Death of an Englishman (11 page)

Sometimes the Marshal's glittering eyes would open briefly and take in the pale walls that were just visible in the dark, but the room swayed and rolled as nauseatingly as the sandy plain. He had to close them again and resume his wearying journey south that continued deep into the long night.

CHAPTER 4

It was midnight. The muffled sound of the bells of San Felice filtered through the double shutters of the Englishman's bedroom. None of the four men had wanted to sit on his bed and they were all sitting stiffly now in their uncomfortable chairs, in silence. Earlier in the evening, there had been noises enough to listen to, coming from the courtyard, crockery being clattered, drains gurgling, the familiar theme of the eight o'clock TV news, laughter, a short quarrel, more crockery. They had heard the Cipriani's fat little girl squeaking and chanting and her mother's voice: 'Giovanna! Stop that! It's time you were in bed! If your father hears about this …' Then more TV music, echoing rifle shots ricocheting round the courtyard, thundering hooves, a cavalry horn. During the quieter parts of the cowboy film, an old, crackling record of Gigli singing Verdi, coming, no doubt, from the Judge's flat. Later came a sound of shutters banged closed, more drains gurgling, a few remarks called from room to room, then silence.

No one felt like speaking, too tired to make the effort because it meant translating, or saying things very simply, and by the time some trivial remark that might help pass the time had been mentally translated or reduced to less colloquial terms in the would-be speaker's mind, it never seemed worth saying. So they each sank into their own thoughts in the gloom, and the bag of figs and tangerines lay untouched on the bed.

'Please God, don't let me fall asleep,' prayed young Carabiniere Bacci on whom the strain was beginning to tell, and sometimes, 'Please God, don't let me get shot because of my mother.' He tried mentally reciting parts of the Penal Code and then some tank maintenance instructions. He had preliminary exams in both Judicial and Military soon after Christmas. But his tired mind rambled uncontrollably and always came back to a vision of himself huddled darkly on the floor with a chalk mark being made around him, and his mother … And the other three looked so calm and indifferent. The Captain's hand was still on the Beretta which lay on his knee but his face was as impassive as ever. 'He won't want to cut a bad figure in front of them,' the Marshal had said, 'because that would upset his superiors and himself.' Was he worrying that this whole operation might be a flop? It was impossible to tell from his face … and the English Chief was sitting with one foot up on his knee and his shoulders hunched … he might have been watching television in his own living-room. The younger one just looked tired and a bit bored. Nobody else was frightened … yet they all seemed pale … or was that just the darkness that made everyone look parchment-coloured. 'Please God,' Carabiniere Bacci went on praying, looking at the door, 'don't let us have to wait much longer.' And that prayer was answered.

At ten minutes to one a loud 'clack' echoed along the passage outside. Someone had opened the main doors electronically from inside the building. Involuntarily, they all four glanced upwards. They had heard no footsteps, he must have been wearing felt slippers. Quietly, the Captain let the safety-catch off his automatic and switched off the bedside lamp. But there was a second before the light was extinguished in which he exchanged a surprised look with the Chief Inspector. The look said 'Why so early?' There was a considerable risk of other tenants still being out. Signor Cipriani, they knew, had still not come in. But there was no time to discuss it, a faint shuffling was heard outside the flat, then a pause. The four were rigid, listening. Carabiniere Bacci had forgotten to pray. Why the risk? Surely they wouldn't dare start picking the lock out there in full view of the lift and staircase? The Englishman had always been there to let them in before. Had Cesarini come down? Not in the lift, they would have heard it …

The flat door opened quietly, with a key. The light went on, showing under the door of the bedroom, and then the bedroom door opened. The Captain pressed the lamp switch, his gun pointing at the doorway.

'Signor Cesarini,' he said calmly. 'We were expecting you.'

Cesarini made no move. The two figures behind him stood as if paralysed for a matter of seconds, then they skidded round and hurled themselves towards the exit. There were shouts, infuriated shouts, and sounds of a vicious struggle echoing out in the passage. Carabiniere Bacci was suddenly on his feet, his eyes bright, pointing like a hunting dog. At a nod from the Captain he shot past Signor Cesarini and joined the chase. There was a Carabiniere motor-bike across the open doorway and the greengrocer's van was outside in the road with a squad car in front of it. But only one of the men had been stopped. The greengrocer, already known to the police and too stout to run very far, had not thought it worthwhile putting up much of a fight once he saw his van surrounded, but the younger man with him had no record and he had made a desperate run, flinging himself over the motor-bike with a blow to his shin that made him scream. He was half way up Via Maggio before the two motor-bikes could be started up and turned round.

