‘I’ll live.’
Not a mark on his body. And all because he’d played the clever beggar. Stood to reason. He’d tossed a bit of fun at Bentley Horrocks in a public place and been paid back. And had screwed up his friend. He reached the shore, stood, dripped and thought himself pathetic. And he remembered something that had been said.
Carlo had pontificated to Bagsy: What does he think it will be like, going after those people? Does he think it’s some sort of squirrel shoot – out with an air rifle? Is he dumb or ignorant or both? He seemed to hear his own voice.
It must have been the time of day in central Locri for the schools to come out. Kids were watching them as if they were aliens. Fred went back into the water to collect his clothing, and fished out all that had been on the beach. He looked into Carlo’s face when he had the armful of his clothes and shoes.
‘They weren’t going to harm us, just frighten us.’
‘They did a good job.’
Fred said, ‘It’s a small insight into the terror they create. To live here and stand against them, you have to be brave, a hero. We are not brave and not heroes.’
‘We have been taught a lesson we won’t forget.’ They hugged.
Consolata sat under the tree where he had been. She felt violated. Her legs were tight together, her arms across her chest and her fingers entwined. She was fully dressed. If a boy from the squat, or one of the older men – Pietro or even Massimo – had treated her in that way, she would have gone at him with fists and teeth. But he had gone untouched.
She sat in the quiet.
She had brought her passport with her. No reason why she needed it. She was not going to be a nanny in Madrid, or start a PhD in Paris, or fly to Berlin to sit moonstruck in front of Jago Browne in his apartment and go job hunting with no language. She had a passport because her parents had considered, a few months before their business had been taken from them, a trip for themselves and their teenage daughter to a Tunisian resort, a taste of Africa. It had never been used. She had brought it and wished she had not humiliated herself by saying it was in her bag. She ate some of what she had brought, and drank some water.
She decided she would stay. She couldn’t imagine why he had turned away from her. Any other boy would have been pulling her clothes off. She had the picture again in her mind of the men she had met on Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi, and of the night-time visit to the squat, the warnings given her and their belief she was responsible. She would stay. The day wore on. Two mice came close to her. If they had been in her bedroom she would have cringed away from them. Now she threw them crumbs.
He had used her as little more than a driver, and she knew nothing about him – or what he would do next. Knees together, arms tight, she gazed at the density of the foliage, felt the sun and heard the birds. She knew nothing.
The prosecutor agreed. He accepted defeat.
They did not come as a deputation from the carabinieri, the Squadra Mobile or the Guardia di Finanze to the Palace of Justice. The messenger was a clerk. The information could have been sent to his screen but was not. Instead there was a single sheet of foolscap. There was no evidence. The surveillance team had failed to locate the fugitive Bravo Charlie. Roadblocks in the area of that village were a drain on manpower and had not trapped the suspect. The assets would be withdrawn under cover of darkness the following evening. The funeral of Golf/Alpha Charlie would be monitored: if Bravo Charlie was seen he would face arrest if the prosecutor supplied evidence for a minimum charge of Mafia association. There were two wardrobe-sized cupboards in the prosecutor’s office. The one nearest the window that looked out onto the stairwell contained files on cases that awaited his urgent attention. The cupboard nearest to the steel-reinforced door was equally full of files that were held together with cotton ribbon. They contained stories of investigations that had been dropped: they might be picked up in the future if new allegations came to light or new evidence surfaced. It was a bitter blow.