful tree. See. There. It’s a real pomegranate tree which still flowers.”

“Looks like a twig to me. And so?”

“Well think about it. It’s withstood centuries of harsh winters. Even bombardment during the wars. And the question is HOW? How on earth did it manage to take root and survive for so long?”

“Tell me, please do.”

“Finche’ quell’abero di melograno vivra’

La citta’di Genova prospera’, Quando cessera’ la sua vita,

La Superba sara’ finita. As long as the pomegranate lives

The city of Genova will prosper

But the end of its life will bring the finish of the Superba (Genova).

And now you know the prophecy, you must make a wish to ask that the pomegranate tree never be neglected.”

“Oh, good Lord,” said Hope.

Caterina pulled her into the store by her purple and yellow floral chemise.

“Come on,” she said. “You must absolutely see this. It will amaze you.”

“I don’t think I can be any more amazed than I am already! Hey. You know I’m not a fashion icon. I hate shopping for clothes.”

Caterina looked at her friend’s brightly coloured top and brown leggings.

“Yes, I know. Just follow me, will you?”

They walked past the rails of Italian haute couture to the very back of the shop.

“Oh my Goodness. It’s Hercules!” Exclaimed Hope, impressed.

The Baroque statue rose above her from the water Lily it was standing upon.

“I don’t believe it! And at the back of a department store surrounded by ladies knickers!”

“I thought you’d like it. I know you have a thing for men with muscles. Do you know what he’s holding in his hand?”

“Looks like an apple.”

“Not any old apple, Hope. Come on. It’s A golden apple from the garden of Hesperides. It’s from the Greek mythological story, ‘The Twelve Labours Of Hercules’. Isn’t he gorgeous. Look at the detail!”

She read the inscription.

‘Realised in the white marble of Carrara by the Genovese sculptor Filippo Parodi, disciple of Bernini, end of 16th Century’.

Hope patted Hercules’s finally chiselled foot.

“Caterina, I’m impressed. Lovely piece of marble. You told me Genova was filled with hidden treasure but this beats them all.”

“Good, eh?” Caterina was happy to have shared her knowledge of this beautiful town with her friend.

“Right let’s get to Via degli Orefici and find Ferdinando’s jewellery shop.”

Ferdinando’s jewellery shop Rossi Gioelleria stood between a ladies shoe shop and a ‘bottega’ selling knife-ware. A dark blue velvet curtain was drawn across the small display window and the door was locked. Caterina rang the doorbell.

After several attempts, an elderly, gentleman with long thinning grey hair, a long face, drawn and colourless, appeared and opened it for them, bowing as he gave them permission to enter. His shoulders were so stooped, he could not lift his head above his chest.

“Uncle Fester’s arrived,” whispered Hope. Caterina ignored her.

Badly lit and darkly furnished, Hope, feeling the sumptuous red carpet under her flip flops, felt she had walked into a Dickensian novel.

Behind the bespoke walnut counter the wall was filled from floor to ceiling with polished wooden drawers decorated with ornate bronze handles. There was a distinct smell of beeswax.

Uncle Fester wore dull beige trousers, a blue striped shirt, faded due to over washing and a plain dark burgundy tie. Smart he was but smart and unnoticeable.

He turned his back to them and shuﬄed behind the counter. Without oﬀering a smile his eyes revealed annoyance for this disturbance by strangers.

“Dimmi. - Tell me what you want,” he said.

“Friendly,” Hope mumbled.

“It’s diﬃcult to smile when you’ve had a hard life and he obviously has,” said Caterina.

“Is Ferdinando in today?” Caterina asked.

“No, not today.”

“Ah, well, I’m Ca…”

“We’re looking for a gift for a friend,” interrupted Hope. “A birthday gift.”

Caterina creased her brow in surprise.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, perhaps a bracelet?”

“The bracelets are over there, as you can see. Madam.” He pointed his bony finger to a glass cabinet on the right of the counter.”

“Hmmm. Well, we’ll take a look then.” Hope pushed Caterina towards the bracelets.

“What are you doing?” asked Caterina under her breath.

“Not sure, but try and keep up.”

“How can I keep up if I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at?”

Then she saw it. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood up.

“Now this one is lovely. What do you think, Cat?”

Caterina shrugged.

“Yes, lovely,” she said unsure what to expect next.

“I like this one. Very nice. May I take a closer look?”

“Ah, yes, yes. The Aurora bracelet.”

For an instant Hope thought uncle Fester’s grey eyes sparkled like the crystals on the bracelet. Then the light went out as he said,

“Named after his beautiful daughter. So beautiful she was.” His voice cut with sadness

He turned his back, steadied the step ladder and painfully climbed to the top where he opened the drawer marked ‘A’. He pulled out a large black metal box and, placing it under his arm, stepped down with tight lips. He placed the box onto a piece of dark green baize which had been laying on the counter and pulled out a silver ward key from the inside of his jacket. Hope had seen a metal box just like it. But she could not remember where.

His hand trembled as his long bony fingers moved stiﬄy. Hope put her thumb nail between her teeth. She wanted to grab the key from him and open the box herself.

Caterina gasped. “Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed, as if she had just discovered a child’s treasure trove.

The internal compartments were filled with countless diaphanous crystal beads, all the colours of the rainbow.

“The crystals are glass fired by the glass blowers of the island of Murano in Venice. It is a delicate and intricate operation that requires great precision and experience. That’s why the Aurora bracelet is so special. What is your friend’s name?”

Hope hesitated then replied.

“Brenda.” Her mother’s.

“Six beads then. And which colours would suit her?”

Looking at Hopes blouse for inspiration, Caterina said, “Our Brenda adores purples, yellows and greens. Yes, greens.”

Hope picked up a bead between her fingers and studied the glimmer.

“My friend lost her young niece last year. It was a terrible shock to the whole family. The girl was only in her twenties. She killed herself. She’d been suﬀering from depression. So sad,” she said.

“It is always a crime to lose one so young. A parent should never survive his children.” sniﬀed Uncle Fester.

“They say Aurora was depressed and that she killed herself. But I say that’s impossible.

“Why’s that?” asked Hope.

“She was a bright, intelligent girl and adored her mother. They were inseparable. She would never have left her mother alone to suﬀer in the hands of that ……”

The door opened.

The man in his late forties wearing a white summer trilby with a navy blue band low on his head was immaculately dressed in tailored pinstripe and a waistcoat fitted to perfection. His silk tie was held in position by a diamond pin and in his hand a walnut cane with a silver handle. In his left ear he wore a diamond stud. Ferdinando, the dandy.

“Signor Rossi. Buongiorno. I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days yet.” The elderly gentlemen used the formal Italian ‘Lei’ for ‘you’ which showed great respect but which also maintained a form of distance between them.

“Buongiorno Signor Pastorino. Non ne potevo piu’. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I must do something before I go mad. And work is my salvation. Good morning ladies, Ah, Caterina and… Hope,” he said bowing with grace as he took oﬀ his hat to them. His fashionable quiﬀ of black hair fell over his forehead and he swept it carefully back into position with a bandaged hand. “What a nice surprise. I hope Pastorino has been looking after you well. If you don’t mind I have a little administration to do so I will leave you still in his capable hands.” And looking at his assistant he added, “Please look after these ladies well, Pastorino. They are my friends.”

With that he flung open the red velvet curtain that acted as a partition to and disappeared.

Hope and Caterina glanced at each other.

As Caterina and Signor Pastorino finished discussing colours, Hope walked the length of the counter admiring the polished walnut and the well-selected display of watches and rings. How this tiny shop could make a living selling such high priced jewellery, she could not know. Wasn’t Italy suﬀering an economic crisis? The rent alone for a shop like this in such a busy area of Genova would have been exorbitant.

She sneezed. The smell of wood polish irritated her nostrils. She took a paper tissue from her bag and rubbed her nose with it, crunched the tissue up into a ball and threw it toward a leather waste paper basket on the floor by the side of the counter. It missed. Hell.

As she bent down to pick it up and placed it in the basket, a sparkle on the red carpet caught her eye. A crystal bead.

She grabbed it between her forefinger and thumb. Red. Broken. The letter ‘R’ engraved into it. She wrapped it into her hand.

“Signor, can these beads break easily?” she asked.

Uncle Fester strained his neck to lift his head towards her.

“Well, they are glass but it would need some force. They are embedded in gold frames, as you can see. Once each letter of the chosen name has been engraved on the bead it is then, and only then, placed directly onto the golden chain,” said Nando.

“So this one I just found on the floor here must have come from a bracelet already made up,” said Hope rolling it in her palm.

“Yes. That’s right. The client chooses the beads and then decides upon the font. Some prefer a more traditional lettering, others have a more modern taste, you see.”

“But how could this have broken, I wonder? And here in your shop?”

The red velvet curtain flew open and Ferdinando pounced from behind it.

“Let me see that, will you?”

Hope opened her palm and he lifted the bead from her hand bringing it close to his eyes.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“There on the carpet. It’s broken. Look.”

“Yes, Yes. I can see that. Perhaps the lady wearing it accidentally knocked her wrist against the counter.”

“Like this you mean?” Hope banged her wrist onto the counter.

“I believe it would require more force than that, madam,” said Pastorino. Ferdinando glared.

“The force of an angry gesture? More like this?” Hope made a fist and imitated an angry punch, down hard this time.

“Yes. indeed. That would be more possible,” Pastorino answered.

Ferdinando frowned and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“How strange,” said Hope. “Why do you suppose anyone, especially a lady, would punch her fist so hard against your shop counter? Has there been an argument of some sort recently?”

“An argument? I can remember no such thing, my dear Hope. Our customers are most refined and it would be diﬃcult for an argument to ensue in my shop. Perhaps it was our cleaner who accidentally hit her wrist while polishing.”

“Ah, yes of course. But rather an expensive piece of jewellery to wear when cleaning, don’t you think?”

“It would be useful to advise your customers that when wearing this bracelet, they shouldn’t do the housework,” commented Caterina. She giggled. But her facetious comment fell in the tense air.

She held out her hand and said, “Let me have a look at it, Nando.” When he handed it to her, she said, “The letter ‘R’. Well, whoever’s it was had the letter ‘R’ in her name.” As her words came out of her mouth, Caterina caught her breath.

“Nando, we know a client of yours who overheard an argument in this very shop not six days ago.”

“Do you now? And who might this client be?”

“The receptionist at the cemetery. He told us he came to repair his watch. The door was locked. Voices raised. In fact, he was certain he heard your wife’s voice. He said you appeared at the window and told him to go away.”

“Carmine, was it? Good old Carmine. I wouldn’t listen to him, if I were you. He’s as thick as two short planks. And I can assure you no argument was had in this shop.”

Hope had the distinct impression that Ferdinand Rossi was not telling the truth.

“Your daughter, Aurora, was wearing a bracelet just like this, Nando. Did you make it for her? Was it a gift from you?”

“What are you talking about? I gave no such bracelet to Aurora. And if I had, I don’t see the point. What are you trying to say?

“The thing is, see, Nando,” Hope said. “There was one bead missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes. There was one bead missing on the bracelet Aurora was wearing. And that bead was the letter ‘R’. So perhaps you’d like to explain to us why there is a bead with the letter ‘R’ on it in the corner of your shop on your luxurious red carpet.”

Ferdinando shook his head, his eyes squinting. His neck was deep red where the blood pounded through his carotid artery.

“Nando. Why is it I don’t believe you? Are you frightened of something?”

Nando licked his lips and averted his eyes.

“Don’t want to tell me, do you. So let me guess. You not only hit your wife on a regular basis but you also hit your daughter, too. Is that it? You argued with her and hit her. She fell and the bead broke. Fell onto the floor and rolled into the corner.”

Ferdinando pounded the counter with his fist. “No, no, no. How dare you insinuate such a thing. How dare you. Caterina, take your friend and leave before I lose my temper.”

Signor Pastorino put his hand to his mouth and coughed.

“Scusi, Signor Rossi, if I may,” he said. “A gentleman did come in and collect an Aurora bracelet just the other day. And I did think it rather a coincidence.”

There was a silence for several seconds.

“What do you mean, a coincidence,” Ferdinando asked gruﬄy.

“Well, the name on it was indeed, AURORA.”

“And why wasn’t I told of this?”

“Signor Rossi. You were away again. I can’t report on everything we sell. I didn’t think it was important enough to disturb you while you were on your business trip.”

Hope heard the emphasis the old man had put on the word ‘business’.

“Signor Pastorino, can you remember the man who collected the bracelet? What did he look like?”

Pastorino rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid my memory is not so good these days. It was a good couple of days ago, now. I don’t know.”

“Was he tall? Short? What colour hair did he have? What was he wearing?”

“Ah, now my dear, please. One question at a time. Well, I seem to remember he was quite tall. Had one of those blonde quiﬀs that are all the rage. Couldn’t see his face clearly, he was wearing a sweat shirt with a hood. Had the hood over his head. Thought it was very rude. But what can you say to these young people nowadays.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Pastorino shook his head.

“Anything at all?”

“Very polite he was, despite the hood. Please and thank you’s. Paid in cash. Yes, that’s right. He paid in cash the first time he came in to order it.”

And he didn’t leave you a name or a number that time?”

“Well, I can check in the order book.” He opened the leather bound notebook on the counter and with shaky fingers, flipped the pages. “Here we are. No, no number. Just the name Luca.”

Bar del Porto - TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 7.00 pm In the historical centre of Genova, Piazza Banchi leads down to Sottoripa, the oldest colonnade in Italy. A medieval arcade, it once oﬀered an inviting welcome to the sailors whose ships docked before it. Now the sea no longer lapped at the arches of Sottoripa but the smells and sounds still oﬀered a mysterious mixture of Eastern spices and Oriental flavours.

Hope and Caterina ambled along the arched walkway enjoying its heady chaos.

A fishmonger bawled out in the Genoese dialect the reduced price per kilo of his last remaining anchovies,

“Arxelle, vongole, anciue. Quàttro éoro al kilo. Pescòu stamatìn.”

Hope stopped outside a 'caruga'. The man frying wedges of zucchini and aubergine inside, wore nothing but white boxer shorts and a dirty apron covering his portly naked belly and hairy chest. He had a paper boat-shaped hat on his bald head.

The delicious aromas wafted under her freckled nose. She twitched it and licked her lips. Her tummy grumbled. It was ready for feeding.

She thumbed towards the shop window but Caterina's disapproving tut and finger wag foiled her plan.

“You cannot eat that! Think of your cholesterol levels,” she shouted, battling against the cries of the street vendors.

A Peruvian trader invited them to a tasting of his brightly coloured exotic fruit. Hope plucked a piece of sugared papaya displayed on the table in front of his shop entrance and popped it in her mouth before Caterina could say anything.

“Hey! Watch it, mate!” she hurled at a scraggy, sinewy man who reeled into her, splashing beer from his bottle onto her floral rayon shorts.

“Scusi, scusi signora,” he slurred and then bit into an enormous bread roll filled with prosciutto crudo and mozzarella. Hope cringed from the stink of alcohol that reeked from his mouth.

They had hit a bottleneck. The sandwich van on the corner oozed fried onions and fat but was famous in Genova for its tasty and inexpensive panini which was evident by the multi-ethnic crowd hanging around waving their Euro notes at the two sweaty, sour-faced panini makers.

“How about one of these?” asked Hope.

“Absolutely not,” answered Caterina shaking her head.

“An aperitivo, then?” Hope asked, lips curling into a hungry pout. “Somewhere near here where we can sit outside and watch the world go by. Oh look. What a coincidence! That bar will do, won’t it?”

The tables on the pavement under the arches outside ‘Bar del Porto’ overflowed with merry, chattering customers overlooking the back of Palazzo San Giorgio, the first bank in Europe, with the aquarium to the right and the ferryboats, yachts and sailing boats docked in the port in the far distance.

A man in a white apron approached Hope and Caterina. The rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt revealed tattooed forearms. A colourful snake slithered up from his open collar and entwined around his neck and above his right eye was the word ‘Sacrifice’ in black ink.

Like his eye poetry, he oﬀered no friendly welcome.

"What do you want?" His voice, high pitched, sounded as unfriendly as his expression. His steely blue eyes flickered and then darted away to the five young women shrieking around a table in the corner.

Hope gasped. An icy chill ran down her vertebrae. The neck tattoo. She felt hands tightening round her neck, strangling her. She hid her face in the menu.

"Give us five more minutes, will you? We've not decided yet,” said Caterina.

He raised his left eyebrow which was cut through the middle by a barber’s razor, but said nothing. He turned and walked towards the convulsion of long-legged Sirens in the corner.

“How rude! Not even a ‘ciao’. He’s in the wrong job,” said Caterina. “I adore my home town but I’ll never get used to the Genovese ways. They can be so unfriendly and impolite. There’s a complete lack of customer awareness here.”

“He's from Ecuador, my love, not Genova. Order me an Aperol Spritz, will you? I'm desperate for a pee."

Hope squeezed out of her wicker chair and, head bowed, weaved her way into the bar.

"Scusi, dov'è il bagno?" she asked the young waitress behind the counter.

Without looking up, the woman grabbed a key from a hook and slapped it on the counter. She then waved a sharp kitchen knife towards the back of the room.

Hope widened both eyes at such lack of courtesy, snatched the key by its pink ribbon and sauntered down the steps towards the direction of the bathroom, reading the writing printed on it.

“Dai diamanti non nasce niente dal letame nascono i fior.”

The hairs prickled on the nape of her neck.

In this spacious back chamber, a man sat alone at one of the many empty tables. His face hidden behind a newspaper, a white napkin tucked into his shirt, and a chalice of red wine on the table in front of him.

Hope tried the bathroom door with the key but it did not fit in the lock. She studied the ribbon again and the words echoed in her mind. De Andre, ‘Via del Campo’. Nothing grows from diamonds but from shit grow flowers’.

She turned and caught sight of the albino pit bull terrier sprawled on the floor beside the man’s chair, dozing.

The word “Shit!” echoed in her mind.

“Sbrigati, Valeria. Ho fame,” the man commanded without looking up from the paper.

The white pit bull opened one red eye as the waitress scuttled down the steps and placed a basket of sliced focaccia on the table before him.

“Scusa, scusa.. It’s nearly ready. Won’t be a minute.”

“Look, I don’t think this is the right key,” said Hope holding it up to the waitress who then snatched it, tutted and scurried back to the bar.

Plink, plink, chink. The sound of coins dropping into the tray of a slot machine from behind a Chinese partition. A win.

“How much, Serg?” The gruﬀ, smoky voice of the man at the table asked.

When Hope saw the creased face that popped out from behind the screen, she caught her breath. Grinning from ear to ear was Mantero, the legal doctor who She and Pino had met in the cathedral and who had declared Aurora’s death as suicide.

“Fifty Euro.”

“And how much have you spent already on that thing today? One hundred? Two? Why don’t you give it a rest, now.”

“Nah. I’m on a roll, Gian. I can feel it.”

Sergio Mantero disappeared and the ping of the slot machine started up again.

Hope disappeared too, into the toilet, and when she squatted over the hole in the ground, she held her breath. Not only for the stench of urine in the cubicle but with relief she was hidden. Damn. No toilet paper. “What a shit hole!”

She heard a knock on the door.

“Occupato!” she shouted.

“Scusi, signora!”

The pit of her stomach wrenched. She recognised the high-pitched, strident voice of the Ecuadorian neck tattoo. Her nerves grated.

She breathed in deeply but the nauseous fumes of stale urine choked her and she began to cough. She pushed her way out of the cubicle and found the neck tattoo blocking her exit. He was washing his hands in the basin and she could not pass.

He looked up and showed his teeth at her in a yellow grin. She could swear he looked like the albino pit bull baring its fangs.

“Fancy seeing you again,” he said.

She grunted, then said, “What a surprise! The man from Ecuador. See you’ve got your beast here with you.” She pointed to the bull.

“Not mine, love- It’s the gaﬀer’s.”

“Carlos. How long does it take you to have a piss? There’s customers to serve.” The coarse voice bellowed.

“Just chatting to an old friend of mine boss. It’s all sweet.”

“Now, just a little warning, sweet pea. We don’t like people snooping around. It makes us nervous. So, I’m not gonna see you again, Right?”

His icy eyes sent a chill that froze Hope’s core and her breathing quickened. While he dried his hands with a paper towel she counted. One and two and three..

Once he left, Hope splashed water on her face to calm herself. When she walked out, She could see Carlos leaning into the gorilla’s ear from the corner of her eye but she avoided looking at their faces and scuttled up the steps as fast as she could. She sensed them watching her.

Back at the table outside, she took a large swig of Aperol spritz but did not enjoy it.

“You alright, Hope? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Let’s get out of here, Cat.” She left fifteen euro on the table and pulled Caterina from her chair.

“Hey, but I haven’t finished my drink.”

“I’ll get you another one somewhere else. Now let’s go.”

Hope & Cat discuss the bead As they walked under the Sotto Ripa, Hope took Caterina’s arm.

“Is this the way to Via del Campo? I’d like to have a look at the street that De Andrè made so famous before we go home.”

Caterina nodded. “Don’t expect much, though.”

As they walked, Hope took out the crystal bed from her pocket and rolled it in her fingers, studying the light sparkle through the letter ‘R’.

“You know something Cat. I’m sure I’m right. The only explanation is, she confronted him. Perhaps about his secret family in Bari and the sister she never knew she had.”

“Or maybe about the birth certificate. She understands he’s not her real father. She then learns about the sister. Could he have really hit her, do you think?” asked Caterina.

“Perhaps he got so angry, he gave her a slap. She may have lost her balance and stopped her fall with her hand on the shop counter. Hence the broken bead. Did you see how easy he filled with rage? We know Ferdinando beats his wife. But would he lash out at his precious daughter?”

“Don’t forget, she’s not his daughter. The other one is, but not Aurora.

“He reminds me of a little ferret. He’s obsequious and fawning. Don’t you feel that?”

“She may not be his real daughter but she’s just been buried and that can’t be easy for him. Suicide too. It’d be diﬃcult for any father to act normally after such an experience.”

“He lied to us, though, didn’t he? He insisted there’d been no argument in his shop. And what if …” She hesitated. “What if, that night, after beating up Grazia Rosa, he goes after Aurora. Takes it out on her. He’s so filled with rage he can’t see straight. Didn’t Carmine say they argued all the time. He could’ve killed her. She was so slight. So skinny.”

“Come on, Hope. Really? Do you honestly think it possible? Why is he still here? Wouldn’t he have gone to Bari and stayed there? And anyway, there were no bruises to her face. You saw what Grazia Rosa’s face looked like. Aurora’s was alabaster. If he had beaten her to death, you would have seen the markings.”

“I don’t know. There’s something bothering me. I can’t get it, but something’s not right.” Her fingers fluttered over the scar on her top lip. Then she wrapped the crystal bead in a paper serviette and placed it back in her jacket pocket.

VIA DEL CAMPO TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 10.00 PM Looking down at her aching feet, Hope saw how swollen they were and wished she could bathe them in a bowl of ice. She felt bedraggled and knew her hair looked a state. They had been walking most of the day, yet Caterina ahead of her, strolled with a bounce in her step and had retained all the freshness of a yellow marigold gleaming in the morning sun.

Hope stopped and wriggled her puﬀy toes. “Hold up a sec, sunbeam, Can we have a pit stop?”

Caterina spun round and giggled. “Look, we’re here,” she said.

Hope regarded the medieval archway with its two crenellated towers on either side and read the marble plaque: ‘St. Faith Gate, known as Vacca's Gate’ which marked the entrance to Via del Campo.

The long narrow alley, smelt of urine and rotting garbage. It had not yet been cleaned by the council refuse company, as litter lined the gutters. Graﬃti painted on dirty walls read ‘Ghetto’, ‘Fuck the police’ and senseless signatures, undecipherable words. A Hay Day of spray paint.

Small green iron and wooden doors lined the alley, dirty with dust and rust or paint peeling oﬀ, some graﬃti free, some not.

At this hour, the phone centre, the bakery, the pharmacy and the ‘El Baraka’ Asian, African and South American butcher’s and food market were closed. Shut and locked with pull down blinds. Bar 88 was open but empty. Only the young barman inside, cleaning tables. So too was the Lavandaria self service, laundry mat.

“We’ve walked all this way to enter a backstreet ghetto?”

“It was your idea,” said Caterina. She saluted the robust woman in a blonde wig who sat, with legs wide open, on a wooden bench looking like a Weeble in nothing but a blacklaced leotard. The woman eyed Hope with caution then smiled as she noticed Hope’s feet, her face lined with the experience of the street. Hope could not but stare at the breast job on a chest wrinkled with time. And her Adam’s apple was far too big for a woman.

“Via del Campo. So what’s all the fuss about?”

They stopped to look at the apartments for sale, on show in the window of an estate agent’s. High prices for such a sleazy area. But this was Prè, once a welcome sight to pilgrims and merchants travelling from the port of Genoa to the Holy Land and the East where they could find aid at the several hospitals set up by the monks for this purpose.

