She thought about it, all the question marks, the apparent unwillingness of Lucas to provide answers for any of them. The sum of their knowledge was that Lucas had been following them, that he’d killed two men without hesitation, that he had false passports with their pictures in them. All the same, he had an air about him of someone who was being straight with them.
‘I believe him,’ she said finally. ‘If he was lying he’d have tried to convince us, but he hasn’t. He just assumes we believe him because he’s telling the truth and he can’t see why we wouldn’t believe. I know this is all crazy and, trust me, I really wanna speak to my dad, but I think Lucas is telling the truth.’
Chris looked at her, not saying anything. He nodded then, seeming to accept that she was probably right, and he looked down at the gun and said, ‘Then we’re in some really deep shit.’
Ella looked at the gun too, but in her head she was silently correcting him; they weren’t in really deep shit, she was. Whatever this was, sooner or later Chris would be able to walk away from it if he wanted to, and from her.
She had an uneasy feeling, though, that sitting on that night table was a reality she’d been shielded from, a reality that her father hadn’t wanted to taint her childhood or youth. But it had surfaced now and even if she came through this, if nothing ever happened again, she’d be forever on her guard, always scanning the crowd for another Lucas.
Chapter Three
Lucas had a feeling something was wrong. He’d called twice, allowing for the fact that the first call might have woken them up, that Hatto might not have reached the phone in time. Both calls had run onto the answering machine, though. He’d try again in the morning, but he didn’t like this at all.
He started towards the hotel, unsure if he could face going back just yet. In five days watching these kids he’d come to like them, even envy them—youth, young love, all that. But it was easy to like people from a distance; being cooped up with them was another thing.
They probably needed some time on their own anyway, and he couldn’t imagine they were in that much danger, not for the time being. He’d stay out for half an hour, have a drink and then go back. Maybe if he was lucky, they’d be tired by then.
He walked into the Duomo square and headed for an Irish bar with a small fenced terrace outside, just enough cramped stools and tables for a dozen or so people. Only three people were sitting there, so he went into the more crowded bar, bought a glass of red and came back out.
The group of three looked at him as he sat down but went back to their conversation. Italians, intellectual types. He listened in to the rhythm of their speech for a while before letting it fall away into the murmur coming from the bar itself.
Tourists were still walking about the piazza but most of them were quiet, necks uncraned, as if in the cool darkness they’d forgotten where they were. The cathedral looked at peace too, sheer above them, an air of respite about it. This was how Lucas liked cities.
He wished he’d brought his book with him. He only had about fifty pages left and could have finished it, enjoying the calm, his glass of red wine. It would have looked obvious, though, leaving them on urgent business but stopping to pick up some reading matter on the way out. And as it happened, he wouldn’t have read much anyway.
He’d only been there ten minutes when a mixed group of five or six arrived, English and Americans. They were in high spirits, not drunk but loud and happy, spilling onto the terrace with a force that looked set to sweep the three intellectuals away. After a few moments of guarded contempt, though, the Italians went back to their conversation.
Lucas continued to mind his own business and when one of the American girls asked if she could take a spare stool from his table he smiled and gestured for her to take it but said nothing, not wanting to be drawn out as an English speaker.
One of the group had gone into the bar and came out a short while later with a tray of drinks. He was clowning around, walking out into the empty square like a confused waiter. They called him back, but he kept it up, pretending to offer Lucas one of the drinks, cracking jokes.
This guy was clearly the reason they were in such high spirits. He was pretty funny too, but Lucas was in no mood. He finished his drink and edged past them off the terrace. He heard one of the girls say, ‘You scared him off.’
The clown responded with a plaintive child voice.
‘Oh, don’t go.’
Ten years ago Lucas would have stayed calm by thinking of the power he had, knowing that he could pull his gun at any second and hold it against the guy’s head—Not so funny now, huh? He’d changed since then. He couldn’t imagine he’d ever want to join in with the fun but he was more Zen now, consoling himself with the thought that one day, all these people would be dead.
When he got back to the room, he listened outside the door for a minute. They were talking, their voices hushed but urgent, no doubt still debating what had gone on, whether or not they could trust Lucas. He knocked once, silencing them, a silence that was somehow more frantic than the conversation that had preceded it.