Viper - Michael Morley [30]
They were serial non-payers and knew the place like the back of their hands. Pompeii was their playground. First stop, as usual, Forum Olitorio. Through iron bars, Franco stared into the old granary, studying every inch of the plaster casts of victims engulfed in the torrent of lava that erupted from Vesuvius back in 79@C.
When the site had been excavated in the 1800s, imprints of the dead had been found in the hardened lava. By pouring plaster into cavities left in the bed of ashes by the gradual decomposition of a corpse, it had been possible to recreate a near perfect replica of the victim’s form.
The figure that always fascinated Franco was that of a young man, sitting with his knees tucked up and his hands on his chin, his moment of thought preserved forever by the awful lava flow that had consumed him.
Franco stared intently at Ash Boy, as he called him. He had the frame of a youth, but the plaster and the pose suggested someone older. Someone old before his time.
Dead before his time.
The observation resonated with Franco. The disease that had engulfed his own body – slower but just as deadly as the lava – had already stolen his youth. It had cruelly taken the years in which he should have been most attractive to women, the years in which he should find his soulmate.
Inevitably it would kill him. Just like Ash Boy. He would be dead before his time.
Franco walked with his hood up. Dark sunglasses not only hid his face from prejudiced eyes, they also made him feel safer and calmer. His doctor had recommended them. Partly as a cosmetic aid. But also to help rein in his explosive temper. He’d once almost beaten to death a teenager who’d made the mistake of taunting him. It had resulted in a suspended prison sentence for Franco and a long stay in intensive care for the mocking youth.
Five feral dogs followed them as they stopped at the junction of Via del Tempio d’Iside and Via del Teatri. The cousins sat on the cobbles that had once been stepping stones over Pompeii’s open sewers. They drank water and ate the cheese, ham and bread they’d brought with them.
‘Get lost, go away!’ Franco kicked out at the dogs as they hassled for scraps.
‘Hey, they’re okay, let them be.’ Paolo tore off some of his bread and threw it to the pack.
The dogs scavenged as the boys ate. Crowds flowed past, heading to the Doric Temple and Great Theatre. A group of schoolgirls sauntered by. Multicoloured rucksacks swung low over tight blue jeans. Pretty hands marked off worksheets.
‘Francesi,’ whispered Franco, picking up their accents as they gabbled to each other.
‘Bonjour,’ shouted Paolo in poor French, then added in English. ‘You ladies need a guide?’
The girls giggled.
Franco’s Anglo-Saxon was less subtle. ‘Show us your cunts and we’ll do your schoolwork for you.’
The giggling stopped. A young male teacher appeared from the back of the group. The cousins hadn’t spotted him. He was suntanned, fashionably dressed and had the kind of confidence that only teachers have. As he strode over he’d probably weighed up the two young men and, being several inches taller and far more muscular than either of them, no doubt felt confident about his task.
He shouldn’t have done.
Franco got to his feet. Before the teacher had uttered a word he adjusted his balance and thundered a kick between the man’s legs. More followed. Rapid, vicious kicks, delivered with all Franco’s hatred for the world and for what good-looking young men like this one stood for.
The teacher doubled over, hands clutching his groin. Franco drop-kicked him in the chest. The impact made a dull and muffled sound. Ribs cracked like ice on a lake.
The girls screamed. Franco felt jolts of power and energy surge through him. Violence made him feel good. Feel complete.
‘Bastardo! ’ swore Franco. He took a final kick at the man’s head as he lay unconcious on the ancient cobbles.
Everyone looked away. A collective wave of nausea washed over them. Paolo pulled at his cousin.
‘Now, we go. It’s done. Come on!’
Franco