She should have been there, sitting under a tree or on a rock. At worst she should have left a bag of food, water and dry clothing, then drifted away. She was not there. Neither was a bag. He had two options: he could head for the road or return to the small open space, hedged by beech and birch trees, the next day.
He had gone back to his hide. He had thought he might have passed close to where the sneeze he’d heard had come from, but had gone on and felt a sort of comfort when he got back to his familiar spot. The only place in Calabria he knew: a sodden bed of stone, grass, moss and a groundsheet under two boulders. The hunger hurt.
He wondered how many more chances he would ignore. It would have been acceptable to give up when the girl had not been there – as it would have been when his vest had taken flight, when he had flopped down on the bench in the park or had been naked on the beach. He had rejected each opportunity. Enough of that. She had come out.
He watched Giulietta. The sun caught the side of the big Zippo lighter, the flame flashed and smoke blew away from her face. She paced away from him. He thought her handsome. Wilhelmina was handsome. He thought her five or six years older than himself.
Stefano came back with the City-Van and brought it to the front door. She did not get out of his way but made him wait until she had walked across the space where he’d park. She did not acknowledge him but smoked and looked up at the slope. She had her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun. She studied the slope, as the driver did. The last time that the mother had appeared she had done the same. When the kid was there, he gazed at the hillside, as the dogs did. He thought them uncertain that danger lurked there. He had seen the path and the cable, which played in his mind.
He watched her. She tossed away the filter. He knew their names, what they wore, knew their posture and gait – all except those of the family’s leader. Marcantonio was out of the front door now and he, too, studied the hill, the dense trees, their heavy foliage and the bleak rocks. Then, he walked to the vehicle. The driver was already inside and it started to move before the passenger had closed his door.
It might be the next day that it finished, or longer. Should Consolata not come, it couldn’t be more than two days. He cursed to himself. A broken promise. He felt himself drift, and sleep culled him.
12
The whiskers woke him.
He had been asleep, flat out, dead to the world, and his trainers were off, drying hopefully. The soft brush of whiskers nuzzled his ankles. Jago blinked to work focus back into his eyes. The shadows had lengthened but the sun was still above the trees to his right. It was the most delicate movement, little sweeps of the whiskers where his shin ended at the ankle. He didn’t dare to twist round and peer back into the gap where he had made his refuge. He heard sniffing and sensed that a snout was almost on his ankle. He lay motionless.
The smell of the creature’s breath alerted him. It was feral. Less penetrating was the odour of the body, which was damp and unclean. He could see down in front of him to the shallow ledge, then a cliff and the confusion of trees rooted in crevices, the roof of the derelict shed, the walls and the washing. He could also see the dogs. The biggest was the brindle cross, which lay in a shady corner, avoiding the sunlight. Every few seconds it would scrape at the fur under its eyes. He counted the dogs: all present. The mother was outside the kitchen door, flapping a floor mat, and the dogs watched her.
There was a snort. He couldn’t see the beast but his hearing was acute and he realised that the nostrils were inside his trainers. He heard one shoe lifted, then dropped. Next, the bottom of his left trouser leg was tugged, then dropped. The whiskers were off his skin. He heard a sharp scraping sound: strong claws getting a grip on the back of the big boulders under which he lay. The sounds came from above him, where the boulders lodged together. The animal skidded – the claws had no traction. It came down clumsily.
The wolf eyed him. It was bigger than any of the dogs that milled around the family’s back door. It had a thick grey coat, and vertical russet lines on its legs. It was thin and the ribs showed. Its head was a foot from Jago’s face. His own eyes would have been wide, and his breathing harsh. Jago didn’t know much about dogs. His mother had never had one. There were strays on the streets in Canning Town, and there were dealers on the far side of Freemasons Road with bull terriers that lunged at pedestrians. Some of the girls in the City banks had stuck photos of Labradors or spaniels around their work spaces. Beyond the physical similarity, nothing about this creature was domestic.