At the time De Andre, the singer-songwriter, wrote his song ‘Via del Campo’, the area was in complete degradation, populated by petty criminals, la malavita, who earned their living smuggling cigarettes, receiving stolen goods and pimping prostitutes.

“You know that in this part of the historical centre, Pre’, there are nineteen "Rolli” palaces, eleven of which are listed on the UNESCO list of world heritage sites,” said Caterina.

“Roly poly palaces?”

“Rolli.” Caterina emphasised the double consonant. “It means ‘elencho’- list. So, let me explain.”

Hope grunted. “Oh, here we go. Wiki bloody pedia.” But she secretly enjoyed listening to her friend’s historical elucidations

“Well, In 1576, the Republic of Genova issued a Decree that oﬃcially listed a large number of dwellings, so as to recognise their value. They called them ‘Rolli’. The listed buildings. This decree also compelled the owners of the homes on the list to take turns in hosting state visits.”

“Why?” asked Hope, fiddling with the large, colourful beads around here neck.

“There’s no royal palace in Genova, you see. So, if an important guest came to visit, they stayed in one of the dwellings on the list. The more noble the guest, the more sumptuous the mansion that was chosen for them and the wealthier the family who hosted them. It was regarded a great honour.

“There are over one hundred of these homes in Genova, forty two of them on the UNESCO world heritage list. Twenty of them are in Prè alone.”

“Where the hell are these mansions? All I can see is degradation. It’s a dump.”

A Chinese girl suddenly appeared from a side alley juggling a bunch of keys. She wore tight black shorts on her fat thighs and a fluorescent pink T-shirt with a sparkly red love heart on it. Her yellow flip-flops flapped as she padded towards a rolling blind, crouched, opened an enormous padlock and heaved, lifting the blind up to reveal a glass door with a sign above it advertising ‘Lotus Flower Massage’.

Hope and Caterina were forced to push themselves up against the estate agent’s window when a white van drove through the archway and trundled up the lane to stop where fat thighs flagged him down.

Hope recognised the driver.

“Keep your head down and whatever you do, don’t turn round. No. Don’t turn round.”

Hope pulled Caterina’s arm to prevent her from turning.

“What the..”

“Shut up and keep still.”

In the glass of the window, Hope could make out the fair haired, muscular man who began unloading the first of several large boxes which he carried into the Lotus Flower while fat thighs stood in silence, hands on hips.

“I think it’s Eddie,” she whispered.

“Eddie?” Caterina turned her head.

“Do NOT turn round. Don’t let him see you, for Christ’s sake.”

“But why? If it’s Eddie ..”

“Shut up, Cat. Please”

“Luis Vuitton handbags in this one.” Eddie said. “We’ve got Nike trainers, Gucci belts and I think there are some Ray bans.”

Thick thighs opened her legs wider and would have looked more at home as a soldier in Tianamen Square. “Where ah the Supweme stuﬀ. Got the T-shirts? Evewy one wans Supweme nowaday. You know, Wight? Wha we wan. We wan Supweme, innit. The Gaﬀer pwomised.”

Eddie took out another box from the back of the van. “It’s all here, love. Any problems, call the Gaﬀer, okay?”

Eddie jumped into the van and reversed out of the lane while fat thighs entered the parlour. Hope grabbed Caterina by the arm.

“Come on. Let’s take a peek.”

“Stop pulling me, will you?” Caterina shrugged her arm away.

“What on earth is ‘The Chinese Touch with surprise’,” asked Hope as she studied the price list stuck to the inside of the glass door with sellotape.

“Hope, can you tell me why we are standing here like idiots and why you wouldn’t let me say hello to Eddie?”

“Our young Eddie has got fingers in more than one pie, and that was the same van I saw parked outside the warehouse the other night. The one that nearly knocked down Francesca's grandson. Eddie and the neck tattoo work together.”

“Do you know how many white vans there are in Genova?”

“Yeah, but not with windows blocked out with newspaper. That was Eddie alright. So the Gaﬀer owns this place too. Makes sense.”

“The Gaﬀer? Who’s the Gaﬀer?”

Fat thighs stood behind the counter at reception so engrossed in opening the boxes, she did not notice them staring in. Suddenly an even younger looking Chinese girl in a navy blue pleated skirt and a silver sequinned crop top, pushed her way past them.

“Duìbùqǐ,” the girl said in Mandarin, her bright cerise lipstick and thick false eyelashes giving her game away.

“Bàoqiàn,” replied Hope, making room for her to enter. “Nǐ zài zhèlǐ gōngzuò ma?”

“Yes, I work here. Massage. Wan wun? Nice massage. You an your frien. Good, nice massage. Four hans. We get nice boy for you? You speak Chinese, we give you good price.”

Hope smiled but shook her head. “Bù, xièxiè. Another time.” They watched the girl totter behind reception and climb the staircase in black leather, cat woman, lace up boots with stiletto heels that could pierce any man’s heart.

“Hope, you can speak Chinese. That’s impressive.”

“No. I can’t, but I can say a few words which always has an eﬀect.”

Hope began walking away from the Lotus Flower Massage Parlour and back to the medieval archway. She forgot her sore feet as she allowed her thoughts a voice. Caterina had diﬃculty keeping up with her quickening strides and the flow of her words.

“Listen to this and tell me what you think. Eddie was seen by Luca at the warehouse the night Aurora died, loading that white van with a heavy sack of some sort. He lied about his whereabouts. Said he was at a birthday party. He lied because he met Aurora on his way out of Sant'Antonino with a van loaded up with fake designer labels. After his little girlfriend, Giovanna, turns up and tells me Aurora was pregnant, and Anna Clara tells me she’s seen Eddie coming out of Aurora’s apartment in the mornings, I go and talk to Eddie. At first he denied everything, but I got to him and he confirmed it all. He also assured me that the kid wasn’t his. How he can be so sure, I don’t know, but he was. But

apparently, Aurora had a very possessive ex who took it hard when she broke it oﬀ with him, stalked her a bit and probably got a shock when she told him she was up the duﬀ.”

“Wait a minute Hope. Stop. You’re going too fast. So the baby could’ve been Eddie’s, or this ex boyfriend’s?”

“Or the Angel’s,” Hope murmured.

“What did you say?”

Hope fluttered her fingers over the scar on her her top lip and said with more conviction, “It could’ve been the Angel’s.Your Gabriele’s.”

Caterina stomped her foot. Her hands clenched by her thighs and her nostrils flared. “Che Cazzo, Hope. You just don’t let it go, do you. You’ve turned this into a witch hunt against Gabriele. Right from the beginning you decided Aurora didn’t kill herself. That she was murdered and that Gabriele’s involved. Possibly killed her, which is, quite frankly, bloody ridiculous. So go on. Tell me why you think he’s got anything to do with it. Go on.”

For the first time, Hope saw Caterina over-heated, sweaty and frazzled. She lowered her eyes and said, “He’d been seeing her. Going round to her flat in the afternoons. Doing the rewiring. You saw the roses. One in the bin, one on the bedside table. They were from him, of course. And then he’s been seen outside her apartment late at night.”

“Yes, I know all that. You’re telling me nothing new. But Mirella said it looked like Gabriele, not that it was Gabriele.”

“And Anna Clara. She saw him, too, sitting on Aurora’s door step at around three in the morning. Swore it was Gabriele. How can we be sure that this ex is not Gabry?”

“Because, apparently, Aurora’s Ex is married with two kids.”

“Apparently. But we don’t know that for certain. Look, Caterina. Aurora was gorgeous. young, available. Gabriele has no ties and a reputation for the women. You know that. That’s why you chucked him out of your house, for God’s sake. Bellin, Cat. A man like Gabry would find it pretty diﬃcult to say no to a girl like Aurora. If he thought he had the slightest chance with her, he would have used every charm in the book and enjoyed the chase too. That’s what they like, the chase. And the more diﬃcult it is, the more they want it.”

Caterina’s chin trembled and her hands went limp. She sagged her shoulders and said, “Okay. Okay. So let’s suppose he was seeing her.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if to process her thoughts. “Sleeping with her. Why would he kill her? Because she’s pregnant? Maybe he’d be delighted to have a kid?”

“What if he discovered she was shagging Eddie at the same time and that the kid could’ve been Eddie’s, not his? Jealousy turns us into monsters.”

“But then you can say the exact same thing about Eddie, can’t you? And this is all conjecture.” Caterina sneered. “Have you spoken to Gabriele? What has he got to say for himself?”

“Yes, he had been going round there in the afternoons, but only to do the rewiring fo Anna Clara. Yes, he did give her the roses, but he gives roses to everyone. That they were just friends.” Hope guﬀawed. “But he also told me he was going to meet her that evening when he went to football practise. That’s why he didn’t join us for the aperitivo with Pino. Cat, he didn’t play football. He met her. Well, he said she didn’t turn up, but he lied to you. He’s a liar and can’t be trusted.”

“But that doesn’t make him a murderer, does it? There’s a big diﬀerence between not telling the truth and killing someone. Christ, Hope, you should know that. And let’s say it was either one of their’s, Eddie or Gabriele’s. Do you honestly think Aurora, Aurora, a nineteen year old, frequenter of Portofino night clubs, only interested in money and going places. Do you really think she would’ve wanted to keep it? I doubt that very much. She’d’ve had it aborted as soon as she could.” Her hands were on her hips now.

“Eddie swore to me it wasn’t his. His reckoning was a bit weak, but she was seven weeks pregnant, he said, and he’d been seeing her for just three. Four weeks, max. He did see her that night but only briefly. He left her to walk back up to Sant’Antonino on her own. Said he was in a hurry and she was in a foul mood. The question is, did she go back to Sant’Antonino, or did she go straight into the cemetery? It wasn’t that late. She was supposed to meet The Angel. She didn’t turn up, so he says. But we know someone went to her place. Someone who looked like Gabriele. She then turns up dead in the cemetery. So which one of them isn’t telling me the truth?”

“Mario?”

“Mario? What’s he got to do with anything?”

“No, look Hope. Over there. That’s Mario by the black SUV. Come on. Let’s go and ask him if he can give us a lift. My head can’t stand any more of this.”

Mario “Enough leg room, love? Move the seat forward will you, there’s a good girl. Give Caterina more room in the back there. That’s a girl.”

Hope screamed inwardly at the man’’s oﬀensive use of the word girl. A misogynist in the making. Or Rather, at his age, already well and truly established. But she nevertheless bent down and grappled for the sliding seat mechanism. However, rather than grabbing the metal bar, she grabbed something soft. Her head dropped to check. She arose with a grunt and a bright red woollen cardigan in her hand which she held up to show Mario.

Bellin, a red cardigan, The nape of her neck prickled. Grazia Rosa told Pino that Aurora had taken a red cardigan out with her. But where was it? She wasn’t wearing it, and no cardigan was found by her body.

“Nice colour,” said Hope. “This yours?”

Mario’s eyes darted to the right.

“Thank Gawd you found that before my wife did. I’d be in for a living hell.” He guﬀawed.

“Not Rita’s then, I take it?””

“Look, keep it to yourselves, will you? I was only having a bit of fun. You know what we men are like. Need to have a bit of fun every now and again. Makes life more bearable, dunnit?”

Mario glanced furtively at Hope again.

Hope placed the red cardigan on her lap and patted it. She noticed Mario clutching the steering wheel tighter and glance in the mirror at Caterina.

“So, Mario, tell me something. Who was the blonde you were with the other night?”

“What other night?”

“We saw you driving out of Via del Veilino with a blonde in your car the other evening, didn’t we, Hope? It was us in the taxi you made reverse out of the lane, remember?” Caterina shifted behind Mario and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’d love to know who she was. The blonde. Who was she, Mario?”

“Was it Aurora? Aurora Rossi? You weren’t out with her, were you?” asked Hope. “Just to refresh your memory, it was the evening before she was found dead in the cemetery.”

Mario’s head spun round to look at Hope, then the cardigan. He frowned and said, “What? You think I was with Grazia Rosa’s daughter? With Aurora?”

He let out a burst of laughter. But seeing Hope’s serious expression, he frowned and bit his bottom lip.

“The reason I ask is,” said Hope, “her mum told us she’d been wearing a red cardigan that night. Aurora, that is.” Hope, again, patted the soft wool on her lap.

“Jesus. You’re serious. You think I was with Aurora? Christ no. That wasn’t Aurora Rossi. That was Carola. Elisa’s new girl. Her name’s Carola. Look, I took her up the clay pigeon shooting range, alright? Up by Antonella’s. Nice and quiet there at that time of night. Know what I mean.”

He winked. “She was begging for it. So I gave her what she wanted. Nothing wrong in that, is there? Young girl wants a man who knows what he’s doing, doesn’t she?”

Hope winced. She found this man unbearable and wished she could be home in her bed.

“And what about Rita?” asked Caterina.

“Rita?” He blew out of puckered lips. “Rita, my love, has her own agenda. No idea what she’s up to and don’t really care.”

“Now, that doesn’t sound like you, Mario! Thought you doted on your Rita.”

“Rita and I have an unspoken agreement. Each to one’s own. No questions asked. Don’t make it obvious though. That wouldn’t be right. But how the hell else ‘ave we managed to still stay married after all these years?”

“Open marriage, is it?” asked Hope, shifting to the edge of her seat.

“Sort of. I have my bit of fun. And she has hers. Don’t see the problem.”

“So she sees other men? And you’re not jealous of her?”

“Jealous? Me? Of Rita? Listen. All the while Rita’s distracted, it’s fine by me. Get’s her outta my hair. And I can play my little games with the younger ones. As long as she doesn’t find any obvious clues.” He shifted his eyes to the cardigan. “What more can a man ask, ay? See, as far as I’m concerned, a woman reaches a certain age and, well, just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I have to be honest, don’t I?”

Caterina stared at Hope with wide eyes.

Hope thought she had heard it all, but this man took the biscuit and licked up all the crumbs from the floor too. She changed the subject.

“Don’t suppose you saw anyone about, other than us, that evening on the road around the cemetery?” she asked.

Mario wiped the beads of sweat oﬀ his forehead.

“Say again, love?”

“Did you see anyone on the road that same evening you were with Carola?”

“No, love. I didn’t. Only had eyes for my bird.”

“Where does she live, Mario? This Carola?” Catrina asked.

“Live? At the top of the lane that runs past Parodi’s. She lives down there with her mum.”

“Good Lord Mario,” Caterina giggled. “How old is she?”

“Old enough, my love. Old enough.”

Hope rolled her eyes.

“Hold on a minute, though. I did see someone. Being the gentleman I am, I sat in the car and watched her walk to her front door. You never know at that time of night who’s lurking in the bushes. So she gets to the door and I sees a smart looking coupe, a Merc I think it was. It pulled up outside the back of the pharmacy. Had a woman with him. Nice legs she had.”

Mario hit the accelerator when he saw the traﬃc lights ahead turning amber. Hope grabbed the dashboard.

“Can’t be sure,” he continued, “but I remember thinking she was wearing red shoes. I like a woman in red shoes. Classy but sexy at the same time. Nice.”

Hope’s head spun round. “Red shoes? How could you tell in the dark?”

“Had my headlights on. Enjoyed watching Carola swing her hips for me as she walked home. Great bum she’s got.”

Hope turned to Caterina and mouthed a “Bellin.”

“It must have been that De Luca boy, the one that runs the chemist’s. What’s his name? Gabriele’s got so many brothers, it’s hard to remember them all.”

“Alessandro,” said Caterina.

“That’s it. Alessandro. I remember thinking, ‘good on you lad’. Cos he’s married, in’t he? Got two kids, if I’m not wrong.And there he was, doing the same thing as me. See what I mean. We men are all at it. All out for a bit of fun we are. She was a looker, alright. Young too. But then when I saw him grab her arm and pull her in through the door a bit rough like, I wasn’t too happy ‘bout that. You don’t treat good looking girls like that. They need respect. Gotta treat ‘em right.”

“Just the good looking ones, ay Mario?” said Hope.

Mario pulled into the Piazza at Staglieno and slowed down to a near stop before Francesca’s bar.

“Down there it was,” he pointed.

“Alessandro De Luca,” said Caterina slowly. “Alessandro. The spitting image of his brother, Gabriele.” She watched Hope stroke the cardigan on her lap.

“Leave this with me Mario, okay? I’ll give it back to Carola. That way your wife will never find out. Alright love?”

She patted his arm, then looked out of the passenger window and thought, “Doctor Alessandro De Luca.” Then she turned to Caterina and said, “It just so happens, tomorrow morning, I’ve got that allergy test. Well, well, well. How perfect can that be?”

THE ALLERGY TEST - WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST 10 AM The young woman in the white doctor’s coat did not look up from her magazine.

“Yes?”

“I have an appointment with Doctor De Luca.”

“He’s not here. Doesn’t usually come in until 11.00.” She flicked open the next page.

Hope checked the name tag pinned to the white coat. “Well, Paola, I have an allergy test. Booked it a few days ago.”

Paola slammed the magazine shut and regarded her customer with pursed lips.

“What time?”

“If I’m disturbing you I can go elsewhere.”

“Er..No, no. It’s Dottoressa Luisa you want.” Her fingers fondled the sleek front cover of ‘Donna Moderna’, itching to open it again.

“So could you let Dottoressa Luisa know I’m here.”

Paola’s thumb poked towards a narrow corridor behind her.

“She’s in the back studio.”

Reopening the magazine, the pharmacy door bell ding donged and she clicked her tongue against her teeth. Hope shook her head and walked around the counter into the corridor where she knocked on a closed door marked ‘Ambulatorio’.

“Not now, I’m busy,” a woman’s harsh voice shouted.

“I’m here for an allergy test,” Hope hurled back, wanting to suggest the staﬀ take a course in customer service skills.

The door opened and the white-coated Dottoressa Luisa, her grey hair pulled tightly back into a bun revealing an overly tanned face, which reminded Hope of a dried prune, waved the plaster she held and said, “Sit. I’ll be five minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later an elderly gentleman walked out, rolling down his sleeve. As he passed Hope , he said “Don’t look so worried. I survived didn’t I?” He winked at her cheekily.

“Now, Now, Signor Torselli. Always so forward with the ladies. Even at your age!”, the Dottoressa said, following him.

“What is better in life than a beautiful young woman. I can still admire them, can’t I? Nothing wrong in that, I say. And what a rose she is too.”

Hope’s hand flew to cover the right side of her mouth. She grabbed a strand of her hair and hid her lips. “How pathetic men are even in old age,” she thought, crossing her legs and feigning a laugh.

In the white-washed room, Hope smelt a medley of sweet antiseptic and sterile detergent and when she sat into the white leather chair, nauseous bile churned in her throat as Doctor Luisa wiped Hope’s arm with a pungent disinfectant.

The long sterile needle caused a wave of intense heat to lash through her and her stomach tightened with a nauseous knot. How she hated needles. One and two and three….Distraction. Find a distraction. She looked around the room. Certificates on the walls. All awarded to Dottoressa Luisa Tripaldi. She thought, strange. Not one single certificate for Doctor De Luca.

“Ready?”

Hope squinted.

“There’ll just be a light pricking sensation. Nothing to worry about.”

Hope sank further in the chair, turned her head and closed her eyes. She did not wish to see her own blood being sucked out of her vein.

“All done.” said the nurse.

When she opened her eyes, the Doctor took Hope’s fingers and pushed them hard against the cotton wool swab.

“Hold that for a moment while I fetch a plaster.”

Noticing a bright red cardigan hanging on the coat rack in the corner by the door, Hope sat upright.

“Nice cardigan. I got one just like it. Is it yours?” she asked.

“No, not mine,” answered the nurse with Iittle interest. “I expect whoever’s it is will come back to fetch it eventually. Been there a few days now.”

Hope got up, walked to the coat rack and fondled the wool. “Ah, this is better quality than mine.” She looked at the label. “Max Mara. Expensive.”

She slipped the cardigan oﬀ the hook and let it fall to the floor. “Oops. Oh dear.”

With her back to the nurse she picked it up, rummaging in the pockets. She pulled out a business card. ‘Sporting Club Ristorante e Lounge Bar, 125 Corso Italia’. The photograph of diners sitting on a terrace overlooking the sea invited her to book a table.

“I’ll await your call for the results then?’ She asked, pocketing the card.

“Yes, We’ll contact you in about three days.”

Back in the shop the young woman behind the counter, now busy with a queue of elderly customers waved Hope out and shouted, “pay when you pick up the result.”

Hope marched out of the sliding glass door which ding donged so loudly she jumped and bumped straight into a man entering. Hope muﬄed her apology then looked at the badge on the chest she was staring into.

Doctor Alessandro De Luca. Well, well, well. How lucky was that.

“Doctor De Luca, just the man.”

She pulled him to one side as a white haired lady hobbled like a penguin through the chiming doors.

“When would be a good time to catch you for a quick chat, Doctor De Luca? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about…”

“Yes, Yes of course but I’m running late right now and have to get on.”

He hurtled himself through the door.

Above the donging, Hope could just hear him say, “Come and see me Saturday. Saturday is always a good day. Anytime.”

Hope thought, he is waving his hand as if I were an irritating wasp. The Germanic type that paralyses its prey and leaves it in a hole in the ground to be eaten alive.

Alessandro in Pharmacy- (Flashback to Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto) Alessandro marched into the pharmacy glaring. Sometimes he hated the customers.They drained him. Their constant need of attention and aﬃrmation of their existence irritated him and this morning his fingers had begun to crunch into fists even before he had bumped into the redhead at the door. Why did they always have to talk to him? Why not the other pharmacists who were far more qualified than himself. But of course, no one knew that, dld they?

“Morning Doc,” shouted Paola, glancing at her wristwatch.

Alessandro pushed past the disorganised queue at the counter without a response and made his way to the back of the shop where he entered his oﬃce and slumped into his chair. He massaged his temples but his head continued to pound.

“Va fan culo. Fuck it,”

He stomped his fists on the desk, grappled in the pen holder and pulled out a key with which he opened the bottom drawer by his left knee. He felt for the packet of ‘special k’ gummies and popped one into his mouth.

When he lay back into his chair, he filled his lungs and slowly blew out his relief.

Thirty minutes. In thirty minutes he would feel better. Then he could go out there and be the great Doctor De Luca.

He closed his eyes and remembered.

He had left his car at the back of the pharmacy and had taken her in through the back door, straight into his oﬃce. God she looked great. That red dress. Sophisticated, elegant. And the bracelet gleamed as did her smile.

Aurora used to visit him often. She pretended to be a customer. Loved listening to him chat to the oldies in that soft, silky voice of his, she said. And when he winked at her, she shivered with delight. That’s what she told him. And that’s why he did it.

How often did he take her into the back and lift her onto his desk. He would hold her and play with her hair. Then he would kiss her and play with her tongue. His maturity and style excited her. So diﬀerent to the boys of her own age.

But that night she didn’t sit on his desk. She hung up her cardigan on the coat hook and stood at a distance.

“What is it you want me to do for you, Alessandro? I’m tired and I want to go home. Mum’s

expecting me, you know.”

He noticed the twitch in her cheek. Irritation. That’s what it was.

Without answering, he grabbed a white paper bag from the desk.

“Open it” he said to her.

“You haven’t bought me another gift, have you?”

“No darling. This is not a gift for you but for me. I want you to use it now.”

“But what on earth..?”

Her twitch had turned to alarm.

“Use it now. I want to see the truth for myself.” The softness had left his eyes. His expression, stern, clouded. “So take the test into the toilet. Here. Now. And show me.”

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of his oﬃce, down the passageway and into the small bathroom.

What had she said? “Why?”

Was it “Why?”

And he had answered cruelly, he can see that now. “If you are pregnant, then why do you want us to break up? Surely you want our baby to have his father around. That’s if I’m the father, of course!”

She’d tried to persuade him her decision stemmed from her age. And, ah yes, her dad. The little Mussolini. How the old man would kill her first with ‘botte’, with blows from his thick, hard hands and then would hunt down the lousy bastard who had sullied his daughter. He would have no qualms to shoot him like the wild boar he went in search of in the hills on Sunday mornings with his like-minded companions.

Oh, yeah. The other excuse. How did that one go? The university thng and the exams she had to pass. Had a job waiting for her. She wasn’t willing to compromise everything by having a child with a man she no longer loved.

No longer loved? Where had that come from!

And she expected him to support her decision to abort. She truly believed that Alessandro, mature, experienced and kind, would have understood her. He was, after all 42 years old, not that much younger than her father. He had been married twice and had two children, a little girl who had just started primary school from his first marriage and a baby daughter still in nappies. Surely he did not want another child, another expense in his already complicated life. Aurora thought he would have been relieved when she had told him she was booking into the clinic for an abortion.

However, to her surprise, he’d pleaded with her not to do it, his dream for a son so strong.

She squatted over the toilet. He loomed over her.

When she finished he grabbed the pregnancy kit from her hand and stared hard at it.

