Michelangelo’s prisoners line the walls of the corridor. Half-carved from marble chunks, powerful men try and escape their earthly tombs. The beauty is immense. My eyes well up. I pull myself together and send photos to Dee to show her what she’s missing.
My fingers itch to draw. The sketchbook in my bag is ready for action. If I were alone, I’d stop and work. But I’m not sure Lucy would appreciate me ignoring her.
After everything that happened last night, I’m so glad I don’t have to be alone right now. And Lucy’s easy company. She’s a pretty lady with short-cropped hair and pale skin and she talks non-stop. I know practically everything about her already. Irish heritage. Psychology major. Doing Europe. Lover of men and hater of dogs. A habitual marathon runner with not a spare ounce of flesh on her body.
We move in to get a closer look at the Awakening Slave. Pain pours from the stone. The body twists into unnatural shapes. I can’t help but think of poor Sergio, the wreckage of his corpse. I force myself to turn away towards the main event.
David stands at the end of the room, shining white under his dome of light. I block out the other tourists and the wall of iPads and focus on the statue.
“He sure is ripped.” Lucy’s eyes are wide open. We broke away from the rest of the group back in the Gothic rooms. I’m glad she’s here. It’s so much nicer than being alone.
“I can’t believe he’s not made of flesh.” I really can’t. “He looks so real.”
“I want to hold his hand and take him for a walk.” Lucy’s in Florence for the romance. “We could wander around the city and he’d tell me stories about the old days.”
I laugh at the idea. A wall of heads turns towards me. Disapproving thoughts come my way in at least ten different languages.
I ignore them and get back to admiring Michelangelo’s work. Muscles push against the skin and the nipples are tight. The veins in the hands are thick and strong. He’s perfect. Well, almost. His hair is daft. Those curls might have been all the rage five hundred years ago, but they look terrible now.
My attention drifts downwards to his manhood. I stifle a giggle and realise I haven’t seen a naked man since Rory. God, how I wish he were with me now. A lump forms in my throat. My head fills with bubbles and my bones turn soft. I reach out and grab Lucy’s arm to steady myself.
“What is it?” There’s concern in her voice. “You’re shaking.”
I rub my temples and try to pull myself together.
“I just need a minute.”
She takes a bottle of water from her bag, unscrews the top and passes it over.
I sip it and concentrate on the cool sensation in my mouth. My brain settles and my breathing slows everything down.
“Thanks.” I hand the drink back and she leads me out from the crowd. “I’ll be fine,” I tell her, even though I’m not so sure I will be.
A guard in a smart black uniform steps forward. Ushers us to the side and opens a door to the courtyard. The heat hits my skin like a physical object. We walk over into the shade and take a seat.
She holds my hand like she’s my nurse. “What the hell happened back there?”
I can’t blame her for being curious. “I’ll tell you about it over lunch if you’re still game.”
“Course I am. I wouldn’t miss out on meeting your dishy Italian. Who knows, he might have a friend who needs female company.”
“Maybe.” Not that I’d recommend any of Arturo’s friends before I get to know what went on last night.
*
Lucy checks her watch. “Are you sure he said three?”
I put the note down on the table to show her.
“It’s just that I’m supposed to meet the others. Marcy gets totally stressed out if her plans don’t work like clockwork.” Her face is inches from mine. Now she knows my story, my personal space has disappeared. “I don’t want to risk getting into everyone’s bad books this early on the tour on account of some guy who’s not gentleman enough to be punctual.”
“I could buy you another coffee.” Much as I’m grateful to her for keeping me company, I hope she says no. The prices here would put a dint in anyone’s budget. “If that would help.”
She checks her watch again. “No. I’d better go. I enjoyed hanging out.”
“Sure.”
“Sorry I can’t stay.” She slips a thin blouse over her milk-white shoulders, opens her bag and takes out her purse.
“Don’t be silly.” I can’t expect her to pay. “You can get the next one.”
She smiles at that. The way her eyes sparkle, she should do it more often. “Will you be okay?”
“What can happen in a bustling square like this?”
“I hope the guy shows, is all.” She bends over and does the kissing thing on each cheek, only doesn’t actually put her lips on me. Just makes sucky noises with her mouth.
“I’ll give him half an hour.”
She walks away. Waves. Trips over a pair of squabbling Chihuahuas and disappears into the crowd.