The fugitive was small and thin and ran like a jack-rabbit, hidden half the time in the deep shadows close to the walls, dodging the great iron loops, the curled window bars and baroque cornices that protruded from every building and threatened to concuss him. Carabiniere Bacci was running behind him, hampered by his heavy greatcoat but closing in, even so, because the man's leg was obviously slowing him. Carabiniere Bacci was panting loudly, and above the noise of his own breath he heard a siren start up behind him, then a loud, steady roar and some confused hooting. He caught at a window grille to stop himself and turned. The steady roar was coming closer. The huge orange-and-white street cleaner was coming steady along Via Maggio, blocking the entire road, spraying jets of disinfecting water all around it. One of the motor-bikes had tried to mount the pavement and its rider was now drenched and temporarily blinded. The car siren had started up again, but although the street cleaner was stopping, it couldn't turn around and would take an endless amount of time to back itself all the way down the street.

'I've got to catch him …' whispered Carabiniere Bacci to himself, and he turned and ran on. The fugitive had reached the bridge but he was limping badly. The traffic lights at the bridge were red and a bus was waiting there. Only yards further on, by the statue of winter, was a bus stop and the man was limping towards it, looking back over his shoulder.

'No … ! Don't let him …' shouted Carabiniere Bacci uselessly. The street seemed to be getting longer as he ran and he realized he should never have stopped to look round. 'Oh God … no … !' But the bus had slowed and opened its rear doors and the man was on it and away over the bridge. Again Carabiniere Bacci slowed, then he began to run again, faster than before. The car and bikes had taken another route and might not even know the man was on a bus, let alone which bus. He could still do something. Racing over the bridge, he gasped as the icy mountain wind seared his lungs. He was running towards the floodlit crenellations of the Palazzo Ferroni on the other side. The bus had gone straight on but he knew its route and how to catch up with it. He veered suddenly to the right when he reached the opposite bank, ran along under the portico, dodged across the still busy Lungarno amid a squealing and honking of cars, and vanished under a dank and ancient tunnel where his thudding steps echoed.

The bus driver was whistling. It was his last trip before the depot and he was feeling cheerful, but he was also in a hurry to get home. When Carabiniere Bacci suddenly appeared, hurtling towards the bus from a nearby alleyway with his hand raised, he put his foot down just a little.

'See that?' he inquired of his only passenger who was standing behind him. 'Cops! I suppose they think you've to stop just anywhere for them, but not me. He can get himself to a bus stop like everybody else has to.' And he continued whistling.

The passenger didn't answer. The empty body of the brightly-lit orange bus was bouncing on its springs as they sped along, the ticket machine rattling enough to shake itself off its pole.

'Cops everywhere tonight,' muttered the driver, seeing the spinning light in the distance behind him. They bounced and rattled along an empty shopping street, between big sprays of Christmas lights, and made for the Cathedral, swaying round to the right by the Baptistry. A huddled group of people was waiting for the last bus. A bearded man stepped out and waved his arm.

'Don't stop,' said the passenger quietly at his back.

'Have to stop here, even for a cop, my route—'

'Don't stop!' screamed the passenger, panicked, and the driver felt steel in his back.

'Jesus Christ …'

'Put your foot down or I'll fire.'

The driver, white-faced, put his foot down and the waiting group got out of his way just in time, astonished. They chased after the bus for a few yards and the bearded man whipped off his cap and waved it threateningly, shouting unheard insults until they left him far behind.

The terrified driver was gripping the wheel with hands that were sweating so much that it threatened to slip through them. His leg trembled on the accelerator as he tried to keep it down and his paralysed brain was making hopeless attempts at remembering the instructions he had been given for emergencies like this. 'Open the doors … open the doors … open …' but that was to let a dangerous thief get off rather than risk hurt to the passengers. This one might not be a thief, there were no passengers, anyway. And if he were a terrorist … ?