“You have to wait for five minutes before it shows the result and the stick has to lie flat otherwise it won’t work.” Her voice was shrill. It shook.

Alessandro placed the stick on the sink top. “How do I know if it’s positive?”

“Look at the result window. One line means negative. Two lines means I’m pregnant.” Aurora stood near the bathroom door. She wanted to get out. He could tell.

Alessandro checked his watch.

Five minutes of silence.

“Is it mine?” he asked when he saw the two lines, “Or have you been fucking someone else. Some young school kid who wouldn’t know how to look after a baby if you paid him!”

“Of course it’s yours!”

“So why don’t you want to keep it? It’s my baby too. Don’t I have a say in this?”

“I can’t have a child with you Alex.” Her voice pleaded. “I’ve told you already. If I keep this baby my life will be ruined. Everything I’ve been working so hard for, will come to nothing. I want a career. I want to go places, work abroad, have a life. I’m not ready to be a mum. Not yet. You can surely understand that, Alex.”

“But I love you. I can’t live without you. You’re my life. And now you have my child inside you. Can’t you see we are meant to be together.”

“No, Alex. We’re not. We’ve been through this a million times. Please. I’ve tried to be honest with you. How many times? I don’t want to be with you anymore. It’s finished. Over. Why can’t you understand?”

“But I can give you a good life. Look after you both. You read my note, didn’t you? I meant what I said. I will give you 100,000 Euros if you let me have our baby. I’ll do anything for you if only you keep our son.” He was pleading with her. He was begging her.

And that’s when she did it.

She grabbed her bag, opened it and pulled out a piece of paper which she crumpled up and threw it at him.

“A hundred thousand? Do you honestly think that’s enough? Enough to keep the kid of an old man. Love you? I can’t stand you. And if you think I’m going to ruin my life for a lousy one hundred thousand. It’s going to take a lot more than that, old man. And I wonder what your wife would say if I had a little chat with her? Certainly be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

It was him shaking now. “Can’t you see sense, girl? It’s my child! My son! You’ll be killing my son if you have an abortion.” His face had turned scarlet and the vein in his neck pulsated furiously.

“I don’t want your child inside me.” Her voice was quiet.

“What did you say? Say that again? I dare you to say that to me again?”

“I don’t want your child inside me.” She spoke louder this time, almost spitting at him. “I’m in love with someone else and I don’t want your child.

He slapped her. Shocked, Aurora put her hand to her cheek. “You bastard! You hit me!” She pushed him away. He grabbed her arms. She spat in his face and he let go, horrified. He slapped her again, the rage inside him swelling. This time Aurora fell backwards and hit the side of her head against the hard basin. Thud. She fell onto the bathroom floor. Thud. She lay there with her blue eyes open, large and scared.

So scared. But he couldn’t stop, could he?

“You want to kill my child! My child! How dare you! How the fucking dare you!”

“Doc De Luca. Doc De Luca?”

Alessandro grabbed the soft hand he felt on his shoulder. Paola let out a shriek. He twisted his head to see the young, white coated assistant behind him and sighed.

“Paola. What is it?

“Sorry Alex, but we need you out there. Signora Maloberti’s forgotten her prescription again. You’re the only one who knows the exact dosage.”

“Of course. Of course. Let me at her.”

He jumped out of his seat, grabbed his white coat from the rack and spotted the cardigan hanging there. His heart raced and it thumped so loudly he was sure Paola could hear it too. He touched the black wool, soft like her skin had been and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

“Doctor De Luca, please. There are a lot of customers out there.”

“Of course, of course,” he sighed. “But don’t forget, Paoletta, I’m oﬀ to Framura today. I’m outta here in half an hour.”

Alessandro followed the swinging hips of the very delightful Paoletta into the shop front and thanked God he was going to take a break. A few days on his own. He needed to clear his head.

The Angel Gabriel - Wednesday 22nd August Morning While his brother prepared the prescription for Signora Maloberti, Gabriele left the fruit and vegetable market opposite.

Arms loaded with empty boxes to dump in his cart, he saw an old chest of drawers abandoned on its side by the street bins opposite the small butcher’s and as soon as he chucked the boxes he went to inspect it.

Not bad nick.

He flexed his biceps and heaved it onto his shoulders then hurled it into the back of his porter. Then he remembered he needed some milk.

Outside the entrance to the convenience store stood a woman holding out her hand.

“Alright love?” Gabriele asked.

She pushed her lank, greasy hair away from her eyes and jabbed her hand at his chest.

“Spare some change mister?”

Her fingernails were chewed red raw. Her skin calloused and unwashed.

Gabriele studied her pasty yellow face. Her eyes were half closed and from what he could see of them, bloodshot. She wore a dirty T-shirt, two sizes too big and her Khaki army surplus jeans and unlaced boots made her look like a man who had been sleeping on the streets for days.

He had seen the stare before and his heart twinged. His brother had stared like that.

He placed his hand in his trouser pocket and took out a ten euro note which he slapped into her palm.

“Here Raﬀa. Take this and get yourself something good to eat. I mean it, girl. Food. You need to eat something. Alright?”

“Thanks, mister. Too kind,” she slurred. “But how d’ya know my name?”

“No worries, my love. I know everybody around here. I’m the Angel Gabriel.”

When he entered the supermarket, a sense of overwhelming sadness seeped into his soul and clouded his vision.

HOPE SPEAKS TO RITA Hope checked her phone. She had twenty minutes before her appointment with Gabriele under the oak tree in the cemetery. He had said he would take her to Mauro.

The piazza bustled and before the cemetery gates, a group of mourners huddled together in an animated congregation. When she arrived at the florist kiosks, she searched for Giovanna. She wanted to tell her that she had been right about Eddie. Put her mind at rest but the glass door was locked. Giovanna wasn’t about.

“Looking for Jo?”

It came from a Tigress, blazon in gold, and lounging in a reclined back chair amongst white lilies and purple gladioli outside the kiosk next door. She wore a leopard skin body, cleavage bronzing in the burning sunshine. Hope nodded and ventured closer.

“She’ll be back in a tic, love.” She waved her plastered arm. “Anything I can do?”

“No, you’re alright. What happened to you?”

“Little accident. Tripped in the street, daft idiot that I am. If you’re gonna wear high heels, don’t wear ‘em in the historical centre. Those lanes are death traps.” With her good hand she brushed her bleached yellow hair behind her ears, both decorated with long golden hoops and

several sparkling studs of diﬀerent colours.

Hope’s eyes followed the swarm of butterflies that ran down her upper arm in red and yellow ink and watched her wrist clank with the weight of an exaggerated number of bracelets. One in particular caught her attention.

“What a lovely bracelet! Never seen one like that. Very original.”

“Which one?” Rita shook her wrist and the colourful beads shimmered.

“May I?” Hope fingered the delicate crystals. “Beautiful. They spell your name, I presume. “Oh, but there’s one missing, isn’t there?.”

“I know, I know. It broke oﬀ when I fell flat on my face. They’re making me another one.”

“But, I think I’ve seen this. Yes, I have. In a jewellery shop down by the pomegranate seed. Yes. They sell them there.”

“That’ll be Nando’s.” Rita’s eyes glimmered more than the bracelet.

“How strange,” Hope said. “I popped in to have a look and found this on the carpet. She took out her purse from her shoulder bag and fiddled inside the zip. Rita gasped when she saw the letter ‘R’ on the broken bead.

“Who are you?” she stuttered.

“A visitor. Staying with Caterina.”

“You’re the Cacciatore girl, aren’t you?”

Hope nodded. “I am, indeed.” She paused and then said, “You didn’t really fall in the street, did you Rita?”

The tigress shifted her eyes from left to right. “Look, I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.” Then she lowered her voice. “But yes, it happened when I was in the shop. Nando and I, well, Nando, he’s my lov…”

“Tell me what happened, Rita. There was an argument, wasn’t there? Was it with Grazia Rosa?”

“Grazia Rosa? But no. Not Grazia Rosa. It was Aurora, the little slapper. God bless her soul.” Rita made the sign of the cross over her chest. “She came in the back entrance. We didn’t hear her and God knows how long she'd been standing behind that depressing red velvet curtain. It’s like a funeral parlour that shop. Don’t know how many times I’ve said to Nando he should brighten the place up a bit. He’d get more customers that way, for sure.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Well, she must’ve seen us fiddling about with each other. Nando can be a naughty boy when he wants to. Behaves more like a teenager than a grown man in his fifties. But that’s what I find attractive about him.” She giggled like a girl.

Hope grimaced and prayed she wasn’t going to have to listen to all the gruesome details of their fiddling.

“So you think Aurora saw you both together in flagrante delicto?”

Rita stood up and lifted her bosom. “In fragrant delicious? We’re not talking ‘bout flowers here, my love.” She picked out a yellow rose from the vase next to the white lilies and sniﬀed it, then shoved it under Hope’s nostrils. Hope sneezed.

“Sorry, allergic. Did Aurora see you together, fiddling, as you say.”

“Well, of course she did. And acted so shocked, the little madam. As if she was holier than thou. We all know what a little tart she was. One man after the other she had. She came marching in that shop as if she were a nun in the vestry and spat at her father, she did. Absolutely spat at him.”

“Don’t you think she found it upsetting to see her father with another woman?” Hope asked.

“Another woman? I’m not ‘another woman’. Listen. She called him a filthy old man! Is that the way a daughter should talk to her father? In front of the woman he loves?

Hope astounded, could do nothing but nod.

“Course, he asked her to apologise to me. But she refused. Wanted him to do the sorry, sorry thing. Lord knows what that was about. And before she could explain, the doorbell rang. Some customer to fix his watch. Nando shook his finger and told him to come back in ten.

“And so how did you break your wrist?”

She lifted her plastered forearm in the air like a trophy.

“Silly me. I told him to explain to his daughter about us. ‘You should tell her,’ I said. ‘She needs to know.’ Of course, he lost it. Should’ve known. ‘Shut up, Rita,’ he says. ‘Now’s not the time.’ But I wouldn’t stop, would I. Got a mouth on me like a whale. ‘But Nando,’ I say. ‘If she knows, she’ll understand. She’s a grown woman.Tell her Nando,’ thinking I was helping the girl. Lord knows why.”

“And then what happened?”

“As soon as I mentioned the word ‘love’ he slapped me. He didn’t mean it, poor love. He just wanted to put a show on for his daughter. Well, I lost my balance, like a right idiot, and fell flat on my face like the whale I am.. Hit my wrist against the edge of that bloody oak counter. Bracelet

broke. Crystal beads scattered all over the plush red carpet. Sister Mary Aurora rushes out of the shop in despair and Nando gets down on his knees to play hunt the beads.”

She finally stopped gaggling to take a breath and then said, “Ah, Mario, where you been? Look who we have here. The Cacciatore girl. You know, Carmelo Cacciatore’s daughter, come back. She’s been in England, clever girl.”

“Yes. I know, Rita. We’ve met before.”

Mario winked at Hope and she could have sworn she saw a glisten in his eye.

GABRIELE AND THE BRIEFCASE - WEDNESDAY 22ND August While Hope was listening to Rita at the flower shop, Gabriele unloaded the chest of drawers from the pile of rubbish in the back of his porter. Mauro hovered nearby.

“Mauro. Come and help me, will you? Grab hold of this end. That’s it. Slowly now. Can you manage? Good man. Set it down on the ground. I’ve got it from here. Just show me where you want it.”

Mauro fussed with excitement and pointed to his shopping trolley, under the stairwell.

“Shall I put it next to the trolley? Is that where you want it? Good position. That way it won’t get wet when it rains. It’ll last longer there too.”

Gabriele carefully placed the dark mahogany sideboard against the back wall and patted its solid wooden top.

“They don’t make them like this nowadays, you know. You can’t find anything similar in Ikea, can you Mauro?”

Mauro smiled a wide grin that revealed his dirty yellow teeth, some blackened with rot. He had no idea what Ikea was but he liked the sound of the word.

“Do you like it then? It’ll do you nicely, won’t it? As soon as I saw it I thought : ‘It’d do Mauro nicely, it would.’ and I’m right, aren’t I?”

Mauro nodded in agreement.

“Look how much room you’ve got here.” said Gabriele as he opened the top drawer. “You can put all your bits in this and they’ll be kept safe. They won’t get ruined from the damp either, right?”

Mauro picked up his old suitcase from behind Elisa Molinari’s gravestone and heaved it up onto his new piece of furniture. Looking at Gabriele, he opened the case by punching in his secret code,1892, and began to pull out his collection of belongings, one by one, carefully placing them in the top drawer, nice and organised.

“What’s all this then Mauro?” Gabriele asked his friend with genuine interest. “Where did you get all this from?”

Mauro swept his arm out and around, pointing towards the grounds of the cemetery.

“So you’ve found all this stuﬀ here in the cemetery, have you? A proper lost and found you are! Let’s have a look at what you’ve got then.”

Mauro handed him the beige, suede ladies glove and then the plastic watch with an old red strap and Gabriele handled each item with great care out of respect for his friend. He jangled the child’s silver-beaded bracelet and felt the softness of a blue, cotton handkerchief. He commented on who he believed had been the owner and what may have happened to cause the person to lose such an object and when he sniﬀed the large, single black sock, Mauro laughed with pleasure at his antics.

There was one last object. A bible. A small, hand held chapel bible, red leather bound with a thin golden ribbon attached to it that acted as a marker for the pages.

Mauro opened the book reverently and took out a piece of paper which he began to unfold. He handed the bible to Gabriele who flicked through the browning gold- leafed pages.

Then something fell out. It was a red ribbon. It fluttered onto the ground before his feet.

He picked it up carefully and felt its velvet softness. Soft like the fresh skin of a young woman. White thighs flashed into his brain. A red skirt. The large back of a faceless man. A slap. A scream. A red ribbon.

He quickly turned to Mauro who was concentrated on unfolding the piece of paper he held in his thick-knuckled hands.

“Oh Dio mio! Mauro, is this that ribbon? You’ve kept it all these years?”

Mauro snatched it from his friend’s hands.

“We wanted to help you, Mauro. We did. But we couldn’t. We were so scared. And they would’ve killed us, you know. They would’ve. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Carmelo, my own brother would’ve killed me.”

Gabriele searched for forgiveness in Mauro’s eyes but saw only darkness.

Could he remember? Could Mauro remember what happened? He hoped to God, not.

On that stifling day all those years ago, Mauro had run to fetch the ball with such childlike joy, a joy that was so quickly squeezed out of him by the violent arms that held him in their grasp.

Mauro’s eyes tearful and his football shorts wet with fear after the crack of a slap that shut up his whimpering. His dirty scuﬀed knees trembled on his skinny legs. A waif of a boy whose life was lost from that day onwards. And then the horror.

They found him later that same evening.

After supper they went to the sheds to play and they found him.

He was nailed to a wooden beam in the big den like one of those hanging cats. Some stretched and skinless, others sliced with their intestines hanging out. He had been spared though. Battered and bruised, he was hanging but alive.

“God, Mauro. I’m so sorry.”

Mauro ignored him and shoved the piece of paper into Gabriele’s hand.

“What’s this?”

Gabriele straightened out the note paper like an iron pressing away the creases of a freshly dried cotton shirt.

“What’s this Mauro? It’s got handwriting on it. Do you want me to read it?”

Mauro nodded.

As Gabriele read aloud the words that were scrawled on the paper in blue ink, the realisation of their importance slowly dawned upon him.

“Where did you find this, Mauro?”

Mauro did not reply.

“Tell me, Mauro, Where did you find it? It’s really important that I know.”

Mauro was startled by the insistence of Gabriele’s tone and pushed his chin into his chest like a small child afraid to tell the truth.

“For God’s sake Mauro. Tell me where! Oh Shit you can’t tell me, can you! Well then show me. Take me to where you found this note. Mauro, please. You need to show me. For me.”

Gabriele lifted Mauro’s chin up with his hand and looked directly into his eyes. “You can show me, can’t you Mauro? I am your friend, aren’t I? Your friend, right?”

He had softened his voice and Mauro, after placing the bible inside the drawer and closing it with great care, took Gabriele by the hand and led him down the lane towards his special angel.

HOPE WAITING FOR GABRIELE Hope stood under the oak tree, out of the sun, waiting.

Twenty minutes late. Goddammit. She should’ve known the angel wouldn’t turn up,

Helps everyone else but not me. I’m not bloody young enough. The bastard.

Hope pulled out the business card.

‘Sporting Club Ristorante e Lounge Bar, 125 Corso Italia’.

She fondled the sharp corners and decided to take Caterina there that evening. Ask a few questions. See if anyone remembered Aurora that night. The night she died. It had to be that night. Dressed in red. Dressed to kill but not herself. Hope was becoming more certain of that.

Yes, a nice table on the terrace, overlooking the sea that lapped onto the beach below. She could ask Pino. Would he go there with her? Would he want to now? She doubted it. She’d ruined that with her big mouth. Didn’t know when to stop, did she.

Her purple and green primrose blouse was sticking to her skin, the heat so oppressive and humid. The fact that she had legged it to the bloody oak tree in the middle of Death Valley to get here on time to meet the sodding angel, hadn’t helped and her hair was frizzing. She could see strands of it like electrified wire. Good Lord.

Where the hell was he.

The bells chimed the half hour. One chime. Half eleven.

Great. He wasn’t coming.

She sauntered down the lane and stopped at the grave of an English woman. Mary constance LLoyd. Oscar Wilde’s wife. Bold lettering chiselled at the foot of the marble cross. Wife of Oscar Wilde. “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes”. She had wanted nothing more to do with him. Mary, that is. Changed her name. Changed her sons’ names. Forced him to give up his parental rights. Moved to Switzerland and his children never saw their father again. And yet. There on her cross of death, for all the living eyes to see, the knowledge that she was indeed, wife of Oscar Wilde.

Hope snorted.

Behind Mary’s cross, stood the Protestants temple, framed by tall skinny cypresses leaning precariously like circus stilt walkers. Hope tiptoed around them and found herself on a lane she recognised.

Ahead of her, trundled an orange overall pushing a wheelbarrow. She followed the whistling. When the man reached a tall marble chapel, congruous with its modern rectangular lines, he stopped and shifted his head from side to side.

Furtive, Hope thought.

She kept her distance and, interested in his doings, watched him take a metal box from the wheelbarrow which he grabbed jealously to his chest. At the glass doorway he fumbled with the lock, opened it and went inside. Not a minute later, out he stepped but with something missing.

The metal box.

Hope, intrigued, hung around until the orange overall had picked up the wheelbarrow and whistled oﬀ. She approached the glass panel and took a peek through.

De Andrè. The funeral chapel of family De Andrè and inside, leaning against the wall the guitar, a large photograph of the singer songwriter and pinned to a board, the words to a song - Via del Campo: “Dai diamanti non nasce niente dal letame nascono i fior”.

She could not see the metal box. What was that all about? she thought. The orange overall delivers it. Grazia Rosa takes it away. A metal box. Just like the one filled with crystal beads at Ferdinando’s Jewellery shop. Probably two a penny. He delivers, she takes away. What could be in it of so much value that Grazia Rosa comes after dark to collect. Grazia Rosa. Nando. Jewellery. Of course. It’s filled with jewellery. Well, well, well. Jewellery. But from where? Stolen, for sure. But why the cemetery?

She felt the card in her pocket and grabbed her phone. I’ll call him. I’ll call him and I’ll ask him to dinner. Then I’ll tell him about the red cardigan she saw in the studio at De Luca’s pharmacy.

She took in a deep breath and ignoring the butterflies in her belly, she dialled Pino’s number completely forgetting about the metal box.

THE NOTE The oﬃce door burst open.

“Pino, Pino!”

Pino startled, looked up from his desk and frowned.

“You can’t go in th….. Sir .. Maresciallo, I tried to stop him … sir. “

“Pino. You’ve got to look at this.”

Pino sighed heavily and scratched his eyebrow.

“It’s ok Griﬃni. I’ll see him. Shut the door behind you, will you?”

Constable Griﬃni raised his hand and did as he was asked.

“Pino, look at this.”

Gabriele shoved a crumpled piece of light blue note paper under Pino’s nose. Pino cocked his head.

“What is it? A love letter? For me?” He picked it up and sniﬀed it. “I hope this is worth your intrusion,” He added.

“Just open it and read it, will you?”

Pino’s eyebrow raised but as he read, he cleared his throat and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Where d’you get this?”

"Mauro had it.”

“Mauro?”

“I found it amongst Mauro’s belongings. I took him a chest of drawers that I’d found dumped outside the fruit market, see, in Piazza Par …”

“Yes, alright, I don’t need all the details, just tell me how Mauro got hold of it, will you?”

“He found it in the chapel.”

“What chapel, Gabry?” Pino’s tone was sharp.

“The Rossi chapel. He found it on the ground in the Rossi chapel the night Aurora was dumped there by the shadowy figures.”

“What? You mean he was there? Mauro? He saw who took her there?”

“Well, no. He didn’t see who it was. Black shadows. Said that when the shadows disappeared he went into the chapel and found his angel. His angel in the red dress. The note was on the ground.

He trod on it and heard the crunch. Picked it up and put it in his suitcase along with all his other stuﬀ he’s been collecting for years. You should see it all. A right treasure chest it is.”

“Okay, thank you Gabry. But how do you know all this? Mauro can’t speak for one thing.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Mauro speaks with his hands. I get the words out of him and I do the talking for him. When I’m right, he nods.”

“What’s this about an angel? That’s a strange one even for Mauro, isn’t it?”

“Not sure, but the red dress. Definitely Aurora.” Gabriele paused to catch his breath. “He’s kept the red ribbon, you know. Remember the red ribbon? In a bible. After all these years he’s still got it. Can you believe that?”

“His Angel in the red dress. God, you don’t suppose it’s the girl. He thought Aurora was the girl on the table.”

“Jesus. Poor Mauro. He was never the same again after what happened that day. He was never right anyway but that pushed him over, didn’t it? Sometimes I still wish it’d been me that got the ball. You know, if I’d gone and not Mauro…. Things would’ve been diﬀerent..”

Pino nodded, but he had not been listening. With his brow knitted and his eyes squinting at the notepaper he said,

“It’s to Aurora, I can see that, but who’s it from? Can you decipher the signature cos I can’t make it out at all.”

“Yeah, I know. Not easy, is it? But I can recognise that handwriting anywhere. That’s Alex’s writing, that is. See. He wrote it on pharmacy paper. Got the address on it there, look.”

“Alex? Alessandro? Cristo mio. Aurora pregnant? So, it was his kid.” Pino Looked up. “Did you know about this?”

“Course I didn’t bloody know. Alessandro and I’ve never seen eye to eye. And I tell you what else I didn’t know… that he had that kind of money. Jesus, that’s a hell of a lot of dough he oﬀered her to keep it. The pharmacy’s obviously doing alright for him, aint it.”

“Evidently. Look. Where will we find him now. It’s twelve thirty. Will he be there today?”

“Doubt it. He’ll ‘ave Gone to Framura. Goes there every August after the bank holiday. Can’t get enough of it, that one. Worships the sun, he does. Tan’s always perfect. He’ll be at the house, I expect. And if he’s not at the house he’ll be lying on a rock with his feet dangling in the water. You mark my words.”

“Griﬃni!” Pino shouted. “Get the Cherokee ready for me, will you?”

The high pitched siren of his mobile phone went oﬀ.

“Christ, what now! Yes, Hope. What?”

Pino looked at Gabriele, brow furrowed.

“Something about a cardigan. She’s found the cardigan.”

“Hope, meet us at Staglieno in twenty minutes. We’re going to Framura. What? You’re already at Staglieno? She’s already at Staglieno.”

Gabriele hit his forehead.

“Damn, I forgot. I was supposed to meet her there. She’s not going to be a happy bunny.”

FRAMURA “Jump in and buckle up” said Pino baring his teeth.

Vroom Vroom Vroom. He accelerated and sped oﬀ before Hope had closed the door.

“Woooaaa. Why the hurry?”

“Framura. To find Alex.”

Hope turned to look at Gabriele who was sitting in the back.

“So that’s why you didn’t bloody show. Thanks for telling me.”

Gabriele tightened his lips. Pino, forehead furrowed, rounded the busy piazza and said nothing.

Confused Hope asked, “How long will it take us?”

“At top speed in this, about 30 minutes. Hold on tight!”

An elderly man with a box of fresh flowers under his arm strolled across the Zebra. Pino slammed on the brakes and swung his arm across Hope’s body as she lurched forward.

Hope sucked air through her teeth.

“That’s if we get there at all,” she said, raising her eyes at him.

Approaching the motorway toll, Pino blasted the horn of the black Cherokee and a Fiat Five Hundred scampered to the right to let him through. He did not slow down.

Hope gripped onto the edge of her seat and held her breath. They were about to crash through the closed barrier but then the automatic Telepass attached to the Jeep’s windscreen beeped and the barrier lifted. She heaved a sigh of relief and growled. Her heart beat slowed back down to normal.