There’s still a dash of coffee in my cup. It’s long since gone cold and I can’t finish it. A clock chimes four. He’s an hour late, but I can wait longer. I call the waiter over. Order a cappuccino. Take out my sketchbook and pencils and wonder where to start. Instead of finding something to draw, I realise I’m being watched. A tiny man with a face like Quasimodo stares right at me. He’s dressed all in black and chews gum with his mouth open. Soon as I see him, he pretends to choose a postcard from the rack. He can only reach about halfway up.
“I thought she’d never leave.” The voice from behind me is smooth and deep. It vibrates right down in the pit of my stomach.
I turn my head and see Arturo standing at my shoulder. His lateness is immediately forgiven. He drops his bag to the floor, pulls out the chair Lucy vacated and sits opposite me. He’s still wearing the shades, and he’s still absolutely gorgeous.
I check on Quasimodo, but there’s no sign of the ugly dwarf. I guess he didn’t find me that interesting after all.
Arturo picks up my pad and opens it.
“No, don’t.”
“Why ever not?”
Mine will seem amateur in comparison. But I don’t tell him that.
I reach out and try to grab it. He pulls back, takes it beyond my reach and turns through the pages. He rubs his chin and nods.
“You like ears?”
It’s true there are a lot of them in the early pages. “I was trying to get them right. Not so much the flesh, but the space they contain. It’s the way objects work within their environment that fascinates me.”
“And hands?”
“The same thing.”
He closes the book and passes it back. “I’m impressed.”
His approval takes me by surprise. A warm glow passes through me.
“Really.” He leans in. “Not all artists take the trouble to study the detail.”
The word artist takes me by surprise. I can’t think of anything to say. Return my pad to the bag and fumble around in my brain for something that might make sense. “You picked a good spot to meet.” Polite conversation. Familiar territory.
“I thought you’d like it. It’s soaked through with the words of many great people.” He pulls a cigarette from a soft pack and lights up. “If you come here when it’s quiet you can hear them talking.” His smoke curls into the air. “They speak in verse with great enthusiasm about life.”
“I read that in the guide book.”
“Then I don’t suppose there’s anything else I can tell you.”
“Oh, there’s plenty.”
“There is?”
“You could start by telling me what happened last night.”
He flicks ash onto the pavement. I get a glimpse of his eyes over the top of his shades. Dark brown yet bright and alive. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“There’ll be a later?”
“Sure. I have the day planned out.”
I wonder if he’s not too confident. “And what do I have to look forward to?”
“First we watch people go by, followed by a walk along the river. After that, martini at L’Incotro, crayfish at Enoteca Pinchiorri and gelato from Grom.” He’s just outlined the perfect day. It’s like it’s my birthday in a parallel universe where nothing is broken. “After that you can choose.”
Even though my medication has murdered my appetite, I reckon I could go along with that. Force myself to swallow a few scoops of sorbet. “I’m not sure I deserve such a wonderful tour of your city.”
“It’s the least after I can do after running out on you last night.”
That’s the reality check, right there, just when I was ready to float away on a carpet of happiness.
The waiter steps over and interrupts. His timing is perfect. He swings the tray to my level. Places the huge mug and saucer in front of me, switches the old bill for a new one and clears up the dirty cups. “For you sir?”
Arturo glances at the menu. “A pot of Earl Grey.” The last thing I expected to hear. He looks straight at me. “I have a passion for British things.” I can see from his smile that he’s not just thinking about our range of teas.
“Lucky me.” I decide not to tell him that there isn’t much in Preston to get his pulse racing. Unless you count the bus station or The Warehouse.
“The good fortune’s mine.” His lines might be phoney, but I could lap them up all day long.
My head fills with static. I know what’s coming. “He’s only after one thing.” Rory’s voice is loud and dry. “The Italians are famous for it.”
“Not now,” I tell him.
“Sorry?” Arturo looks puzzled.
I cover my mouth. Pretend to cough. Pat my chest and clear my throat. “I was just...” Just what exactly? “Thinking aloud.” I hope I’ve got away with it. Take a sip of coffee.
Arturo’s attention shifts elsewhere. He twitches and stands.
I follow his gaze.
Christ. A scooter is speeding right for me. My instincts take over. I cover my head and curl into a ball ready to be knocked to the ground at any moment. It doesn’t happen.
The driver turns off his engine, kicks the stand out and dismounts. He holds out his hand. “Arturo.” They shake.
“Valentino.” Arturo doesn’t seem happy to see his friend.
