Viper - Michael Morley [139]
At the end of the alleyway Steph turned left and Vito turned right. Both became invisible in the bustle and business of the rush-hour streets.
They would never meet again. As Vito vanished he started laughing. That old Dog Carmine had been right after all. You just shouldn’t trust lesbians.
9.50 a.m.
Pompeii
Paolo Falconi had already finished most of the chores that usually lasted until lunchtime. Today he needed time on his side, time to spend with Franco. He’d shifted the overnight rubbish from outside the campers’ vans and chalets and stacked the bags on a bonfire in a field, far from the campers. Since the incident in the pit, the carabinieri had blocked off their usual burning spot, so he’d had to create a new one. He’d burn everything at nightfall, when everyone was in bed – just as Franco had done.
Chores completed, he followed the first part of the route he’d taken the night before. He wasn’t surprised that there was no sign of the carabinieri Skoda. The cops were probably lazy as well as clumsy. He could see the street clearly and felt confident he wasn’t being watched, so he took a more direct route to the ruins. He passed a row of gift shops, cheap cafés and ice-cream bars, then headed up a side street away from the main visitors’ entrance. He didn’t notice Creed or Morrietti, arm in arm, fifty metres back. Minutes later he was inside the ruins, courtesy of one of several secret routes that he and Franco had used since they were kids.
School kids were already strolling down the narrow streets, shepherded by their teachers. It didn’t seem five minutes since he and Franco had been doing the same.
Paolo knew he’d find his cousin in one of three places. He struck out on the first two – the Forum Granary and the Amphitheatre, the last being where he’d seen him last night.
He rounded the south side of the ruins, near the Quadriporticus, and stuck close to the outer walls until he reached the Garden of the Fugitives. There, alongside the huddled plaster figures of the dead, was Franco.
The glass-panelled door that normally held back the viewing public had been broken open. His cousin was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the reconstructed corpse of one of the youngest of Pompeii’s doomed youth. He was shoulder to shoulder with the cast of someone who’d died almost two thousand years ago. Paolo was shocked to see Franco’s left sleeve was rolled up and in his lap was a syringe. He’d been unaware he’d had an extra stash of heroin. More disturbingly, in his right hand was his grand father’s old gun.
His finger was wrapped around the trigger.
To Franco, the world felt blurred and smeared, as though it had been wiped by a giant wet hand across the inside of his eyes. Everything was soft and slow. All the edges had gone. All his anger dissipated.
Franco Castellani felt normal.
Wonderfully normal.
How funny. Franco had heard that most people took hard drugs to make them feel great. He was more than happy just feeling normal.
Through the smears he could see his cousin moving towards him. His face looked taut and stressed.
Poor Paolo.
He wished he had an extra spike to share with him.
Even though the heroin had numbed his senses, Franco clung to the golden thread of his plans. He knew what he had to do. Those people who’d come to stare – to gawp at Pompeii and to scowl at him – would see a sight they’d never forget.
He raised the palm of his left hand in a ‘stop’ gesture to his cousin. Then he raised his grandfather’s gun to his head.
But Paolo Falconi didn’t stop. He knew what Franco intended to do, and it wasn’t going to happen.
Franco forced a smile and mumbled his final message, ‘Love you.’ A surge of energy ran from his brain down to his hand and into his trigger finger. Like he was plugged into heaven’s own generator.
Franco shut his eyes and pulled.
Paolo threw himself. A desperate, last-second lunge.
The gunshot roared and echoed