GORDON

In the time it takes me to pull on the handbrake and get out of the jeep, Mrs Zoc is out her front door, across the lawn and screaming: ‘Gordon! Where have you been? Gordon! What are you doing to me?’ Slapping me hard across my face. Screaming the whole time: ‘You didn’t call. I thought you were dead. You are bad. Look at what you have done! I love you like my best son. And you – you – ’ She gives me a mouthful of Italian I might not understand but take the meaning from anyway. I have a lot to answer for.

‘I’m sorry.’

She raises her hand. I think she’s going to hit me again but her eyes do the job instead. She says: ‘Stupido.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And what you do to Bernadetta. You are–’

‘Is she here?’ If she is she’s hiding. Half the street is looking out their front doors and someone’s opened a window up the top of the flats on the corner.

‘No.’ Mrs Zoc sniffs. ‘She went to the beach, to swim.’

‘I’ll wait here then.’ Go and sit on her front fence. My face is still stinging. I thought Mrs Zoc would be upset but I wasn’t expecting that. It’s not as though I’ve been off having a party. I’ve also been driving all day, since dawn.

She comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder, and I almost flinch again, but she says: ‘I love you, my boy. Don’t you ever do that again.’ Then she turns around and goes back in her house.

I look at the road, and wait.