“I’m sorry about that.” The voice comes through the open visor, addressing me. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Valentino takes off his helmet to reveal a young face. His hair falls into place. The fringe is Justin Beiber back in the day. Hard to believe I once thought that guy was cool. I even had a poster of him on my bedroom wall.
“It’s just I was in a hurry.” Valentino pulls out a large brown envelope from his courier bag and passes it to Arturo. “A rush job. I’d have been here sooner only the traffic’s worse than ever.”
Arturo opens the envelope and lets the contents slide onto the table.
I get a glimpse of the top photo. It’s black and white. There’s a body on the floor, a pool of blood forming around its head. The picture beneath I don’t get to see.
“At the train station in less than half an hour.” Arturo speaks quickly. “Can you get me there?”
“If the traffic doesn’t stop us, sure.”
Arturo stands. Picks up his bag and slips the strap over his shoulder. “I must apologise again. I have to leave, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Wait.” I get up without thinking. “I’m coming along.”
He looks to Valentino.
Valentino checks me over. I guess he’s figuring out whether his bike will hold my weight as well as theirs. He shrugs his shoulders and nods. “I think we can do it.”
“Then let’s go.” Arturo takes a roll of notes from his pocket. Pulls out twenty Euros and drops it next to the ashtray.
The two men pick up helmets and pull them on. While he’s distracted, I check out Arturo’s body. He’s tall and lithe in his leather trousers and white collarless shirt. I want to touch him.
They get onto the scooter. I sit on what’s left of the cushion at the back of the seat. Valentino turns the key. The engine sings the song of a hundred tiny wasps. As we set off, the momentum pushes me back. I reach around Arturo’s waist and hold on tight. The shirt is soft, his muscles firm.
Valentino swerves onto the square and accelerates. A crowd of pigeons and two old ladies with bent backs scatter.
We return to the road. Almost collide with a tiny sightseeing car pulling a chain of carriages. I half-expect the dwarf to be at the wheel, but the driver is an attractive woman of average height with long black frizzy hair. We speed under the arch that dominates the buildings. The writing at the top reads ‘The old city was put out of its misery and brought back to life’. The words catch my heart as I translate. If only the world was that simple.
As we pass the Basillica of Santa Maria Novella, it’s like we’re flying. My hair blows behind me, free like never before.
We skid to a halt outside the station. I get off first and Arturo dismounts. He removes his helmet and hands it to his friend.
The men shake hands and Valentino pulls away like he’s got somewhere else important to get to.
Arturo turns to me. “Are you sure about this?” His voice carries concern. For a moment I doubt myself.
“I’m certain.” The words are out before I can stop them. He grabs my hand and we run inside.
The space is huge and elegant. The marble floor wouldn’t be out of place in a palace.
We stop in the middle of the foyer. Arturo takes the photo out of the envelope and studies it. “We need exactly the right place.”
I look at the picture to check for clues. “Platform Six,” I say, pointing at half a number in the corner. “It couldn’t be anything else.”
He gives my hand a squeeze and we set off again. We glide through the crowd as if they’re not there. We arrive at the terminal. Arturo points to an enormous pillar and runs over. He checks the photo again to work out the precise location. Takes off his bag, pulls out his tray of pastels and begins.
The memories of last night haunt my thoughts as I realise what’s happening. My stomach cringes and the coffee churns inside. I think I’m going to be sick. Breathe deeply and try to gain control. The smell of hot oil makes me feel worse. My body tells me to leave. I battle the feeling and fold my arms across my chest. Wander to the pillar and fall against it. The cold stone chills my spine and grounds me once again. I need a distraction. It doesn’t take long to find one.
“You know you shouldn’t be here.” Rory’s back. “There’s no need to hang around. All this will bring you is trouble.”
“I need to find out what this is all about.”
“He’s no good for you, Nat. Deep down you know that.”
Rory might be right, but I don’t want to leave. “It’s not about him. I just want to understand.” I shake my head and send Rory away. Go over to see what’s going on.
Arturo is a genius. His fingers are nimble and quick. Within seconds, he has the outline of a man. The details follow. He adds lines and smudges at them until things come together at once, like a mountain suddenly cleared of mist. Even with the puddle of blood beside the skull, it’s a thing of beauty. I admire it and do my best to block out what I sense is about to happen. Remember that he still has another picture to copy.
“The time?”
I check my watch and take a second opinion from the arrivals board. “Quarter to five.”