Pino charged up the hill and roared onto the two-lane highway. The Mediterranean to the right gleamed in the distance and the Ligurian hills to the left.

Now he set oﬀ the siren. The sudden blast startled the car in front which lunged out of the way. Pino hurtled through one tunnel after another, cars scooting over to the slower right lane like skittles falling. Hope’s eyes squinted at the constant change from blinding white sunlight to opaque darkness.

Suddenly Pino slammed on the brakes.

“Shit”

Four cars ahead of him, on the slow lane, a white van’s back tyre shattered. The van zigzagged, swerving wildly. Ripped rubber flapped and thwacked the tarmac. Metal scraped and screamed and sparks flew oﬀ. The driver worked the wheel with skill and brought the van under control, trundling it to a standstill. The cars behind slowed to a halt, back warning lights flashing.

Pino immediately cut over and stopped the Jeep a little ahead of the van. He jumped out and ran to the driver’s aid who was still sitting grasping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Pino knocked on the window.

“You okay?”

The driver let the window down.

“You okay” Pino repeated.

“Y..yeah. Think so. Ch..christ that was lucky.”

“Very. When was the last time you checked your tyres?”

“N .. not m..my van.”

“Got a spare in the back?”

“Should have”

“Give me the keys. I’ll check.”

The driver woke up from his dazed shock and turned to look at Pino. Seeing his uniform he sat bolt upright.

“No..No…it’s okay mate. I’ll do it.”

“Know how to change a tyre?”

“Course I do.”

The traﬃc was piling up now on the slow lane and the long tunnel behind them was blocked bumper to bumper.

Back in the Jeep, Pino grabbed his phone.

“Why they have to tattoo themselves like that, I’ll never know.” He said to Hope breathing hard as he dialled his oﬃce.

“Like what?” Asked Hope.

“He had them all over his arms, on his neck and even on his face. I mean, why the hell does anyone want to tattoo their face? He looked like an ex con. I’m going to get them to open up the back. Check it out.”

“Did he have an accent, by any chance?”

“Yeah, hello? Griﬃni. Can you hear me? Get the emergency services here right now, half way between Rapallo and Chiaveri direction south. White van tyre blown. FT1 479K. No casualties. Move it along asap as it’s chaos here already. Get them to check inside the van too, will you. I didn’t like the look of it.”

“Pino.”

“What?”

“Did he have an accent? Was he Ecuadorian?”

“Who?”

“The driver, Pino. The driver. Was he Latino?”

“He didn’t say much. Could’ve been. Why?”

“No..Nothing. Just the neck tattoo reminded me of ….…”

“Gabriele, He’s got no wind of us coming, right?” Pino interrupted her and her mouth tightened. She hated not being listened to. Why do men never listen?

“He has no idea, as far as I know.”

“Let’s get there quick. Stop at the house first, then?”

“Nah. Don’t waste yer time. He’ll be sunning himself down at the harbour by the time we get there.”

Pino roared up the engine and slid sideways onto the empty road ahead.

“Turn it up will you?” said Gabriele as the gritty baritone voice of Fabrizio De Andre chanted moaned to his guitar.

Hope raised her eyes and clucked. She shrank down into the seat and stared out the window. Admiring the view of …

They left the motorway at the Deiva Marina exit after Sestri Levante and Lavagna and Pino cut a hard left to follow the B road up into the hills.

“I thought Framura was on the coast. Shouldn’t we have turned right?” asked Hope.

“Right is to Deiva Marina. Framura’s on the other side of this mountain. You just wait and see.”

The Jeep sailed eﬀortlessly up the steep windy road through a mixture of pinewood and holly oak, vineyards and olive trees. When they approached Hotel Silvia, a quaint Albergo with a cedar wood pergola covered in bright torch glow bougainvillea, the Mediterranean came into view glistening and gleaming below in its vastness. Hope breathed in with awe.

“Spectacular!” she exclaimed.

The road slowly began to narrow as it snaked its way down to the porticciolo of Framura and once through the tunnel, had nowhere to go but the small station and the sea.

“Park at the top of the tunnel, Pino, in the shade. Alex never comes this side of it, anyway.”

Moments later, Hope followed Pino and Gabriele down a steep cobbled lane, dark under the bridge and where fishing boats and dinghies were lined in a row along the wall.

Two bare-chested elderly men sat on wicker chairs mending nets with large steel needles. Their deep voices echoed loudly. A family sat on a towel in the shade eating cold pasta from a large plastic bowl while baby slept in the pushchair.

At the end of the lane, Hope had to squint. The bright sunlight blinded her but when she focused, she squealed. Her skin tingled and she placed a hand across her chest, fingers spread open.

“Oh my goodness, it’s beautiful! It’s like a painting.”

Spellbound, her shoulders dropped as the tension of the last two weeks released.

The bay, a natural pool of crystal sea water, calm and inviting, nestled comfortably in the cliﬀs that framed it, like a pearl in its shell.

‘That rock in front of us is the ‘Ciamia’,” said Gabriele. “The largest in Liguria. It protects the porticciolo and the boats that are moored here by containing the violent lashings of the sea behind it. You can’t imagine it now but in the winter the sea can do a lot of damage. If you climb over to the other side it seems like you’re walking on the moon.

The local legend says that the rock next to it, see that one there, it’s called Agûa, spoke to the Ciamia and by speaking together they created Framura.

‘Ciamia a ciamava, l’ Agûa a rispondeiva e Framua a nasceiva’

(Ciamia called, Agûa replied and Framura was born).”

Pino laughed. “The Ligurians are people of few words and can seem as hard as the rocks that surround them, yet in their own way they sure know how to be romantic.”

Hope looked up and saw the statue of the Madonna on its peak holding her baby Jesus to her chest.

“She gives blessings to the sailors and fishermen who embark on the high seas. Come on, let’s go to the bar. I’ll oﬀer you a cold beer. Gabriele, where is he?”

“He’s usually over this way. He likes to snorkel.”

“Try and get him to come up to the bar, will you? That way I can talk to him. But don’t tell him we’re here. I don’t want him snorkelling oﬀ.”

Hope grunted.

Walking past sun worshippers laying on the concrete quay and the raised jetty where an iron mermaid smiled and pointed in the direction of the wind, Hope felt drops of sweat dripping down her back and longed to plunge into the water of the harbour like others who were enjoying a cool swim. Her mouth was dry with thirst. A cold beer was just what she needed and she smacked her lips in anticipation.

The bar was busy with families and elderly couples eating lunchtime salads and panini but luckily Hope and Pino found a table on the terrace. After several minutes of drymouthed waiting, a young woman in shorts and a white T-shirt handed them a menu without a smile. Her expression was miserable. She looked hot and bothered and did not want to be waiting at tables in the midday heat while her friends were no doubt having fun in the sun elsewhere.

“Two cold beers. Nothing to eat, thanks.”

“So what’s all this about?” asked Hope, lifting her voluminous heavy hair onto her head and wishing she could pin it up. Pino took a swig of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like a builder. Her long neck and cleavage distracted him. Putting the glass down he said,

“Gabriele came to my oﬃce this morning. He showed me a note he’d found written on pharmacy paper.”

“Pharmacy? What, the De Luca pharmacy?”

“He’s not there. And he’s not in the water either. I can’t see him anywhere.” said Gabriele as he walked past their table. “I’ll have a look around the corner. He might be having something to eat at the back.”

“What does the note say?”

Pino ignored her, keeping an eye on Gabriele.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on? Pino?”

Hope felt her cheeks reddening and It was not because of the heat of the sun. Her irritation lunged into her throat like a knife. She growled. She was turning into a tiger about to pounce on its prey.

Pino stood up and grabbed both beers. Gabriele was beckoning him.

“Come on, detective. You’ll understand it all in a minute.”

Hope wanted to roar.

THE CHASE “Alex! What a surprise to see you, here!”

Alessandro looked up from the pink sports gazette. He inclined his head to one side, looked about him then stared at his older brother.

“Mind if we take a seat?”

The tanned, slick skinned man nodded. “Gabriele, Pino. To what do I owe this pleasure?” He put the paper down and crossed his arms on his bare chest.

“I’d like you to explain this,” Pino said, slipping a note across the table towards him.

Alessandro hesitated and glanced from one face to the other. He prodded the folded piece of blue paper, picked it up and fondled it. He flipped his sun-bleached hair back and crossed his legs. While he read, his heel tapped on the ground.

Raising his head, he shot an intense stare at his brother, then shook it in disbelief.

He cleared his throat.

“And so?”

“Mauro had it.”

“What do you mean, Mauro had it? Mauro who?” He uncrossed his legs.

“Cant remember who Mauro is? He comes into your pharmacy nearly every day for one of your special pick-me-ups. Kind of him to show me where he found it, wasn’t it? ”

Alessandro stiﬀened.

“And where was that exactly?”

“Since when have you been taking your young girlies to the cemetery, Alex, you dirty old man. I didn’t think it was your style. Thought you more into Santa Margarita nightclubs and Portofino totty shops.” Gabriele pushed his tongue into his cheek.

Alessandro looked to Pino for help but Pino said nothing.

“A hundred thousand Euro? Really? Where the hell can you get your hands on that kind of money, Alex? That’s what I want to know.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve been doing alright, haven’t we. Business is good these days.

Gabriele leaned closer and snarled. “What kind of business you talking about? Cos I bet it's not the Aspirin that’s making the gold, is it now?”

His brother smirked and shrugged.

“God, Alex what did you do? So you got her pregnant and you were surprised she didn’t want to keep it? She was nineteen, for Christ’s sake. Nineteen. Just a kid.”

Hope raised an eyebrow. She was beginning to understand.

“Was it an accident? Tell me it was an accident, Alex. But why dump her body in the chapel. Why not call an ambulance? And how the hell did you get her up there. No way you carried her on your own. All the way up there? You haven’t got the muscle for it. I mean, look at you. You always have been a scrawny bastard. Somebody must have helped you. Who was it?”

Hope spotted Alessandro’s eyes dart to the stairs for an escape exit. When he clutched his money bag, stood up and made a run for it, she pounced at his arm but could not hold him, his skin slippery with tanning oil. He shoved her and she fell onto her knees on the slatted wooden terrace.

“Shit” she cursed.

Dodging the tables and chairs, he hurtled down the steep wooden steps, jumping clear of the last four, and sprinted up the jetty where he hurled himself onto a centre console fishing boat.

Gabriele picked Hope up, Pino already at the stairs. The three of them dashed after Alessandro, Hope’s lungs aching, she gasped for air.

Gabriele, despite his prosthesis, made the fastest ground but was still too late. At the dock, engines rumbled and they stood helpless as Alessandro slid the boat through the smooth water of the porticciolo, churning up its surface and breaking the tranquility of the harbour. As he headed towards the open sea he blurted the horn, rudely warning the swimmers who lunged out of its way.

Just at that moment a rigid inflatable boat entered the harbour slowing its engines down to a minimum.

Alessandro swerved his sleek console and pivoted around the dinghy spraying sunbathers on the rocks.

“Watch what you're doing mate. You're going too fast!” The skipper yelled. “Bloody amateurs! Think they own the ocean!”

As the dinghy neared the jetty, Pino shouted, “Can you follow that boat? We need to catch a criminal.”

“Volentieri - with pleasure. Jump in.”

“How fast does one of these things go?” Pino asked the bald boatman with a sunburnt head who manoeuvred through the harbour and back out to sea.

“About 75 mph. She’s a good girl, this one. We’ll have no problem. Hold on tight though. It’s going to be bumpy.”

Hope, sitting on the inflated rubber felt a surge as the driver pushed the throttle forward. She fell backwards but grabbed a hand grip which saved her from falling into the water. Her hand smacked against her heart and she let out a shriek of relief. She shifted onto the seat next to Gabriele. Pino stood next to the driver, feet apart to keep his balance.

The dinghy cut through the seawater like a laser through crystal and not much further ahead was Alessandro standing at the centre of his launch, fair hair blowing in disarray, holding onto the wheel like Captain Ahab in his tense search for Moby Dick.

Suddenly a colossal bow wave lifted the nose keel out of the water. It walloped back down.

Smack. Hope felt her neck jar at the force and more salty brine threw up onto her face. The dinghy flew at an exhilarating speed.

For twenty minutes they sped after the fishing boat, Hope saved from a sickly fear of being catapulted into the blue by Gabriele’s muscular arm that reached across her whenever the boat bounced and bumped.

Captain Ahab pushed the throttle further forward, and the boat picked up speed.The keel raised then smashed back down, its churning wake splashing into the side of Hope’s face.

“He’s still got a good lead. What’s his top speed?” Gabriele shouted through the two thunderous Mercury engines.

“That centre console can reach a good 120 kilometres per hour, same as this. We won’t catch him but I’ve a feeling he’ll stop at Portovenere. He won’t have enough fuel to make it to Lerici which is another 30 minutes away.”

Flying into the port of this little medieval fishing village, they could see Alessandro pull up to the jetty and jump out without tying the boat’s line to the iron cleats on the mooring dock.

He charged down the narrow wharf and collided into an old seafarer hosing down his small sailing craft. The man dropped the hose pipe which lost control and swirled like a snake, spraying water uncontrollably. Alessandro stumbled but managed to keep his footing.

Pino, Gabriele and Hope dashed after him leaving their driver on board. Minutes later Hope was wishing she hadn’t joined them on the chase.

Gabriele leaped up the cobbled steps to the castle ruins like a mountain goat. Hope breathless, her lungs aching, struggled. At the top Gabriele’s brother Alessandro stood teetering on the cliﬀ edge.

“Alex, what are you doing? Move away from there, It’s not safe!” Shouted Gabriele.

His brother immobile, stared down at the water one hundred feet below as if in a trance.

“Get back! It’s dangerous. You could fall!”

Alessandro edged forward.

“Please Alessandro. Don’t be a fool….if you jump, you’ll kill yourself. You’ll hit the rocks before you hit the water.”

“What choice’ve I got, Gabry?” Alex replied, his voice weak. “There’s no way I’ll survive being locked up in a prison cell for the rest of my life. I’m not hard like Domenico. He was able to do it but there’s no way I could. You know me Gabry. I’m a free spirit like you. I need the air and the sun on my face….. I’d rather …..rather die here like this than be banged up with …..”

“Gabriele, Talk to him.”

Gabriele heard Hope’s soft voice from behind. He turned his head and she repeated, “Get him to talk to you. If he talks he may calm down.”

“Talk to me, Alex. Tell me what happened.” He pleaded. “Tell me it was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill her, did you?”

In a dream-like voice Alessandro mumbled, “I ..I loved her Gabry. I couldn’t let her go. She was so beautiful. The baby was mine, you know. I wanted her to keep it and look after them both.”

Gabriele turned to look at Hope. His face desperate, pained. His neck, a chord of tension.

“So why? Why kill her?”

“I don’t want your child inside me.” He muttered through clenched teeth.

“What?” Gabriele now stood by his brother’s side.

“‘I don’t want your child inside me. She said that… to me. To me! And the.. … then …she told me she was in love with another man. I …I slapped her. Had one of my red mists, didn’t I, like I used to get. When she screamed at me I slapped her again. She fell…hi .. hit her head. I don’t know how. She ..she…then next thing I knew she’s lying on the floor. Blood from her nose. Christ.. Gabry… She didn’t move…I ..I tried to wake her. I tried.. And .. and then…” Alessandro rubbed his chest as if soothing his pain.

“Gabriele..” It was Pino.

“We’re ok. Leave it to me.” Gabriele shouted back.

“And then, Alex?”

“I..I .. I left her. I couldn’t handle it. Didn’t know what to do. I left her there. To die.”

“You did what? What the fuck, Alex!”

“I panicked. Didn’t know what to do. I’m such a coward. A Lousy coward.” His hands fell to his sides.

“But we found her in the chapel, Alex. How did she get to the chapel?”

“What do you mean, the chapel?”

“Gabriele, let me take over now,” Pino said with authority. “Gabriele, step back. I’ve got this.”

Gabriele held his hand up. And although he felt sick from the bile in the back of his throat, he stood rooted, trying not to look down to the rocks below. If his head started to spin, he could fall before Alex did.

“Her body was found in her family chapel, Alex. Not in the pharmacy. Didn’t you know that?”

“I panicked. I left her. Had to clear my head, see. But I did go back, Gabry. I did.”

“How was she? Was she still alive?”

Gabriele rocked. He felt queasy. Alex stared ahead.

“Alex. Talk to me. Was she still alive when you went back?”

“No. I don’t know. I mean, she .. she wasn’t there. She’d gone. I ran out to find her. She’d gone, Gabry. At the gates, the cemetery, I ..I”

“Gabry, step away.” Pino’s gruﬀ shout startled Alessandro and his foot slipped. “Gabry …”

“Merda!”

Pino pushed Gabriele back and grabbed Alessandro's arm just as he toppled forward.

Pino fell to his stomach, Alessandro looking up at him, legs dangling into the void, eyes staring wildly, pleaded,

“Hold me, Pino. Hold me, please.”

“You didn’t see anyone, did you, Alex?” Pino whispered. “At the cemetery gates,

You didn’t see anyone, right?”

“I..I..”

Pino let Alessandro’s arm slip further through his grip.

“Did you Alex?”

“I saw, I saw you, didn’t I, Pino?”

“Shit, Alex. I've got no choice. Not now,” he whispered. “Sorry, son,” he said, under his breath.

He released his hand from Alessando’s arm and turned his head.

Over … over … over the cliﬀ his body hurtled.

“Nooooo!” cried Gabriele. “Alex!”

From Alessandro came no scream of horror, no wail of fear. Just the thud …. and snap of bones on rock.

Then splash.

Gabriele crumpled. His chest caved in as if he could not bear his own weight.

Pino lay still on the edge of the cliﬀ. His face, buried in the ground.

Hope stepped back and covered her mouth with her hand. She suddenly felt cold to her core. Falling, falling. The baby falling from the balcony. The family falling from the bridge. She fell .. to her knees, stunned.

Pino pulled himself up and pulled himself together. His shout broke the silence. “Hope, run to the jetty and get the dinghy out here quick. You can pick him up. We’ll climb down and meet you below. He may still be alive.” He was sure, however, that Alex was not.

Hope’s muscles were numb. She could not move them.

Pino recognised she was in shock. He grasped her hand and pulled her into a reaction. “Hope. Move it. Quick.”

“G..get the boat… right … okay,” she said.

She took a deep breath of sea salty air, shook her arms and began to run.

ALESSANDRO’S FUNERAL There were only a handful of people inside the Church Of The ArchAngel Michael in Via Mogadiscio. Not all Alessandro’s siblings were present at his funeral that afternoon.

Domenico had died of Heroin abuse two years earlier. Hepatic dysfunction of his liver. Aurelia was still doing time for dealing. Flavia and her family had refused to shorten their long awaited summer vacation in Calabria and Fernanda had cut her ties long ago with a family that had never protected her from an abusive father and elder brother.

The coﬃn bearers entered and heads turned to watch their solemn journey. Giuseppina, mother and matriarch, began to sway and wail. Maria, the spitting image of her mother, stocky, stout and manly with short back and sides, held her up and fanned her mother’s face with the programme. Maria’s stick-like husband stood motionless, dead-pan, doing nothing to help. Hands in pockets.

Hope next to Caterina, in the fourth pew behind the family, observed the six men in dark suits who struggled down the aisle with the heavy weight on their shoulders. Ahead of them, the priest wearing a grim twist to his mouth, sprinkled their path with holy water. She saw Gabriele, face gaunt and pallid, bite his bottom lip. The man in front of him, bulky, gorilla-like, curved his shoulders and bent his knees to lower himself to the height of his fellow pallbearers, his face hidden under the shadow of the polished oak load.

The men placed the coﬃn on its catafalque before the altar as if it were a diamond being mounted in its ring. They all sat down on the front bench beside mother Giuseppina, apart from one. The gorilla.

He stood with his feet wide apart and his hands behind his lower back. Like a soldier about to fight his enemy, he displayed his dominance and virility. Staring menacingly out at the congregation, the dark circles under his black eyes highlighted his thick jawline. The sun filtering through the leaded window opposite him shone on his face and flickered on his pot-marked skin. Hope gasped. She sat upright and a cold shudder went through her. It was him.

Hope’s breathing became quick and shallow. She clenched her fists. She felt as if her mouth was being smothered by that pockmarked face. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder.

She started counting. One and two and ..

She flinched and jerked her shoulder.

“Hope it’s me. You okay?” Pino whispered from behind her.

She turned her head. Her face pale.

“Oh my God, Pino. It’s him.”

“What do you mean, him? That’s Gianni. Gianni The mushroom. Hope. You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here, does he?” Her voice shook as did her hands..

“Why? What does it matter? And anyway, don’t be so sure. He knows everything. Sssh …He’s about to say something.”

The gorilla waited. Noise of any sort abated. Hope could not recall hearing such deadly quiet in a church. Dread roiled in her stomach. She did not want to hear his voice.

“Gotta get out. Can’t breathe.”

She filed past the knees of those sitting along her pew, whispering her apologies.

Hope speaks to Pino about Gianni Sitting on the wall across the road from the church in Via Mogadiscio, Hope held her face in her hands and shook. She had just seen a man she had tried for years to forget and she now wondered why the hell she had come back to Genova.

When she looked up, Pino was walking towards her, his eyebrows drawn together, head tilted, concerned. In his well-fitted dark blue suit and white shirt, open at the collar to reveal soft curly hairs that she knew spread over his muscular chest, he appeared the man who instilled confidence. Tall, erect, strong. A man who could jump into a burning building and pull her out alive. Save her from harm and protect her from evil.

“Hope? Are you alright?”

“Mmmm. Well, I had a bit of a glitch in there. Sorry about that but you needn’t have followed me. I’ll be okay in a minute or two.” She was, however, glad he had.

He stroked his moustache with a thumb and forefinger and then ran them down his short cropped goatee beard. “What’s the problem?” He sat on the wall next to her and took her hand. She felt the power he had in his grip.

Hope hesitated. She would not tell him. Not yet. So she said, “It all just got to me, that’s all. Watching you on that cliﬀ edge, grabbing Alessandro’s arm. God, it must’ve been agonising to feel it slip away. See him fall.”

Pino let go of her hand and looked away. “I did what I could, Hope. Held him for as long as I managed. I thought I’d be able to pull him up but the oil on his skin..”

“You pushed Gabry away. He could’ve helped you.”

Pino jumped off the wall. His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. “I pushed Gabry away,” he said slowly, “because I could see he was in difficulty. Gabriele suffers from Acrophobia. There was no way he could’ve stayed on that cliff without falling off himself. Then we would’ve had two coffins in that church today.”

“Pino, I’m not criticising you. I know you did everything to try and keep hold of him.”

“Not enough though, right? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. You’ve got me wrong. I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant …”

“Look. Alessandro De Luca was a drug addict. He’d been taking Ketamine on and oﬀ for years. He was unstable and incapable of making any kind of rational decision. The only good thing he’d ever managed to do was have those two girls of his. But even his family he let down. Fell in love with a nineteen year old tramp to the point of obsession, got her pregnant, risked everything he had and for what? A bit of pussy.”

“Hope straightened her back and widened her eyes.“But that’s your niece, you’re talking about. A tramp? A bit of pussy? Is that what you thought of her? And Alessandro may have had problems with drugs but he had become someone, studied, became a pharmacist for Christ’s sake. That takes a lot of hard work and eﬀort. You only have to look at the rest of his family. Not exactly an easy environment to escape from and move up in the world.”

“Do you honestly believe De Luca was a qualified pharmacist? With a university degree? Oh, come on Hope. You astound me. He was no more a pharmacist than Mantero is a doctor.”

Hope screwed up her face.

“Cazzo, Pino, what did you say?”

“Hope. Alessandro was not a qualified pharmacist. He was just a front. Put on a white coat, served the customers. Made a lot of money prescribing drugs without doctors’ prescriptions. He was no better than any street dealer. It’s amazing what a white coat and a door that clangs every time a customer walks in can do to your image.”

Her jaw dropped. “Bellin. Is this true?”

“Look at me. Can you trust me?” Hope nodded. “Then it’s the truth.”

“And Mantero?”

“What?”

“Mantero. Mantero isn’t a real doctor? Is he just a frontman too?”

Pino took oﬀ his jacket. Hope could see wet patches under his armpits. The sun beat down. It was beginning to feel stifling. He rolled up his sleeves.

“No. No Hope. You misunderstood me. Come on, let’s get out of here. Go and grab a cold drink. It’s too hot and I’m sure you don’t want to go back into the church, right?”

She agreed and, taking her arm, he led her down the road to the end of the street where an elderly man sat on a wicker chair in his white shorts and vest on the pavement, outside the door to Bar Vincenzo, his face and arms a dirty chocolate brown from the sun. The beige bucket hat on his head hid his eyes and Hopecould not see how they stared at her. He wore a moustache like Pino but without the Goatee Beard and his clasped hands rested on his paunch. Hope noticed the chain and padlock that bound the chair to a lamppost.