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don't want to be killed … the kids … and it's Christmas … I'm going to be late home … oh, don't let him …' His back was soaked. He fixed his eyes on the smiling picture of John 23rd stuck by his window with two plastic flowers, the nearest he could get to praying. The police car that he had seen behind him had vanished. Then he saw it ahead of them, blocking the road.

'Turn!' ordered the passenger.

'I can't! I can't turn, I'll-'

'Turn
!' ramming the steel harder into his back.

The driver turned right, bumping over the pavement. The little street was hung alternately with red and white lights saying 'Merry Christmas' and blue and green lights saying 'Happy Holiday.' Merry Christmas … Happy Holiday … Merry Christmas … Happy Holiday … Merry Christmas … A flashing green tree … a flower … a star … then darkness.

The driver closed his eyes.

The Marshal heard the sirens and they became entangled in his fevered dreams. He was stumbling. The sandy plain kept rising to meet his face and then dropping away underneath him with a sickening lurch. But he was calmer now, having fixed in his mind that this was something to be endured, and that he must periodically get himself to the bathroom to vomit and then resume his hot and wearying journey. The little cleaner was still with him which wearied him even more. He had enough to do, trying to keep himself going without worrying about his companion's grief, the dark-ringed, patient eyes that pleaded with him constantly, although he never looked round at them. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes devils with pitchforks came and prodded them maliciously, not to make them go faster, only to torment them. They prodded the Marshal mostly in the back and he was in great pain from it. It was getting hotter. If it got much hotter they would die. Thank God there was the crate of water under the bed … and now the sirens were going, what did that mean … ? He had sorted out what it was that was happening to him once but now he had forgotten again. Something to do with a funeral … or with going home … but where did the sirens come in? He had lost track … if only he could stop for a minute and think it out. But he couldn't stop, he realized, because it was the ground that was moving, not himself.

'Keep everything still,' he said aloud in the dark, but nothing stayed still and the devils were poking him gleefully as the landscape slid about before his eyes. 'What is it?' demanded the Marshal, giving up trying to reason for himself. 'What's happening? Why can't we stop?'

'Didn't you know?' said the little cleaner's voice, although he was no longer there. 'It's the end of the world …'

Suddenly the Marshal couldn't stand any more.

'No!' he shouted. 'No! It is not the end of the world. I don't believe it. I did know what was wrong with me and now I've forgotten, but it is not the end of the world and, what's more, I'm just about sick of all this, sick and tired of it, night after night — and
you
—' he pointed a furious finger at the grinning creatures around him —'can get out!
Get out of this bedroom
! All of you, and don't come backl I can't stand any more and I don't see why I should—now
get out
!' He was shouting himself hoarse but they were going. 'Right. Now, we'll see whether it's the end of the world or not. In a moment, I'm going to wake up properly and drink a glass of water. End of the world! Rubbish.'

He opened his eyes, sat up, and poured himself a tumbler of water. He drank it slowly, relishing its delicious coolness. Then he got out of bed, feeling very light and peaceful. His pyjamas were clinging to him with sweat. He washed and put on a clean pair. He felt more comfortable than he could ever remember feeling in his life. 'Clean sheets,' he said to himself, and he laboriously re-made his bed. There was a blissful smile on his face as he settled in between the fresh bedlinen with a feeling of ecstatic comfort. With the smile still on his face, he sank gently into a peaceful, healthy sleep.

Carabiniere Bacci was still running. Knowing, as he did, the route of the bus, he took another of his short cuts, undaunted by his first failure, and came out in Piazza Santissima Annunziata, gasping painfully, to await the bus's arrival. It was some moments before he realized that if the bus were on its way he would have been able to hear it. Everything in the Piazza was closed and silent, the church silhouetted against the starry sky, the only other figure the motionless one of the equestrian statue in the centre. He could hear his own laboured breathing and his loud heartbeat. Then he heard a siren. It was behind him and receding. He had come too far. The bus must have been stopped lower down, perhaps near the Cathedral. He started running back down Via de' Servi, the tall slice of floodlit marble jogging up and down before his weary eyes. Eventually he came upon a barrier blocking a side alley and heard some commotion going on out of sight. He wandered about among side streets until he saw the front of the bus visible at the end of a narrow passageway and the turning blue light of a breakdown truck behind it. He walked slowly towards the bus. It was wedged between the stone walls of the passage and its sides were crushed in.