He looks pleased. The speed he works, another ten minutes should be enough. He holds his photograph up and studies it. Rushes over to a new spot and drops his bag. Commuters carry on with their business without noticing a thing.
Arturo kneels and begins.
His second figure is tiny. Less than half the size of his first. At first I wonder if it’s the dwarf from earlier. But Arturo draws a dress. Shades it in using brilliant blue. Takes a red and adds stains like poppies by Monet.
As the hair and the face are added, a young girl emerges from the colours, a doll clutched to her chest.
I scan the crowd and find her. She’s over by the newspaper stand. I doubt she’s even five years old. She runs in circles singing and laughing. The dress and doll are the same as the ones in Arturo’s sketch. It’s uncanny.
I remember what happened last night. Try to put everything together. Wonder if the girl is going to go the same way as Sergio. If she’s in danger, I need to intervene.
I could grab the girl and run. It would be worth a scolding from her parents and another brush with the police if I could keep her safe.
Or I could call for help and hope that someone believes me.
The clock says four fifty-four. Less than a minute till the deadline.
My gaze fixes upon two backpackers swigging their drinks. They give me an idea. I’m over there before the bottles leave their mouths. Snatch the water and run.
“Get off the grass!” the man in the dreadlocks shouts at my back, his Aussie accent giving the statement the inflection of a question. I don’t bother to see whether he’s following and keep going.
I stand over Arturo. See the detail in his work. The thread in the hairband and the scar on the girl’s knee. I pour the water over his art. The liquid spreads over the dress and the face, but not quickly enough. I stand on the drawing. Rub the soles of my shoes over it like I’m trying to put out a fire. I don’t stop until everything beneath me is an unrecognisable mess.
Arturo gets to his feet. His mouth is open and his hands ask the question.
The Australian with the locks steps between us before I can answer. I’ve never been so happy about being in trouble. He grabs at his empty bottle. Points a finger in my face.
Explosions in the foyer stop everything. I’ve heard those noises before. I’m suddenly in Blackpool walking along the sea front with Rory chasing behind. These are gunshots, for sure.
I turn towards the noise.
Two men sprint along the platform. The first wears suit trousers, an open-necked shirt and a heavy gold chain. The second is short and dumpy and struggling to keep up. Sweat patches darken the area around his armpits. There’s another bang and the smartly dressed man bends over and limps towards the exit.
His friend keeps running. He’s not so fast on account of him being on the round side. A third man appears at the end of the empty train track. His stubble is thick and his sunglasses are big round mirrors. He has a gun in his hand and it’s pointing our way. It flashes and the noise echoes around the huge arena. My ears go numb. Which makes me luckier than the fat man trying to get away. The bullet catches him in the head. He clatters to the floor where Arturo was working. Blood trickles from his skull and forms a bright halo on the stone.
The backpacker falls to the floor. Others do the same. The station is a mass of prostrate bodies and screams.
I sprint over to the girl in the blue dress who is curled up in the arms of her mother. Stand between her and the gun.
The man with the gun shoots again. He runs away from us this time, placing his feet between commuters as though he’s playing a primary school game. He disappears from view in pursuit of the injured man.
I go over to Arturo who is the only other person standing.
My hands shake. I watch the twitching fingers of the dying man on the floor. Picture Rory lying there in his place. Blink the image away and gulp in a lungful of air.
My skull empties and I fall. My thoughts disappear down a long tunnel. There are posters on the walls. I seem to be in all of them. In one I’m with my mum. Another with the lacrosse team. There’s Dee at the prom, arms draped over Ian Brown. And finally, Rory.
I hit a wall. The journey’s over.
The Australian lies beneath me. His elbow digs into my ribs. “Strewth,” he shouts and pushes me away.
“Sorry,” I tell him and use his shoulders to lever myself up. I look over to Arturo and can’t believe he would have taken the girl. She’s safe and well, curled into a ball in her mother’s arms, sucking her thumb and clutching her doll to her chest. I turn to the exit. Focus on the daylight outside and run towards it for all I am worth.
Arturo calls my name over the screams and shouts of the crowd. He somehow understands that he shouldn’t follow.
I keep running. Collide with a child coming the other way. But it’s not a child. It’s the dwarf from the square I look away for a moment while I regain my balance.
“Are you following me?” I say, turning, but there’s no one there.
One thing’s for sure. When I get to my room, I’m chucking my medication in the bin. It might be helping with the depression, but it’s sure as hell not keeping me sane.