They sat at a table under the gazebo on the road and ordered two large beers. Then Pino lit up his white tipped ultra lights and oﬀered one to Hope who declined. She did not see the point to them and preferred to smoke her own Marlborough extra strongs.

“I don’t know why you just don’t give up altogether.”

“That’s my plan,” he said, inhaling deeply on the cigarette. “In the autumn. I’ll stop in the autumn.”

“You’re like me. I’m always going to stop but not just yet.” She laughed and the image of the white fag end on the ground by the sheds came to mind. She leaned closer and asked, “Do you ever smoke when you ride your motorbike?”

His long black lashes flickered. “No. Never. Why?”

“Oh, Just curious. I’ve seen a lot of men, and women, doing it. I’d’ve thought it was dangerous. Isn’t there a law against it?”

“There is. Article one seven three of the traﬃc code. It’s forbidden for drivers of motorbikes and motor scooters to use telephones, to listen to music with earphones, and to smoke cigarettes because of the high risk of not having full control of the vehicle. But do you know how diﬃcult it is to control and check those who infringe the law?”

"I can only imagine.”

"In this country there are more than eleven point five million smokers and a fifth of them smoke more than one packet a day. It’s a considerable number. If you think Genova is the motorbike capital of Italy with about two hundred and forty out of every thousand inhabitants owning a two wheel vehicle, a high percentage of them smokers, it’s an almost impossible task to enforce such a law. We don’t have enough police on the roads.”

She inhaled and felt the smoke enter her lungs and a twang of guilt hit her as she wondered how black and atrophied her poor little air bags must be by now. She had not been looking after her body and must bloody well try and change that, the sooner the better. She coughed.

“So what’s your problem with Gianni De Luca?” Pino asked.

Hope’s fingers fluttered over the scar on her top lip. She was not expecting that question.

“Gianni De Luca.” She rubbed her chin. “I’ve been hearing some interesting facts about Gianni De Luca. What do they call him on the streets? Satan’s Mushroom?”

“Sssh. Keep your voice down, Hope. It’s a name not to be bandied about. He’s a powerful man. Number one in The Family now and held in high respect by a lot of people.”

“Respect? For a man like that? Pino, you’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

“No. I am not kidding. There are a lot of people who wouldn’t be where they are today if it hadn’t been for The Mushroom.”

The bells of the church began to chime.

“Funeral’s ended,” said Pino.

Hope thought of Alessandro De Luca in his white coat behind the pharmacy counter. Her skin tingled. “Pino. Whose front man was Alessandro?”

The man in the bucket hat placed two refreshing glasses of beer and a bowl of peanuts on their table.

“Grazie, Vincenzo,” said Pino and took a large gulp without looking at Hope.

A slow smile spread across her mouth and she let out a quick bark of laughter. She hit her head with her wrist as her idea took shape. “Of course. That explains it. The pharmacy. Gianni’s behind the pharmacy, isn’t he? That’s why Alessandro was put there. Doesn’t need a degree.So what else do they sell under the counter, Pino? Apart from the Wet Fry?”

“Hope, listen. We can’t talk about The Mushroom. Not here.”

“Why not?”

“This is his territory. And people have ears.”

“Eddie the Alby does deliveries for him along with a nasty Ecuadorian called Carlos. Do you know about that? Fake designer labels. Illegal stuﬀ, right? Saw him delivering to a Chinese massage parlour. The Lotus Flower in Via del Campo. Is that Gianni’s too? If it is, then he has a hand in Chinese prostitution as well. It’s not diﬃcult to put two and two together, is it? Probably runs all his operations from that bar of his. Cazzo. A man like that should be locked up for life. He’s scum, Pino.” Hope’s face had turned red.

“Sssh. Hope please. This is not the place.”

“Bellin. And Mantero. I saw Mantero in the bar. Playing the slots. Don’t tell me Sergio Mantero, the doctor, is one of Gianni’s too? Sergio. Sergio.” Hope gasped, suddenly remembering where she had heard that name. Acid rose in her throat and her chest tightened.

Hope. Let’s change the subject, please.” But her mind raced ahead and she could not stop.

“Was it Gianni who killed my father?” Hope massaged her brow, and seeing Pino’s eyes narrow and his jaw tighten, she continued. “It was, wasn’t it? I’m right. And you know it. Why the hell isn’t he behind bars?”

Pino rubbed the back of his neck and between gritted teeth, said, “Jesus, Hope. I’ve told you to stop. You can’t talk like this here.”

She ignored him.

“Shit. His best friend Renzo’s running for Mayor. And if he wins, Satan’s Mushroom will have even more control. Aren’t you worried? Can’t you stop him? Why don’t you do anything about him?”

She saw Pino glaring at her and she slumped back into her chair. She let her hands drop into her lap and closed her eyes as she blew out a .… But when Pino slammed his glass of beer onto the table, splattering her green and yellow blouse, hissing, “Shut up. For Christ’s sake, Shut it.” Hope bolted upright , her eyes widening in surprise.

“Pino, What are you frightened of? Nobody can hear us. And if they can, so what? He gets to know I’ve been talking about him. I don’t see the problem. He can’t censure freedom of speech, can he?”

Pino gulped down his beer. “He can do a lot worse things you wouldn’t want to know about.

Hope opened her mouth to say more but before she could speak, Pino said, “Right, Hope. Enough is enough. You can’t do this here. Come on. Come with me. Now.”

“But my beer,” she said, picking it up to take her first sip.

“Hope. Now!” he commanded, scraping his chair away from the table to stand up.

“Alright Pino?” asked Vincenzo from his wicker chair.

“Yeah Vincenzo, Got to leave. Here’s a tenner. Is that enough?” Vincenzo nodded but did not get up and Pino slapped the banknote into the man’s hands as he marched away.

Ten minutes later, Hope was sitting on the back of Pino’s motorbike, both of them silent, immersed in their own thoughts. Perhaps, Hope wondered, they were trying to restore the calm so that Pino’s suggestion of cooking them dinner would not be fraught with tension.

THE GUN Pino rolled onto his side and studied the freckles on Hope’s nose and although she looked more English than Italian, her copper hair framed her oval face like Botticelli’s Venus.

After Mogadiscio and De Luca’s funeral, he had comforted her and with his gentleness, a dinner and two bottles of Prosecco, she had followed him to his bed.

When he was a boy he had a crush on her but would never let her see. He was too afraid she would refuse him. So he teased her instead. Terribly. And she hated him for it. Now here she was, in his bed again.

He stroked her cheek. She opened her eyes.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” She asked, smiling.

“Can’t.”

“Something on your mind?”

“I was remembering how I used to tease you. God you hated me.”

“What did you expect? Some of the names you called me were horrible. Carrot top and tampon head. And that bloody rhyme you’d chant? Something about throwing my mum in a ditch.”

“El più brav de’ ross, ha gettà su’ madre en’el foss’. Even the nicest of red heads will have thrown her mum in a ditch. And once upon a time, the prostitutes had to dye their hair red so their impurities could be recognised by all. You gingers are either wicked witches or sexually depraved demons. We all know that! Don’t you?”

Hope hit him on the chest and laughed.

“Be careful what you say or I’ll turn you into a frog!”

“And then you’ll have to kiss me so I could become your prince.”

She kissed him anyway, with slow tenderness. Then she turned onto her back and clenched her fists.

“Why isn’t he locked up, Pino? A man like that should be locked up.”

Pino lifted himself onto his elbow.

“It’s not so easy in this country, remember. Men like The Mushroom, make it their business to know too much and have friends in high places. Their power is in the army they build.

“But how can you, of all people, let him get away with it all?”

He turned his head. Said nothing.

“I want to get him, Pino. I want to ruin him, destroy him. Lock him up to rot in his own fear. Don’t you?”

“Leave it, Ginger. You won’t stand a chance and you’ll get hurt.”

“But, Pino, I could …”

“Leave it, I said,” his voice imperious. Almost threatening.

“Okay, okay. I’ll leave it.” She would not, of course.

She took his head and pressed her forefinger between his dark eyebrows. She slid it along the top of his brow, massaging his tension away. First one side then the other, slowly, until his eyes closed and his breathing became heavy with sweet dreams.

When his light snoring convinced her he was asleep, she slipped out of the bed and moved towards the dresser where he had placed his gun. She picked it up.

“Where you going, Hope?”

Startled, she knocked her knee against one of the drawers.

“Just popping for a pee. You go to sleep. I’ll be back in a mo.”

She left the room and walked down the corridor to her bedroom. She hid the gun in the pocket of her black hoodie that she’d left ready on the bed. Then she returned to Pino’s where she lay close to his warm body and sweet breath until she was sure his deep sleep would not miss her.

THE KEY Hope read the sign on the stone wall under the Sotto Ripa. ‘Bar Numero Uno’. At three o’clock in the morning it was securely locked up with roller shutters as was everything in the Old Town at this hour.

Piled up chairs and tables were chained to the railing at the edge of the pavement and a stench of stale beer pervaded the humid air. She had exaggerated putting on her thick black hoodie. It was too heavy for the heat of this August night, As was the thought of the gun in her pocket. She had not held a gun for a long time and was not sure why she would need one now.

Hope walked along the narrow cobbled passage at the side of the bar and felt claustrophobic. She looked up but could see only a slit of night as the stone walls towered tall, hiding the sky from view. A reek of urine made her retch and she held her breath. Not one door had been saved from the spray paint of graﬃti. Salubrious area, she thought.

She looked at the numbers on the tradesman’s entrances. When she found ‘numero uno’ she pulled out her set of useful keys and played with the lock. Her heart pounded in the silence of the night. She checked down the lane for passers-by. No worries. Emptiness. After several attempts ..Click. She was in. Usefu,l her keys. They never failed.

The door was so low she had to stoop to enter. She shut it carefully behind her and used her phone as a torchlight to find her way along the corridor. She passed a store room, a stinky squat latrine and a broom cupboard and then entered the spacious back room of the bar with the circular formica tables and the slot machines hidden from view behind the Chinese wooden room divider.

Clunk. Damn. She’d kicked the bloody dog bowl. Water trickled to her toes through the light canvas of her Superga pumps.

Up the three steps and she was behind the long counter. Not at all sure what had possessed her to come here, but she knew what she was looking for, and she let her hand slide along the back shelf. It must be here somewhere. But she found nothing. Not until she moved towards the cash till where an appointment diary lay on top of a pile of paperwork.

She opened it and flicked through the pages. Initials. There were only initials. No comments, no explanations. Only initials. She found the 15th of August. Nothing. On the 16th, the initials SM scribbled at 3 o’clock.

She put the diary down and shone the torchlight of her phone along the shelf. On a hook attached to the back, hung a bunch of keys. The bright pink ribbon caught her eye. She snatched it oﬀ the hook and checked the lettering. “Dai diamanti non nasce niente, dal letame nascono i fior”. The hairs on her arms pulled her skin. Could it be the key? The key that Grazia Rosa had mentioned?

Then she heard the growl of a dog.

She pocketed the key and her phone and crouched into a ball on the floor, covering her head with her arms. She stopped breathing. Patter patter of paws. Flip flops up the steps. Christ. She had nowhere to hide.

The white brute belted towards her, claws clicking on the marble floor then stood stock still, snarling and gnashing yellow fangs. Its foul breath stenched. She did not raise her head. Don’t look an attacking dog in the eyes. Worst thing to do.

“Brutus, cossa hai trovato li, amigo mio.” The high-pitched voice lilted with the heavy ’s’ of an Ecuadorian accent.

The neck tattoo stood at the far end of the counter and Hope had to try something.

She slowly held out her hand, palm down, fingers closed, still not looking up. The white beast approached and sniﬀed it. His drooling saliva dripped onto her skin. She was good with dogs, knew how to handle them but an angry dog protecting its territory? Now that was another matter. There was, however, a chance, a slim chance she knew, but a chance all the same, that Brutus might recognise her smell.

She was in luck. The dog ceased snarling and lowered it’s head. It had given her the ‘Okay’. She patted between its perked ears to thank it for not having bitten her hand oﬀ. Then blue light from a phone torch shone along the length of the counter floor and lit up the dog’s white body. Hope moved her hand to the ground. The dog's head followed it.

“Brutus! You stupid animal. What’ve you found, mate? A rat? Or a cockroach?”

Flip flop, flip flop. The light shone over hope’s curled-up body. She felt a foot push into her. She jumped up and tried to scramble over the counter.

“What the fuck!” He grabbed the back of her fleece and pulled her oﬀ. The dog started to bark.

Hope elbowed the neck tattoo in the ribs and he fell into the shelves of glasses and bottles behind him. She shoved past him and galloped her heavy frame back down the steps, Brutus bounding after her in play, thinking it was a great game.

As she went for the handle, at the tradesman’s entrance, two tattooed arms folded around her chest and lifted her up. She instinctively hooked her right leg around his knee, and glued her foot to his calf muscle which blocked his lift. after years of self defence training, With this, his eﬀort to raise her, freed her lower arm and she began to slap his balls with the palm of her hand, hard. He let go of her. She side kicked him in the thigh and he fell to the floor holding his crotch, writihing in agony. Brutus tugged at his t-shirt and growled in pleasure.

“Cazzo, cazzo cazzo. Fucking get oﬀ me, Brutus.” His arm swang at the beast but Brutus jumped out of the way with a playful bark and then came back to lick Carlos’s face.

Hope grabbed the door handle but it was not she who opened it. Knocked oﬀ her balance, she stumbled backwards. Christ was she ever going to get out of here, she thought. Then she saw the giant of a man who stood at the doorway, face stony, eyes glaring. She gasped and her chest tightened. She put her hand against the wall to hold herself stable.

An unkind smile spread slowly over his pot-marked face and he chuckled. Hope suddenly felt cold.

“Well, well, well. What we got here?”

Gianni The Mushroom stepped into the narrow corridor and stood so close to Hope she could smell the garlic on his breath and the spicy cologne on his shirt. Brutus bounded towards him.

“Cuccia Brutus. Cuccia!”

The dog stopped in its tracks, looked at its master’s pointing finger, whined, turned and trotted down the corridor to its basket.

Grabbing Hope by the arm, he stepped over Carlos and sneered.

“Taken down by a woman, hey?”

He held out his hand and as Carlos reached to grab it, he jerked it back. “Get up, you puny Ecuadorian moron. I don’t pay you to lie about doing nothing.” He snarled.

“But boss she … she..”

“She what? Get up for Christ’s sake and go and make me a negroni.”

When he reached the table in front of the toilets he pulled out a chair.

“Sit down.”

He shoved Hope in the back. Then he sat down opposite her and, elbows on the table, leant in, piercing her eyes with his. Black eyes, those unforgettable cold black pools. She bit her lip. Her hands felt clammy and her belly knotted. He sneered and looked like his growling dog, but she had no idea how to dominate this one.

His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to one side.“What do you want?”

Hope stared at his pot-marked skin and acid hatred filled her throat. She bared her teeth and snarled.

“I want ….to take you….down.”

The giant exploded with laughter and his spit splattered on her face. She wiped it with the back of her hand.

“Now why would a nice little girl like you want to get mixed up with a big nasty man like me?”

“Here’s yer negroni boss.” Carlos placed a tumbler glass before Gianni who picked it up in his sausage-like fingers, swirled the deep red mixture, clinking the ice cubes and then swigged half of it down in one.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you, Gianni. ….Gianni the mushroom De Luca.”

“No idea, my girl but you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?…. Now!” And he slammed his fist down onto the table. Brutus in his basket lifted his head and barked. Carlos stepped back.

Hope twisted her mouth in disgust, her eyes moist.

“Carmelo Cacciatore. Ring any bells?”

Gianni lifted the glass of negroni and studied the potent liquid before he took another swig.

“Cacciatore.… Ca..cia..tore. Carlos. Recognise that name?”

“No.boss. Not one of mine. Could be Eddie’s though. Want me to call him, boss?”

He raised his fingers. “No. Let him sleep. We’ll get him here in the morning. He can give us a hand with this.” He poked his thumb into Hope’s direction.

“Remind you, shall I, Gianni?…Take your mind back a few years though. I wonder if your memory’s good enough these days?”

“Look little lady. I’m not in the mood for this and I don’t take much to smart arses. Just get on with it so I can decide what to do with you.”

“You killed him. He was outside his house and you shot him.”

“Ah ha! Now I remember, Cacciatore.The copper. The one that rode his bicycle home every evening like a good husband and daddy? Ha! You got that one wrong. It wasn’t me, love.” Gianni snorted and flapped a hand in dismissal.

“You may not have pulled the trigger but you ordered it…. And I’ve got proof.”

The giant leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“Proof? Well.. have you now? And what might that be, then?” His moth slurred.

“Think back Gian. Think back to one afternoon…ooo, about thirty years ago. Around lunchtime, Via Mogadiscio was always so quiet. Remember?” She heard the pitch of her voice rise. She made an eﬀort to lower it. “You were in the church, under the arbour. You raped that young girl. She was so young and you viciously raped her. You and your thug mates. All three of you. Remember that? You, Renzo and Sergio. Your team oh, and the girl in the red dress?…God, how you laughed. Thought it was great fun, didn’t you?”

Gianni squirmed in his chair and beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“Che cazzo stai dicendo? What the hell are you saying? Carlos get rid of her, will you? I haven’t got time for this crap.”

“Do you remember the girl, Gian? She had red hair, just like mine… Look!”

Hope pulled oﬀ the hood of her fleece and let her hair fall over her shoulders.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Speranza Cacciatore. Back to haunt me with her beautiful lion’s mane. Not as slim as you used to be, though my love. You could do with losing a few kilos.

“Fuck oﬀ Gianni. I knew you wouldn’t forget me. That little girl you ruined. Bet you thought you’d never see me again!”

“Little girl? You were a little tart. Wanted it so bad, wiggling your arse at us in that tight dress. So short it didn’t take long to lift it up, did it? And what a cracking bikini you had on underneath. Bellin!” He guﬀawed and grabbed his crotch pulling it in jest.

“You bastard. You killed me that afternoon, and then you killed my father. Now it’s my turn and I’m going to kill you.”

“Carlos, For Christ sake. Do something with this bitch. Shut her up, else I’ll do it myself.”

“But …boss, I don’t think that’s a ..g..good idea. She’s P..P..Pino’s g…”

“I don’t care who she is, she’s pissing me oﬀ. Throw her in the basement and tie her up! I’ll deal with her in the morning when my head’s clearer. Now I need a piss and forty winks before we open.”

Carlos moved behind Hope. She jumped up, span round, cupped her hands behind his neck, tucked in her chin and jerked hard and fast, butting his face with the top of her head while pulling it towards her. He crumpled instantly and down he went like a rag doll.

Before Gianni could get out of his chair, she was pointing Pino’s gun at his face. He sat motionless, mouth open. His hands gripped the table.

“Gianni. Gianni, Gianni. And Guess what. We weren’t alone. There were three boys watching us. You didn’t know that, did you? Too busy thinking of your dick.”

The giant snorted. “Watching? Oh, I know who was watching. You can’t pull that one on me. I caught the little bastards, didn’t I? They’ll have nothing to say to anyone, I can assure you of that. And as for the retard. From what I hear, he’s a dumb mute, living on the street.”

Gianni pushed his chair away from the table and made to stand up.

Hope tightened her finger on the trigger. “Don’t even think about it.”

She took the key from her pocket and jangled it in front of him.

“Look what I found…” She read the words on the pink ribbon. “‘dai diamanti non nasce niente, dal letame nascono I fior.’ Now why would you have this key hanging on a hook in your bar when a few nights ago it was in the pocket of a dead girl’s dress?”

“What you going on about?”

“The name Aurora Rossi ring any bells? It should do, cos you killed her.”

“Who the fuck is Aurora Rossi?”

“Aurora Rossi. God, your memory is failing…. The girl who was carrying your brother’s kid. The girl you killed and dumped in the cemetery. Cos it wasn’t your brother who killed her, was it, Gian? It was you. And you took this key from her pocket. A bit stupid of you to leave it lying about in a public place. But then you never were a great thinker.”

She saw Gianni’s eyes dart to one side then felt intense pain at the back of her head.

When she woke up there was darkness.

Pino wakes up and can’t find his gun nor hope Slivers of bright morning light created slatted shadows on the white wall near the large double bed. Pino naked from his naval upwards, looked at his muscular frame in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. He patted his belly and held it in before he slipped on his crisp blue, short-sleeved shirt. His jacket could wait. It was too hot.

He walked to the dresser and grabbed his black leather belt with the red trimming. He passed it through his trouser waistbands and checked the holster. Where the hell was his gun.

His heart froze and then raced. Blood rushed to his ears. He checked his jacket pockets. He looked in his bed-side drawer. Then he remembered what Hope had said to him.

“Merda, Merda, Merda. Che cazzo hai fatto Ginger. What the hell have you done.”

He marched out of his room, stomped along the corridor and slammed open the door to Hope’s room. Empty room, un-slept in bed, no sign of the woman. He groaned.

He tried calling her.

“Shit Hope, where are you, woman? Answer the bloody phone, will you.”

The voice that answered was not hers.

“She’s here. Thought you had this covered? Look, just come and take care of it, will you?”

“What’ve you done with her?” Pino asked

When he finished the call he shuddered and then got on the phone to Gabriele.

“Gabry, we’ve got a problem. Meet me at your brother’s bar in twenty minutes. I think Hope’s there. …..yes, I know you’re working…. Leave it to me, okay. I’ll sort it with your boss. Gabriele. …Just get there, for God’s sake. With you there he might see sense.”

He pocketed his mobile and ran to his motorbike.

THE BASEMENT Lying on one side, Hope opened her eyes and saw blackness. Her head throbbed and she wanted to rub it but she could not move her hands. They were tied behind her back, painfully tight with coarse rope.

Her shoulders ached.

A dank musty smell of mould filled her nostrils. Christ, where was she? Her stomach hardened like the cold stone floor she was sitting on. She remembered. Jesus. And her feet were bound together at the ankles. They hadn’t spared the rope, the bastards.

The floor was too hard. Her legs tingled with pins and needles and her arm felt numb. As her eyes began to distinguish the shadows from the boxes that filled the room, she realised where they had dumped her. She searched in her pockets. No mobile and no keys. Bile burnt at the back of her throat. Her heart thudded. God don’t panic. Not now. She started to count. 1 and 2 and 3… Don’t just sit here, do something Hope.

She rolled onto her back and sat up, thankful to discover her abdominals were still there somewhere beneath the roll of fat. She did not, however, have the strength in her thigh muscles to lift herself into a standing position. So she rolled onto her side then onto her knees and using her head as a support, she raised herself, grunting, into a kneeling position. She pushed herself backwards to get onto flat feet and stand up but without the help of her arms and with the momentum and her weight, she lost her balance and fell backwards onto her hands. She groaned.

She lay still for a moment to catch her breath then tried again. If at first you can’t succeed. But her body felt so heavy, she could not get back up onto her knees this time. If she had renewed her gym membership and actually frequented the damn place she wouldn’t be in this pathetic position

Sitting up again, she shuffled along the floor to a line of boxes and leaning against one she managed to pull herself up. Not difficult. Should’ve thought of that first. Then suddenly a door opened and the basement filled with light from the bar above. Hope could hear distant chattering and smelt the pleasant aroma of coffee. Her tummy rumbled.

She saw the giant stoop to get through the door and descend the steps. She shuddered as a chill ran through her.

“Come on down. She’s in here. Safe and sound.” he said with a voice sweet like a mother’s murmur. “Little girl, where are you, my love? There’s a visitor for you.”

Hope grimaced. Then his tone changed into the belching bully he was. ”Talk to her and sort it. Do what you have to do.”

“Gianni, get me out of here, now. You’re not going to get away with this. I’ll … I’ll..

“Speranza..“

Hope bolted upright. She recognised the sweet fruity scent of the cigarette smoke that now filled the basement.

“Pino?..Is that you?” She walked towards him. “Took your bloody time. Look untie me will you. My wrists are in agony.”

“Ginger, listen to me.” His voice harsh and dispassionate, surprised her. She stepped back and let out a nervous laugh.

“Pino? Wh .. what’s going on?” She pointed her bound wrists towards him. “Can you come and untie me, please.”

“No.. Sorry love, I can’t do that. You crossed the line, Hope. You should never’ve come here.”

Her arms dropped. “Tell me you’re joking. I mean, this is a joke, right?”

Pino remained silent.

“Just get me out of here, will you? Pino, please. This is not funny.”

“Oh dear me. Pino can’t help you, little one.” Gianni’s sarcasm cut her like a wire to her throat.

“What do you mean? …Pino, what does he mean?

“Now, now. Calm down gioia mia. Just think about it a moment, will you my sweet? Who do you think put Pino where he is today? Do you honestly think he got to his position through hard work and bravery? You’ve been away from us for too long, my love. Forgotten how things work here, haven’t you?”

