I drove along the M4 at speed, twenty miles west to Newton.
Newton was a picture-postcard village – one of many in the region – that could trace its roots back to the Norman invasion of Glamorgan in the twelfth century. Situated on the coast, the village boasted a Norman church, a picturesque pool, a range of sand dunes and a village green. Furthermore, holidaymakers made use of an extensive caravan park, one of the largest in Europe. Newton also contained a ‘magic’ well that emptied when the tide rolled in and filled when the tide rolled out.
I remember staring at that well as a child when my mother warned me not to get too close or the bogeyman would drag me in. My mother used fear as a means of control, not ideal parenting but, as an alcoholic, the best she could manage.
Vittoria’s possible hideaway was a modern, red-bricked house with four bedrooms, which backed on to the sand dunes, a stone’s throw from the beach. I parked my Mini in front of the house, ignored the censorious gaze of a curious neighbour and wandered into the garden. I tapped on the front door and tried the handle – the door was locked. So I made my way to the rear of the house, which contained a path, but no garden. The path led on to the sand dunes while a sandy trail led on to the beach.
The rear of the house was secluded, so I tried the back door, which opened to my touch. With guilt sitting on one shoulder and justification on the other, I entered the building.
The house was empty; I didn’t need to search every room, every nook, every corner to know that; I just felt the emptiness; put it down to a sixth sense or years of experience. However, the rooms were untidy, lived in. Breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink told me that someone had feasted there, a few hours ago.
I wandered into the living room, a room illuminated by the afternoon sun as it shone through a large picture window, yet dark due to a black wall and black furniture. A television dominated the black wall, set at right angles to the window. Indoor plants provided a hint of freshness while a tall metal urn offered an industrial feel. It was not my type of room – it was too dark for that – but its contents spoke of affluence and style.
I was about to climb the stairs when the back door opened. I stood on the stairs, turned and gazed at a young woman. Dressed in faded jeans and a baggy jumper, she wore a shell necklace and a shell bracelet while a collection of colourful shells crowded her left hand. Her hair was dark and dishevelled, as though cropped with shears. Indeed, her hair was a mess, beyond a rebellious fashion statement; I sensed that she’d trimmed it herself, without the aid of a mirror. Her soft hazel eyes, Vanzetti eyes, and Roman nose told me that I’d found Vittoria.
“Who are you?” she asked, retreating, placing her shells on a small table, situated in the hall, near the door. As she dropped the shells, the sleeves on her jumper rode up, to reveal deep, ugly scars.
“My name’s Sam,” I said. “I’m an enquiry agent. I’ve been looking for you, hired by your father.”
Vittoria nodded. She gazed down, to her trainers. “How did you find me?” she asked, her tone wary, her body language defensive, her right hand reaching for the door handle.
“You took a chance,” I said, “stealing your father’s house.”
She shrugged. “I just deleted it from his list of properties.”
“He was bound to find out.”
“Not with Sherri around. His mind has turned to mush with Sherri around. He doesn’t pay attention to the little details anymore.”
I smiled then waved a hand above my head. “This house is a little detail?”
“It is when you own as many properties as my father.”
Although still wary, she managed to glance up, to meet my gaze. After a long pause for thought, her hand dropped away from the door handle. She took a step into the hall then into the living room. Supplying my own invitation, I followed.
In the living room, Vittoria slumped on to a sofa, opposite the wall-mounted TV. She stared at the screen, though it was blank.
Meanwhile, I eased myself on to a second sofa, leaned forward and asked, “Do you like Sherri?”
Vittoria shrugged. Already, I’d ascertained that she was big on shrugs. Nevertheless, she seemed to trust me, maybe because I was working for her father. I sensed that she feared something, someone, yet that fear wasn’t centred on me.
“Sherri’s not like my mother,” Vittoria said. “We get along okay.”
“What happened to your hair,” I asked, “your arms?”
Vittoria tugged at her jumper, hiding her scars. She gazed at me, then lowered her eyes and lapsed into silence.
We sat in silence. The minutes ticked by. Vittoria stared at nothing in particular while I tried to make sense of her situation.
Then she asked, “Are you going to take me back to my father?”
“That’s up to you. He knows where you are. But I can buy you a little time, some space, if you want to stay away from him.”
“I want to be on my own,” she said, her tone heavy, weary, loaded with melancholy.
“I respect that,” I said. “But your father, mother and V.J. are worried about you; do you mind if I phone them, tell them you’re safe?”
Vittoria thought about that. The seconds stretched into minutes. Then she said, “Okay. You can tell them I’m safe. But I need to be alone.”
I nodded, reached into my shoulder bag and cradled my phone. However, before I placed the call, I needed more answers. “Are you angry with your father?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you want to see him?”
“I can’t see him,” Vittoria said, turning her head, looking away.
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” I said.
She lapsed into silence. She stared at the wall.
“Would you like to talk with your mother?” I asked.
“No.”
“After they divorced, you chose to live with your father, not your mother.”
“So?” She turned to face me, her features sharp, severe.
“Any reason for that?”
“I’ve always been closer to my father. He’s always been there to protect me. My mother used to scold me. She was the heavy; my dad was the soft touch.”
“So you feel closer to your father than your mother, but you don’t want to see him.”
Again, the heavy silence and the blank stare. Clearly, Vittoria was an articulate, intelligent woman, but something, or someone, had compelled her to run, and something, a negative emotion, held her tongue.
“What about V.J.; would you like to talk with him?” I asked.
“Later,” Vittoria shrugged. “Maybe. But not now.”
“You really want to be alone.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning to stay here?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced up and gave me an angry scowl. “I might have to move out now.”
“If you do, I’ll only find you again.”
Another shrug. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“For as long as it takes.”
“To do what?”
Silence – heavy, protracted, intense.
“Mind if I call on you again?” I asked.
Vittoria frowned. She stared at me and, for the first time, offered genuine interest. “Why?”
“I want to help you.”
“You can’t.” She picked up a cushion and hugged it to her midriff. “No one can.”
I ignored that and said, “I’ll call back soon, okay. I might bring a friend.”
She looked up sharply. Fear clouded her eyes.
“Someone you know,” I said, my tone loaded with reassurance. “My friend will look after you; make sure no one bothers you. My friend will protect you, keep you safe.”
“It’s too late for that,” Vittoria said. She picked up the cushion and hurled it against the wall. Then she began to cry. “It’s too late for everything. No one can help me now.”