He could have intervened. Jago was close enough to use his fingers to root a stone from the ground – which wasn’t hard after the rain – and hurl it at the bent backs of the women. Guaranteed a hit. They were, he thought, a colony of ants boiling over the girl: he couldn’t see what they were doing. Had he thrown a stone, hit someone and caused her to squeal, the ants would have exploded in all directions, but Jago wouldn’t do it.
If he deflected their attention from Consolata in any way, he would kiss goodbye to any chance he might have of reaching the cable. He would do nothing. He had only seen the cable from a distance but he could almost feel the smooth plastic that coated it. He was near enough to the washing line to see the different colours of the plastic pegs and distinguish the simple pattern on the sheets, autumn leaves on one and faded full-bloom roses on an other. Where they hung together, hiding the track, he would unearth the cable at the join. He would not give up the chance. It would come only once.
He barely moved, only the flicker of an eyelash. His heartbeat and breathing were regular. He could see what they were doing to her. There were many stones he could have used – they had fallen down long slopes, dislodged by heavy rain.
When he had sat on the bench, fresh off the train, and her poster had blown out of the overfilled waste-bin to snag against him, he had said to her, ‘I think I know what winning is against them. I did it yesterday. It was only small but I won.’ She had stopped and had asked him what ‘winning’ was. She had never managed it. He would win when he broke the cable, trapped the padrino in darkness and frightened him. The child chained in the cave would have been terrified, and the old man would be.
The knives were on the ground, with the saucepan, the cleaver and the hammer. The kid collected them, then was waved away by a gaunt, scrawny arm. Women’s work, not for the kid to see. Jago was the witness. The laughter came more often, guttural. Sometimes shoulders shook because this was their joke. He couldn’t see her but knew what they were doing. The kid was at the kitchen door, watching unnoticed. The clothing came off, to be flung over shoulders. An anorak, jeans, trainers, and the two T-shirts – everything she had offered to take off for him. The women broke apart.
She lay huddled in the foetal self-preservation posture. All that she wore was the ID card in its plastic holder, hung from her neck on its lanyard. He had seen it on the beach. They pulled her up. The sun, low-slanted, caught her skin. She was not given her clothes, which were left at the kid’s feet, close to the door. They marched her round the side of the house. He thought her beaten, but was wrong.
She flailed with her arms and her hair flew, fighting free of the hands clawing at her and yelled to the skies, in his language: ‘Jago, where are you? Jago, I need—’
A moment of defiance, which was gone as fast as it had come. The hands had her arms and one pulled at her hair, shaking her head hard.
They walked her to the side of the house, up past that wall and out to the front, then took her across the gravel, where the City-Van was usually parked. She would have walked over sharp stones but she no longer resisted. They took her as far as the gates that led onto the track. In the distance, ahead of her, was the block where the village men were and beyond them the carabinieri vehicles.
She was pushed, dismissed, and began the long walk.
Jago’s target was the cable. He had not been compromised.
Ciccio said, ‘We didn’t have to shoot. Her life wasn’t at risk.’
‘Good-looking, all of her.’
Ciccio hit Fabio. With a clenched fist.
Stefano was a humble man, ran errands, said what he was told to say and played his part well. He had no language other than the dialect peculiar to the Ionian coast of the Aspromonte. The lawyer who lived in the near-deserted coastal development up the beach from Brancaleone, Humphrey, was the go-between. He could not have faulted Stefano, even to the way the man held his cap across his stomach, in counterfeit respect, and realised the seriousness of his own situation. Stefano had told him, and he had understood the implications, that two foreign policemen had been seen talking with Horrocks. He and a member of the family had witnessed it. Humphrey should be careful about the company he kept, whom he took money from. He had shivered and protested that he knew nothing of such a security breach. He hoped fervently that he was believed. He explained the situation to Horrocks and tried to smile.
‘This chap is going to drive you to the meeting. You’ll meet the top man – that’s out of my league and I’m not invited. They’re in mourning because of the death of the boy who came to see you, so they’re making a big gesture by seeing you. A mark of respect, you might say. Jack will stay with me but you’ll be fine. It’s the big league, Bent, top-table stuff.’