“What the hell are you talking about? … Pino?” Her chest tightened at the sight of his sour expression warning her of what was about to come. “Pino, cazzo. You’re scaring me. What the fuck’s going on. Look I know I shouldn't’ve taken your gun and .. and well .. I had to … I mean somebody has to stop him. Right, Pino?”

“Come on lad. Get on with it. If you don’t tell her, I will and with great pleasure! Great pleasure indeed.”

“Gianni, if you shut up and give me the chance.” Pino threw his cigarette onto the ground then twisted his foot onto it until it became pulp. “Look, Spera… Hope. It’s about your father.”

“My father? What the hell has he got to do with anything?”

“You always believed your father was a good, honest policeman, true?

Hope hesitated then muttered, “Not always, no. But now I know the truth and I know he was one of the best. I also know he was killed by the Family. My father got too dangerous for them. He’d been hunting them down. Stood up to them. And they shot him. He shot him.” She butted her head in Gianni’s direction. “You know that Pino, don’t you? Of course you do. But why are you bringing this up now?”

“Your father wasn’t killed by the Family, Hope. Your father was part of the Family. He was taken out by one of his own men on the force because they knew he was a traitor.”

“But that’s impossible. He sent me away to protect me from them…. “

“No. My dear,” said Gianni with great pleasure. “Your father sent you away because in Italy you couldn’t have an abortion. Who do you think paid for it? Who do you think set up the restaurant for your uncle Gino and auntie Sara? Put you through private school and paid for university over there. Do you really think your dad did? A policeman in those days earned nothing. Nothing. The money for all of that came from the Family.”

Pino spun to face Gianni. “Abortion? What abortion?” asked Pino, staring at Gianni, his mouth wide open.

“Pino, Pino, my boy. Of course. You never did see her face, did you? Only saw her pussy from where you were hiding in that tree.”

Seconds of silence like the winded stomach from a heavy fisted punch. So Pino had been there. Hee’d seen it too. Hope stepped back further, towards the wall. She slid onto the ground, knees to her chest, huddled, almost cowering. Her ears pounded. Her heart thudded. What was the use of counting.

“Christ.” Pino turned to Hope. “Speranza. Was that you? You were the girl?” His thumb and forefinger rubbed his moustache, then the stubble on his chin. “Speranza, I didn’t know. I swear it. We didn’t. None of us knew. We couldn’t see. We couldn’t see your face.” PIno dropped to his knees and covered his head with his hands. “All these years wondering who it was. I never imagined it was you.”

Hope, buried her face in her knees. “You were there too, then.” Her voice husky and lacking lustre. “Gabriele knew. Gabriele saw me. He saw me and did nothing. Nothing.”

“What did you say? I can’t hear you,” Pino pleaded.

“Ah, my dears. So both of you have learnt something tonight,” Gianni snorted.

Hope uncovered her face, her eyes swollen and red. “I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.” Her head shook. Side to side. “My father would never have worked for the Family. Never. He was a good man. Pino, tell him. You knew he was a good man. A good copper.”

“Stop your mewling woman.” Gianni’s coarse voice grated her senses. “Shut up and listen to me, will you. You want the truth. Well here it is.” He sauntered towards her. Pino snatched his arm to stop him but he whipped it away with such strong violence, Pino could not hold him.

“My father was cut up by what happened.” Gianni’s voice was slow and emphatic. “Sent me to a remand school in Bergeggi for the summer. My father. Think I’m hard? Well, spend three months in that school and you’ll understand what ‘hard’ means. But that’s another story.”

He coughed, and spat the phlegm onto the ground before her.

“He did what he thought right at the time and he wanted to make it right, I realise that now. Not then though. Then I hated him. But now I can see why he did what he did. He and your dad were best mates, see. Bet you’d forgotten that little detail, hadn’t you? They lived in the same bloody block of flats and they did everything together. And friends are important, aren’t they?”

He stabbed his thumb in Pino’s direction.

“Dad knew that and he looked after his mates. You, little missy, were protected by him, my father, and if you’d’ve stayed in Via Mogadiscio and had that child, your life would’ve been a living hell. He knew it, I knew it and so did yer dad.”

Hope moaned, “No, No, I don’t believe you.”

“Poor little girl. Hard to hear the truth, is it my love?’” Standing over Hope now, Gianni stooped his shoulders to meet eye contact with her and that’s when she saw it.

Her stomach wrenched. Her throat constricted.

“Shut the fuck up Gianni. That’s enough,” said Pino.

Without taking his eyes oﬀ Hope, Gianni said, “Pino, boy. Watch it now. Remember who you're talking to, lad.”

Hope looked up. Her face pallid, her eyes blood red. Hatred swelled inside her chest. She heaved an intake of breath.

“That cross. That cross around your neck. It was you. You were the one who wrecked my bedroom and stole that cross from my jewellery bag.”

Gianni lifted the cross in the palm of his hand. “What this little thing?” He mouth curled into an evil grin. “No, no, no. Don’t think it was me, do you, dear?” He sniggered. “I have my boys that do that sort of thing for me, these days. Can’t remember who it was, but it was probably Carlos. Told me you’d been sneaking around, asking too many questions. So I had a word with the Marshall, here and he gave me a set of keys to his flat.”

Hope looked at Pino, blood drained from her face.

“You knew about this? Allowed it to happen? Bellin, Pino. You bastard. When I rang you, so terrified I was. Christ you’re a good actor. Should’ve won an Oscar fro that performance. Well, well, well. Pino, the great and the good. Always the first in the firing line, sold his soul to the devil and got his big shot position through Family connections.” She lifted her arms and attempted to wipe her eyes with her shoulders. “So, you’ve been working for them too, all these years. Climbed the ranks because of him. Jesus. The Family? So, go on then, explain. Tell me what happened? What was it that made you sell out to him, Pino? The money? Ah, now, wait. Of course, the position. The promotion. You’re a dirty scum, just like him.”

“Hope, please. Don’t judge me. You’ve been away a long time. You don’t …”

“Don’t what? Don’t know what I’m talking about? Maybe I don’t, but I do know one thing. You’re like all the others. A fucking disappointment. What a let down. And to think I trusted you. Can you please untie me, now so I can punch you in that bloody moustache of yours.“

She heard Gianni snigger and felt the acid rise again in her throat.

“I can’t untie you, Hope. I know you’ll go to the police and If you do, you’ll have a war on your hands. It won’t do any good.”

“And Caterina? Grazia Rosa? Do they know? Do they know you work for the man who killed your sister’s daughter? Christ, you make me vomit. Fucking bastard.”

She glared at Pino who knelt before her. Then, like a snake tongue, she spat. He flinched and closed his eyes but remained stock still, letting the saliva slip through his eyelashes and down his cheek as if he needed the humiliation.

Several seconds later, almost in slow motion, he took a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his face clean. His eyes did not leave the white cotton until he had folded it with painful care and replaced it in his pocket.

Taking a deep breath, he said, “I told you not to meddle.” Then he softened the harshness in his tone of voice. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you. You had to investigate, ask questions, open up the box of snakes. I told you to stop but you kept on going. What were you hoping to achieve?” He reprimanded her like a school teacher to his pupil.

Hope exploded. “Of course. It makes sense now. Why you insisted I didn’t. You refused to help me and constantly put obstacles in my way. God! You make me sick.”

She pounded his chest with her clenched fists. He grabbed them and said, “I had no choice.”

She struggled to release herself from his grasp. “No choice? Crap. Everybody has a choice.” Her chest heaved. Her throat felt so dry she couldn’t remember the last time she had drunk anything.

Gianni stood next to Pino now. Both tall men but Gianni towered above him. He spoke.

“You think I didn’t know the little runts were watching us that afternoon. Think I didn’t catch them? If it weren’t for your dad, The Uncle, I would’ve killed this little peeping Tom and the other two. Even though one of them was my own flesh and blood. Couldn’t aﬀord to have them talking, could I? But your dad stopped me. Always playing the goodie. Always looking out for the little runts.

"He made a deal, see. I was to keep my hands oﬀ them and he would make sure that none of the Family dealings would be interrupted. He would give us free reign in the city. What he didn’t realise was that one of his little soldiers in uniform squealed on him and they thought by getting rid of him they’d get rid of us.” Gianni laughed.

“But they were so wrong. Your dad let us get too many fingers into too many echelons. And Pino?” He poked a sausage-like finger into Pino’s chest.

“Pino’s where he is now because of your dad. The boys saw what they saw and that linked them to the Family forever. They’ve been protected by us ever since. They do good for the Family and the Family does good by them. They know that if they ever talk, they’re dead. That’s how it works, doesn't it Pino?”

Hope shook her head and dropped back onto the floor. Devoid of energy she lowered her chin to her chest and her shoulders sagged.

“What are you going to do with me? You let me go and you risk me talking?”

“Heard you’ve been having a hard time of it lately. Nearly lost your job, if I’m not wrong. Hey Pino. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Pino grunted.

“What do you want from me?” asked Hope.

Pino turned to Gianni who nodded. Then he explained.

“Look Hope. We’ve got connections in the UK and we can give you a leg up. We can make your life very easy. But we’d need you to look out for us in return.”

“You think I’d work for you just for an easier life? God I’d rather you kill me here and now. Go on. Get it over and done with.”

“Hope don’t be stupid. You're being ridiculous.”

“What do you care?” Hope’s eyes glared at Pino. Her body felt heavy with fatigue and her vision blurred as her eyes grew wet with tears. “And Gabriele? Does he know all of this, too?”

“You talking about me?”

The three heads in the basement jolted towards the stairs.

“Little brother,” Gianni said. “Nice you could pop in. We’re just getting to the best bit. Where the lady falls into our arms begging for mercy, ready to do anything for us to keep herself alive.”

Gabriele stood at the top of the steps. He held a hunting rifle to his shoulder like a huntsman on a shoot.

“What the hell is that for Gabry. We’re not planning to shoot her,” said Pino, frowning.

“Not yet, awhile,” Gianni added.

“Oh. This isn’t for her, Pino. This is for you. You and Gian.” He pointed it at the two men as he walked down the steps. “Pino. You can cut Hope free with this.” He threw him his pocket penknife. It clanked onto the ground before Pino’s feet.

“What the hell are you up to, little brother?”

Ignoring Gianni, he said to Pino, “You heard me. Do it.”

Pino’s eyes darted to Gianni. “Where’s Eddie?”

Gabriele grunted. “Where’s the Alby boy? Ha! He won’t be able to help you. Turns out he’s nothing but a big coward. Run oﬀ, he did, to find a good hiding place, I expect. Well. I told him the police were onto him for doing such a great job with Mario the builder’s face. So terrified he was, his little body shook like an autumn leaf in a thunderstorm. Your boy Eddie, your little trainee viceroy, Gian, is no good to you now. Untie her. Pino, Now.”

It took Pino several minutes to cut the rope and when Hope’s hands were free she punched him so hard, the smack echoed around the basement walls. He fell into the boxes and landed on his back where he lay rubbing his jaw.

“You know you’re risking your life, don’t you Gabry. You won’t get away with this,” said Gianni laughing again. That ugly, bitter laugh that Hope often heard in the dead of night in her nightmares.

“Oh, I’ve been risking my life for years, Gian. You know that. Ever since I saw what you did to Speranza. I’ve been carrying you like a dark, heavy shadow on my shoulders. And every day you weigh me down, further and further. But don’t you worry about me. It’s time to stop. I’ve had enough, brother. Haven’t you?”

“Now Gabry. Dont do anything stupid, son. I don’t want to have to hurt you. We’re brothers in arms, you and me. Bound by Blood. We’re family. And family looks after itself, right?”

“Too late, Gian. Chief Marshall Franco’’s on his way with his brigadiers.”

Gianni rolled his eyes, they glistened, lively and lethal. “What? My old friend Marshall Franco?” Gianni chuckled boyishly. “Now Marshall Franco’s got a little problem. Don’t suppose you know, do you Gabry? Well, our Marshall Franco has a taste for the Orient.”

“What do you mean?” Gabriele shifted from hip to hip.

“A taste for the Orient? He likes the little Chinesina, he does. But the young ones.” GIanni curled his top lip into a pornographic sneer and licked his lips. “The really young ones, Gabry.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”

Gabriele moaned. His neck seemed to shrink as his shoulders hunched forward. “And you supply him with ‘em, right Gian?” He wiped his free hand on his green trouser leg.

“Oh, for years. Keep getting younger and younger. Not easy for me but got some good connections over there in Shanghai, haven’t I? So I think you can rest assured, Chief Marshall Franco won’t be wasting his time on Satan’s Mushroom.” Gianni’s laugh was callous, spiteful.

Hope watched as Gabriele lowered the shotgun and sank onto the bottom step where he slouched into resignation. He looked like a dog about to be beaten by its master and she wanted to take him in her arms. His courage had overwhelmed her.

Brutus the white albino beast bounded down the stairs and sniﬀed at Gabriele before he landed at Gianni’s feet, panting and slobbering saliva from the corners of his mouth. Gianni stroked the dog between its ears and patted its back.

Pino cleared his throat. “What do we do with them, Gian?” his weak voice croaked.

“Leave them down here, for now. I’ll decide what to do.”

Gianni grabbed the gun from Gabriele and shoved past him up the steps to the bar, Pino and the dog following their master.

Hope and Gabriele heard the door lock and the bolts scrape shut .

Hope and Gabry together in Basement Hope sat on the step below Gabriele. She rested her arm languidly on his knee and said,

“What’s the plan, Stan?”

“How the fuck should I know. I mean, now, anything can happen, cazzo. What the hell were you thinking? That Speranza Cacciatore could take on the bloody Mogadiscio Family? Jesus, Hope.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve got a problem with anger management.”

“You’ve got a problem with your brain, more like.”

She laughed. “Perhaps you’re right.”

He sniggered. “I know I am.”

They were silent for a moment then Gabriele cleared his voice.

“Speranza. Something I have to ask you. It’s been years, right but it’s eaten away at my insides like a tumour.”

Before he could ask, she said,“Yes, Gabry. I saw you.”

Gabriele dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his scalp. “I knew it.”

“I hated you. Hated the living ground you walked on. You watched, hidden away like a coward and watched. You did nothing to help me.”

“What could I have done? I was only ten and he’d’ve killed me. Nearly did anyway. Nearly killed both of us. Me and Pino. He kicked the living daylights out of us and promised he would kill us both if we ever opened our mouths. And we were certain he would.”

“You could’ve run and got someone. An adult. Anyone.”

“Come on, Spera. No-one would’ve believed me. And if they did they wouldn’t have taken on The Mushroom. He was pure evil. Still is. You spoke up, you’d be hounded and made meat of.”

“But he wouldn’t have killed you. You’re his brother.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

Hope clutched her hands together and rubbed her nose. “Christ, I’ve been so obtuse. Always thought Pino was a superhero.”

“Never be fooled by images, Hope.”

Hope’s head snapped up and stared at his strong jaw. “Do you know who else told me that same thing just the other day? Luca. Luca Giordano.”

“My old mate, Luca? Where did you see him? Thought he’d gone into seclusion. Living in some hovel in the middle of nowhere, he is. I don’t get it. Just don’t get it.” He tapped a finger to his temple then twisted it and mouthed, “crazy sod”.

Hope hit him playfully. “Don’t judge him, just because he’s chosen a diﬀerent way of life to you. He’s a good man. And his eyes are still gorgeous.”

Suddenly, they heard a crash from the bar above. A chair turned over? A table? The dog barking. yelling. A gun shot. The dog whining.

“Fuck,” said Gabriele. He charged up the steps and banged on the door.

THE BAR BRAWL When the door to the basement was finally unlocked, Hope gasped.

Eddie, naked from the waist up, grabbed Gabriele, patting him on the shoulder. “Alright mate?” he said. Then he pulled her by the arm. “Hope. I suggest you get out. We’ve got this.”

The bar looked like a war zone. Tables and chairs on their sides. A man lying on the ground with his legs through the entrance to the toilet. Brutus pacing at his head, sniﬃng, licking, whining. Carlos, in a neck lock, blood dripping onto his white shirt front from a broken nose. Another man crumpled in a corner, shaking and sobbing, hands above his head.

“Cazzo, Eddie. Is he dead? You didn’t need to kill him.”

“Tranquillo, mate. He’s fine. Passed out when Uncle Sabin shot at the ceiling.”

A man wearing airline pilot sunglasses, salt and pepper short back and sides, and a tight red T-shirt open at the neck to reveal a muscular, shaved chest-cleavage, took out the cigar from between his white teeth and, grinning, clasped his hand in Gabriele’s. Then he grabbed Hope’s and shook it. She couldn’t take her eyes oﬀ his huge flexed bicep and a deltoid muscle that looked as big as Brutus the dog’s rear thigh.

There were around eight men, all of them fair skinned, fair haired, and bare chested apart from Uncle Saban. They wore tight black jeans and black leather belts with large silver buckles in the image of an eagle. Hope could not help but notice their Albanese imprinting. Wide faces. broad noses. Their eyes, small and hard.

“We’ll have him up and sitting in no time. Things are gonna be a bit diﬀerent round here, though. You know that right, Gabry. It’s what you wanted, yes? That he concede some of his power to us. If he’s clever, he’ll get the deal. Ain’t got much choice, now.”

“Good man Eddie. You can hurt him as much as you like but don’t kill him. I want to see how he takes his fall from power.” He bent down at Gianni’s head and pulled his face up. Gianni groaned. Saliva drooled from the side of his mouth like his dog’s. His skin looked pasty and damp.

“But mostly I want to see the humiliation on his face.” Gabriele dropped his brother’s head. Hope heard the crack of teeth on the hard marble floor.

“What d’ya wann’us to do with this one, Eddie?” said a thuggish man who looked like a boxer that had taken some rough fights. His nose squashed and widened, his ears like cauliflowers, he wore nothing but a pair of tight black jeans, naked from the waste up to reveal tattoos over each breast. Words in the Albanian language that Hope recognised. ‘Baba’, father, and ‘Besnikëri’, loyalty. Two pistols, one on each side of his naval, pointed down into his jeans. He looked like an inmate from a Correctional Facility.

Huddled in a corner by his side, cowering and whimpering, was Sergio Mantero, The Doctor. Even more crumpled than Hope had seen him before.

“Let me talk to him,” Hope said. The pistol packer stood and moved away as she walked over to Mantero and crouched beside him.

“Sergio Mantero. Well, well, well. You know Gabry, I never did see his face.”

Gabriele span round to listen.

“Want to know why? Cos this bastard turned me onto all fours like a slab of meat. Fucked me from behind, didn’t you? I was only fifteen years old. You thought you were so big and clever. Well, look at you now. Pathetic, little fucking bastard.”

She slapped him and felt his cheekbone smash against the back of her hand. He cried out and tried to hide his face against the wall. She grabbed his chin so hard she hoped the bone would crush between her fingers.

“So The Mushroom had you too. Had you in his hands, all these years. Mind you, you got a good life out of it. Doctor Sergio Mantero. Did you actually get a degree or was that falsified? And what did it take? How many suicides have you declared oﬃcial for the Family? Assassinations covered up?”

He groaned. Then she saw the wet patch at his crotch.

“Jesus.” Hope stood up and walked over to Gabriele. “Can they arrest him?”

“Leave it to the Albanians. They’ll know what to do with him, won’t you Eddie? They’ll get word to the local police. Have him stripped of all title and reputation.”

Eddie nodded and made the sign of the eagle with his two hands spreading into wings on his chest. The Albanian Eagle, symbol of pride, strength and heroism. But also a token of unity. Gabriele nodded, took hold of Hope’s hand and led her out of the bar onto a street, empty and silent. Not a police oﬃcer in sight.

“You knew, didn’t you Gabry?” Hope asked.

He did not answer but his top lip curled up slightly and she could sense his silent acknowledgement. She squeezed his arm and placed her head on his shoulder, just for a moment.

Then she bolted upright and rasped,

“Shit, Gabry. Where’s Pino?”

HOPE SAYS GOODBYE 9am.

Exhausted, Hope wheeled her purple suitcase down the salita of Sant’Antonino. Sweat

trickled from her temples. She would not miss this humidity. The crickets rubbed their serrated wings and their constant hum grated on her nerves. She was glad to be returning to her house in Hove and she was looking forward to her own bed. Get the flight over with, land safely and sorted.

“Gabriele wants to say goodbye and wish you well. He said he’d be waiting at the bar. We’ve got time for a quick cappuccino, haven’t we?”

“Absolutely. I want to give him a big hug. I love that man.”

Caterina raised her eyes to the Heavens.

“I also want to pop in and have a quick chat with the girl Giovanna. Been meaning to, but haven’t had a chance. Just want to let her know she was right.”

“Right? About what?”

“About Eddie and Aurora. How Eddie didn’t go to his mates birthday party that night but did a delivery for The Mushroom. And that Eddie did see Aurora. She was right on all accounts.”

“Her father. Be careful what you say. Her father’s The Mushroom, don’t forget that.”

“Not likely to. She’ll be having a bad time of it, right now.”

Caterina parked Poppy opposite Francesca’s bar and the women entered the terrace where they found Gabriele sitting at a table, his head in the Sporting Gazzette. He looked up and bared his teeth in a cheesy grin. Then he stood up and pulled a single red rose out from under his green vest which he handed to Hope as he bowed. She took it, curtseyed then gave him a bear hug and whispered, “Grazie. You are an angel.”

Once she had drank her frothy cappuccio and eaten the nutella brioche Francesca had given her on the house, she left Caterina and Gabry to chat and crossed the piazza to Giovanna’s flower

kiosk, where the girl was arranging pots of purple heather and creeping ivy on the shelves behind the counter.

Giovanna turned when she heard the door open.

Hope breathed in the fresh perfume of cut flowers and touched the petals of the yellow roses in the vase that stood by the till.

“Hope.” Giovanna said, bluntly.

“Giovanna. I’m oﬀ but before I go, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about your father. I know it’s been hard for you. Will you be alright?”

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout me. I’ll be fine. I’m selling up, you know. Going to Barcelona. I’ve found a great psychology course there at the university. I’ve always wanted to go and study abroad but dad would never’ve allowed me. So, I guess, I can say I am now free to choose what to do with my life, and that’s amazing. All thanks to you.”

Eddie came in holding a cup of espresso. “For you, beautiful. As promised.”

Giovanna stepped out from behind the counter and greeted Eddie with a kiss on the lips and a stroke of his cheek.

“Eddie’s coming with me, aren’t you, love?”

“Eddie? I see, well, that was quick work but I can only wish you luck. I’m glad for you both. Mind if I take a sweetie?”

Hope plunged her hand into the glass bowl filled with assorted toffee caramels that sat next to the vase of roses. She shuffled them about to check the different flavours. Giovanna and Eddie had not heard her. Too engrossed in their plans.

A sparkle at the bottom of the bowl caught her eye. What was that? She rifled through the sweets and pulled out a bead. A crystal bead. Cracked. Hope’s heart raced, her chest squeezed and she felt dizzy. The bead had the letter ‘R’ engraved upon it.

Hope spun to see Eddie holding Giovanna’s face in his hands, about to kiss her again. Her throat felt dry. Giovanna. It had been Giovanna. Giovanna had killed her. Not the Mushroom, not Pino, but Giovanna. Of course.

She turned her back on the kissing couple, pulled out her phone and made a call. In a low voice she said, “Gabry, could you come here, please. Yes. Giovanna’s. I need you here, now, but call the police quick. Well get the cemetery guardian here, then. Now.”

Christ, she should have realised. Recognised that look in her eyes on the beach in Boccadasse. The glow of passion for Eddie. The fire of intense envy towards Aurora. And when she had come to talk to her, had she known Eddie had been sleeping with her best friend. Possibly pregnant by him. Riddled with jealousy. The green eyed monster. And now look at her. Got everything she wanted. Shit.

Hope walked to the door and stood blocking the exit.

“So how did you do it, Giovanna?” Hope asked.

“Do what?” Giovanna giggled.

Hope held up the bead into the sunlight that poured in through the open door. It glistened. Giovanna gasped and pulled away from Eddie.

“How did you kill Aurora? Hit her on the head with a brick? Stomp on her belly? How did you do it?”

Eddie’s head darted from Giovanna to Hope like a cartoon character. “What you going on about?” he asked.

Gabriele, out of breath, arrived and stood next to Hope. He shouted to Mario who was outside his kiosk, arm around Rita’s shoulders, holding her close to him. Her head resting on his chest.

“Mario run and get Cristian. He’s not answering his phone, bellin. Should be in the Guardian’s hut. Make sure he’s got his gun on him. Hope, what’s going on?”

“The evening Aurora died she was given a bracelet. She was wearing it when her body was found the next morning by Gabriele, here. Isn’t that right, Gabry?”

Gabriele put his hands on his hips.

Hope continued. “But there was a bead missing. The beads spelt her name, see. A.U.R.O.R.A. But one of the beads was missing. The letter ’R’. And here it is. Found it in your sweetie jar. Not a very clever place to leave it, though Giovanna, ay?”

