After my chat with Alan, I made the return journey to Newton. En route, I endured the frustration of a half hour delay on the motorway; a lorry had shed its load, halting traffic. While I sat and waited, I reflected on the notion that things designed or invented to speed up our lives often slowed us down.
At Newton, I found Mac in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa, watching the television with the sound turned down. He’d selected a sports channel and that channel was broadcasting a football match; a European game, at a guess, possibly a cup final. The lack of a father, and a male presence in my childhood, made for an unbalanced upbringing; my mother hated sport, so it became anathema to me. That said, I could appreciate the skills and dedication of modern sportsmen, but the voyeuristic nature of sport did little for me.
“How’s Vittoria?” I asked while easing myself on to an armchair.
“Quiet,” Mac said. With his right thumb, he pointed towards the ceiling, towards the bedrooms.
“Any problems?” I asked.
“No one menacing has presented themselves, if that’s what you mean.”
We paused while a footballer went sprawling in the penalty area; his teammates rushed to the referee and demanded a penalty. Numerous replays showed that no one had touched the footballer; he’d taken a dive; another reason why the game did little for me.
“You talked with the good Dr Storey?” Mac asked while shaking his head at the TV screen and the ‘simulation’.
“Uh-huh.”
“He gonna help?”
I nodded. “If Vittoria agrees.”
The television cameras followed the footballer, the diver, and an opponent, the man who’d allegedly chopped him down. An argument ensued. During the fracas, the chopper clutched his face then, rather dramatically, fell on to the ground, as though poleaxed. Once again, the all-seeing eye of the television camera revealed no contact. The game was descending into a circus, complete with clowns.
“You made up your mind yet, about the good Dr Storey?” Mac asked, shaking his head as the referee brandished red and yellow cards aplenty, sending the divers from the playing field.
“I love him,” I said, “my mind is firm on that.”
“You gonna marry him?”
“I’d like to.”
“So, what’s holding you back?”
I thought for a moment, then replied truthfully, “I don’t want to spoil what we have. I can be difficult to live with, as you’ve pointed out. Also, nightmares of my life with my ex are still there, in my head.”
“The good Dr Storey is not a violent man.”
“He’s not,” I agreed. “There’s a little bit of fear there, emotions left over from Dan, but I think I can control them.”
“Then go for it,” Mac urged.
Maybe I should just commit myself with gay abandon. However, marriage was a big step and I had to feel sure that the ground remained firm beneath my feet. Potentially, this was the turning point of my life, the biggest decision I’d ever make.
“The finances also bother me,” I confessed. “Our previous conversation tells me that you’d understand that, Mac.”
“The good Dr Storey earns more money than you?”
I nodded. “He’s a top man in his profession; he’s very well paid; I’m a pauper by comparison.”
“But you love each other, equally?”
“I think we do.” I paused then added, “Yes, we do.”
“Then you’re equals,” Mac said. “Be done with your prevaricating; grab the man by the hand and rush him to the altar.”
On the television screen, the millionaire footballers were running around with more purpose. Then, glory be, someone scored a goal. Naturally, a section of the crowd went wild, while the rival supporters slipped into despair. The television director zoomed in on the joyful supporters, who immediately pulled faces and waved at the cameras. Indeed, the supporters were more excited about their television appearance than about their team scoring a goal. Ah, that fleeting moment of fame, the drug that drives modern society.
“Have you decided about moving in with your lover?” I asked.
Losing interest in the game, Mac switched off the television. He stretched his long legs, his stiff back, and sighed, “Not yet, Missy.”
“What’s holding you back?”
He pointed to his shoulder holster and a wicked looking Beretta. “My work is not exactly conventional.”
“What does your lover do?”
“He’s in the arts.”
“Does your lover know about your work?”
“He does.”
“And what does he think about it?”
“He’s cool.”
“Then go for it,” I said, echoing Mac’s advice.
Mac grinned. He caressed his huge ginger moustache, smoothed his whiskers. “You know what, Missy; we’re both mustard when it comes to dishing out advice, but vinegar when it comes to taking it.”
“Interesting turn of phrase,” I smiled.
“I’m not just a thug.” Mac thrust out his chin. He stared straight ahead, his face deadly serious; “I read cookbooks as well.”
The sound of footsteps pitter-pattering on the stairs concluded our conversation. Dragging her feet, and with her head bowed, Vittoria entered the living room. She sat on the sofa, away from Mac, keeping her distance. She appeared sleepy, as though she’d just stumbled out of bed.
“How are you?” I asked.
She blinked, but did not answer.
“I’ve spoken with V.J. and your parents. I think I can buy you a little time, but I need your cooperation.”
Vittoria blinked again, then she glanced at Mac. While still eyeing Mac, she asked, “To do what?”
“I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Dr Alan Storey.”
Now her eyes flashed in my direction. “You want him to examine me?”
“He’s not a medical doctor,” I explained; “he’s a psychologist.”
Vittoria picked up a pillow. She placed it in her lap. While hugging the pillow, as a child hugs a teddy bear, she asked, “You think I’m sick in the head?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “But I do think it would help everyone if you had a chat with Alan.”
Vittoria stared at the blank television screen while I glanced at Mac. Mac was literally scratching his head, lost for an answer, an explanation as to Vittoria’s behaviour.
I said, “You cut your hair for a reason; what reason?”
A heavy silence ensued.
“You scratched your arms for a reason.”
Silence, interrupted by the gentle sound of rain as it tapped against the windowpane.
“Will you meet my fiancé, please?”
Silence, except for the rain, whose beat became more insistent, carried on the wind, swept in from the sea.
“Listen, Lassie,” Mac said, his tone soft, gentle, cajoling, “we’re trying to help.”
Now the rain hammered against the windowpane and, in the distance, the delicate sound of thunder.
I said, “You harmed yourself, but who harmed you? What did they do?”
Lightning illuminated the room, flashed across Vittoria’s face, highlighted her hollow, haunted eyes.
“Your father’s a very belligerent man,” I said. “If he wants to do something, he’ll do it. I can keep him off your back, but I have to offer him a reason.”
Mention of Vincent Vanzetti dragged Vittoria out of her reverie. She glanced at Mac, at me, then said, “If I meet with your boyfriend, you’ll keep my family away?”
“I promise,” I said.
Vittoria hugged the cushion again then used it as a towel, to stem the flood of tears, to dry her cheeks. She sniffed and said, “Okay, I’ll meet him.”