He talked of the scrape on his car and seeing a man walk away, but he was late for his flight to come home for Mamma’s birthday, the street was one-way and they couldn’t drive after him, so the act had gone unanswered. And last night, the rear tyre of the City-Van had been slashed and there were scratches on the side. He had searched the slope and found nothing. Was Marcantonio saying that a man had come here from Berlin – because he had been knocked down and kicked? To do what? To scratch Stefano’s vehicle? His grandfather’s face creased in puzzlement.
He couldn’t answer Bernardo’s questions. No boy of Marcantonio’s own age had ever stood up to him in the village or at school. None had tried to face him down. He had the authority of his blood, his face and name were known and what he said went unchallenged. If he wanted a girl, a father didn’t dispute it. If he wanted a pizzo, a shopkeeper or bar owner would hand it over. When he was about to drown Annunziata in acid she had looked at him with loathing, but had not fought him. He couldn’t say why that young man had joined in with an argument that was none of his business. He shrugged. To his grandfather he had shown humility and honesty, and Bernardo kissed his cheeks.
The old man said, ‘I have a problem with the priest, Father Demetrio. Mamma doesn’t know. For him, an accident – very soon, before you go back. Dear boy, I trust you.’
They crawled along the tunnel together, threw the switches and opened the outer door. Marcantonio went first into the sunlight, his grandfather following. They shut the door behind them, and stayed close to the sheets as they scurried towards the back door. The City-Van was backed up there and masked the entrance. Soon Marcantonio would go to do business, and after he returned he would talk to his grandfather about the priest, the man who had baptised him and heard his confession – all shit – and consider how best to cause an accident.
The sun’s warmth swamped him.
Bent walked on the beach. Jack stayed behind him, giving him space.
There were clusters of pebbles and broken shells on the sand, but near to the tideline so Bent could go barefoot. Jack knew when to ingratiate himself and when to back off, which was now. The beach was littered with the sea’s debris. Jack had little trouble with dropping a fag packet, an apple core or a fast-food carton, but the rubbish thrown up by the storms’ winds was exceptional. He saw plastic bottles, fuel cans, rope, oil slicks and birds that had been swamped. Heavy industrial trays and a couple of wood pallets. The chance of the rubbish being picked up, from what Jack knew of his parents’ former homeland, was remote, at least before next spring and the arrival of the German hordes. In these parts there was little interest in the cleanliness of the environment. It wasn’t Jack’s concern, but he knew that the water tables in Campania, inland from Naples – the source of the prized mozzarella cheese from the buffalo herds – were contaminated. Toxic waste was dumped there: Mafiosi scams brought the industrial filth down from the north and the cancer rates soared. He knew also that a pentito from Calabria, one of the few, had alleged that waste was brought by lorry to Ionian sea ports and loaded onto old cargo ships, which were taken out to sea and scuttled. It was said that waste seeped from the hulls into the Mediterranean and poisoned it. Calabria cared little about the environment. Jack had seen uncollected rubbish mountains in Reggio when they had driven through.
Bent would have been suffering worse withdrawal symptoms than an addict short of smack at being unable to use his phone, deprived of deals to close. Sensible of Jack to hold back.
Carrying his shoes and socks, his jeans rolled above his ankles, Bent was paddling, and the sun made a narrow shadow of him as he tripped through the wavelets. Some, it was said, in south London regarded Bentley Horrocks as an ogre, but here he was like any other end-of-season tourist. The storm was past and – pray God – the big man of the family would attend to them that day.
Jack knew how to deflect attention and keep himself clear of responsibility. There was a saying of the Cosa Nostra in Sicily: ‘When the wind blows, become a reed.’ That was Jack’s way. His own parents, good people, working all the hours the Lord sent and ignoring retirement age, would likely have died convulsed with shame if they’d known what their beloved son did for a living and who he associated with. When Jack went to see them in Chatham he took a small car from one of Bent’s scrapyards, leaving his own pricey wheels behind.
When the big man came, Jack would have lectured Bent on the etiquette of respect. He would translate for them, and a deal could be done. Bent needed to close a deal because of the little fuckers that were snapping at his heels.
The cramps had got him again. Sometimes Jago writhed in agony, kicking into the back of the hole behind him. Then there were the stabbing pains in his skull, his clothing was still damp and he was close to fainting from lack of food. He had been back up the hill and had found the place they had agreed on. He had waited there for fifteen minutes.