“What the fuck’s going on? Giovanna?” said Eddie brushing his hair back with a shaking hand.

Giovanna roared and lunged towards the door but Hope grabbed her around the chest and squeezed. Giovanna kicked at Hope’s shins but Hope pulled the girl’s arms behind her back and and held her wrists with one hand while she pushed her head down with the other forcing Giovanna to double over. Giovanna groaned.

Cristian, the duty day guardian, rushed up, saw Hope holding Giovanna in a chest lock, froze, and dropped his jaw.

“Bellin, Chris! Do something.” said Gabriele and snatched the pistol from the guard’s holster..

“Eddie. Eddie. Listen to me. She had everything. Everything she wanted, she had. And she knew I was in love with you Eddie. She’d known for a long time. But what did she do? She had to prove she could have you too. Didn’t care about my feelings. And you fell for her, like they all did. Puppy dogs. You were all her puppies. She didn’t care about you. But I care, Eddie. I do. I love you.” Giovanna’s coarse voice had become shrill, hysterical.

Eddie stepped back, both hands on his head.

“You walked me to my scooter. You kissed me. Remember? Said you wanted me. Wanted to take me out. A romantic night at Boccadasse. That’s what you said. And then I saw you kissing her. D’you know how that made me feel? I knew that’s where you were going. To see her. You weren’t going to any birthday party, were you? You just couldn’t resist her.”

“What? You followed me?”

Giovanna struggled but could not move under Hope’s strong grip. Hope, breathing heavily kept hold tight despite her hands and wrists aching.

“Yes, I followed you. And then I followed her. I knew she was pregnant. She told me all about it. Had no idea who the father was. She didn’t want to know. You weren’t the only one she was screwing. Told me about her little plan too. To get as much money as she could, from him, from you. Don’t look so surprised, cazzo. She was going to get money oﬀ of you, too. And then she’d leave this God forsaken place. She hated it here and she used you all.”

They heard the screaming siren before the police car entered the piazza.

Giovanna suddenly cackled, like a witch on her broomstick. “The funny thing is, you all thought it was uncle Alessandro. Even you Gabry, thought it was your own brother. Poor Alex. He didn’t stand a chance. Not with Pino there, holding his arm over the cliﬀ.”

Pino jumped out of the black Cherokee. Hope did not see him.

“What do you mean, Giovanna?” Hope asked, letting go of her. Giovanna stumbled and fell.

“What do you mean,” she repeated.

As Pino sauntered towards them, placing his cap on his head, mouth tight and exuding great importance, Giovanna, sitting on the ground, legs apart, cackled again and said, “Didn’t you guess? Who do you think loaded her into the back of dad’s SUV? Me? Nah, not me! Mr Marasciallo, Pino Tallarico of course. The great Marshall. Gets a call from the Mushroom and comes running. And Poor Uncle Alex. Had to let him go.”

Hope recoiled and then she spotted him. Her lip curled and she rolled her shoulders violently. How could she have misjudged him so terribly. She felt disgust not just for him but towards herself too. The acid phlegm in the back of her throat made her cough as if she were choking.

“Give her to me Hope.” Pino ordered.

“She’s all yours.” Hope said, shoving Giovanna towards him and turning away. “You’ll protect her, won’t you Pino? Of course you will. No harm will come to The Mushroom’s daughter. Not under your jurisdiction, right?”

Gabriele stepped forward and stood in Pino’s way. “What happened on that cliﬀ, Pino?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Let me past, Gabry.” Pino held Giovanna by the arm. Gabry did not move.

“Tell me what happened?”

“You know what happened. You were there. I couldn’t grip him. Couldn’t hold him, his arm slippery with sun tan oil. I told you.”

“Bellin, Marasciallo,” Giovanna blurted, eyes so wide, her pupils were popping out. “You are good. Very convincing. Convinced yourself too, by the sounds of things. Uncle Gabry, I know Pino let Alex go. Let him fall on the rocks to his death. And you know why? Cos Uncle Alex saw him. Saw him at the gates.” She shook her index finger towards the entrance of the cemetery. Pino shoved Giovanna towards the car and said, “That’s enough Giovanna. Get in the car.”

“Uncle Alex saw us. Saw Pino talking to Franchy outside the gates. Watched us drive in.”

“Enough. Griﬃni, shut the door and drive.”

But before Griﬃni could, she screamed, “Oh, he didn’t know we had Aurora in the boot, but he saw us alright. And I know cos I was sitting in the back seat. Alex was standing there watching it all happen without realising his precious pregnant love was lying in the boot.” She lay her head back and laughed. A cruel, harsh laugh.

The Cherokee’s engine roared. Hope fuelled with adrenalin, surged towards the passenger door. She opened it and jumped it, pushing Giovanna to make room. She slammed the door shut as Griffini sped off. She could see Gabriele standing by the flower shop, take off his cap and scratch his head. Caterina, held her hand to her mouth.

The cemetery bells chimed the hour. Eleven chimes. Hope was going to miss her plane. Shit. What was she thinking?

Pino’s head snapped round to glare at her. “Ma Che Cazzo? What the fuck are you doing? Get out of the car, Hope. Griﬃni, stop the car.”

Griﬃni was already turning out of the piazza and onto the main road. He had no choice but to continue through the underpass. He swerved into the bus lane and slammed on the brakes.

“Get out, Hope.”

“No, Pino. I am not going to get out of this car. I know how your system works. I know that Giovanna is Satan Mushroom’s daughter and that you will do everything in your power to protect her. Brigadier Griﬃni. You are witness to this.”

Griﬃni glanced at his commanding oﬃcer. His forehead furrowed with confusion. Hope pulled out her phone and and began recording.

“In the presence of Marshall Giuseppe Tallarico and Brigadier Griffini, on this day, Friday 31st August 2018 at eleven ten am, Giovanna De Luca, Under Section 24A of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1974, and Article. 383 of the Italian Code of Criminal Procedure which authorises each person to proceed to arrest when dealing with offences that can be prosecuted ex officio, I am officially arresting you, having reasonable grounds to suspect that you, Giovanna De Luca, have committed an indictable offence, that of murder. That you, Giovanna De Luca did brutually kill Aurora Rossi of Sant’Antonino, Genova, on the evening of Wedensday 15th August 2018. I am now delivering you to Marshall Giuseppe Tallarico and Constable Griffini of the Carabiniere Station Command, 301, Maddalena, and officially request that they assume the judicial authority of preparing the necessary report as required under Article. 383 of the Italian Code of Criminal Procedure. Please take us to your station command, Brigadier Griffini.”

AT THE AIRPORT The large terrace overlooking the runway at Christopher Columbus Airport reminded Hope of a beach bar on an island in the Maldives. She sat on a large, comfortable garden sofa under a bamboo Gazebo. Caterina sat opposite her in a wide armed chair. The BA bird sat below them in the near distance on its ramp, awaiting preparation for its flight back to London Gatwick.

The women both sucked on straws. It was a choice between a mint Hush Puppy or an Aperol Spritz. The alcohol had not won today.

“Won’t you tell me what happened, Hope? Do you really believe me to be so emotionally fragile. Please have more faith in me than that and let me have closure. Please. Before you get on that plane.”

“Do you really want to know the details? With the risk It may haunt your dreams? I don’t think so.” She stroked her top lip and her fingers fluttered over the scar.

Caterina lowered her sunglasses and glared. A great impression of Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiﬀany’s’, thought Hope. She shut her eyes, groaned and reluctantly began to tell the tale as Giovanna had recounted it.

Eddie left the Guild Meeting and Giovanna rushed after him making her excuses. At the top of the stairs she asked him to walk her to her scooter as the alley in the dark scared her.” Eddie could not say no. Her voice quivered with just the right vulnerability for him to take notice. And she was right. The lane was dark at that time of night, not lit by street lamps, and Giovanna was sure a gentleman would never allow a young lady to make her way after light, alone, especially one wearing such a short skirt.

Once in the piazza, the cigarette machine outside Francesca’s shut-up bar provided some light, ghostly but welcome.

Giovanna climbed onto her motor scooter. She felt Eddie’s eyes on her legs as she straddled the saddle and her tight red dress raised high above her tanned thighs. Letting them hang, she wiggled her booted feet, dressed in a pair of unlaced Doctor Martins. All the rage.

She put her helmet on her head and pointed to the buckle which Eddie clipped closed for her. She gazed into his eyes with a longing and said in her sweetest voice, “Grazie tantissimo, Eddie.” Her cat-like eyes pleaded for attention. “Thank you so much for walking with me.” She stroked his cheek. “I’m usually not at all scared of the dark but for some reason tonight is giving me the shudders and I know you can protect me, you are so strong.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Gio. Not with me around.”

She could see his eyes wander again to her naked thighs and she opened her legs a little more, then rubbed her bottom on the saddle pretending to make herself comfortable.

“Will you kiss me Eddie? If you kiss me I will never be afraid again.”

She giggled and touched his arm.

He hesitated but her full lips pouted and then she opened her mouth and licked them with her pink strawberry tongue. Of course he kissed her. How could he resist. The soft kissing became more intense. Giovanna felt Eddie’s tongue pushing into her mouth. He even slipped a hand down her neck and onto her breast. Her nipple hardened. He squeezed it.

“You like that, don’t you,” he said in a husky, silky voice. She moaned with pleasure. He stroked a thigh and fluttered his fingers up her skirt to lightly touch her panties. He was hers.

But then the bells chimed the hour and Eddie sighed and pulled back.”Listen love, as much as I want to stay here all night with you, I can’t. I have a job to do.”

“You mean your friend’s birthday party.”

He chuckled.

“Yes.That’s right, love. My friend’s party. I’ve got to go.” He squeezed her nose, kissed her once more, licked her lips and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow? Coﬀee as usual?”

Giovanna smiled, her puppy-dog eyes expectant for something more.

“Tell you what,” Eddie said, “I’ll take you to Boccadasse on Friday evening for an icecream. What do you say to that?”

“Sounds lovely. That would be great. Thanks Eddie. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Drive straight home, now,” he told her.

She nodded and blew him a kiss. She watched him jump onto his motorbike. But to her surprise, he did not take the main road. He turned and roared down Via del Veilino towards Sant’Antonino. Her heart sank. He wasn’t going to any mate’s birthday party at all, was he? She had fallen hook, line and sinker, hadn’t she? He was oﬀ to see Aurora. The Princess. A shiver ran through her. Well, what a liar, he is. She sat for what may have been ten minutes or more, wallowing in the jealous rage that took hold and bubbled in her blood like quicksand. And then she decided to follow him.

She took the first bend in Via del Veilino slowly. The tall cemetery walls loomed creepy in a sickly, faded orange light. Rectangular shadows, long and threatening, enclosed the lane further and created a ghostly presence. When she took the second bend she could make out a van further ahead. It stopped and Eddie jumped out. She turned oﬀ her engine and lights and pushed her scooter nearer the wall out of sight. Then she saw the girl.

Eddie grabbed her and held her close. And while he kissed her, Giovanna felt giddy with nausea. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fists clenched. The girl suddenly pushed him away and stormed oﬀ. He stood arms open shouting, “Aurora, come back. I’ll give you a lift. Aurora!” But Aurora continued her march up towards Sant’Antonino. Eddie smashed his fist into the door of his van. “Cazzo!” Giovanna heard. He climbed in and zoomed past Giovanna who had bowed her head and turned her face to the shadows.

Without thinking, she clenched her teeth and drove on to catch Aurora. When she saw her stomping up the hill, head high as if a queen on her throne, Giovanna did not stop but continued to the sheds she knew stood around the next bend. Here. she parked the bike and got oﬀ, muscles tight and stomach burning. She did not take oﬀ her helmet but pulled down the visor to protect her face.

Aurora arrived. Giovanna shouted her name. Then she jumped at her from behind and grabbed her hair. She pulled tightly and slapped a hand over Aurora’s mouth to stop her from screaming.

“You knew I liked him. You knew. I told you. But you, the great bitch you are, had to have him, didn’t you. You had to prove to yourself and everyone else that Little Miss Princess can have any man she wants.” She twisted the mass of Aurora’s hair around her forearm and kicked her knee into the small of Aurora’s back.

Aurora whelped like a beaten dog making muﬄed noises from under Giovanna’s hand. “Giovanna. Please...I didn’t mean… I don’t care for him..please. It was a mistake.”

Through her breaths, now coarse and fast, Giovanna sneered and an ugly laugh resounded through the trees that sheltered them.

“You always have what you want, don’t you princess. Nice flat, university degree, job waiting for you and any man that comes your way with a bit of money to his name. The

great fucking, fantastic Aurora. And now you take Eddie away from me. How dare you. How DARE YOU!”

Giovanna shoved her to the ground, flashes of fury in her vision. Aurora struggled. Tried to pick herself up. Giovanna kicked her in the stomach.

“No, Giovanna please. Not my stomach. No.” She covered her belly with her hands.

“Why not, Princess. Eaten too many oysters this evening? Feel a bit queasy, do we?” Giovanna kicked her again.

“Please Giovanna. Stop. I’m pregnant.”

Giovanna faltered. “What? What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Giovanna span round. “Oh, right. Yes, of course. Pregnant. And who’s the father? Or aren’t you sure? Could be one of several, right?”

“Please, Giovanna. Let me go home.”

“Not until you tell me who the father is. Is it Eddie’s?”

Aurora remained silent on her side, folding her legs to her chest.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Giovanna raised her foot and placed it on Aurora’s hands. She slowly pushed down hard until Aurora started to scream, “No, Not Eddie’s. Alex’s. It’s Alex’s. Look. Look at this. Here’s the proof. It’s not Eddie’s. She took the scrunched up note from her pocket and threw it at Giovanna’s feet. “Read it. Please. You’ll see. It’s not Eddie’s.”

Giovanna picked it up and read it. She sniggered. “Poor bloke. Sounds desperate. You threatened to tell his wife? God you are such a bitch. And he could only aﬀord a hundred thousand. Not enough for the princess, I bet. But this isn’t proof it’s his, is it? How many other men did you ask money from?

She lifted her foot higher, bending her knee to her chest. An evil sneer creeped across her face and then she kicked down with such force that the wind exploded from Aurora’s mouth like a balloon bursting. One, two, three. Again she kicked down, harder and again even harder. To each of Aurora's groans, she kicked the fetus into a pulp until Aurora groaned no more.

When she stopped, panting, dripping with sweat, white lights flashing before her eyes, she fell to the ground next to her friend and screamed.

“You are such a bitch Aurora. Why d’you have to do it. You shouldn’t’ve done it. Not with Eddie. Eddie was mine. Mine.”

But Aurora did not answer.

Giovanna looked at the girl’s face, lips turning blue and her chest tightened in panic. Jesus. What had she done? She took oﬀ her helmet, scrambled to her feet and grabbed her phone.

“Dad, Dad. Help me. I need your help now dad. I’ve done something terrible. You have to come here now.”

ON THE PLANE HOME The engines blasted. The plane sped faster and faster. Hope grabbed the arm rests of her seat but she did not shut her eyes. Instead, she looked out of the oval window. Her stomach fell into her pelvis, that empty space feeling but she giggled and let out a “woooo” as they left the land behind.

The Ligurian sea sparkled in the sun, not a cloud in the sky. She watched a container ship being tugged into the port. She saw the Medieval Lanterna with the Saint George’s cross signalling …...As the plane banked over the Mediterranean and turned back towards the town she made out the domes and steeples of the historical centre. She saw the chasm where the Morandi Bridge had stood, only two weeks prior. And then she saw the church of Sant’Antonino on the hill and it’s clock tower.

A nostalgic sadness seeped through her pores, under her skin. Genova. She would return next year. She felt stronger, calmer, and bellin, she would return.

In these past two weeks, she had learned a great deal about herself. That she had the power to fight her fears, for sure. That she could return to work. She was ready. And that she would never again believe in her own judgements of others based on deep rooted prejudices. What had Luca said to her that Sunday morning? “Don’t be fooled by images, Hope. Your perception of reality is yours and yours alone.” How right he was, that beautiful, gentle man. She sighed and rested her forehead on the glass to watch the land drift further away.

And what about Gabriele? Caterina was so right. Caterina, unlike Hope, had been able to perceive the inherent goodness in his soul. And he was good. A good man. Despite his diﬃcult, troubled childhood, his criminal family leanings, his lack of education, and the terrible accident, he had managed to keep a clear head and choose the path to righteousness. His brother Gianni had not broken him.

All it had taken for Hope was one glance at his eyes through the vine as she lay on that table in Via Mogadiscio all those years ago, and she had never forgiven him. She had labelled him a liar, a cheat, a lowlife. Not to be trusted. How wrong she had been.

Pino? Her childhood hero. Turned out to be quite a coward. So riddled with fear of failure. So desperate to succeed, he was an easy pawn in Gianni’s huge hands.

Hope realized she was stroking the scar on her upper lip. She dropped her hand to her lap and relaxed the tension in her shoulder.

Pino. He had loved her though. Just for that moment. In his bed, he had loved her. She shook her head. No. She would not go there.

And what a network Gianni The Mushroom had created for himself. Mantero the coroner, blackmailed since that day he had held Mauro like a shot rabbit, to watch Gianni and Renzo Bianchi. Renzo. She had forgotten that name. The one who had turned her over and taken her from behind. She shuddered. She had met him at SPOF, holding all his election posters. If she had put two and two together, she would have killed him there and then with her bare hands.

She laughed to herself, took a deep breath in through her nose and slowly let the air escape from her mouth. Nice and easy. No counting necessary.

The steward passed with the trolley. “Anything to drink, madam?”

“No thank you. I’m alright today. I’m going home.”

THE END

The Guild Meeting

The meeting of the stonemasons’ guild was set for after dinner at nine o’clock on the mid summer bank holiday of Ferragosto. Giorgio Parodi understood how important this meal was for every Italian man, woman and child. He did not want his members attending on an empty, groaning stomach. Dissatisfaction breeds nervousness and Giorgio Parodi, the Master Mason, wanted neither arguments nor dissent this evening.

He had, as usual, asked the members to enter his shop by the back entrance which was in the narrow alley that lay behind the main road, Via Bobbio, down from Francesca’s bar and two doors away from De Luca’s Pharmacy. Along this lane were the back entrances to the shops, laboratories and storehouses of most of the Staglieno stonemasons, coﬃn makers and funeral directors.

The members of the Guild had to knock three times on the old green, wooden door and Eddie let them in. They shuﬄed through the heavy, dark burgundy velvet curtain upon which was embroidered a staﬀ with two serpents intertwined around it. This emblem represented the Caduceus of the Roman God Mercury, the god of shop keepers and merchants, travellers and

transporters of goods, of thieves and tricksters. (the latter two to which the Guild never alluded.)

Down a flight of crooked stone steps, the members entered the internal chamber. It’s red carpet and ormolu adornments made for a plush, opulent ambient in which one felt honoured to participate. They took their places at the long high table laid with a thick, red-silk tablecloth. Two large, florid, Rococo candelabras alight at each end. The letter ‘D’ was embroidered in gold thread on the back of each chair;‘D’ for ‘Dio’ - God, the all-seeing, higher power by which a person would ultimately be judged.

There were three, stand-alone candles twisting tall, like the snakes curling and encircling around Mercury’s Caduceus. These stood at three of the four corners of a tiered alabaster platform upon which raised a square plinth of white marble, grained with grey, that acted as the altar. Orange electric light bulbs created their warm incandescence, glowing always, in homage to the patron saint of this secret society, The Guild of St George at Staglieno.

Hung on the wall behind the table was an impressive depiction of their saint, Saint George, as a crusader knight, saddled on his white steed and wielding shield and sword in hand. Both man and horse were dressed in white tunics that were decorated with large red crosses.

On the other walls hung images of stonemasonry tools, important symbols which had a weighty social mindfulness: the metric flat square representing direction, the mallet with which one may strike a happy medium and conciliate one’s actions, and the chisel, one of the working tools of the apprentice which is a reference to the advantages of education. It symbolised a moral guide to one’s consciousness.

This guild was founded in the 12th century when the religious fervour resulted in the construction of thousands of impressive churches and cathedrals in stone across Western Europe. The principles of the guild, to protect the interests of its members, was highly regarded amongst the stonemason’s of Staglieno. To be initiated into the guild was a great honour. It meant that you had arrived at a superior, noteworthy level of professionalism and that your work was of significant quality to meet its standards.

The meeting this evening was not just to celebrate the bank holiday as was every year, but to brainstorm the solving of a problem. Today the stonemasons and florists of Staglieno were in danger of losing everything. The small man was being pushed out by the big boys. The Local County Council of Genova with their own public funeral director’s, ‘Servizi Pompe, Onoranze Funebri’ now had 6 branches in strategic locations around the city. That of Staglieno, managed by Renzo Bianchi and his son Giulio, had just bought Grazia Rosa Rossi’s flower shop from her. Their intrusion into every aspect of the funeral service industry was becoming a threat and something had to be done quickly before they were all put out of business.

The first arrivals, Mario and Rita.

“I hope this is going to be worth it. It’s the last thing I fancy doing tonight.” said Mario testily. Mario had evil in his eyes. Rita, on the other hand, held herself calmly and gave Eddie a kiss on both his cheeks. “Don't mind him, Eddie dear. You know Mario. Sometimes he’s like a bear with a sore head. He’s just annoyed because they closed the motorway and we couldn’t get to the beach in Deiva today. He's Losing his tan.” Mario gave his wife an unpleasant glare.

They both made their way to the changing rooms where they donned their long purple, satin and velour robes tied at the waists with golden braiding.

Bang bang bang. Pietro’s big fist pounded on the door. Salvatore standing next to him said on entering, “I just saw Grazia Rosa. She’s got a consignment to pick up so probably won’t make it.”

“Franchy’s on the night watch, then?” asked Giorgio.

Salvatore winked and Giorgio patted his arm. “Good man,” he said.

When Giovanna arrived in her mini skirt and bright pink top that just covered her pert breasts, all the men’s heads turned and their eyes lit up. Eddie made sure she took the chair next to his.

Once the members had all arrived and taken their designated seats around their Grand Master, Giorgio Parodi called for business to start immediately. No rituals were performed, no hymn was sung, but a prayer to the dead was said. A prayer to those who had lost their lives when the Morandi Bridge collapsed, to those victims found, to those not yet uncovered and to their families in their suﬀering. To the four hundred people dispersed from their homes under and near the bridge with the fear that a second collapse was imminent. And to the brave men and women of the fire brigade and police services working day and night to discover those still on the list of missing persons likely to have been on the bridge at eleven thirty six am on tuesday the 14th of August.

Before sitting down, Eddie lent in closely to his father and whispered “Dad, don’t forget I’m going to have to leave around 10.30. Remember? I told you earlier.” HIs father gave him a look of annoyance.

“Will you be back to help me clear away?”

“Not sure dad. I doubt it but if I can I will. Sorry but it's been planned for ages and I can’t let him down.”

Giorgio shrugged his shoulders in resignation and moved to his place at the large oak table.

“Good evening my fellow members of the Guild of Saint George. Thank you all for making the eﬀort to come along on this warm night. I know it’s hard to leave the house after a long day in the sun.” He paused at a gurgle of low laughter. “But tonight we must discuss a very urgent issue that is aﬀecting all of us.”

Giorgio Parodi the Master of the Guild was standing at his chair and had opened his arms to emphasise the inclusion of everybody in the room present. “Unfortunately” he continued seriously, “we are facing the greatest challenge we have ever had to aﬀront in all the years we have been working in Staglieno. Some of us more, some of us less of course, but the test we must confront and take on together with the strength of unity in order to survive.”

All faces were upon Giorgio. He was such a fine, charismatic speaker and prided himself on the words he chose and the carefully studied gestures he used in order to give weight to his messages.

“Business is bleak. It has been for some time and will, unfortunately, continue to slow down. Of that I am sure. And what is the reason for this decline in trade?”

Giorgio paused theatrically. Not for too long which he knew would make his listeners uncomfortable but just for the right number of seconds in order to have them sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for his answer to the rhetorical question he had put to them.

“If but there were only one.” He raised his forefinger up and looked into the eyes of Mario and Rita who were seated directly opposite him. Mario clenched his fists on the table as if ready to contend and oppose the enemy and Rita gave a nod of knowing solidarity.

“The problems are three. Not one, but three.” He was now showing three fingers to his small but attentive audience. “Let’s start with the first and most aggressive of our enemies.” He paused again for maximum eﬀect. “Cremation. Did you know that the number of cremations is increasing by 10% every year and that one in four funerals today is in fact a cremation. It is today’s chosen option and what percentage of burials does it account for?” Giorgio did not wait for an answer from his listeners. “It accounts for more that 70%… more than 70% ,” he repeated slowly, “of burials in our cemetery. The furnace burns all day everyday.”

