Carlo said, ‘I think he has a bird’s eye view and doesn’t want to leave it.’
Neither man said that, in their understanding of the psychology governing Jago Browne’s actions, he was driven, unable to turn his back on a challenge. It was obvious to both of them, though.
‘If they find him, he’ll disappear.’
Carlo said, ‘I don’t wish to cause offence but you should evaluate the washing line.’
Fred said, ‘The washing line is the answer – we think.’
A shrug, ‘Our surveillance has a view of it but has seen nothing.’
They were invited. No reason to refuse. A show of authority was to be mounted that day. Bravado and probably meaningless, but if they wished, they could attend. Fred accepted. Coffee was served.
He drove carefully, as always.
For Father Demetrio, the vehicle was neither a status symbol nor comfortable. It was to get him – dry and reasonably warm – between two points. He had been delayed.
Would he preside over the funeral? He had accepted the invitation and was loath to break his word. By then he would have betrayed them, damaged the family to an unparalleled level, but he had agreed to officiate at the funeral and he could not retract his promise. His housekeeper had taken a phone call. A family with a smallholding high above the village, who scratched a living in the forest from the mushroom crops, had sent a message saying that they needed urgently to see him on an important matter. They were on their way. He had waited, and had lost the chance of an early start, straight after his dawn devotions.
He checked frequently in the mirror and from time to time was aware of vehicles behind him – lorries, delivery vans and a dark HiLux. It was a difficult road, with few opportunities for overtaking and the queue built behind him. When a lorry, close to his back bumper, flashed its headlights at him, he would ease over against either the cliff edge, where sometimes there was an accident barrier, or to a vertical wall of blasted rock, fashioned by dynamite and sledgehammers. The passing drivers would look down at him, ready to curse him for delaying them, then see his collar, wave, smile, and give him a fanfare on the horn. The HiLux did not pass him, but stayed tucked in. There was always a motorist who didn’t wish to lead and was happier when someone ahead negotiated the hairpins.
Another message had come by hand – no explanation. The family were not coming. Peculiar, but . . . Later that morning, the old man’s wife, a hard bitch, would be in the church in the village, supervising the flower arrangements. There was always a grand display when a dedicated criminal was laid to rest, usually white lilies, which stained if the stamens fell on the altar cloth or a carpet. He considered his address as he drove, often in low gear because they had not yet come to a high point.
He might say, ‘I have known Marcantonio for all of his cruelly short life and have taken pleasure in the sharpness of his wit, the profundity of his offerings, the depth of his concern for others and, above all, for the sincerity of his faith.’
He could say, ‘We have to believe that, on rare occasions, the dear Lord who looks down on us determines that He will test us and so allows into our midst a creature that is vile, almost totally evil and without a redeeming feature. That was Marcantonio.’
Traffic surged past him because the road had widened across a short plateau. There were tight bends ahead. Much went past him but the big vehicle – black-painted, with privacy windows – did not take its chance to leave him behind. It was close to him, but he couldn’t see the driver. He lowered his window and waved it on – the road in front was clear and nothing had yet come up against the tail of the HiLux. He saw no indicator light, and it did not come up to pass him. It was a bad stretch, and the local authority had promised a barrier but had not delivered one yet. He could see far below a dry riverbed and rocks that were angled and sharp.
Father Demetrio might say, ‘Young people, and we who are older, in our community, could set themselves the challenge of emulating Marcantonio. A scholar at his books, a devoted son and grandson to his family, a neighbour we would all want, a leader, and a young man who symbolised kindness to those less fortunate, care and generosity.’
Father Demetrio could say, ‘Marcantonio goes to the cemetery unloved and unadmired by any person in our community who is not bonded to his family’s criminal conspiracy. Perhaps he had no choice but to take the road he embarked on: the smuggling of narcotics, the use of extortion to fill his bank accounts, the peddling of immigrants half crazed with fear, of weapons of war, and of children to markets where they are bought and sold as slaves, then put to work in the filthy pornography trade.’