Murmurs of shocked disapproval were heard amongst the seated members. They were surprised at the figures and they wanted to know more. Giorgio continued. “Ashes are placed in an urn. The urn is either taken home or stored in a recess in the cemetery. There is no need for marble.” He looked at his fellow stone masons. “There is no need for fresh flowers and of course there is no need for coﬃns designed with fine wood and brass.” He now turned to look at Silvano, the coﬃn maker. “And we must not forget that the survival of our monumental cemetery itself, our beautiful Staglieno cemetery with its great artistic and historic value, is being put in jeopardy. It no longer receives enough internal revenue to even manage its ordinary maintenance.” Now Giorgio was looking at Emanuele, the man who with his companion in arms, Gino, was responsible for the upkeep and care of the grounds.

“How much income does the cemetery get for the rent of a recess, Martina? “A recess, say, on the ninth row? Not one on the ground row where it is easily accessible but higher up where you need to climb a ladder to reach it”

Martina was the administrative manager who worked in the oﬃce behind Michele’s reception desk within the gates of the cemetery. She was in charge of pricing the spaces for rent, be it for ground tombs, family tombs or cremation ‘loculi’.

“From around 1,500 Euro, Giorgio.”

“That’s right. Martina knows her stuﬀ. And can you tell us how much the cemetery would receive for a prestigious family tomb, more or less?”

“Of course. An easy fifteen thousand Euro. Is that about right, Ernesto? Claudio?” Martina looked at the two men who had been in the business of creating family chapels for the longest. She wanted their involvement to give her answer extra weight.

“Yes. I’d say that is the right sort of figure.” said one.

“I agree. Around fifteen thousand, depending on the quality of the material used.” said the other.

“So to sum up my first point, the cremation of a dearly departed then, means a significant reduction in earnings, not only for us but also for the cemetery itself. If there is no cemetery, we will no longer BE.”

Giorgio had to wait for silence before he could recommence his speech. The murmurs and mutters of the members bewailed and deplored such a horrific idea. Giorgio raised both arms and regained control. The noise abated. He began.

“And now let me move on to our second challenge. China! China is taking over Genova. We can see it everywhere. Not just massage parlours that are popping up in every corner of our city but enormous Chinese supermarkets and clothes stores, haberdashery shops, hairdressers, even a petrol station. But what has this got to do with us?” Giorgio waited for his audience to acknowledge his question. Heads were tilted in interest.

The sound of a telephone began to vibrate in the silence. Mario reached into his trouser pocket, took out his mobile and checked the message that he had received. Everyone watched him. He tried not to redden. “Ti voglio. I want you. I’m in the piazza. Will wait ten minutes. If you don’t show I will go. C.”

Mario put his phone back into his pocket, stood up and made a hesitant, embarrassed apology. While he made his feeble excuse for having to leave, his eyes darted guiltily towards his wife, Rita. She had a snide smile of complete contempt on her face.

“It’s my sister. An emergency,” he explained. “Sorry Giorgio. She needs me to pop round to look after the kids for an hour. Sorry.” He repeated. “I’ll be back if I can.”

Then to his wife he said “I’ll call you later Rita to let you know what’s going on.”

Mario rushed out of the chamber as quickly as he could without looking back, waiting for no reaction. Rita was studying her hands. “What a bastard.” She was thinking. “He deserves everything he gets.” She did not look up for some time. She avoided the sympathetic stares of her colleagues.

Giorgio cleared his voice. “So after that untimely interruption, let’s get back on track.” He went on. “The average funeral costs to a family today are about 2,500 to 3,000 Euro. Once upon a time, these costs were mainly due to the expensive coffin. As we all know, a ‘made in Italy’ top quality coffin can reach up to five thousand Euro.” Giorgio nodded at Carmine, one of the coffin makers whose work was finesse. Today, however, they are more linked to the services we provide rather than the coffin itself. Transportation for example, is highly requested now and families will pay huge amounts for the best car available.” He turned to Davide, the manager of his own team of drivers and coffin bearers. Davide smiled and raised his hand slightly in acknowledgement.

“But what has this got to do with China, I can see you are asking?” Giorgio continued. “Let me explain. In 1999 there were 600 companies in Italy making coﬃns. We were an excellent, highly reputed manufacturing industry and we exported half of the volume we made overseas. Today however, there are only fifty companies remaining in our country that produce coﬃns. Fifty! And only ten of which are of an industrial dimension.” Giorgio halted to take a breath and allow his audience to ingest the figures.

“We produce 350 thousand coffins each year. Yet we are faced with 650 thousand deaths each year. So where do the other hundreds of thousands of coffins come from?” He paused again and scratched his head dramatically as if to consider his own question. “We import them of course. But where from? From the Far East. From China. And we are talking about wooden boxes that to make, cost less than a pair of shoes!” His voice had risen. His pace had quickened. His face had reddened. The chamber was charged with excitement. Feet were shuffling under the table, postures were straightened, positions were changed and heads were moving from side to side. Giorgio knew how to stir a room. He took a sip from his glass of water.

“And so my fellow members. We have Cremation and China. But what of our third Challenge? I had indeed said to you at the beginning of my speech that we have three causes of concern and I have,” Giorgio slowed down to highlight his change of direction. “I have, of course, left our third, most menacing challenge to last. The last but certainly not the least.” He smiled knowingly pressing his hands together in front of his chest as if in prayer. “There is an enemy in our midst more dangerous and insidious than we may like to believe. We all know him. And some of us know him very well. Oh yes. Very well indeed.”

“Who Giorgio? Who?” they all asked inquisitively.

“The man in question is Renzo Bianchi.”

“What did you say, Giorgio?” enquired Salvatore rather dumbfounded.

“Oh, you heard me. All of you heard me. Renzo Bianchi. Renzo Bianchi is the real danger we face. And I’ll tell you why. Because he is greed personified, that’s why. He is underhand and playing dirty.“

“So you know something I don’t then, Giorgio. Because as far as I’m concerned he’s no more dangerous to us than my grandmother and she’s a sweet old lady of ninety two.” interrupted Salvatore whose ties with Renzo were strong and solid.

Other members around the table voiced their disagreement, contesting Renzo’s good character.

“Salvatore. Members. Please let me finish. I have some information that will be clear to you all if you would just calm down and listen to me.” He called for quiet.

“It has come to light and I am in no doubt, due to my reliable source, that Renzo is bribing the nurses who work in the hospital morgues. They are giving the families of the dead his business card and are suggesting very strongly that Renzo is the best man for the job. And they are earning a nice thirty euro each time for their trouble. Members, he is slowly and progressively taking control of our business. He is hunting out the dead and organising an illegal criminal racket. And what worries me further is that I find it extremely diﬃcult to think that all this does not enjoy a political cover. If it were not so, his nasty little system would have been interrupted some time ago. And as we all know, he is now running for the next local council elections. If he gets voted in as a county councillor, we are lost and heaven knows what he will then manage to get away with.”

“Who is the source, Giorgio?”

“I really don’t think it is necessary to divulge the person who told me but be rest assured that it was a nurse who works in the hospital and who had been approached by Renzo’s son in quite a forceful, menacing way on more than one occasion. Fortunately this nurse is a good person. He is the son of a very close friend of mine. The young man, very brave, very brave indeed, is even prepared to go to the police and report the several incidences of threatening behaviour he has suﬀered at the hands of Renzo’s bullies who hang around outside the hospital and subject the exiting staﬀ to near violent ordeals. Our young nurse is of impeccable character, not like the other poor creatures who were corruptible out of fear.”

Some faces in the room were aghast, some were not. This was, after all, Italy, where organised crime had always existed. It was no great surprise to most. The room, nevertheless, was in agitation.

“We must act, and act fast. Something has to be done to put a stop to Renzo’s unethical doubledealing. That is why I have called you here this evening. I would like us all to put our heads together and come up with a solid viable and preferably legal way to stop his immoral and treacherous operations.”

“We could send the boys around. Eddie, you know that Ecuadorian bloke, Carlos, don’t you? I’ve seen you with him a few times. Now he is evil. He could sort him out for us.”

“No Pietro. I don’t want violence if I can help it. That will be our last straw.” Giorgio replied with authority. “We must think of another way to counteract.”

“But how much business can Renzo really get in this way, Giorgio?” Asked Elisa, an elderly lady with swollen, arthritic knuckles and a weathered face who was in her flower shop on the corner by the bus stop seven days a week without fail. She would arrive at six o’clock in the morning and would be the last to leave the piazza at eight o’clock at night. She had no choice. Hers was the only income coming in as her husband was dying of cancer and they had no children to give them support.

“Quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris. Elisa,” Giorgio quoted softly and with kindness. “Last year in Genova alone there were 8,344 deaths. There are four large public hospitals in the town. And there are easily thirty or more day hospitals, private care and nursing homes in and around the centre. Is there no wonder that behind this 25 million Euro business annually there is infiltration by organised criminals such as Renzo Bianchi?”

“What can we do? How can we possibly get back control of the market?” Elisa’s tone was imploring.

“We need to come up with a plan. An eﬀective, eﬃcient, plan of action. We must think hard and fast.”

“I think I might have an idea, dad.” Eddie had remained silent throughout the whole of his father’s talk and the ensuing discussion. But he was now on his feet. He was about to leave but his brainwave stopped him for five minutes. His father looked at him in surprise.

Eddie was Albanian. The protection of one’s family was his priority and a man’s word of honour was sacred. However, violence came easy to an Albanian. Their hard lives had bred hard souls. But Eddie was intelligent and knew that violence would not resolve all the problems in the world.

“It means us using social media.”

“Social media? Can you speak to us in layman’s Italian please, son?”

“Facebook, Twitter and the like. You've all heard of Facebook, haven't you? And Instagram of course.”

Heads nodded. Comments were made.

Eddie rose from his seat taking the opportunity to signal to his father his desire to leave.

“We prepare a campaign. We advise people of what to beware of. What to look for and how not to be taken for a ride. We inform them of how to protect themselves against unethical dealings. Our top ten tips for avoiding sharks. Think about it. I’ve got to go. We could even print leaflets and posters. Hand them out. Hang them up. Everywhere.” He shouted as he rushed away lifting his robe above his ankles to run up the stairs.

“Not a bad idea son. Not a bad idea at all.” Giorgio shouted back at him. “Will you be back to help me clear away?”

“I’ll try, dad, but I can’t promise. Sorry I have to go but I can’t miss my best mate's birthday booze-up!”

Giovanna stood up too, seeing Eddie race away. “I’m sorry Signor Parodi, I have to go, too. My father, he doesn’t like me being out too late.”

“Yes, yes, Giovanna. Alright. Go if you must.” Giorgio waved his hand in dramatic eloquence.

Giovanna rushed after Eddie, forgetting to take oﬀ her robes. At the top of the stairs she said, “Eddie. Please could you walk me to my scooter. I don’t like this lane in the dark. It scares me.” Her voice quivered with just the right vulnerability for him to take notice. He had no choice.

Eddie was still very angry with Aurora after he had read her letter and discovered her pregnant state. He also knew that this ravishing beauty before him was taken by his charms. It wouldn’t take much to get her into bed. She adored him. He could tell.

He walked her to her scooter, just as she had asked. And she was right to have, he thought. The lane was dark at this time of night. It was not lit by street lamps and a gentleman would never allow a young lady to make her way after light, alone, especially one wearing such a short skirt.

Despite the warm air outside, somehow he felt an inexplicable chill; the chill of a cutting silence that surrounded them. Thankfully, the walk was only five minutes no more, and he was relieved to arrive in the piazza where the cigarette machine outside Francesca’s shut-up bar provided some light.

Giovanna climbed onto her bike and put her helmet on her head. Eddie clipped the buckle for her and smelt the exotic perfume on her neck. He felt heady. She gazed into his eyes with a longing that excited him. He knew he didn't have much time. He had a job to do for the Mushroom and wanted to go back to help his dad clear up to avoid unnecessary questions.

“Grazie tantissimo Eddie,” she said with her pleading cat-like eyes. “Thank you so much for walking with me.” She stroked his cheek. “I’m usually not at all scared of the dark but for some reason tonight is giving me the shudders.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jo”

“Do you believe in Ghosts, Eddie?”

Eddie snorted. “No I don’t. Absolutely not.”

“But do you think there could be ghosts in the cemetery? Gabriele told me that there are. He said he saw a lady early one morning up near the children’s graves before the cemetery was open. It looked like she was sitting on her knees and weeping but when he approached her and asked her if she needed any help, she didn’t reply. She didn’t even look up at him. When he asked her again she just seemed to float away as if she were a spirit.”

“I expect Gabriele had been drinking the evening before and was still under the influence.”

“Gabriele doesn’t drink. He’s abstemious. He doesn’t drink alcohol and he doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t even drink coﬀee.”

“Good for Gabriele. Don’t listen to his stories. He was teasing you.”

“You know, I find it very sad selling flowers to the families who have lost a loved one. I never really know what to say to them. What should I say, do you think? You work in your dad’s funeral parlour. What do you say to them?”

“I always act normal. As if nothing has happened. It is after all the most natural thing in the world.”

“What is?”

“Death. Death is the only thing we can be sure of, if you think about it.”

“And do you think about it?”

“No I don’t! Life’s too short to think about dying. Let’s change the subject, shall we? It’s getting a bit depressing. I can think of far better things to do than talk about gruesome ghosts and ghouls.” And when Eddie placed his hand on Giovanna’s thigh, she giggled. “What about a kiss?”

“I’d like to but I’m not sure I should.” Giovanna replied, teasing.

“Don’t forget, Giovanna, life is short and we must seize the moment. What harm can one little kiss do?” Eddie moved across towards her and placed his lips on hers. Giovanna made no attempt to stop him. She adored this young man and would do anything he asked.

The soft kissing became more intense. Giovanna felt Eddie’s tongue pushing into her mouth. He held her face in his hands which then slipped down her neck and onto her breasts. They began caressing and stroking her. She felt his strong arms and touched his blonde hair with her fingers.

The bells chimed the hour and Eddie pulled back.”Listen love, as much as I want to stay here all night with you, I can’t. I have a job to do.”

“You mean your friend’s birthday party.”

“Yes.That’s right. My friend’s party. I’ve got to go.” He licked her lips with his tongue and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow? Coﬀee as usual?”

Giovanna smiled her eyes now expectant like a puppy wanting a walk outside with its master. “Tell you what. I’ll take you to Boccadasse on Friday evening for an ice-cream. What do you say?”

“Oh, yes, lovely. That would be great. Thanks Eddie. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Drive straight home, now.” He told her.

She nodded and blew him a kiss. She watched him jump onto his motorbike. But to her surprise, he did not take the main road. He turned and roared down Via del Veilino towards Sant’Antonino. Her heart sank. He wasn’t going to any mate’s birthday party at all, was he? She had fallen hook, line and sinker, hadn’t she? He was oﬀ to see Aurora. The Princess. A shiver ran through her. Well what a liar, he is. She sat for what may have been ten more minutes, wallowing in the jealous rage that took hold and bubbled in her blood like quicksand. And then she decided to follow him.

She took the first bend in Via del Veilino slowly. The tall cemetery walls loomed creepy in a faded orange light. Rectangular shadows, long and threatening, enclosed the lane further and created a ghostly presence. When she took the second bend she could make out a van further ahead. It stopped and Eddie jumped out. She turned oﬀ her engine and lights and pushed her scooter nearer the wall out of sight. Then she saw the girl.

Eddie grabbed her and held her close. And while he kissed her, Giovanna felt giddy with nausea. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fists clenched. The girl suddenly pushed him away and stormed oﬀ. He stood arms open shouting, “Aurora, come back. I’ll give you a lift. Aurora!” But Aurora continued her march up towards Sant’Antonino. Eddie smashed his fist into the door of his van in what seemed great frustration. He climbed in and zoomed past Giovanna who bowed her head and turned her face to the shadows.

Aurora arrived. Giovanna shouted her name. Then she jumped at her from behind and grabbed her hair. She pulled tightly and slapped a hand over Aurora’s mouth to stop her from screaming.

Aurora whelped like a beaten dog making muﬄed noises from under Giovanna’s hand. “Giovanna. Please...I didn’t mean… I don’t care for him..please. It was a mistake.”

Through her breaths, now coarse and fast, Giovanna sneered and an ugly laugh resounded through the trees that sheltered them.

“You always have what you want, don’t you princess. Nice flat, university degree, job waiting for you and any man that comes your way with a bit of money to his name. The great fucking, fantastic Aurora. And now you take Eddie away from me. How dare you. How DARE YOU!”

Giovanna shoved her to the ground, flashes of fury in her vision. Aurora struggled. Tried to pick herself up. Giovanna kicked her in the stomach.

“No, Giovanna please. Not my stomach. No.” She covered her belly with her hands.

“Why not, Princess. Eaten too many oysters this evening? Feel a bit queasy, do we?” Giovanna kicked her again.

“Please Giovanna. I’m pregnant.”

Giovanna faltered. “What? What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Giovanna span round. “Oh, right. Yes, of course. Pregnant. And who’s the father? Or aren’t you sure? Could be one of several, right?”

“Please, Giovanna. Let me go home.”

“Not until you tell me who the father is. Is it Eddie’s?”

Aurora remained silent on her side, folding her legs to her chest.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Giovanna raised her foot and placed it on Aurora’s hands. She slowly pushed down hard until Aurora started to scream, “No, Not Eddie’s. Alex’s. It’s Alex’s. Look look at this. Here’s the proof. It’s not Eddie’s. She had taken the scrunched up note from her pocket and threw it at Giovanna’s feet. “Read it. Please. You’ll see. It’s not Eddie’s.”

Giovanna lifted her foot higher, bending her knee to her chest, then kicked down with a force that the wind exploded from Aurora’s mouth like a balloon bursting. Again she kicked down, harder and again even harder. To each of Aurora's groans, she kicked the fetus into pulp until Aurora groaned no more.

When she stopped, panting, dripping with sweat, white lights flashing before her eyes, she fell to the ground next to her friend and cried.

“You are such a bitch Aurora. Why d’you have to do it. I thought we were friends.”

But Aurora did not answer.

Giovanna looked at the girl’s face, lips turning blue and her chest tightened in panic. Jesus. What had she done? She took oﬀ her helmet, scrambled to her feet and grabbed her phone.

“Dad, Dad. Help me. I need your help now dad. I’ve done something terrible. You have to come here now.”

GIANNI CALLS PINO Pino was in Caterina’s bathroom in his underpants about to brush his teeth when his phone started to vibrate.

“Dannazione! Who the hell is that at this time of night?” He spoke impatiently under his breath, clenching his teeth. He was tired, irritable and just wanted to get into bed. He had an early start in the morning and his leg ached. He was also looking forward to the sex he was about to have with his ex. She was a beautiful woman and never said no to him. It was always so easy with her.

He wiped his hands dry and picked his phone up from the window sill. His heart sank in his chest. “Merda. Gianni! What does he want from me at this late hour, the scumbag?” He answered and listened to the mean, cold voice of a brother he hated vehemently.

“Hey little brother of mine.”

With quiet resignation Gabriele simply said, “Jesus, Gianni, just tell me what you want, will you?”

“It’s not me, son. It’s your brother Alex. He’s been on the skag again, I’m sure of it and he’s gone and done something he shouldn’t have. We brothers ‘ave got to stick together. You know that, right?”

“What’s he done, Gian?”Gabriele’s chest tightened and he began to rub the scar on his ribs.

“Look, the less you know, the better. He’s a bloody idiot but he's our brother. And we have to look after our own, right?. Family always comes first, Gabry, as you know. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Franchy who’ll help with the details and the Doc will deal with the form filling. I just want you to do one thing for me.”

After the call, Gabriele felt sick to his stomach. Merda, this he did not need but he had no choice. The bonds that united him to his brothers were so tightly bound around his wrists that they had started bleeding.

July 1988 1

July 1988 2

HOPE 30 YEARS LATER- TUESDAY 14TH AUGUST 3pm

Caterina Tallarico -14th August 2018

The Lorry - Tuesday 14th August 2018 – 3.30pm

Sant’Antonino

Alessandro - 12 hours before - 3am the morning of Tuesday 14th August 2018 20

Aurora - 3am in the morning - of the 14t14th August 2018 Tuesday 23

AURORA & THE LETTER

OPENING THE LETTER

Pino 2 days later - Thursday 16th August 2018 5.50 am

THE ENTICEMENT - Thursday 16th August - 7am

GRAZIA ROSA - Thursday 16th august 7am

CATS & Gabriele - Thursday 16th august 7.30am

A Funeral in Sant’Antonino: Thursday 16th August

THE SILENT ANGEL - Thursday 16th August 8am

The Exhumers - Thursday 16th august - 7.30 am

The Woman In Red

Pino gets told of body found by dustman - Thursday 16th august morning - 47

Hope’s Breakfast at the Bar - Thursday 16th august 8am - The Day after ferragosto 49

Outside the chapel Gabry rings Pino.

Pino asks HOPE to come to chapel Thursday August 16th 8.30am

Gabriele takes hope to body

AT The Chapel.

Hope in the chapel - THURSDAY 16th AUGUST 8.30 am

Pino In the Chapel

Grazia rosa arrives

at the scene - 8.00 am

Eddie 1 - Life in the piazza Thursday 16th august morning 8.30

Eddie 2 - Thursday 16th august morning 8.30

Giovanna - Thursday 16th August - 8.30 am

Rita & MARIO

THE DEBATE : Hope & Caterina in the garden

Grazia Rosa wakes up screaming. - Thursday 16th august - 8.pm

Aurora’s perspective

Alessandro waiting - Wednesday 15th agosto ferragosto

Hope and Caterina on beach at Bogliasco Thursday afternoon? Flash back to THE APERITIVO - Wednesday 15th august - ferragosto 8:00 pm 88

Mauro The Watcher - 1 am Wednesday 15th August

Hope Can’t Sleep - 3 am in the morning - of Wednesday 14th August 2018 100

Luca the jogger - Friday 17th early morning

102

The Pharmacy - Friday 17th August- Morning

107

HOPE & CAT DISCUSS DEPRESSION

111

Nonna Jenna 1

113

Via San Lorenzo - Friday 17th august - 4:00 pm

116

Doctor Sergio Mantero

119

At Pino’s Station COMMAND

121

Gianni De Luca - Friday 17th August evening

125

Red Lipstick - Friday 17th August- early evening

130

Pino and Nando

133

Boccadasse - Friday 17th August evening

137

Carmine the Receptionist - Saturday 18th August -8.30 am -The morning of the funeral - 146

The Funeral - the - the pantheon - Saturday 18th august

153

The Priest

159

The Fight

160

Aurora’s Flat

164

The Nurse

168

HOPE AND CATERINA ARGUE

170

ANNA CLARA SPEAKS TO HOPE

175

GIOVANNA SPEAKS -Sunday 19th August 10 am

178

HOPE ATTACKS GABRY & MEETS PARODI

181

Giorgio Parodi

189

PHONE CALL FROM PINO

192

Passeggiata di Nervi - SUNDAY AUGUST 7.30 PM

194

HOPE TALKS TO EDDIE - MONDAY morning 20th August - 8.00

198

Paolo Martini SPOF funeral director’s MONDAY 20TH AUGUST 10 AM 205

THE BOSCHETTO

211

Under a Tree - MONDAY 20th August

214

Gabriele FLASHBACK- Tuesday 14th August Morning 6 am -

220

HOPE sees GRAZIA ROSA MONDAY - she tells them about Francesco the guardian on Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto 224

ENTER AURORA’S APARTMENT AGAIN

230

NONNA JENNA 2

230

THE BICYCLE RIDE - MONDAY 20TH EVENING

230

THE WAREHOUSE

232

Francesco - The Night Guardian

235

HOPE WORRIED 1

238

The Pomegranate SEED - TUESDAY 21ST August 4.00 pm

239

Ferdinando’s jewellery shop

242

Bar del Porto - TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 7.00 pm

248

Hope & Cat discuss the bead

252

VIA DEL CAMPO TUESDAY 21ST AUGUST 10.00 PM

253

Mario

258

THE ALLERGY TEST - WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST 10 AM

261

Alessandro in Pharmacy- (Flashback to Wednesday 15th August Ferragosto) 263

The Angel Gabriel - Wednesday 22nd August Morning

267

HOPE SPEAKS TO RITA

268

GABRIELE AND THE BRIEFCASE - WEDNESDAY 22ND August

270

HOPE WAITING FOR GABRIELE

272

THE NOTE

273

FRAMURA

276

THE CHASE

281

ALESSANDRO’S FUNERAL

285

Hope speaks to Pino about Gianni

287

THE GUN

291

THE KEY

293

Pino wakes up and can’t find his gun nor hope

297

THE BASEMENT

298

Hope and Gabry together in Basement

304

THE BAR BRAWL

305

HOPE SAYS GOODBYE 9am.

307

AT THE AIRPORT

311

ON THE PLANE HOME

315

The Guild Meeting

316

GIANNI CALLS PINO

325